It was swift and bloody. Aqib’s launcher disintegrated as he let fly a second time, the young Sind samurai thrown backward, arms bathed in flame. To her left, another blast exploded Wasim’s body into bloody shreds of gore. The others had no time to take in the horror of it as a great pillar of flame roared to life behind them, then began to streak across the brilliantly lit terrain at staggering speed.
In the distance, Serrin gasped, appalled. "Christ, a fragging fire elemental. Those guys are dead meat."
Geraint wasn’t stopping. He’d already torn the top off his vial and was screaming at Serrin to do the same. As he turned, he dropped the rifle and dragged a Bond and Carrington pistol from his padded jacket, loping away across the mud and muck toward the stashed bike.
Serrin wasn’t hanging around to argue. Whatever it was they’d strayed into, there wasn’t a hope in hell of finding Kuranita in this madness. He could only hope his spell would cover their exit, given that security was looking elsewhere.
His leg betrayed him. A deep rumble from the area of the compound set the ground to shaking underfoot, and the elf stumbled and fell. Mouth choked with mud and the sour taste of saline and acid, Serrin dragged himself to his feet, his pulse racing crazily. To his right, two figures were racing desperately across the road with the retina-searing elemental close behind. A detachment of security also was hot in pursuit, SMGs chattering.
Serrin didn’t know why he did it; it was crazy and stupid. Dropping his sustained protections was absurd under the circumstances, but something told him that no one was after him, no one had seen him. He began to chant slowly. He got lucky. The elemental wasn’t a tough one, its force fairly weak, and it took the elf mage no more than fifteen seconds to banish the spirit. The spell sapped the creature’s power, and its flames flickered and died. All those other people had to do now was evade a posse of heavily armored and cyberware-toting hulks with automatic weapons.
Well, at least I’ve bought them a chance, Serrin thought grimly as he turned and ran. In his haste he didn’t hear the car engine revving in the distance. He never knew that she’d seen his face in a chance flash of light. He was unaware of what she would remember all her life.
Now some of the troopers were searching around, well-trained enough to hunt the source of something that could dissipate an elemental. Serrin’s leg throbbed viciously as he lurched toward where he thought they’d left the bike. The leg felt as if he’d been hamstrung with a meathook. Distantly he heard Geraint’s desperate cry to him, but the drain was beginning to take its toll and he could do no more than half-run, half-limp onto a riverbank that shouldn’t have been there. He just managed to crawl over it, hoping to find some cover where he could hide. A foul liquid bubbled up from his lungs, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He stumbled again and landed up to his neck in water and reeds.
The last thing Serrin saw before passing out was the river serpent. The thing was probably ten yards long. Rearing over him, the beast opened its powerfully muscular jaws to reveal its dagger-sharp teeth set in a huge, gaping maw as black as the entrance to hell.
10
Geraint retained enough self-control not to exceed the speed limit as he headed through Bar Hill’s dreary low-rise houses on the way back to Cambridge. His thoughts, however, raced furiously.
Serrin had vanished into the night. Geraint, meanwhile, had hordes of heavily armed Fuchi security guards rushing toward him, forcing him to take off on the elf’s bike, praying no copters were after him, too. It was bad enough that Serrin had disappeared. Now he also had the unexpected arrival of another group of raiders at the lab to disturb and confuse him.
Geraint turned everything over and over in his mind, trying to recall what he and Serrin had said and where they’d said it, wondering if their conversations had been bugged. No matter how many times he mentally replayed scenes, however, he couldn’t make any sense of it.
Entering the main sprawl zone north of Cambridge, Geraint realized that he couldn’t return to the hotel. He could hardly stroll through the front lobby with his clothes torn to ribbons and caked with mud. Even his famous sang froid wouldn’t let him get away with blithely leaving a muddy trail of wet clods on the carpet behind him. Hotel security was bound to make a discreet notification to the police, some of whom must certainly be special friends of Fuchi. Things could get supremely nasty. For the same reason, dumping the bike in the selfpark garage and heading straight for the elevator was a no-go. The attendant might see him, and there would be videoscans even there.
Rakk it all, he’d have to go back to London, which meant no motorway travel, not on a motorbike. Forty miles of back roads all the way to the outer orbital. Wonderful, he thought. I hope it hasn’t changed much since my student days. I haven’t driven along here in ten years.
Hitting the roads, Geraint had the impression they hadn’t been repaired in a decade, either. South of Royston he had the sense to turn off the main road and take a detour around the decaying sprawl suburbs. He saw the barricade and the lurking wrecker gang just in time. Had he continued straight on, he’d have already been dead meat.
Cursing his bad luck, Geraint now found himself in a warren of back streets. He slowed the bike while he tried to figure out where he was and where he was going. The street lights had been shot out long ago, and all he had was the weak light of the moon and his own dipped headlight. Realizing that he’d completely lost track of his direction, and had no idea how to get out of here, the hair began to rise at the back of his neck. One thing was certain, though; he had to keep moving. At one point he decided to turn around again, and was making a slow U-turn, when suddenly he saw before him a ragged group edging out of the shadows and blocking his path.
“Nice bike, term," a rough voice called. “Make you an offer!”
There were sniggers audible above the bike’s revving engine. The punk at the front of the pack was hefting a hunk of wood that looked like a railway tie. Some of those hanging further back were carrying rocks, more likely chunks of plascrete.
Geraint began to sweat. How am I going to get out of this one? he wondered desperately. A single hit would wing me. Then I’m off the bike. Then I’m down. Then I’m dead. Got no choice, I guess.
As the punks fanned out around and in front of him, he drew his pistol, hoping it was visible in the glare of his headlight. Their reactions said they saw it, but they were poor enough to have nothing to lose. They no doubt lost a member or two every week in a gang fight, so the prospect of losing a few more now probably didn’t terrify them much. Not if they saw a motorcycle and a gun as the prize to be won.
“Spare me that glop, you wankers!" Geraint made his voice tougher than he could possibly feel right there and then. “Bond and Carrington MC-40, armor-piercing rounds with high-reaction reload. Six of you die, maybe eight. I got a smartgun link, so you could even count to ten if you get unlucky.”
The rabble was shifting uneasily now, but they held their ground. Impasse. Then Geraint had a flash of inspiration.
“In about eight minutes the slint on my tail will come edging round the shadows here. Nice Toyota bike. A real banger. Why not wait for him instead? Set up a sweet little ambush. That way half of you don’t get splashed.
“And since you’ll be doing me a favor,” he added, revving the bike’s engine to make a dash for it, “1 think a little remuneration would be in order.”
He drew a wad of bills from his jacket. Thank the Bank of England for stubbornly refusing to accept that credsticks were the only way to do business these days. He flung the paper into the air, then watched as it fluttered down like a ticker tape parade of fifties and hundreds. The next instant he was scorching away from a dead stop as the snakeboys ran to grab what they could, some even dropping their improvised weapons in their urgency to stuff bank notes into their pockets.