Shadowrun: Spells & Chrome (43 page)

He saw now that Harriman’s suit was in tatters; half his chest was gone and a chunk of his left thigh; his facemask was shattered, open to the water. A yellow stalk of nerve wormed from one empty socket. Harriman’s puffy face went slack all at once, like a marionette whose puppeteer has stepped out for a smoke. His color leeched away; his head lolled; and then his lower jaw sagged. A convulsive shudder wracked his frame; something bulged and heaved in his throat.

Alana screamed.

Harriman vomited something slick and mucinous and gray. It had the undulant consistency of a jellyfish, the same translucent milkiness and yet it was also muscular, like the rope of a serpent’s body worming in a gurgling, unctuous coil. Emptied of its cargo, Harriman’s savaged body drifted away, spinning in a slow, lazy spiral.

Give me what I want.
The shedu’s voice was sibilant, gauzy, curiously tender.
This one was weak; he let her get away and then he smashed his own facemask and he died, and for what?

And yet, Daniel thought, the shedu—clearly a Master to have manufactured such an illusion and held open this gateway—had not used Harriman’s body to escape. Why?

The Master, seeping into his brain:
I require a vessel able to contain me.

Something like him: a binder, who could hold all that monstrousness for all time, if need be. Someone whose shell would not decay. A kind of shedu-esque Dorian Gray. Well, that was his talent, wasn’t it? Had the Rebbe known? He thought of the legend, that the shedim were locked away in mountains and in the depths …

The Master:
Who do you think imprisoned me here to begin with? You are a pawn, nothing more, but I offer you power. I offer you
life
.

Something had gone wrong here, Daniel knew. He was surprised at how calm he felt, as if he’d always known that
this
was his destiny. All his sins, the stains of his past …

So. This prison had weakened, or the Master found some way to break through and now there were others, waiting to come through …

But why Alana?

The Master, again:
Without her,
you
would never have been drawn here. Submit freely, and I will let her go again
.

A lie. He knew that. But he would have to very careful now.

“What,” Daniel sucked in a mouthful of air but couldn’t fill his lungs. “What … guarantee?”

“Who …” Alana gulped. “Who … are you … talking to?”

No guarantees, but I will not interfere.
A pause.
You do not have much time. Soon your air will be gone and you will die. Submit. Open yourself and live.

“Go.” Chest working, he ripped off his spare air and thrust it at her. He spoke in bursts, trying to get it all out while they still had time. “Get out. Guideline. Let you go once. If I stay …”

“N-no.” Her skin was a sick, dusky blue in his headlamp. “No … I’m nearly out.” The whistle of her next breath. “I won’t make it.” Another gasp. “Not leaving … without you.”

“GO!” Pushing the canister into her arms, he shoved her, suddenly, very hard. The effort blacked his vision for a second, and the world tilted wildly. Then his vision cleared, and he saw that she was flailing, one hand still holding the canister, the other trying to right herself.

She wouldn’t go, she wouldn’t
go!
But he couldn’t spare a lot of energy; if he were too depleted, they were both dead; and he certainly didn’t have much time. Still, he had to give her this chance because there were no more options. Gritting his teeth, he focused his will, marshaled his mind, harnessed the power of the mana radiating from the rift, conjured up the image of the crater’s maw and thought:
GO.

For an instant, nothing. Then, he felt the energy cohering around her, the crackle sizzling through the water, and when he looked, a electric halo closed round her body the way arcs of electricity dance from an antique Van de Graaf. She stiffened, and he caught her look of first confusion and then comprehension; and she reached for him, had time for one last word: “DANIEL!”

And then she was gone.

•
•
•

And he was dead.

•
•
•

Foolish
. The Master draped over him, a softly deforming ooze.
She has no chance, and you have wasted precious energy. You’ll truly die if you don’t take me into you. You’ll suffocate, or drown …

Daniel felt his consciousness slewing, bit down as hard as he could on the soft flesh of his cheek. The shock was like a slap in the face, but his head was roaring now, the pain battering his skull, pulping his brain.

He couldn’t wait. He wanted to give her more time. And he wanted to live so much now, more than he ever had since Rachel.

“Go,” he whispered, “go, Alana, go, go …”

Stop wasting air. Submit
.

Now.

“
Shevi min hayom v’machar v’leyolam,
” he croaked:
This is the bond from today and tomorrow and forever …

YES.
The Master closed, cocooning Daniel’s body. Its tendrils wormed through the rip in the back of Daniel’s suit, then slithered along his neck, streaming along his arms, twining over his chest in a kind of ecstasy.
YES
.

“
Mumah anah umishveh beshem SHEDU HA-GADOL,
” he chanted, the Hebrew flowing from his lips, riding the last dregs of his air. “I make an oath and bind in the name of the Master who sits in
Tehom
whence all evil comes
…”

He drew a breath to continue—and got nothing. Tried again, and failed.

Out of air. But it didn’t matter.

Once invited, the Master would never leave, and it was in his mouth now, gargling off the last of his breath, flowing into his lungs, leaking into his blood, running in fingers over the crevices of his brain … . Daniel felt his mind dimming, the final remnants of who he was slipping away. But he could still move—fitfully, in tiny starts, like a child’s toy whose battery’s run out—and his arm responded, his fingers crawling along his wrist. Now, it had to be now because if he waited any longer, the Master would have him for all time, and all this would be for nothing.

Would Alana know? Feel it? No. They were too far underground. He had done what he could.

Go, Alana. Go and live …

With the last of his strength, Daniel punched at his wrist—

•
•
•

As the Master suddenly sensed his intent:
WHAT HAVE YOU
DONE …

•
•
•

And now Daniel was swooning into oblivion:
Rachel, I’m com …

•
•
•

The water flared into a bright burning rose as Daniel’s vest blew.

V

One second she was floating above the rift; the next she was staring up at an oculus of cobalt blue against black, clutching Daniel’s spare canister to her chest. She was back at the seamount’s maw.

She allowed herself one instant of anger—Daniel had the power to get them out all along but hadn’t used it, why? Then she inhaled, got nothing, tried again, got more nothing. Thought:
Shit
.

Working fast, she stripped her full facemask, tried not to panic as the water slammed her face, located the mouthpiece of Daniel’s spare canister, jammed the regulator into her mouth, hit the purge button, and inhaled. Cool air flooded into her burning lungs, and she had to fight to not suck the canister dry. The auxiliary canister was designed for depths above forty meters, and she was two hundred feet below that. The increased pressure would make her use up her air more quickly and besides, this wasn’t trimix. She’d get narced pretty damn quick.

She had to get out, fast. No telling when that thing would come after her. Yet she had this feeling Daniel had one more trick up his sleeve …

Then she saw the sleds she and Lee had tethered to the crater’s rim what seemed years ago.

Please
. Swimming to one sled, she punched the starter. Nothing. Not even a click. The battery was dead.
Nonononono …
Seconds ticking away … She was almost afraid to try the second sled. Jabbed the start button and listened to a whole bunch of nothing.

No, no,
damn
you!

Desperate, kicking at the sleds, she pivoted, pulled water. Saw the sharks whirling high above.

Oh shit. She’d forgotten about them. She watched as they knotted, bunched and then, as one, headed straight for her. Well, hell, it didn’t matter; she couldn’t afford to pussyfoot around. If they came after her, they came. She probably wasn’t going to make it anyway, no matter what.

She swam, kicking hard, pulling as fast as she could. She shot out of the crater and now she was passing the sharks, swimming for all she was worth.

The sharks changed course, and closed.

Her heart crowded into her mouth, and she could only watch as the sharks swirled around, bottling her up, getting closer, so close she could see the jostling of spiky teeth. Close enough that she saw the roll of their dead eyes: doll’s eyes, eyes that were black and flat with absolutely no whites. Close enough that, now, they bumped her, bottled her up, and when she kicked, she actually hit one with her fin. Recoiling, she almost screamed, remembered the regulator, pushed the scream back into her chest. Breathless with fear and exhaustion, she looked down—

And saw the ocean move. Felt the rip of an explosion sear her mind, her heart—and she knew: Daniel was dead. Truly, completely, irrevocably.

No
. Blinking against the salt sting of the water, she tried to focus—and then a tidal wave of fresh terror roared over her.

Because the ocean was still moving. Right. For.
Her
.

•
•
•

Something coming: huge, a dark benthic blue, as if the ocean floor were levitating …

And that’s when she felt something else: a sudden rush of heat at her throat. Her skin prickled and she thought:
Necklace …the
tooth
…

The massive shape cohered, pulling together like something woven from mist and nightmares—and became a megalodon.

Oh my God.
The beast was enormous, a good sixteen, seventeen meters, maybe twenty. It was headed straight for her, its huge dorsal fin scything the water. Its mouth unhinged and she saw the maw bristling with teeth, and something went a little loose in her mind.

I’m not seeing this
. She watched it come, helpless as a bug hanging in a spider’s web. When the creature was twenty yards away, the school of sharks hemming her in place splintered, each animal veering off to make way. The megalodon slid beneath, actually bumped up against her. Its dorsal fin glided past, and—almost as if in a dream—she hooked her hand round the fin.

And the beast climbed. Its tail swept the water in powerful, even strokes, and she let the animal pull her. The water rushed past; its color began to lighten, and she looked up, expecting to see the bail-out tank—and did: hanging exactly where she and Daniel had left it.

But she also saw something else that made her blood chill.

Hovering in the water was the glowing imago of a man: very old, almost wizened, with a flow of snowy-white beard and intense, completely black eyes rimmed with no white whatsoever. A shark’s eyes.

No.
Her thoughts were panicky.
No, I’m not seeing this; I’m a mundane …

A small voice, one she recognized as her own, sounded in her mind:
Yeah, right. Sweetheart, you got yourself a magic tooth with a heap of mojo and you’ve hitched a ride on a
megalodon …

The old man studied her carefully, closely, and she had the sense he was memorizing every detail. They stared at one another: she on the back of this great beast, and he nothing more substantial than a dream. Then he—his projection—pulled apart in a sudden ripple, and vanished.

And she thought:
Rebbe
…

Coming after her? She sensed that might be right. So she would have to find a way to disappear. Back into the valley for a while. Then …?

That small voice again:
Sure, you can hide. You can run. But remember: That old asshole sent Daniel on a suicide mission. Repair, my eye. Blow yourself into little teeny, tiny pieces just like Humpty Dumpty is more like it. But that rip is still there; those shedim are there and that old fart’s got to be involved. Now, you gonna let that stand?

Somehow, the megalodon knew to slow at the bail-out tank, and she wondered if maybe it was simply attuned to her needs, or could there be something else …?

She’d think about that later. First things first: She purged the regulator of the bail-out tank and simply breathed. Beneath her, supporting her, the megalodon moved in small, slow circles, waiting until she was ready, until there was need for its services.

Oh Daniel …
She fixed her eyes upon the light of the world above, and her resolve firmed.

No. All this would
not
stand.

Not if she had a say.

VI

Halfway around the world, an old man inhaled a sudden breath and came back to himself, and muttered a prayer:
“Modim anah l’fanehcha, melech chai v’kahyam …
I gratefully thank You, O Living and Eternal King, for You have returned my soul within me with compassion.”

“Rebbe?” An acolyte glided to his side. “Is Daniel …?”

“Daniel’s gone,” the old man quailed. The projection left him weak and feeble as a baby. In the next few hours, he would be fed, bathed. He would sleep—but not before he gave one more order.

“Find her,” he whispered. “Find her.”

Better to Reign

By Michael A. Stackpole

Michael A. Stackpole is a
New York Times
-bestselling author, an award-winning novelist, editor, game designer, computer game designer, comics writer, an podcaster, and screenwriter. As always, he spends his spare time playing indoor soccer and now has a new hobby, podcasting, as well as working on ideas for a half-dozen other novels. To learn more about Mike’s podcasting, please visit
www.tsfpn.com
(the website of The SciFi Podcast Network).

They stared at me as their bikes came to a halt, furtively assessing what level of threat I might represent. Then, starting with one Ancient who quickly infected the rest of the bikers, they snickered, cackled, and roared at some hilarious private joke.