Division Zero: Thrall (12 page)

She ducked through the collapsed gate and jogged the length of a driveway large enough to host a Gee-ball game. It ended at a circle surrounding a long-nonfunctional fountain of broken cherubs. After a mournful glance at the cracked, winged babies, she faced a once-white house covered in a hundred years’ worth of dark smears. All manner of grime, industrial chemicals, and waste rained from the solid canopy overhead.

Sensing the presence of
something
in the house lent a pronounced eeriness to the sight of the decaying building in a world cut off from the sun. Kirsten stared up, listening to the intermittent drip of muck from the interlocking panels overhead. She glanced at several pipes routed through girders and struts along the underside of artificial ground made of mile-square plates twenty-five meters thick. As far as she could see in all directions, metal went into the endless dark.

“It’s sad here.” She rubbed her arms. “Like these old buildings miss the sky.”

Dorian went past her into the house. “Now you’re getting a little too metaphysical.”

She followed. “Hello? Is there still a spirit here?”

Her voice echoed from moldy walls. To her surprise, much of the interior furniture, art, and vases remained intact. She dusted her finger over the end of a delicate bannister where a curved staircase led to the second floor, and frowned at the stain on her skin.

Dorian studied some of the artwork. “There’s definitely a spirit here, the place hasn’t been looted.”

“Damn right,” said a crotchety-sounding man as he strode through a closed set of double-doors.

The man looked older, seventy or more but in (except for being dead) good health, if not a bit on the chubby side. Thick white hair and a moustache added to a shimmery red smoking jacket created an affect as though he were the long lost son of Hugh Hefner and Captain Kangaroo.

Kirsten whirled to face him, looked right at him, and waved. “Hi.”

He screamed, folded his arms over his face and lifted one leg. “Dammit, girl, don’t do that!” The spirit trembled for a few seconds before he put his leg down and leaned at her in a menacing posture. “I’m the one supposed to be scaring you.”

She giggled. “You couldn’t scare anyone; you look like a sweet, old man.”

“You can see me?” He glared. “Damn it all to hell. I suppose you’re here to cart me off to that damnable home.” Relaxing, he tapped a finger over his lips twice while making a serious face. “No, it’s probably too late for that”―he leaned at her, raising his voice to a yell― “since I’m dead.” He burst into a cacophony of off-key laughter.

“I know you’re a ghost,” she said. “I’m here to―”

“Allan Smithee.” He extended a hand.

Dorian raised an eyebrow at him.

“Hi Allan, I’m Kirsten… Look, I―”

“Bah, your friend there’s a killjoy. Name’s actually Kantor.”

She folded her arms with pursed lips, wondering if she should dare try to speak again.

“We’re chasing a wild goose,” said Dorian. “Some old spirit on the east coast thinks you’re going to be attacked by an abyssal soon.”

“Me?” Allan paced in a circle, grumbling in a grandfatherly sort of way. “What would an abyssal want with me? I just keep to myself.” He paused with a dawning look of enlightenment and a raised finger. “Demon, huh? Must have been a film critic.”

“Your movies couldn’t have been too bad if you were living here.” Dorian gestured at the decay surrounding them.

“I can’t complain, though the place has lost a bit of its allure, I’ll admit. So, why do you think this thing is after me?”

Kirsten bared her teeth, somewhere between a forced disarming smile and a look of complete confusion. “I don’t know.” She relaxed, exhaling. “Best guess was that you’re a very old spirit who never grew in power. You would be a potent easy meal for an abyssal that devours spirits.”

Allan
harrumph
ed about for a moment, complaining about the lack of mortal visitors upon which to practice being a ghost.

“Ever thought about leaving the house?” she asked.

“No, not really… What was that?” Allan whirled about, shivering as he faced the double doors he entered through.

“What―” Kirsten froze as the creeping cold feeling that just washed over Allan hit her next.

Blackness exuded through the slats in the door. The sight of what appeared to be another wraith brought icy memories of pain to her left breast. Kirsten gestured for Allan to get behind her. The older ghost scurried around as a figure similar in appearance to a Harbinger reformed out of the thick ebon mist. Seven feet of billowing vapor with the vague hint of a head and two arms, it resembled one in all respects save for the eyes: twinkling specks of crimson rather than the baleful white she was used to seeing.

The dread it emanated was also stronger.

Dorian’s image distorted, drawn toward it in stretching tendrils as if it desired to absorb him. He grunted, struggling to back away, but could not break the pull. Kirsten shifted herself solid to ghosts and dove into his chest. They hit the ground, sliding over dusty carpet as it bunched over ancient hardwood. Dorian gasped, making a face as if a full-body suit of duct tape had been torn away from his bare skin all at once.

“Guess we know why The Kind were scared of this thing… Get out of here, D.”

He wheezed; fatigue laced with shocked agony.

Allan fared somewhat better, able to step back from the creature. The way he moved made her imagine a great wind trying to push him toward the manifestation. Unlike Dorian, he did not begin to unravel.

Kirsten jumped up, channeling her psionic energy at the dark spirit. A sense of its form spread through her mind as her abilities clashed with it. She held her hands out, pushing against the demon’s advance. Allan backed through the enormous foyer while she held it off. Inky smoke roiled as it fought off her influence; crimson eyes burned to bright orange. It stared at her.

“Mommy! Help!” Evan screamed from her earbud, sounding like a sudden voice-only call.

Kirsten expected a creature like this to play mind games. However, having it simulate his voice in a way that seemed more believable than being behind her caught her off guard. Her concentration lapsed at the alarm in the child’s voice, allowing the creature to slip forward. It lunged at her, plunging an icy hand into her chest, just at the base of the throat.

It pulled, dragging a ghostly image out of her. Living eyes rolled back into her head as her spectral form peeled loose. Ghost-Kirsten struggled against the hand around her throat as her body convulsed behind her. As the separation moved down past her ribs to her hips, she found the presence of mind to stop fighting physically. Desperation rode a wave of psionic energy, which hit the abyssal with tremendous force, blasting it apart into a diaphanous cloud.

Kirsten’s spirit snapped back into her body hard enough to launch her into the wall. White wainscoting crumbled around her as she bounced away and rolled into a heap of splinters and plaster dust.

“Kirsten!” Dorian shouted when she remained limp on the ground.

The abyssal glided into the room, ignoring her and going straight for Allan. He backed into a corner, attempting several wizard-like gestures that had no apparent effect on the demon. A painting flew, passing harmlessly through the mass of shadow. Allan flung a couch, skidding it across the room; the humanoid shape of black flowed around it.

Kirsten’s eye popped open. She grinned. Allan’s screaming drowned out the clatter of debris as she stood; shouting that got louder when he noticed her moving. She stalked up behind the demon as it loomed over the old ghost. The soft soles of her boots muted her steps. As it began to draw Allan’s energy inward, Kirsten called the lash in mid-swing.

A scintillating strip of blue-white light extended from her hand, coiling about as she whipped her arm. The creature sensed the energy manifest, but could not turn in time to move. She tore the astral tendril through the manifestation. The strike felt as if she had slashed a mass of jelly with a sword. The familiar tension of impact tugged at her brain.

What had once been perfect black flared to bright crimson. The wraith-like shape became a bright roiling mass. Its polyphonic scream shattered windows and vases and knocked the rest of the artwork off the walls as an energy wave burst forth. It washed over Kirsten, causing her to shriek and fall to her knees. Shuddering, she wailed all the air from her lungs, paralyzed by burning pain. Her body cried without conscious thought at the overwhelming agony. The closer she was to the creature, the more it felt as if her flesh seared away.

“Thanks, Mom.” She snarled, and forced herself to stand through the pain.

An upswing of the lash stalled halfway through the creature’s mass, stuck. Kirsten howled and grabbed the tendril with both hands. Her eyes glowed with the intensity of two tiny holes into the center of a white star. The psionic weapon swelled in width, the expansion rode down the length into the abyssal’s form as she poured more energy into the attack.

Seconds later, it exploded.

Kirsten lay on the floor where the blast of hot demonic ichor left her. The lash flickered and went out. Once again, a trip to The Beneath covered her in vileness. Hardwood never felt so comfortable. Without Darksight on, she found it peaceful, as if her eyes were closed.

“You okay?” Dorian’s voice, above her.

“I think I’m going to donate some credits to that group calling for the abolition of boiled live lobster. I know what they feel like now.”

arly morning dreams found Kirsten in pleasant surroundings. A boat, small and wooden, ferried her along a street filled with water past ancient buildings with waving, smiling people. Konstantin stood at the rear, guiding them with a pole, singing in some butchered attempt at Italian―the closest her imagination could get. She was barefoot, clad in a loose-fitting white dress, and a wide-brimmed hat ringed with flowers, like some old-school Degas painting. She tugged at her neckline, exposing more and more of her chest to his approving smile.

“Mom?” Evan’s voice emanated from Konstantin’s lips.

Kirsten moaned.

“Mom?” Konstantin shrank into Evan, in pajamas. “Mom, the shower’s out of suds.”

Her eyes cracked open. She found herself lying on her side, staring through sleep-crumbs at an annoyed, wet, and naked boy. A plastic cylinder as big as his thigh dangled upside down in his grasp, obviously empty.

“Put something on.” She pushed herself up, sitting.

“I’m wet.” He pointed at the bathroom. “The shower ran outta suds while I was in it.”

Kirsten gave him a bleary stare. His birth mother had not bothered to clothe him much; using every scrap of credit she got her hands on to buy drugs. Kirsten took the empty soap canister, having nothing else to do but laugh at his lack of shame.

“Go back in the bathroom, I’ll order more.”

“‘Kay.” He wandered into the kitchen.

“If you’re going to eat, at least wrap yourself in a towel. Don’t drip all over the place.”

“‘Kay…” He changed course.

Kirsten thumbed at her NetMini, putting in an order for two cartridges of Sudzy-Kleen. She rolled her eyes at the crime against language perpetrated by people in the name of marketing.