He stopped a short distance away, and it was his turn to give me the once-over. It took no more than a second, and then he smiled.
Suddenly, I realized I feared this elf.
It was a disturbing realization. Hell, there was nothing overtly threatening about him. His smile seemed to be genuinely amused, not a power smile intended to impress or intimidate. His body language was, well, I didn't know quite what to make of it, but it wasn't threatening either.
Yet the fear was real, chummer. For some reason, it chilled my guts like an ice-water enema. Some people you automatically like at first glance; others you automatically despise. Never before had I met someone to automatically fear. I think I managed to keep my thoughts from showing on my face, however.
The elf nodded a greeting-a gesture with an Old-World formal air to it. "Mr. Montgomery," he said. His voice was a musical instrument, almost inhumanly perfect in timbre, tone, and resonance; any trideo personality would gut his mother for a voice like that. "I rather thought I might find you here."
"Then you know more about it than I do," I told him truthfully.
He found that amusing, and his smile broadened. "Well, there is always that possibility, isn't there, Mr. Montgomery? Or may I call you Derek?"
"Why don't you call me Brian Tozer?" I said. Then- what the frag anyway-"But Dirk will do. Your turn."
The elf nodded again, almost a bow, this time. "Quentin Harlech, at your service. But you can call me Quinn."
I ignored the obvious opening.
Harlech removed his bullet-proof shades-blue eyes, sharper than a monoblade-and looked pointedly around the area. "Quite fascinating, isn't it?" he remarked lightly.
I shrugged. "If you understand it, I suppose."
He laughed then, Harlech did. Not the sinister cackle that part of my mind had expected, but a full-throated, free rush of genuine mirth. "Oh, of course, Dirk, of course. Will you be returning with interesting reports?"
"Huh?" Not overly witty, of course, but it was all that occurred to me at the moment.
Quinn chuckled again. "Reports, Derek, you know. To those who sent you. Give them my greetings while you're at it, will you? But then, of course you'd do that even without my urging, wouldn't you?"
Slowly, I shook my head. "Pardon the dumb question, but are we both reading from the same script here? Or maybe you're confusing me with another Dirk Montgomery."
The elf sighed and made a disapproving tsk-tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. "Basely spoken, Mr. Montgomery," he said. His tone of voice sounded more disappointed than anything else. "Dissembling so clumsily? It suits you ill, sir."
I showed him my empty palms. "Chummer," I said quietly, "I haven't got a fragging clue what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't, of course you don't," Quinn said patronizingly, and he laughed again. "And of course you don't know that the game is up," he went on sarcastically. "You don't know that your cover's blown, and that you're wasting your time. I've seen to that, you know. You really should tell your master that." I saw his gaze flick down to my deputy badge, saw his expression change subtly. "Both your masters," he amended.
Before I could speak, he turned away with a final, "Well, good day to you, makkaherinit."
"Hey, just a fragging moment," I called after him.
Or that's what I tried to call after him, at least. I tried to draw breath… and couldn't. I tried to move… and couldn't. I tried to blink my fragging eyes… and couldn't.
Magic, obviously-a powerful paralysis spell. Harlech must have cast it on me to give himself walking-away time. That's what I guessed later, at least. At the moment there was only one thought running through my mind.
I was fragging paralyzed, and I was fragging terrified, Spirits, have you ever been paralyzed? Let me tell you it's not the way you think it'd be… or not the way I thought it'd be, at least. Maybe there are some kinds of paralysis spells that control only voluntary muscles, that leave the involuntary functions alone. Not this one. I couldn't breathe, in or out, and I couldn't even hear my pulse. Every muscle fiber in my body seemed frozen in the position it held when Harlech cast his spell or whatever it was.
I watched him stroll away; then he was out of my field of vision, and 1 couldn't move my eyes to follow him. I was stuck there, staring at some turf and a flowering tree-the tree was slightly out of focus, and I couldn't even focus my eyes-and I started wondering if that was the last sight I was ever going to see. The elf had implied that he didn't want me dead, which meant he'd eventually drop the spell… but soon enough? How good was his estimate of the anoxia-tolerance of a thirty-something erstwhile shadowrunner who's not in the best of fragging shape? By the time he dropped the spell and my cardiovascular system got back on the job, how much of my brain would have suffocated? Not a pleasant thought…
My vision was starting to tunnel down, and little floaty stars were drifting around the dark periphery of my visual field. In growing desperation, I tried once more to draw a breath…
And fragged if it didn't work this time. I filled my lungs, a great whooping inhalation. (Who says orgasm is the best experience in the world? I'm here to tell you, chummer, it's breathing…) My heart kicked in, a triphammer beat in my ears. I fell to my hands and knees and just relished the sensations as my chest and diaphragm did what they were supposed to do. The little floaty stars and the black tunnel receded, and eventually the aftertaste of terror followed them. By the time I could think of anything beyond personal survival, the elf was gone without a trace.
16
I sat in the back of The Bus, morosely watching the assortment of (meta)humanity sharing the vehicle with me. Mostly working-class Hawai'ians, I figured, but mere was a significant minority of younger people I tentatively labeled as the kids of corp vacationers. (Did mummy and daddy suit know their little darlings were riding a fragging bus instead of cruising in a limo? Not that it mattered…) The "recently dead" look seemed to be back in fashion, with bleached skin, black-dyed hair, and makeup to give the eyes a sunken look. Anything that could be pierced was pierced. The only thing that set these pre-suits apart from sprawl guttertrash was the quality-and obvious expense-of their clothes. Oh, sure, they wore the de rigueur biker jackets and weathered jeans. But their jackets were real leather, not synth, and they'd obviously bought their jeans prefaded and preslashed.
And then there were the T-shirts and sweatshirts they wore under their jackets-emblazoned with logos from fashionable corps. I don't know jack about fashion, really, but I do know how much a trendy label adds to the price of something. I sighed. In the grand scheme of things the only difference between cows and some people is that cows don't pay mega-cred to get branded. Maybe it's time to cack us all and give the cockroaches their shot…
It was continuing to be one of those days, all in all. Through no fault of my own, I'd gotten myself mixed up in the affairs of kings, corps, and dracoforms. I'd witnessed an assassination, I'd been shot at repeatedly, and I'd almost asphyxiated under a paralysis spell. And the day wasn't even over.
It was Miller time with a vengeance. Of all the things I could think of, what I most wanted right at that moment was to head back to my doss, flop down on the bed, and watch eyelid movies for twenty-four hours. Maybe by the time I woke up again, things would have started looking a little better.