Crossroads (9 page)
I found the Asphalt Rats partying later that night in a dead-end alleyway deep in their turf. From the amount of booze and discarded chip cases scattered around, it looked like they had recently come into some nuyen. I looked into the alley and saw those bastards partying and laughing after they had killed the best person I had ever known. I literally saw red, a rage that totally obscured everything else in a blood red haze. One of the gangers looked up from his debauchery and saw me standing there.
I raised my arms and screamed my grief to the heavens, a roar of rage that shot into the alley and erupted into a raging inferno of flames. It was as if Hell itself opened onto the street. Some of the gangers tried to run, a couple reaching for weapons, but most didn’t even look up before being engulfed in a blast that charred their skin and set their hair aflame. A few moments later, the gas tanks of the bikes went off like a succession of bombs, and a black and orange fireball boiled out of the alley to the sky, blackening the sides of the nearby buildings with soot and ash.
I stood at the end of the alley and watched it all happen. I didn’t care how horrible it was, my only thought was to see the ones responsible for my pain dead. The inferno in the alley was cool compared to the anger I felt as I watched the gangers burn, writhe, and die.
Then it was all over. The husks of the bikes burned and a stream of acrid smoke billowed up from the alley. The gangers’ blackened and twisted corpses lay where they had fallen. Most of them never even knew what hit them, or why. I turned and walked away from the alley without looking back. The cut on my hand throbbed and ached. I felt drained, empty.
I’d never killed anyone before that day. Even growing up in the violence of the Rox, I’d never even seriously hurt anyone, even in a fight. Then in the space of a day I killed fourteen people I didn’t even know. The sims would have you believe that I’d have been wracked with guilt ever since, but to be honest, I’m not. They’d want me to say that roasting those gangers didn’t bring Jase back and it didn’t make my grief go away. It didn’t, but to be honest, I don’t care.
Nobody cried any tears for the Asphalt Rats when they heard about the weird incident in the alley, and another gang took over their turf and their niche in the Barrens ecology soon thereafter. I’m not bothered by the fact that I killed those bastards, then or now. What bothered me is the fact that I
enjoyed
it. The feeling of power when the Rats burned was an unbelievable high, better than drugs, better than anything. I liked that feeling, and the idea that I might be willing to kill again just to feel it scared the drek out of me.
I closed my fingers over the scar on my palm and looked out the window of the plane as we descended. Somewhere out in the dark, sprawling starscape that rushed up to greet us was a blasted and burned alley that no one went near anymore, and I was afraid of seeing it again.
The sun was coming up as we landed at Logan International Airport. Even this early in the morning, the airport was abuzz with activity from corporate commuter flights coming and going from New York, DeeCee, Atlanta, Seattle, and international flights from around the world. Corp types in suits made their way to and from the terminal as we left the plane. There was a fair security presence, mostly Knight Errant guards in their sleek black uniforms with the “KE
”
logo on the breast and shoulder, sidearms discreetly placed to provide a formidable image. The airport was busier and security was definitely tighter than I remembered it being on the day I left Boston, ten years ago. It was now a place where things were happening.
Since we had no luggage to pick up, we breezed past the baggage claim. Both of us traveled light, strictly carry-on stuff. Trouble did have to stop at the security checkpoint at the end of the terminal to have her deck and chips run through a standard scan. I didn't worry. She’d managed to get the deck through security in DeeCee without any trouble, and the check was routine. Her ID claimed Trouble was a corporate research consultant, someone who needed the compact, portable computing power of a cyberdeck. She spoke briefly with the bored-looking clerk.
“And you certify that these chips contain no illegal or contraband data?” the clerk asked in a droning voice. I watched the small trideo screens running reports from NewsNet. The rolling strip at the bottom of the image presented the local time and weather in Boston. It predicted a light rain for tonight by around 6:05. An announcer, pleasantly bland-looking, was reporting on breaking news in the metroplex.
“Knight Errant authorities are still investigating a series of brutal murders in the Boston area. Another victim of the ‘Boston Slasher,’ Ms. Elaine Dumont of Cambridge, was found near a red-line T-station early yesterday morning. The victim died from a single stab-wound, according to a representative of Knight Errant Security Services. Although the investigation is ongoing, authorities will say only that they are pursuing several leads.” Hypertext links lit up the bottom of the screen saying “To download previous reports on this story, touch here.” and “To report information on this crime to Knight Errant Security Services, touch here.”
The news report went on to compare the murders to a series of killings years ago. I vaguely recalled hearing about them when I was in my first year at MIT&T. A representative of the pagan community of Salem was interviewed, denying any connection between the murders and any kind of “pagan rites.” followed by a few other talking heads to explain the psychology of serial-killers and how copycats often sprang up, following the patterns of killers from years, even generations, before.
“All set.” Trouble said, and I turned back to her as she slung the cyberdeck carrying case back over her shoulder. The clerk was already talking with another passenger, reciting the same bored speech. Obviously the “customized
”
(and illegal) modifications on Trouble’s deck passed muster without notice.
“Just one more thing.” I said, and Trouble led the way through the terminal and down to the customs area.
The customs clerk, a young woman whose features looked like they were sculpted from pink plastic, gave me a raised eyebrow as she slid a carefully wrapped package across the counter to me. I slipped the fake ID back into my pocket with silent thanks to Jane for coming through again and tore open the padded plastic wrapping to make sure the airport goons hadn’t done any damage. I hated to leave it up to them, but there was no other reasonable way to get my prized possession through security in the kind of time frame I had in mind. The ID was sufficient to check it through airport customs, but not to carry it onto the plane.
Grasping the chain-wrapped hilt, I drew Talonclaw partway out of its black leather sheath. Everything looked fine, from the rune-carved blade to the polished fire opal that served as the pommel stone. The magic of the enchanted dagger tingled against my palm, alive and waiting to be called upon. I slid the blade home with a click that seemed to startle the young woman behind the counter out of her trance-like fixation on the gleaming dagger. “Is everything in order, Mr. Nolan?”
“No problems, but I can’t be too careful with the tools of my trade, you understand.”
She smiled and nodded, despite the fact that I was sure she had no more clue about mageblades than what the tridshows portrayed on
Magus, P. I.
and
To Kill The Dead.
Sliding the sheath into my belt, I let my jacket fall back in place to conceal it, hefted my bag, and headed over to where Trouble waited.
As we made our way out of the terminal into Logan's protected parking area, Trouble took the lead. She slotted her credstick into the terminal at the entrance gate of the garage. It beeped, and a computerized voice spoke from the tiny grille. “Welcome back to Boston, Ms. Spenser.”
Three floors up was Trouble’s car, a dark green Honda ZX Turbo, a sleek, aerodynamic machine with silvery-tinted windows. It looked fast even while standing still. The car alarm chirped twice as we approached, and I made my way around to the passenger side.
I gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Nice ride.” I said.
Trouble flashed me a smile of pleasure at the compliment. “Thanks, I’m rather proud of it. I sank some nuyen into it after a big job a while back. Hasn’t let me down yet.”
She slid easily into the driver’s side, stowing the bag with her cyberdeck in the back seat, as did I. She took a slim optical cord from a pocket in the dash and snapped it into the jack behind her ear, synching with the car’s autopilot computer and entering the ignition code. A second later the engine roared to life and the lighted panels on the dash illuminated.
“So, where to?” she asked.
“Landsdown Street. There’s an old friend I want to look up.”
Trouble navigated through the streets of downtown Boston like a pro. I’d forgotten just how harrowing Boston traffic could be. The common joke said all the streets in the Hub were paved-over cowpaths. They weren't. Boston was originally based on the layout of European cities like London, whose streets
were
paved-over cowpaths. The big quake brought about a lot of urban renovations, but the complex maze of one-way streets and multi-level roads remained as confusing and congested as ever.
It was still quite early, so traffic was light. It wouldn’t get really bad for another hour or so. After we passed through the Williams/O’Neil Tunnel to get to the downtown area, I spotted several posters advertising the upcoming Samhain celebration on the Common. It was less than a week away.
“Samhain.” I mused out loud.
“What’s that?” Trouble asked as she dodged left around a slow-moving truck.
“Samhain. The Celtic New Year. Halloween. It’s coming up soon. I’d forgotten all about it. It’s a big pagan holiday. The biggest, for some pagans. I used to celebrate it with Jase. In fact, it was the first holiday we celebrated together.”
“Are you pagan?” Trouble asked.
“I suppose so. Kind of lapsed. I haven’t really celebrated any of the holidays for a long time, or called on the gods for anything except magical work. Just. . . didn’t seem important, you know?”
Trouble nodded. The weather was unusually warm for the end of October, so she rolled down her window a bit. Her long, dark hair blew in the wind as she slipped on a pair of tinted glasses against the bright sunlight spilling over the buildings.
“I hear you.” she said. “I was raised Catholic myself, Irish Catholic. My Dad was pretty devout and insisted on going to church every Sunday. I think it was his connection to the Old Country. He got forced out by the Danaan Families when they came to power. I don’t know what they thought was so damn revolutionary about a university history professor.”
I made a noise of agreement and shrugged. Who knew with elves? When the elves of Ireland claimed to be the legendary Sidhe, returned to claim their ancestral homeland, they backed up their claim with powerful magic. So many Irish folk, after facing years of struggle to gain independence from Britain, followed by years of political scandal and abuse, were completely taken in by the Sidhe’s promises of a magical, revitalized Ireland. It wasn’t even Ireland any more, it was Tír na nÓg, “the Land of the Ever Young.” a bright new land of promise.
Only some of the Irish nationalists who’d fought so hard for independence from British rule didn’t take too well to a bunch of elves coming in and taking over. Most of them were bought out, blackmailed, or forced out of the country as “subversive elements.” People were too taken with the glorious image of the Danaan Families to worry much about anyone trampling on the rights of a few dissidents. A lot of the refugees ended up in the Boston area, which already had a big Irish population. South Boston was full of first-and second-generation Irish immigrants, not unlike what I’d read about the early twentieth century.
“I was raised Catholic, too.” I said. “St. Brendan’s, a mission in the Rox, took me in when I was just a kid and took care of me until I was fourteen. Then I hit the streets on my own. They did their best by me, but I got tired of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit every morning with breakfast and every night before bed, to say nothing of sharing the place with about a hundred other kids the nuns took in. Wasn’t too long after that I discovered my Talent. Good thing I got out when I did, or I probably would have ended up a priest-mage or something like that.”
Trouble glanced at me over the top of her shades and broke out laughing.
“No way can I picture you as a priest, Talon. That really would be a sin.”
“Yeah, I’m way too fond of having my Sundays off.”
Trouble laughed again and took the corner with enough speed to make me grab for the handhold above the door.
“My family never bought into the whole ‘new age of promise’ drek dished out by the elves and all their political allies.” she said. “Ireland had a lot of political trouble, but we were unified for the first time in a long time and a lot of people fought and died to make it a single country again. The elves promised unity, hope, and prosperity in the midst of troubled times, and most everyone was willing to go along with anything they said. They didn’t even object when the elves changed the name of the country. It was all like something out of a fairy tale, or a legend.
“But some people didn’t think so, including my parents. They were political dissidents. Not dangerous, just people with ideas and opinions who were willing to express them. I guess in the eyes of the Sidhe that made them the most dangerous of all. At first, the new government was willing to ‘tolerate’ other ideas, but when they got more control they started cracking down on all ‘threats to public safety,’ which included pretty much anyone who didn’t approve of the government or their plans for the future. They started putting pressure on people to keep quiet. My parents lost their university jobs because of it. When that didn’t shut people up, the government started arresting people, rounding them up in the middle of the night. People just disappeared and were never heard from again.