Dragon City (6 page)

“Farrell, this is Donald Bry.” The voice from the Commtact device reverberated through Farrell’s mastoid bone so that only he could hear it. “What’s the situation, over?”

Farrell looked behind him, saw the woman jump the fence in pursuit, the familiar form of a leather slingshot now grasped in her fist.

“Bit busy,” Farrell explained over the Commtact.

He didn’t wait for Bry’s response, just turned and faced the woman bearing down on him. She plucked a palm-load of stones from the leather pouch at her belt, loading the slingshot in a swift, practiced movement. With a sound like an angered beehive, the slingshot began to whir around and around, picking up speed in preparation of launch. Farrell looked all around him, searching for cover, some way to get out of the line of fire. He could still see the back of the house through the raging underground, saw Sela Sinclair and the robed man come out the back door chasing their prey. There was nowhere to run.

“And when there’s nowhere to run, you stand and fight.”

That’s something else Edwards had drummed into him in those training sessions.

Farrell was upon the woman in a flash, driving the heavy exhaust pipe at her chest where the crimson shield glinted in the sunlight. The pipe hit with a hollow thunk, knocking the breath out of Farrell’s opponent. Surprised, the woman toppled backward, the stones dropping from her slingshot as it momentarily lost all momentum, like a child’s bucket-of-water trick.

Farrell stood over her in the long grass, feeling the ghastly weight of that hunk of metal in his hand. She looked up at him, her dark hair in disarray around her face, blue eyes fixed on his. “I am stone,” she uttered, the words like a mantra.

It would be so easy, Farrell thought, to hit her again, to crush her skull in a single, savage blow. But no, that wasn’t him. That wasn’t how he did things.

So he turned and he ran, the breath heavy against his chest as his booted feet pounded against the compacted earth and leaves.

* * *

T
HE
DARK
-
HAIRED
WOMAN
, whose name was Tanya Stone, struggled up from the grass, urging her body to follow Farrell as he sprinted away. She plucked the leather loop that formed her slingshot from the ground, wiping the dirt from it as she stood, began moving after Farrell. She had taken two paces when her partner, Jackson Stone, called for her to halt.

Tanya turned, seeing Jack and the ebony-skinned newcomer, and she gave him a quizzical look. “I can catch him.”

As she spoke, a chill seemed to cut through the air, and Tanya became aware of another presence. She turned around, searching the brush for a moment before she spotted the other figure, the woman with the red-gold hair and eyes the green of the ocean—Brigid Haight. In her late twenties, Haight was poised in the bole of a tree, prowling from its shadow like a stalking cat, her black leather suit covering her entirely, clinging to her limbs like a second skin. It seemed somehow appropriate that Haight had dressed in the dead flesh of animals, surrounding herself with their ghosts.

Haight was the chosen of Ullikummis, his first priest in the New Order, and while Tanya had not met her before she recognized her instantly. And she shivered in the woman’s presence as something seemed to crawl along her spine.

Beside her, Sela Sinclair looked at the slender, red-haired woman stepping from the shadows and she felt a stab of recognition. Inside her head, the drums were beating louder and faster than ever before, louder and faster and far more brutal.

* * *

F
ARRELL
SPRINTED
DOWN
the overgrown access road, glancing back over his shoulder to see if he was still being followed. The woman was on her feet and she had been joined by Sela Sinclair and the man in the fustian robes. They seemed to be talking, watching as Farrell ran from them. Their confidence irritated him, made him angry.

He turned back to face the path he was running along, with its tangles of briars and reeds, the moisture heavy in the air where the plants breathed. There was a wall ahead, reaching up almost to head height but crumbling in places, a sickly green creeper clinging to its surface. He stopped when he reached it, conscious of the ache in the muscles of his arm where he was hefting the heavy length of exhaust pipe. He glanced fearfully behind him once again, back up along what was left of the old road. Another figure had joined his three pursuers. This one was dressed in black, a bloom of red hair haloing its head. From this distance with the sun in his eyes, Farrell couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. But he knew one thing for certain—it meant they had added another member to their hunting group, another body to chase him and capture him and presumably indoctrinate him into this cult of Ullikummis.

“Cerb-er-us,” Farrell said, the syllables broken by his heavy breathing now. “I need a way out of here, right now.” To his right he saw another low chain-link fence, this one bent out of true and with a gaping hole in its center. Farrell moved toward it, keeping one eye on the gathering group at the far end of the little road.

Donald Bry’s voice came back to Farrell over the Commtact link. “What’s the problem, Farrell?”

“Hostile types just tried to kill me or indoctrinate me, I’m not sure.”

“‘Hostile types’?” Bry repeated, and Farrell suspected that, wherever he was, the man had raised an eyebrow at the phrase.

“The stone nuts,” Farrell grunted, clambering over the sagging fence. “Ullikummis’s people. They tracked me down—I don’t know how.”

“Is Sinclair okay?” Bry asked, the consummate bookkeeper even in times of stress.

“She’s one of ’em, man,” Farrell said. He was running now, arms pumping, the pipe swinging in his hand as he pelted across the overgrown expanse of garden toward another shell of a building.

“What do you—?” Bry asked, mild surprise in his voice.

Farrell sprinted past the side of the house, pushing himself on. “I can’t explain how,” he interrupted. “I think maybe she’s always been one of them, like she was just biding her time waiting for the right moment to strike.”

He hurried on, out past the churned-up tarmac of the drive where an ancient automobile waited, its red paint bleached white by the sun across its roof and hood, rust marring its bodywork like ringworm.

“Am triangulating your position now,” Bry told Farrell, his tone reassuring.

There was a pause, during which Farrell ran down another forgotten Bradley street that now looked like a strip of jungle had been transplanted into the suburbs. Startled birds took flight from a twisting cypress as he hurried past, squawking in ugly caws, their feathers orange and an almost luminescent green.

In a secret location hundreds of miles away, Farrell knew that Donald Bry was even now using his subdermal transponder to track his position, applying it to a map of the local territory and assessing the best escape route.

“Farrell, I have a mat-trans located in a military redoubt about three miles west of your present position,” Bry announced over the Commtact. “Do you think you can make that, or do you want me to scramble a team to come to your aid?”

Farrell glanced self-consciously behind him, searching the wreckage of the nearby houses and the towering ferns for signs of movement. The leaves shimmied in the breeze, making whispering sounds as they swayed. But there was no one around—maybe, just maybe, he had lost them?

“I should be able to make it to the redoubt,” Farrell told Bry reluctantly. He knew how tight the personnel situation was just now, knew that Cerberus could ill afford to scramble a CAT team to protect one lowly tech. “If I go careful, I think I can avoid any more trouble. I’ll let you know when I’m within sight.”

“Excellent,” Bry acknowledged over the Commtact. “We should be able to remote program a jump for you from here. We’ll get you to safety.”

Pipe in hand, Farrell hurried on down the overgrown streets of Bradley, far away from the safehouse he had shared with the traitorous Sela Sinclair.

* * *

B
ACK
IN
THE
OVERGROWN
remains of the service road, Tanya and Jackson Stone and Sinclair stood with Brigid Haight as the trim figure of Farrell disappeared from sight.

“Let him go,” Brigid instructed, watching the retreating figure as he hurried toward the break between the houses where a wall cut across the roadway’s path. “He doesn’t matter.”

“But we’ll lose him,” Tanya insisted, clenching and unclenching her fists where she held the leather band of the slingshot.

“The world belongs to Ullikummis now, and all who share in his love,” Brigid intoned. “Where is there left for him to run?”

Chapter 6

The wind whipped past the retrofitted cargo as it cut through the skies over Syria toward Iraq. Grant sat on one of two long benches that lined the cargo area, head down, his hands held close together so that their steepled fingers formed a rough triangular shape of empty space. Beside him, Domi watched, a confused crease appearing between her white eyebrows.

“What you doing?” Domi asked.

“Concentrating,” Grant replied, his eyes still fixed on the empty space between his touching fingertips.

Domi nodded as if she understood, but she was just as baffled as she had been before. Despite being one of the longest-serving members of the Cerberus organization, Domi was still a child of the Outlands at heart, savage and simpleminded in her comprehension of things. She wasn’t unintelligent; she just had a more direct approach to things than those who had been educated in the nine towering baronies that dotted the landscape of North America. A little over five feet in height, Domi was a svelte, pixielike figure who had wrapped her chalk-white skin beneath a series of light layers for the duration of this field mission. Her hair, a creamy white, like milk, was cut short around her head, framing her sharp-planed face in a ruffled pixie cut. While albinism had left Domi almost entirely white, her eyes were a fearsome red, like bloody wounds in her face, and they had a disarming effect when she fixed her gaze on an opponent. Despite her youth, Domi had formed a close relationship with Lakesh, the two of them becoming lovers over the past couple of years. If Lakesh had ever seemed worried about sending his personnel into the danger zone, that worry had quadrupled with Domi once the two of them had fallen in love. But the worry was reciprocated; Domi could be like a terrier when it came to Lakesh’s safety.

Across the aisle from Domi, sitting between two Tigers of Heaven warriors dressed in armorlike stealth suits, Rosalia smiled contemptuously. “Leave the Magistrate alone,” she said. “He’s focusing his mojo.”

As she spoke, the nameless dog that sat at her feet whined, its expressive, pale eyes wide with worry. The dog disliked the sound of the heavy rotors, and its ears kept twitching so that Rosalia had to keep one hand in the scuff of its neck to keep it settled, rubbing it there now and again. The dog had come with Rosalia here, as it seemed to follow her everywhere. While it might seem a burden at times, the mutt was a fierce fighter when the time came. In fact, there seemed to be something uncanny in its fighting technique, as if more than one creature somehow existed in the same place. Watching it fight was like hallucinating at times, a double or triple image taking up its position.

Rosalia had changed her clothes before leaving the temporary headquarters in the winter palace. Now she wore a dark one-piece outfit that hugged her curvaceous body, her long shapely legs covered by pant legs that tucked into supple leather boots that reached halfway up her calves. Rosalia had tied her hair back in a simple ponytail, which she tucked beneath the black hood of her top to prevent it from flying in her face.

Domi didn’t trust Rosalia. There was something about the mercenary woman and her superior attitude that rubbed Domi the wrong way. Compounding that distrust was the memory that on their first meeting Rosalia had been part of a two-person team that had knocked Domi unconscious from behind. Domi had never forgiven the woman for that, even if Rosalia herself had not struck the actual blow.

“He’s called Grant,” the albino girl said irritably, her red devil’s eyes boring into Rosalia’s.

“Like Seth,” Rosalia said obtusely before turning back to her whining hound to calm it. Despite her brusqueness, it was evident that the mysterious Rosalia was well educated. Her well of knowledge seemed bottomless, yet she frequently saw no reason to explain her comments to those she considered beneath her. Domi very definitely fell into that category.

Grant ignored the two antagonistic females, relaxing his eyes as he meditated on the nonspace created between his touching fingers. It had been fifteen hours since the incident with Edwards, and he had hoped that he might remain while the operation was performed on the man’s brain so that he could witness with the rest of them just what it was that was growing there. However, with the satellite feeds back online, something urgent had come up. Via its network of contacts, Cerberus had amassed several reports of people going missing out near the banks of the river known as the Euphrates. Not just one or two people, but dozens, perhaps more than one hundred. Lakesh had replayed Grant the surveillance footage taken from Iraq, close to the mouth of the Euphrates and Tigris rivers. The overhead footage showed a city structure expanding on the banks of the Euphrates. The settlement that had not been there six months before. Constructed of an off-white stone of unknown origin, the ville was expanding at a rapid rate. That wasn’t unusual in this age of displaced persons and in itself it shouldn’t be cause for alarm. What was alarming was the shape of the burgeoning ville—it quite clearly took the form of a winged creature, drawn across the fertile soil of the riverbank.

“A dragon,” Grant had said as he had stared at the incredible surveillance photos.

“Or perhaps a dragon ship,” Lakesh had said, emphasizing the word
ship
. His implication was clear. The Cerberus team had become aware of the Annunaki starship
Tiamat
as it lurked high above the atmosphere, and Grant had been a part of the team on board when the ship had begun its self-destruct sequence, watched from space as its exploding form had filled the heavens with light. To have another of the starships appear like this—on Earth—was without doubt a cause for concern.

Well prepared for the briefing, Lakesh had called up backdated surveillance footage showing the expansion of the settlement from apparent nothingness just six months ago. While it appeared to be a city, there was no mistaking the implication of that swooping, winged shape. Several miles across, it crouched by the banks, head pointing off toward the north while the right-hand flank abutted the river itself, a curving tail winding downward in a southerly direction. The mighty wings were stretched wide in imitation of a crescent, the creature’s right wing crossing the width of the river in a curving bridge. It was unclear from the photographs, but it appeared that buildings were constructed on the wing-bridge as elsewhere, adhering to the dragonlike shape of the vast settlement.

“We need to look into this,” Grant had agreed. “If only we had the Mantas, then me and Kane could…” He stopped, the words turning to ashes on his tongue. He had partnered with Kane for so long that to take on a mission like this without him, even a simple recce, seemed anathema to the way things worked.

“We’re just amassing reports from the local area,” Donald Bry had explained from his position at another computer terminal in the makeshift ops center. “It seems it’s something of a no-fly zone,” he explained. “Reports are hazy but there’s suggestions that some low-flying aircraft have failed to return from the area in the last few weeks.”

“Sounds serious.” Grant nodded. “What about the interphaser—could we access a gateway in there?”

The options that Grant was suggesting covered many of the established forms of long-distance transportation that the Cerberus rebels had come to rely upon. The Mantas were transatmospheric aircraft that were stored at the hangar of the old Cerberus redoubt in Montana. The interphaser, the teleportational device that opened a quantum window through space, relied on established destination markers called parallax points. Unless there was one of these in place, the jump to a specific location could not be completed.

Lakesh had pointed to the surveillance photo on screen, indicating the area where the right shoulder blade of the creature would be. “There’s a parallax point here,” he confirmed, “but I admit a grave reluctance in using it. This specific area was the exact location of the ancient city of Nippur, where Enlil was said to have made his home. It seems too much of a coincidence for this new settlement to have appeared by chance, especially taking the dragon form of the Annunaki mother,
Tiamat,
as it has. While the interphaser could send you there instantaneously, I’m inclined to think you’d be walking straight into the belly of the beast.”

“Almost literally,” Grant muttered as he eyed the dragon form.

“And if there is any Annunaki connection at all,” Lakesh continued, “the very first thing they would have established is a security detail or automated expulsion system for the parallax point itself. Which is to say, it could well be like walking into a blender. Not clever.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Grant accepted. “So what do we do?”

“We have established some local connections in the area,” Lakesh explained. “We’ll open a gateway into an old military base in Syria, and you’ll take a ride from there.”

“What kind of ride?” Grant had asked warily.

“Helicopter,” Lakesh had explained. “A retrofitted cargo chopper.”

Retrofitted was right. Whatever its original configuration, the craft had been gutted and refitted so drastically over the years that it looked like a flying junkyard. Grant looked around him now, saw the rusting patches that lined the wall behind Rosalia and the two guards, the sloppily painted plastic-and-ceramic bowl that formed the uneven ceiling. From the outside, the whole airframe was a patchwork of pieces, different-colored plates worked one over another to complete its shell. It had no doubt been found in some military redoubt somewhere, tucked out of sight for a century or more before finally being called into action, pieced together as best the local mechanics could based on the design. That the vehicle flew—and flew well—seemed nothing shy of a miracle to Grant, but he had traveled in worse.

Dressed in dark, supple armor, two Tigers of Heaven had agreed to accompany the three Cerberus warriors on this reconnaissance mission to find out what the deserted dragon city was all about. Their names were Kishiro and Kudo and they displayed that studied calmness that all of Shizuka’s warriors seemed to have. Grant admired them for it.

With Cerberus in disarray, field missions like this were proving problematic to staff. Kane and Edwards were out of commission, Brigid was lost and almost two-thirds of the personnel were still in hiding, spread out across North America. If they were going to use subs like this, Grant would rather they include his lover Shizuka, whose ability with a samurai sword was nothing short of artistic. But the world was different now; there were dangers on all sides. This growing cult of Ullikummis seemed to be expanding at a colossal rate, and even threatened the shores of New Edo, the territory Shizuka governed.

Thus, Grant found himself leading an untested pairing of teammates into the unknown. He had come to trust, even respect, Rosalia after their most recent escapade, and he knew he could rely upon both Domi and any member of the Tigers of Heaven. Still, racing across the skies in a rattletrap cargo chopper accompanied by four teammates he only half knew, Grant felt a sense of unease. Reluctantly he turned his attention back to the triangular window created by his touching fingers, willing his worries to slip away. Whatever else happened, he couldn’t change it now.

* * *

“W
E
ARE
ALMOST
NEAR
,” a voice called over the fuzzy speaker system from the cockpit. It was the pilot, a local man called Mahood, whose English was heavily accented with the emphasis on the wrong syllables, making it hard at times to decipher.

Grant nodded, inhaling deeply and projecting a sense of calm. “How long?” he asked, his finger depressing the radio comm button set in the wall.

Mahood muttered something in the local dialect, then repeated it in English for his passengers. “Two minutes is maximum.”

“Great,” Grant said, wondering if the sarcasm in his tone was lost on the foreigner. He hoped it was; the man was risking his own neck for the Cerberus team, skirting the edges of the dubious no-fly zone.

Swiveling on the bench, Grant turned to look out the window nearest him. It was a horizontal slit of perhaps three inches in height, and Grant had to peer closely to get a decent view of the outside. The others crowded over to their own windows, all except for Rosalia, who stayed with her dog, hushing the animal as it whined in time with the straining engines.

“There it is,” Grant muttered, pushing his face closer to the window without thinking about it.

Down below, off to the port side of the renovated helicopter, the dragon seemed to crouch at the banks of the wide strip of river. Wisps of cloud cut the view for a moment, a V-shaped flock of squawking geese swooping by, and then the dragon reappeared, ill lit in the dwindling light of dusk. It was hard to assess the size of it from so far away, but Grant had seen the aerial photographs from the satellite and he already had a rough idea. That idea hadn’t prepared him for looking at the structure itself, however.

It was not a dragon, even though its shape suggested one. Close up, it was not even a single structure. Rather, a series of buildings were poised along the banks of the Euphrates, with no apparent uniformity to their designs. Here a minaret poked upward to the clouds; there a low, flat rooftop reflected the dwindling rays of the setting sun as it painted the surrounds in orange and vermilion. Yet despite the differences, each building contributed to the whole, each formed a part of the dragon’s body, head and wings. As the satellite image had suggested, one of those wings—the rightmost—sloped out across the river itself, the juddering struts of low buildings ridging across its surface. And everything,
everything
was creamy white.