Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls (13 page)

Closing my ears to the sounds of struggle behind me, I open my hearing to the door in front of me. For a frightened moment, I think I will be unable to hear. Then, faintly, I hear the door, drowsing solid. Next to it, like a whistle of electronic fire, is the snap and babble of the lockpad.

Reaching tentatively in the ruddy darkness, I find the rectangle set nearly flush with the doorframe. Brushing a fingernail across, I feel that the numbers are raised—intended
no doubt as a convenience for a nurse or orderly who might need to feel out the code while dealing with a struggling patient. As my hand touches them, I hear the hiss and babble increase in frequency.

When I concentrate, the noise resolves itself into yaps and purrs of sound—no real words, but something I can understand.

I move my hand to the long sigil in the upper left corner. The purrs vanish, but when I move my finger down the purring begins, hesitates when I pass the second row and thrums loudly when I rest on the center figure. I press.

I follow the purrs down to the right, up to the top center, over one, then across to the far corner. The purring grows loud here and so I press twice. Beside me there is a click and a soft swish as the door opens.

Opening the lock has activated a self-powered light inside the cell. This one is yellow and slightly brighter. Thus, as I step into the doorway, I see Head Wolf.

He is sprawled on a foam cot that is a raised piece of the padded floor. The glossy black hair is tangled and matted with sweat; his eyes move vacantly, independent of each other. A steady stream of saliva has coursed from the corner of his mouth to pool in the hollow of one shoulder. Although he wears paper coveralls, he seems indecent, stripped of his dignity.

With a low moan of anger, I am moving to help him when Betwixt and Between yell.

“Sarah! Drop and left!”

I do and the dart sails over me and bounces limply into the padded walls. Coming up from my roll, I look up and
see Dr. Haas aiming at me again. Already, though, I have learned something about these little guns, so instead of rolling to the side, a motion that she could track, I roll towards her. My velocity is limited, but I connect soundly with her shapely legs and then start to my feet.

“Goddamn you!” she swears, adjusting her arm.

I look past her and smile. “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”

“Bitch!” she says and then crumples as Professor Isabella hits her solidly below one shell-like ear.

Now that I have time to look, I see that the battle is over. The three security guards who had attended Professor Haas are all down. One bleeds heavily, his jaw at an odd angle. All, however, appear to be breathing.

Midline has gone into Head Wolf's cell and, swearing softly, is preparing him for our escape. Grey Brother watches down the corridor, a palm computer in one hand. Suddenly, I understand how the power went off at such an ideal moment.

“When the dart hit me,” Professor Isabella is telling me, her voice still adrenaline charged, “I realized that my best bet was to let them believe that I had been at least somewhat affected—otherwise I'd get another dart for sure. So I went down and helped as I could without giving my cover by tripping a few people. But when I saw her go for you…”

I hug her with one arm, then move to help Midline. He scowls protectively, but lets me take Head Wolf's legs. I hang one over each arm and trundle forward; Midline manages the heavier upper body.

Climbing through the access ways is out with our unconscious leader, so Grey Brother contacts Abalone.

“We've got 'im, but no way we getting out where we come in. What you think, girl?”

Her voice comes back, tiny but reassuring. “Go to the stairwell back the way you came on your right. Go up two flights. There's a ladder to the roof. I'll have pickup there for you.”

“Good.” Grey Brother motions with his head and we trot after.

Abalone has let the lights come on again. When at one point they flicker, Midline chuckles and even Grey Brother relaxes.

“The Four are with us,” he explains to Professor Isabella. “They just blew a minor power link. It'll distract from our pickup.”

We make our way to the roof and as Grey Brother is undoing the manual hatch, Abalone's voice comes from the palm computer.

“Caught something on the vid,” she says. “The blonde is up and has made some call. I only tapped into the end, but she's got people heading for the Jungle.”

Grey Brother snaps the catch and starts to climb onto the roof. He halts midway. His head is outside, but by stretching my ears I can hear him.

“Abalone, some of the Free People may still be living down there. I cleared those I could, but…”

He trails off, but I don't need to hear the finished sentence. The Law permits the Wolves to lair where they will
within reason. If some of the Pack chose not to take Grey Brother's suggestion, they could be there still.

Professor Isabella has also heard. “Grey Brother, those kids are in trouble. That woman is dangerous and she won't hesitate to grab other hostages now that we have the Head Wolf.”

Grey Brother vanishes upward. A moment later his arms descend to help Midline raise Head Wolf. I can hear the faint whoosh and drone of the hovercat's power plant. Midline waits to assist Professor Isabella upward. As I climb the ladder, I hear her.

“You don't seem surprised that I think we may have further problems with the blond woman.”

“No.”

I can almost hear Midline shake his head.

“It's her. Sarah,” he goes on. “She's what they want. Why would they stop when they don't have her?”

Professor Isabella's face as she emerges from the trapdoor wears a musing expression. She extends a blue-veined hand to help Midline up. He accepts, although he hardly needs it. We hurry to the hovercat and crowd in.

His mien serious, Peep sits behind the controls. Grey Brother is already in the back, with Head Wolf leaned up against him. I slide in beside, supporting Head Wolf, and Professor Isabella squashes beside me, letting Midline have the other front seat. As Peep eases the vehicle off the roof and spirals us away, I think that Abalone would find him a more-talented apprentice than I am.

We are descending into a dark alleyway when Grey Brother shakes himself.

“Peep, pick up Chocolate and Bumblebee—no, she's
gone—Chocolate, then, and the two of you take Head Wolf to the Cold Lairs. Edelweiss is there. She'll know what to do for Head Wolf.”

“Okay,” the boy nods. “You're not coming?”

“No.” Grey Brother shakes his head. “Me an' Midline are going to make sure the Jungle's clear.”

I struggle for words; fortunately, Grey Brother sees my expression.

“Wanna come, Sarah?”

I nod, smiling.

“Count me in, too,” Professor Isabella says.

A grin quirks Grey Brother's face. “Might be kinder if you went with Peep. Edelweiss and the rest will want to know what's been going on and Peep can't tell them. Y'know?”

“I know.”

The hovercat comes down and Professor Isabella leans back so I can climb over her and out. She puts an arm around Head Wolf's still limp body.

“Closer than this scoundrel would let me get if he were awake,” she chuckles. “May as well enjoy it. Mind Sarah, now.”

“We be of one blood, she and us,” Grey Brother answers, swatting Chocolate as the boy takes the seat Midline has abandoned. “We'll mind her, best as one can in a war.”

“War?” Professor Isabella looks down as the hovercat begins to rise. “What do you know?”

“All I need to,” Grey Brother waves. “Someone wants one of ours and they will hurt any of us to get her. That's war as I see it.”

T
HE GRAVEL ROLLS UNDER MY FEET AS
I
RUN BESIDE
G
REY
Brother, a familiar gritty grind of asphalt and granite from forgotten roadways and footpaths. Around us the tanks loom, mesas within the canyon of empty buildings. Once this canyon had been a home. Tonight it is an alien landscape of dark steel and darker shadows.

I pick out the tank that had held the Jungle off to the edge of the canyon. There are a dozen ways that could have brought us in closer, but Grey Brother chose this one after speaking with one of the Four.

Even Abalone does not argue with him, but lopes alongside, her tappety-tap thumping against her hip. Occasionally she reaches and adjusts the padded nylon case and then smiles at me.

I think she means to reassure me, but I am chilled by the feral glimmer in her eyes. So long she has been my Baloo,
little thief, little hacker, I had forgotten the bare-chested child of the streets who had rescued me.

We draw nearer to the Jungle without seeing anyone. This is not good. Grey Brother had sent some of the Four in with Midline from another angle. We should have rendezvoused by now. I feel a metallic bite of fear. Midline would have sent someone if he could not have come himself—a Tail Wolf, a Cub, someone. This is bad.

Grey Brother has apparently reached the same conclusion. He leads us until we come to a smaller tank that faces the Jungle. The side is corroded, making a cave of sorts. He stoops and enters, hunkering invisible in the shadows.

We creep in next to him. Together we listen for any sound, look for any sign from the direction of the Jungle. For a long time there is nothing, then a flicker of light, bright only because of the surrounding murky darkness.

It is gone before we can pinpoint it, but my mind fills in the details. Something—someone—has disturbed one of the heavy curtains that cover the entries into the Jungle. At least some of the lights are on within.

Abalone mutters something angry.

Grey Brother whispers back, “Yes, they in there. They got the Four I sent on and more maybe. But how we get them out? They see us when we go in, even if we go by one of the Lesser Trails.”

“Lesser Trails?” Abalone asks.

“Yes,” Grey Brother laughs softly. “Secret ways that Head Wolf makes. Only some of us know. He not want us to be trapped by cops or gangs. Always someone there who knew
the Trails and is sworn to bring the rest out if trouble comes.”

“Does Midline know?”

“No.” I can hear him shake his head. “Only me an' Bumblebee an' Chocolate an' Head Wolf, of course.”

“Damn.”

There is a long pause, then she whispers again.

“I thought he might be able to get them away if we could distract the Bander-Log”—she tries to laugh at her tag for our enemies and fails—“and maybe turn out the lights.”

“Monkey folk?” Grey Brother does laugh. “I wish, Abalone, but these is meaner than the Bander-Log. You think you can kill the lights?”

“Know it. From the bit we saw, they gotta be using Head Wolf's lines and I always helped him pay the power bills. But what good will it do? Without a look inside, we can't see where our Pack members are or even in what shape they're in. And without that…”

She shrugs hopelessly but I feel a rush of excitement and sick terror. I remember the day that Betwixt and Between told Conejito Moreno about Dylan and how all the Jungle had seemed to speak.

Now…I don't know if I can do it, but again, I must.

I tug Abalone's cape. “I am a brother to dragons, a companion to owls.”

She starts to hush me, then stops. “You are, aren't you, Sarah. But can you do it?”

“The walls have ears,” I nod, gesturing toward the looming steel shell.

“What's she mean?” Grey Brother asks.

“Sarah thinks that she can find out what's going on in there, without us having to go in,” Abalone explains.

I hear a sharp intake of breath.

“I'm not asking. Head Wolf make her one of us and I never thought it was just 'cause she was a cute piece of ass. If she can do it—good—but how will she tell us what she learns? We don't have time for her riddles.”

I have been wrestling with the same problem. Now I etch the pebbles with my fingertip, forgetting Abalone and Grey Brother cannot see what I am doing because of the darkness.

“When we mean to build,” I whisper, “we first survey the plot, then draw the model; And when we see the figure of the house, then we must rate the cost of erection.”

“No time for that…” Grey Brother begins indignantly, but Abalone interrupts him with a smothered laugh.

“No, Grey Brother, she doesn't mean that kind of erection. She's saying that she thinks that she can draw us a plan of what she sees—like a house builder would—and then when we see what's there we can make our plans.”

I nod happily as Betwixt and Between snigger.

“I can't understand her when she talks that way,” Grey Brother complains, but I can tell that he is hopeful. “You stay close so I can figure what she's telling. Can she do her hoodoo from here or do we need to get closer?”

Closing my eyes, I stretch for contact with the Jungle, but the noises will not resolve themselves into anything I can follow.

“He seems so near and yet so far,” I admit, regretfully shaking my head.

“Then we'll sneak in closer,” Grey Brother says. “Do you need to be near an opening or just near the Jungle?”

I open and shut my mouth like a cartoon clam, unable to find an answer. Abalone recognizes my dilemma and rephrases the question.

“Sarah, is getting nearer to the Jungle wall enough?”

Relieved, I nod.

“Good,” Grey Brother growls, “then we'll go over by one of the Lesser Trail doors. Abalone, while she's sketching, can you check out what it'll take to kill the lights and then hustle back to rejoin us?”

“Done. Where do I meet you?”

Grey Brother hesitates, as if reluctant even now to share the secret Head Wolf entrusted him with.

“Over behind the south face—near the sign that says ‘mical Stor' in orange paint.”

“I know the place.” Abalone nods and with a light pat for me she is gone.

Grey Brother motions for me to follow him and I do, matching step for step as Abalone taught me long ago. I wonder again if Grey Brother hates me for the disruption I have brought his home, his people. I am glad that I do not have the words to ask.

When we reach the metal wall, I huddle against it, gripping the barely perceptible curve of the surface with my flat palms. The metal is cold and slightly pitted although it looks quite smooth. In the faint ambient city light, I can see Grey
Brother watching me with just the faintest hint of superstitious respect on his impassive features.

Wanting a friend, I pull Betwixt and Between from their perch and set them between my knees. There is a patch of dirt next to me and I experiment with marking it with my fingertip. I can draw fairly easily, rearranging the lumpy dust into patterns.

Closing my eyes, I stop procrastinating and begin to listen.

Nothing but Grey Brother's breathing and my own heartbeat. Then nothing but the heartbeat. Then nothing.

Nothing. Or. Yes.

The metal is tired. It has held liquid that burned. Then the liquid was gone and the sides of the cylinder had collapsed the smallest amount inward in response to the missing internal pressure.

Wind. Rain. Outside. In? In. Weakest spots had given way or had been broken by vandals. Through these had come the refugees.

Rats. Bats. Cats. Dogs. A hawk that roosted in the upper rim. Mice. Small birds who nested on ladder rungs. Finally, people. One. Two. Many.

Pinpricks of pain as the ropes are hung, platforms and curtains suspended. An eerie sense of fullness and satisfaction at being full again after so long empty.

This all washes through me as the lines and scars on a man's face tell you his life: that he loved the wind, never wore sunglasses, broke his nose in a brawl and was too proud to fix it. So the old tank that became the Jungle tells its tale to me.

I listen more closely and can hear individual reactions. The upper reaches are dark and empty. The ropes and hammocks weave a vacant web. The floor. Yes. That speaks. I draw a ragged breath, damp my ears to the myriad voices that seek to claim me, and focus.

The entire babble, even of this relatively limited area, is still too great. I make my way to an edge. This is better. I will inscribe the ring of the Jungle base first, then move in.

Now I lower my hand to the dirt and, with an improvised stylus made from a piece of wire, I draw what I hear.

First, the edges. My circle is wobbly but recognizable. I carefully mark the openings, their painted canvas screams Head Wolf's mad vision of freedom while pulling the very whiskers of those who would lock him away.

Circling in, I find one of the Lesser Trails, a drainage pipe, its trapdoor hidden beneath a slab of metal. I mark it and continue on. Head Wolf's lair, a crumpled mass of fabric calls to me, begging for repair and return. For a moment, I smell musk and man sweat and feel the stroke of his hands as I lean back against a mound of pillows.

I wrench myself away from the spot, for the memories are strong here and the place is alive with powerful passions—mine, his, others. I could grow lost in the clamor of memory.

Circle inward. Another Lesser Trail, this a weak spot in a wall, one that could be opened easily with a good heave of one of the hunks of stone piled with apparent carelessness nearby. The thin metal weeps of its aching sides to me. Fatigue will take it in a decade if not sooner.

Inward. Cookstove. Fire Circle. Song notes. A life
choked out in a brief flash of violent sound. I mark the physical landmarks. The intangible I hurry past.

Then. Yes! This section nearly shrieks with recent noise: Children's tears pool in the rough cracks in the metal floor; blood, still warm, congeals beside. The floor speaks of weight, heat. Burns where a bullet has gouged it.

Have they given up the dart guns then?

Feverishly, I mark what I can. The clump that I think is our people, scattered figures that may be guards. Only one is high up. Apparently, they do not trust the Web.

Almost by accident, I find another of the Lesser Trails, not far from the center of the Jungle. This one, I sense, is the one we wait near. It connects to a similar drainage system as the first.

Struggling for more detail, I am at last overwhelmed by the competing noises, stories, sounds, complaints, secrets. I fall away from the wall, obliterating an edge of my drawing. The important part remains, however.

For a few breaths, I hide my face in my hands. Then I look at Grey Brother, noticing that Abalone has returned.

“The rest is silence,” I say.

“She's given us a map,” Grey Brother says, pointing at my dust scrawls. “Our people are here an' here. Guards there and over there.”

He looks at me to check his interpretation. I nod, still so tired that I feel close to sobbing. I can't let Grey Brother or Abalone know or they will insist that I stay out and this I cannot bear. I must go in and help—these people are in trouble because of me.

I ease myself back against the Jungle wall and try not to let my friends see how heavily I am leaning.

“One of the Lesser Trails comes up there,” Grey Brother says, mostly to Abalone. “I could go in and you could kill the lights.”

“We go in,” Abalone says with a scowl that does not accept argument. “I've rigged the lights so that I can kill them remote. Besides, you'll need the extra hands.”

Grey Brother does not contradict and together they lay out their plans. I am too tired to make much sense of what they are saying and after learning that I am to come up last and cut any prisoners free who need help and then lead the way to an upper port—the same, I realize idly, that Abalone first brought me through—I let myself drift.

My next clear memory is soft Spanish curses and Grey Brother struggling to lever up a rusty access port. After Abalone jumps on the lever a few times, the lid lifts and a damp, caustic smell rises. I wrinkle my nose as I tuck Betwixt and Between into my pack.

“Some water down there,” Grey Brother explains unnecessarily as he climbs down. “Smells crappy, but won't hurt you none.”

Abalone doesn't say anything but ties a bandanna over her lower face before starting after him. I shrug and follow, listening to my dragons bicker about how best to describe the putrid odor that wafts up.

At least they don't have to wade in the stuff, I think as I slog along behind Abalone. The water is cold and glows faintly in the pale light of the green chem stick Grey Brother
holds in one hand. A strange, glittering sludge sticks to my jeans where they cut through the water.

After a half dozen steps, my wet skin begins to burn.

Grey Brother and Abalone do not comment, so I follow without complaint. Finally, we stop before another short series of rungs set into the wall. Grey Brother wedges the chem stick into a crevice and climbs.

Abalone comes after, one hand on the ladder, one unbuttoning the flap on the tappety-tap's case. I wait at the ladder's base.

Grey Brother looks down, his eyes dark pits with burning embers smoldering at the bottom.

“Ready,” he hisses, his hand holding the hasp that will open the trapdoor.

“Light's out.” Abalone nods, touching an icon. “Now!”

Grey Brother opens the trap so quickly that the first cries of astonishment come clearly to me. Unbelievably, he pauses, halting his first leap out. Then he twists and apparently reorients himself.

“Fuck! Map's backward!” he yells before launching himself out.

Abalone repositions herself without question and as she clambers up and out, I follow. Through shouts of “Cover the door!” and “Where the hell did they come from!” I hear the glad howls of the Pack.

I am just out of the tunnel when Abalone touches another of the icons on her computer. The lights come on again. And then cut off. And on. Off. Somehow she has reprogrammed the lights so that the effect is similar to that of a strobe.