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He looked pissed, pretty much his natural state, and none too pleased that I'd brought the ghoul along. Nobody could quite figure out who or what Moloch was. He definitely made humans uneasy. But he always wore a suit and tie, so they assumed he was okay. Funny what you can pull off with a decent suit. Blout stood up and looked straight into my eyes. Moloch was ignored with clear, obvious disdain. What'd you bring him for? Blout asked in his low, grumbly voice. He stood close. I could smell the minty stink of his menthol shaving cream and the fast food taco he'd had for lunch. I shrugged. He's my assistant, might be able to help. Blout shoved a big finger close to my nose. Just keep him the fuck away from me, got it? I showed him two palms. Okay, no sweat. What have you got? Blout bobbed his head sideways, indicating the door of the coroner's lab. In here. The lab was cramped, bare of equipment and dark. There were only two lights, a small desk lamp and a bare bulb dangling above the examination table in the center of the room. There was a body on the table, head and chest cut open. The scalp had been sliced and the flesh from the top of the head peeled like an orange. The face of the dead man was wrinkled and folded down over itself. It would have been comical if it weren't so disgusting. The ribs were sawed clean away, so there was a tidy viewing window to examine the cavity. I could see the internal organs had already been removed for examination. The heart and liver were in steel trays, and next to them was an array of bloody saws and surgical tools. An autopsy had recently been completed. I stepped up to the table. The body was male. By the looks of his overgrown hair and the haggard, leathery look of his skin, I assumed he was homeless. That is, of course, when he was alive. He was dead now, homeless and lifeless. What a raw deal. Moloch stayed behind me, close to the exit, but slowly edged toward the corner where there was the least amount of light. Blout moved to the other side of the table. He looked down at the body and sighed. He didn't have much of a stomach for an experienced cop. When he looked up at me, I was screwing a cigarette into my mouth. His expression went from disgust to irritation. Don't smoke in here, cow. Christ, you know better. I put my lighter back, leaving the unlit cigarette in my mouth. Yeah, I wouldn't want to give the stiff cancer, I said. What's the story? John Doe, homeless. He was found last night stuffed in a drainage pipe that used to dump into the old reservoir near the DC-Maryland border. I could see no reason why I was needed. Dead bums weren't my forte, and not the least bit strange. I chewed on the unlit cigarette like a piece of beef jerky. What's the cause of death? Blout smirked. He thought he had one on me, as though the answer were so clear, so obvious. Try opening your fucking eyes. You notice anything missing? I scanned the body again, stopping at the head. I leaned down and squinted into the open skull. Inside, it was a clean white, as though the cavity had been scrubbed and bleached. I'll be damned, I said, and stood up straight. You see why I wanted you to come down? From the other side of the room, Moloch emerged from the shadows. What is it? Blout and I spoke at the same time. No brain. The autopsy was conclusive. The skull was completely empty. There was no blood, no gray matter, and x-rays showed there were no breaks in the skull whatsoever. The brain stem was there, untouched, as though there had never been anything attached to it. The official coroner's report called it brain death. But isn't brain death when you're still alive but a vegetable? How can something that isn't there be the cause of death? I'd like someone to explain that one. The strange thing was, I'd seen this before. Blout knew it. Remind you of anything, Cal? I nodded. This time, Blout kept his mouth shut. Moloch walked right up to the table. He stood so close I could feel the cold of his flesh, his annoyance evident. Excuse me, but I'd like to know what's going on. I was staring at the floor, my head swimming in watery visions of distant memories.
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The Summoners have been gone for three thousand years, but we deal with the remnants of their folly still," Jadara said. Kyle Torreth shivered as the cool touch of autumn soaked through the edges of his leather jerkin and surreptitiously eyed the others with him. The three of them stood at the bottom of a tall ridge. The granite rock face rose twenty feet before them, casting the cave at its base in shadow despite the morning sunlight shifting through the conifers, firs, and the white-barked silver-leafed moonleaf trees of the Borderland Wilds. That is why the Daemon Hunters exist, Jadara continued. Since the Days of the Sundering, we Castarian have stood as sentinels, protecting humanity from the evils the Summoners unleashed upon the world. You both have passed the Test of Mirrors and the Long Night, where the rest of your fellow initiates have not. Though only a journeyman, Jadara was everything Kyle hoped to become. She already wore the leather armor plated with the bleached bones of her first Daemon kills, and now she would be conducting the trial that would determine if he, or Rolan at time, would become the next apprentice to Daemon Hunter Tauren. He glanced at Rolan. They were almost of an age, Rolan being one year older at twenty. Kyle was taller, but then at six foot four he was taller than most who lived in the Borderlands. Kyle also had a denser musculature, gained from working in Master Milan's smithy each winter. But having trained with Rolan for the last four years, the older boy, man, was not to be discounted. Of the five youngsters from the Citadels that had begun studying with them, only he and Rolan remained, and only one could move forward to apprentice. The fact Rolan was the brother of Sivani wouldn't make Kyle any easier on him at all. He couldn't help but smile as the image of Rolan's blonde-haired sister crossed his mind, but he quickly brushed the thought aside. Concentrate. He'd given up too much to be here to lose focus now. Behind me is the entrance to the Darcene Caves, Jadara gestured to the stone doors hidden under the shadowy outcrop. One of the original outposts of the Daemon Hunters, it is now reserved for the Trial. Within it, you will find yourself or you will fall. Rolan snorted. You have something to say, Ahtyn? Jadara stepped from the shadow of the ridge. Her crimson-colored hair was braided in the style of her native Hettar. The delicate copper cast chains woven through sparkled in the sunlight. The scar tracing the left side of her face did little to mar her beauty, but Kyle found that even with her ebony skin, high cheekbones, and full lips, Jadara was no Sivani. Why are you conducting the Trial, Rolan snapped, bringing Kyle back to himself. Because Hunter Tauren sent me the task. I am the son of the Steward of Honor. Do the Cisterian think so little of me that they are too busy to be here when I win the Trial to join their ranks? Kyle swallowed a groan, but Jadara merely arched an eyebrow. It may be that you think too highly of yourself if you imagine the Hunters even know your name, she told him. There are no titles amongst the Cisterian other than Apprentice, Journeyman, and Hunter. Nor are there such ranks amongst the Borderlanders that require bowing and scraping. But I am a foreigner here, she looked at Kyle. Perhaps I am wrong, Kyle shook his head, avoiding Rolan's glare. You're not wrong, Jadara. A Steward leads each of the Citadels, but they are first amongst equals, not above them. Rolan sneered. You wish that were so because of your interest in my sister. My family has held the position of Steward in Honor since the founding. You will never be good enough for Savani, warren rat. You and your half-brother don't even know who your fathers are. You're not worthy of joining the ranks of the Daemon Hunters. Your sister knows her mind, Rolan, Kyle said, feeling his face heat. He took a breath. He wouldn't let Rolan get in his head, not today. And my parentage is no concern of yours.
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Six zombies were in the living room. Both Corrie and Anna were on the opposite side, near the kitchen. Anna peeked from behind Corrie, her face red, tears streaming down her cheeks. I couldn't understand it. Anna and Corrie were on the far right, but the zombies were on the far left and they weren't even facing us. They were clawing at the wall. A woman in a pink floral dress kept walking into an armoire, hitting her head like the zombie in Naomi's building. Another one, a man with broken glasses hanging off his face, danced in a circle. He bounced around, shimmying and shaking his arms to some non-existent music. Anna screamed again, but I doubted it was because of the zombie jig. Naomi, close that door and make sure they stay put. She nodded and took her position, standing much closer to us, but keeping a watch on the small group of confused zombies. I went to Corrie and Anna. I lowered my music but left it playing. I handed Anna and Corrie the earplugs. Put these in. Anna took the earplugs absently. Her face was red and she whimpered and shook her head. Corrie looked at the tiny items in his hand and for a second I thought he would make a crack about going to a concert. Instead he motioned to my soiled clothes and said, what the hell happened? Just put those earplugs in. They both obliged, though Anna did so slowly and in between sobs. I turned to check Naomi, but nothing had changed. She had even lowered her bat. Turning back I gave Anna's shoulder a gentle squeeze and said, Anna, what's wrong, honey? Can't you be strong for me like when we first met? Anna stared past me, still shaking her head. I moved over to block her view, but she shifted over so she could see. Don't look if it's upsetting you. That's not it, she whispered. What is it then? Anna pointed across the room. She pointed at the female zombie with the floral print dress. The one who also wore a gold chain around her neck with an oval shaped locket. The zombie, who once I really looked, also wore a wedding ring. Anna kept her steadied finger pointed and she said, that's my mommy. That last word she drew out into a long whine that made my body go cold. I put my hand on Anna's head and positioned my body in front of her again. I stood up fast and the room turned momentarily gray. Leaning close to Corey I said, get her out of here, bring her upstairs, barricade yourselves in a room. Marty, I grabbed Corey's neck and pulled him close enough that he had to look up. Get her out of here I said. He nodded, be careful. Corey scooted Anna to the stairs. She hesitated and tried to fight past Corey. And as she did so, her mother walked into the wall and fell over. The dancing zombie didn't notice and started doing his jig on a rib cage. Corey turned Anna's head and got her out of the room right before her mother spit out a mouthful of blood and started to squirm trying to work herself out from under the dancer. I went to Naomi, who stood still, watching them. Christ, Marty, they are alive. She didn't look at me when she said this, she looked above their heads. They have this ribbon growing from their heads, I think it connects to their souls. No. I tried not to think about how they bled, or how they weren't attacking us. I tried not to think about how the ones outside were probably just gonna walk right past us. You said yourself, auras are not souls. You said they're just vibrations. I know, I know I said that. But now I'm saying I think you were right. I think their souls got out. She pointed above their heads. But that ribbon, it's still connected.
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Loading. Please wait. Bran, welcome back to Veril. I appeared outside a building deep in the city. Polished stone stairs were leading up to the glass doors, and a large stone plaque hung to the right of the door. The stone plaque had the corporation etched into it, with the CEO under it. Veril Medical Devices, VMD, CEO, Thym Ron. I entered the building, flashing my palm to the device allowing me access. I sprinted to the elevator, hoping to catch the open car. You gained plus one to sprint. Your sprintability is now 13. I waved the message away, and again waved my hand in front of the sensor where the floor buttons are. The scan caught, and I shot up to the 121st floor. The doors opened, and I walked right into my boss. Fuck. Well, hello Bran, he said to me cheerfully. You are 30 minutes late. Are you having a bad morning? Trapped by an antibody maybe? Saying an antibody trapped me is a common excuse, like saying a dog ate my homework. An antibody is a police officer that could freeze me in place for a short period. While frozen, no one was quite sure what the antibody did. But I believed that they looked for any hack, malicious code, or virus, maybe glitched items too, because I had never heard of a successful hack or virus entering Neurama. Autotech is the reason I believed their purpose, because they loved their clever names. Antibodies literally identify viruses and mark them for the system to destroy, just like I assume they do in Neurama. You gained plus one to intelligence. Your intelligence is now three. Fuck you too, I thought, mentally flicking the system off. I swear, the system deliberately did things like that to fuck with me. No sir, just overslept, I mumbled, feeling ridiculous and still annoyed at the skill up message. No one slept in these days, which goes back to the unnatural slumber in a pod. Neuronians just woke up when they were supposed to do so. My boss smiled big and I knew I was in trouble. The only time this guy was happy is when he had the opportunity to punish one of his workers. His hand came out and I knew he was accessing his inventory. No way was I going to wait and see what he withdrew. I sprinted off between cubicles like a jackrabbit, juking left then turning right. It caused quite the commotion and people were peeking up over their cubicle walls. Oh crap, this bastard is on a real sadistic streak today, I thought as I looked over my shoulder. The fucker pulled out an acid hose, which was not unlike a flamethrower. There was a tank that appeared on his back and a long hose and nozzle appeared in his hands. The tank on his back was glass or acrylic and I could see a green viscous fluid sloshing around. I moved down behind a cubicle wall as my boss lifted the nozzle. Liquid acid shot past me and part of the wall and floor started dissolving. You gained plus one to dodge. Your dodge ability is now seven. Who needs dodge in a work environment, I thought. I swiped a message away thinking it was ridiculous. Then again, my skill was at seven, so maybe it was not as crazy as it seemed. You gained plus one to intelligence. Your intelligence is now four. Now you're just being a dick, I thought, but I laughed because I could appreciate a good sense of humor. I wish I could say this is the first time my boss tried to kill me, but that is a lie. This bastard loved killing me and in the last two months I've probably died twenty times to him. The weapons changed frequently, but the results were the same. Getting paid just required that I was on site, which meant my income stream had already started. As long as I stayed alive, I got paid. At this point, five minutes was probably not even worth one credit. Surviving a work boss is an art form I'm developing. The first rule, do not hide. The boss has a radar and can easily locate me. The second rule, most bosses board quickly. I just had to run my ass off long enough for the boss to finally give up, and then surviving the rest of the day was easy. The third rule, if death is imminent, then die spectacularly. Hoo, we've got a live one here. I knew there was a reason I liked you so much, Bran. I love when my prey runs. Makes the hunt that much more satisfying. Unlike Bill 0019 Jackson over here. Right, Billy boy? My boss shouted and chased after me. Yes sir! Billy yelled nearby. Shut up, pussy! I did not tell you to speak! My boss said, and Billy stopped talking. The fucked up thing is that this is normal living now. Every boss or manager has an avatar built like a dungeon boss in a game, which meant I could not fight back. Or at least not by myself.
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I looked over Darwin's shoulder to the tactical screen. He had his right hand on a glass globe mounted in the shelf in front of him and twirled it under his fingertips, changing resolution and view. We'd been drifting in our squad ship, our can, for hours. He spun the tactical glass globe, the attack globe, and the can spun in space to match, taking tactical control from the pilot. Try a number, I said. Hold on doc, Darwin said, squinting at the screen. He reacted to vibrations in his fingertips from the attack globe as tiny red target dots appeared on its surface, marking hostiles relative to our position. I'm guessing ticks, twenty to thirty, heading to the wormhole, which should be coming over the horizon in about five minutes now. Ticks will be in engagement range about that time. Ticks. Opteran drones. Dull, dark grey, hardened plastic discs, the size of St. Bernard's, torches, claws and weapons hanging at the front. Just like ticks. Just as annoying, and thankfully just as dumb. Do they see us? I asked. Darwin shook his head. We had been drifting in the scattered wreckage of the galactic spaceship Salvation for four hours, waiting for a bite. Unless they took a real hard look at us, we were invisible. He rotated the glass attack globe, made some minor adjustments, and moved his hand to an oversized red lever. Shall we open this can and let out the whoop-ass, doc? He asked. I squinted, peering out the strip of window that ran the length of the bridge, knowing damned well there was no way for me to see ticks five thousand meters away. A little target practice would let off some steam, but it would also burn some ammo. Negative, I said. My mag boots clacked as I paced and stared at the nothing in the starfield through the window. Did he just say negative? Deep Space asked Darwin, as if she wasn't standing a meter behind me. She had already locked her helmet on, and her voice came through comms. Even though it was only the three of us in tactical, it made it sound like she was in another compartment. I shook my head. I said negative. There's some factory spitting out drones faster than we can sling them down. Darwin, give the stick back to Chickie. They're right there, Darwin said. I can practically smell them. Come on, we've been sitting there all day. Let's take this. If we were some assembly unit from Center Core, I could have decked him for talking back. But that's not at all what we were, and he knew I would never do that. I also knew if I said we were staying where we were, drifting in the orbital wreckage of the GSS Salvation like another piece of shattered bulkhead, he'd listen. He unlatched his mag boots and swiveled to face me. Damn puppy dog eyes. I am not wasting ammo on another dance with drones, I said. There's a solid chance they're scouting ahead of an aggregate ship. We take down a cruiser that big, kill some actual optorans and not just ticks, maybe we can do something that matters. We stay here. We wait.
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At that moment, the ornate doors of the museum opened. Adrenaline shot through him. But it was only the woman and the boy emerging. They started down the stairs. She was holding the boy's hand and he was jumping beside her one step at a time, a laborious process in which she indulged him with motherly patience. Suddenly Ahmed realized that she had waylaid his attention. His concentration has strayed. Precious seconds had been lost. The phalanx had come out of the museum and was already moving swiftly down the stairs. But the boy beside the ice cream cart had been alert. The bomb was placed. No! Ahmed cried, punching the driver's upper arm. In many seconds, the car moved forward. The rear doors opened and the AK-47s were sending their lethal message simultaneously with the blast. The lead car of the limousine caravan rose like a feather in the wind, bursting into flames. Unfortunately, their split second of hesitation pushed the schedule awry. As expected, Bigelow was flung to the ground in a reflex action by one of his guards. But unexpectedly, he had the presence of mind to roll toward the site of the blast instead of away from it, causing the two men who were to pick him up and throw him into the rear of their car to hesitate another split second. This was just enough time for one of the dying guards to get off a round of his automatic pistol. It caught Jabir's companion in the head, spilling his brains on Jabir's shirt. Jabir struggled for a moment, trying to get a good grip on Bigelow. But Bigelow was not cooperating, and with good reason. He had been caught in the crossfire. Another man stepped forward to help Jabir, but he too was cut down by the guns of a surviving guard. When the last man attempted to grab Bigelow, he was blown away. A botch, Ahmed knew almost from the first. He looked at Jabir, still struggling to bring Bigelow into the car. Suddenly, the boy looked up. It was futile. Briefly, their eyes met. Ahmed saw the panic and knew what it meant. Jabir, if he was not killed, would break under interrogation. Ahmed lifted the muzzle of his automatic pistol and raked the boy across the chest. Go! He shouted to his driver, jabbing the pistol muzzle in his ribs. The driver jammed his foot on the accelerator and the car shot forward. Then it stalled. The driver reached for the ignition key, turned it. The motor coughed hesitantly, sputtered, but did not catch. It was in that interval that Ahmed once again saw the woman and the boy. The stalled car had apparently cut off their flight to another part of the parking lot. They stood, apparently rooted to the ground by fear. Hello, my lovelies, Ahmed said calmly as he jumped out of the car. At that moment, the sweating driver started the motor. Ahmed grabbed the woman and the boy and pulled them into the rear seat. Then, calmly, as if this exhibition of his courage was necessary, he stepped slowly into the seat beside the driver. As the car disappeared around the corner, he turned to the woman and shrugged. And the medicin is an American, he said. The woman looked at him coldly. She had, he noted, recovered her arrogance. You won't get away with this, the woman hissed as her arm shot out. Her fist glanced off the side of his head. Calmly, he redirected the pistol toward the boy's crotch. He'd make such a pretty little soprano, Ahmed said, watching the woman as the blood drained from her face. After a moment, she expelled a word. It sounded very much like daddy. Daddy, he said with a chuckle. No daddy can help you now.
