A Magic King (2 page)

Damn. Not only had she missed Mary's Halloween costume party, but federal curfew too. By a good two hours, no less. She hoped any police she met understood the importance of her mission. The rest of the world might view her as a lowly computer nerd and perpetual student, but she knew in her heart she was a warrior bravely fighting to keep alive one of the last free centers of knowledge available to all.

Information was getting harder to come by in this information age. With the electrical black-outs and restricted net sites, not to mention the New Cold War eating up electronic products like candy, even big universities were finding it hard to keep their systems up and running.

But that, of course, was her job. Jane ran Boston University's computers. Well, she didn't run them in terms of being head of the department. They had pencil-pusher Dr. Beavesly doing that. She did all the work; maintaining the software and the machines, and keeping each and every terminal shining bright against the darkness of ignorance.

Jane straightened her shoulders, laughing at herself as she mentally added a stiff breeze, the right lighting, and of course super-hero music. She was Jane Deerfield, a.k.a. Oracle, defender of truth and justice and computer integrity throughout cyberspace. All she needed now were the bat-boots to go with her costume, because her orange high-tops just didn't seem to fit the image. Course, it didn't matter anyway, she thought sourly, since no one would ever see her awesome black leotard with the neon bat on the front this Halloween.

"Damn terrorists and their fragging homebody bombs," she muttered. "They can't blow-up some munitions dump. No. They have to go for my computers."

She should have expected it, she knew. The psychos had been out in force ever since those last Dustmaker satellites went up. It seemed like every megalomaniac and his government was buying the latest and greatest weapons of destruction whether they understood the technology or not. It was getting hard to see the sun for all the satellite shadows.

No doubt about it. Some mutant virus had destroyed everyone's common sense.

Sighing, Jane slipped her backpack on feeling depression settle in as well. She was a computer jockey, not a comic book heroine—more's the pity. All she could do was her job, fighting ignorance in her own special way. She'd leave global politics to the mental cases in power.

Jane hunched her shoulders against the New England fall and started walking to the door.

There was no warning. Just a loud sound, felt more than heard. But Jane knew instantly that something awful had happened. She tensed to run, but didn't know where. Should she go back to the library computer, the core of stored knowledge, making sure to save it? Or should she run to the central net hoping she could keep the whole system up?

She couldn't decide. And in that moment of indecision, she was caught.

There was no sound, just a blackness, like a rip in the air. Around its jagged edges everything was distorted, as though space shriveled, curling backwards like a paper slowly eaten by flame.

Then it was on her. The rip stretched and tore, as though reaching for her.

She ran, but it was too fast. One minute her feet were pounding on the stone floor. The next, she was suspended in a nightmare.

Nothing was around her, but that nothing was black and so very cold. She twisted, trying to keep her balance, but there was no up or down. Only incredible coldness. And the weight of ages pressing against her, choking her lungs, squeezing her body into a tiny pinprick of existence.

Her mind fought with the impossibility of it all, desperately scrambling for a logical handhold for escape. Then she had no thoughts at all.

Only pain.

She was dying.

Chapter 1

Forty-first day, Warming season,

Thirteenth year of the Seef

Cold.

Ice cold.

Warmth. Blessed warmth, spreading like hot fudge on ice cream throughout her system. Starting at her forehead, sliding into her mind, it heated the tiny nooks and crannies of her body.

Jane sighed with delight and opened her eyes, then winced at the glaring sunlight. She felt a hand glide low over her forehead, shielding her from the glare. The hand was large and calloused, but gentle as it caressed her skin.

"Yyi cquiness mnansirul?"
The voice was deep and lilting, like a magical river in an animated vid. It was beautiful. And insistent.
"Mnansirul?"

"Huh?" One syllable was all she could force through her raw throat.

The hand slid away, and she blinked rapidly trying to sort shape from shadow. A man was beside her, gently sliding his arm behind her shoulders. His touch was almost painful. Wherever he pressed against her, she felt tiny pinpricks, like electricity shooting minute bolts of lightning through her skin.

This must be how a recharging battery feels, she thought. She knew the man was bringing her back to life in slow, torturous inches. He revitalized her cell by cell, but God, if this was living, maybe being a dead battery wasn't so bad.

Her head lolled back against his arm, and she felt his energy pulse through her with the beginnings of a first class headache.

Something wet pressed against her lips and before she realized what was happening, hot water seared across her tongue, thawing as it slid past.

She swallowed, waiting greedily for more. It came in patient mouthfuls, swallow by swallow. She drank it all, only vaguely realizing the water wasn't hot. It was probably tepid at best, but she was so very, very cold it burned as it went down.

Then he lay her back down on the grass, and she was able to see him clearly for the first time.

Wow. He was gorgeous; just how she'd create a leading man for some computer game. Somewhere in his thirties, his face was cut into hard planes and strong lines. His eyes were an intense dark blue swirled with mesmerizing gold flecks that were the sexiest things she'd seen in a considerable career of guy watching. Add to that his golden brown hair and a sweet smile, and she was in love.

"Wh—" Her throat closed up, but she swallowed away the pain. "What happened?"

He shook his head, indicating he didn't understand.

"Where am I?" she asked, her words slow and deliberate. She had a vague impression of grass, trees, blue sky, and clean air, all of which meant she wasn't in Boston.

He settled her back down in the grass. She felt his fingertips run over her eyes again, closing them with a firm insistence. Despite her growing confusion, she felt herself succumb to their gentle urging.

Rest, his fingers seemed to say as they traveled across her cheek, stopping against her lips. He seemed to be holding back her questions, keeping her from speaking until she at last surrendered to his soothing caress.

Sleep
, he urged.

She slept.

* * *

Jane moaned, rolled over and covered her ears against the sound of the oddest car alarms she'd ever heard. There must have been another explosion because a whole slew of them were going off at once. Why weren't they the piercing electronic wails that she could tune out without a second thought? These were lyrical, shifting notes and tones like a bird call, except there were so many.

Bird call? A vague sense of dread stole over her, and she opened her eyes.

She saw a bug. A big black bug with red spots and long furry antennae ambling across her arm toward her face. She jumped up with a squeal, shaking her arm and fighting the nausea. Fortunately, the startled thing flew away. Unfortunately, the nausea was caused by her sudden movement, not the sight of a strange new member of the beetle family.

She dropped her head into her hands and took deep, painful breaths, her chest muscles fighting the movement. Suddenly she felt him beside her. His hands held her lightly across the shoulders. She didn't move. Gradually she felt a warmth spreading from his hands, through her shoulders, gently sinking into her body. She vaguely remembered hot fudge over ice cream, but this heat was different, deeper. Like frozen popcorn in a microwave, she felt herself pop awake, cell by cell as she heated from the inside out.

Then he stopped, slowly withdrawing while she was still half done. Disappointed, she opened her eyes and turned to say something, but the words never formed. Instead, her jaw went slack as she took in her environment.

She was at the edge of a meadow ringed with trees and birds. Lots of real birds, like in an aviary. There wasn't a carport in sight. Reaching down, she touched soft, springy grass that hadn't been mowed in months. A cool breeze caressed her tongue, and she shut her mouth with a snap. Gone was the familiar scent of exhaust, the acrid tang of pollution. In its place was a sweetness both fresh and laden with the heavy scents of a garden.

"Ugh. What is that smell?" She wrinkled her nose, trying to adjust to the faint electric pulse of the air.

"Yyi stransve hrenvivr?"

She looked at her gorgeous hero. He seemed the same today as yesterday, his soft white shirt alternately flaring or flattening against his broad chest according to the capriciousness of the wind.

"Svenetrins? KVanteke? Gronta?"
He was asking her something, his voice changing slightly with each word. She knew her expression was one of complete stupidity, but she was still in reboot and couldn't think of a thing to say.

He sighed. It was a masculine sigh, full of rippling chest muscles and frustration with the female sex. She'd seen it a thousand times from her father, her brother, even her boss.

He leaned backward, neatly snatching his pack from the grass by a low campfire. Hers rested right beside his.

"What's going on? Where am I?" she demanded. But he was focused on his backpack and ignored her, and soon she began watching him, her curiosity piqued. His pack was an odd thing made out of leather with none of the neon colors or lightweight synthetic materials she favored. In fact, now that she looked closely, everything about him seemed natural—no bright colors, all natural fiber cloth, even a leather thong to tie back his wavy hair.

"Are you some sort of naturalist?" she asked. "It's not that I mind, but you must be incredibly rich to afford such stuff." She bit her lip in frustration. Why did she always say the stupidest things? Taking a deep breath, she ordered her questions and started with the most pressing one. "My name's Jane. What's—"

Her words stopped cold as he pulled a filthy baggie filled with fireflies out of his pack and pushed it toward her.

"Ugh! Get that away from me!"

She tried to slide away, but he caught her wrist. Even if she'd been at full strength, he would have been stronger. He was relentless as he drew her closer to it, firmly placing her hand on top of what she now saw was some sort of bloated animal gut.

"Yuck!"

It felt warm and squishy and strangely tingly, all of which was very much like putting her hand on living sheep intestines. She was thoroughly repulsed, but that was nothing compared to the fear that sliced through her when her companion drew out a very sharp, very wicked looking dagger.

"Steemanti. Steemanti!"

He couldn't really want her to eat that, could he? "Look, I'm not very hungry. Please feel free to eat your sheep guts without me. Hey!"

She tried to jerk away as he brought the knife closer. Her fingers curled into a fist as she twisted against him, but his grip was like durosteel bands, and she was trapped in it.

Then she watched in horror as he nicked the fleshy edge of his hand, the one holding her wrist. His blood welled dark red, then slipped down the edge of his hand onto her arm.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll eat the sheep gut. Whatever you want."

"Steemanti."

He lifted her hand, twisting it until he exposed the same fleshy part beneath her left pinkie.

"No. No way are you going to cut me." She let her hand go lax. Then suddenly, she put her back into it, bracing her legs and wrenching away. She didn't care if she pulled her arm out of its socket, she would get away from Mr. Psychotic with the knife.

She made it, though from the pain in her shoulder, she'd probably dislocated it. Then she scrambled to her feet and started running. Although not athletic, she'd always been able to cut and run whenever needed. But she was weak, her movements off balance, and her head still felt three times too big for her neck. Even with the adrenaline boost, she felt like she moved in slow motion.