Elvendude (17 page)

Zeldan nodded to Rathand. "Send bank alpha through the pipe," he directed, and to Rathand's questioning look, added, "Yes. All of it."

This should keep the bitch happy for awhile,
he thought. This was the part of the agreement he didn't care much for. Had he held out more, she would have threatened to withdraw the elixir necessary for Black Dream, forcing him to fall back on the human standby: crack cocaine. Crack had its uses, but was not nearly as addictive, and destructive to the human psyche and soul, as their particular brew.

Rathand pulled two crystal levers, and the computer cabinet storing bank alpha came to life. Yellow phosphorescence seeped through the panel cracks, vibrating the frame as a loud whine issued from within.

"We will have to send it over in packets," Rathand said. "The pipe can't handle the full force of what's in there now."

Zeldan frowned in annoyance. "Then, so be it."
I was hoping to shake their receptors up, damage them, even. But if we disrupted the path needed to send the stuff to Underhill, that would have fallen on
my
head.

Rathand fiddled with the console for a moment, then the Terminal went blank, replaced by the static of a television tuned to a dead channel. Bank alpha shuddered, then spat forth the first packet of pain and sorrow.

Down in the Unseleighe chamber, wind rose, ripped at the walls and the hung ceiling, dislodging panels. A wide beam of yellow power, streaked with black, blasted directly into the base of the Terminal, where the pipeline port to Underhill was located. The port was a cluster of crystals, fused together with much use. The Terminal displayed images of the power, red pain, icy steel agony of Bridget and countless others. Behind the pain of the workout was a deeper sorrow, displayed in the Terminal as tortured faces screaming back at high school taunts. Shame, utter shame, embarrassment to be seen in public, on the beach, in swimsuits. Then came the dark purple of self-loathing, bathing the room in a deep violet light. Crowning all this agony was the frustration of gaining weight, grimly superimposed over the pain and struggle of trying to lose it.

The first packet complete, the port now glowed a dull red, and the crystals, molten, semiliquid, threatened to surrender their matrix.

Rathand scurried over to the port, examined it, and gave Zeldan a pained look.

"Well?" Zeldan said, joining him at the base of the Terminal. "Can it take more?"

"I don't know yet," Rathand said, his brow dripping with sweat. The tips of his pointed ears were flushed, a sign of anxiety in most elves. The wind had died down in the chamber, and the packet had dwindled to a pencil-thin stream, but the Terminal was still hot to the touch. "The port crystals are starting to fuse more. We may have to replace them."

"How many more packets do we have left to send?" Zeldan demanded.

"Four. If we wait, the port may cool sufficiently for the rest."

Morrigan came back on the Terminal. She seemed dazed, stunned even; from the looks of her hair, Zeldan had broadcast their windstorm along with the power.

"Good
gods,
Zeldan," she said, with an addict's gleam in her eye. "That was the strongest dose of human pain yet! Where did you
get
such power?"

"The usual channels. The fitness center . . ." Zeldan began.

"You didn't use
torture
this time, did you?" she said with a grin. "If you did, then shame on you." She laughed explosively. "And keep up the good work!"

Zeldan shrugged, remembering the argument they'd had over the pros and cons of torture. Zeldan insisted it wasn't necessary and created more trouble with the humans' law enforcement than it was worth. His plan, tapping into the physical pain in the fitness center, had led to other rich reservoirs of agony: that which the humans hid in their subconscious.

"No torture needed," Zeldan said casually. "It's all quite legitimate, so far as the police are concerned."

Morrigan beamed at her partner, but Zeldan didn't know if it was envy or contempt he read in her face.

With her, the two emotions are often inseparable.

"I have more to send, if it pleases you, my dear Morrigan," Zeldan began. "
Much
more."

This seemed to surprise her. With a raised eyebrow, she said, "That wasn't an entire bank?"

"Dear, no. Only a packet." He glanced over at Rathand, who shrugged, resigned. "Sending it all at once would have destroyed the port and the pipeline. I think our equipment can handle—"

Morrigan shook her head vigorously. "No, Zeldan. Do not send it now," she said slowly and deliberately. "Our crystals haven't recovered from the last transmission. There will be a festival tonight, since this is the richest lode we've received in . . . well . . ." She paused, reflecting. "The richest lode I recall
ever
receiving."

Zeldan saw her trying to maintain her acid personality, but her complete satisfaction, at least for the time being, leaked through.

"When we are ready for the rest, I will let you know. We are sending the elixir now," she said, killing the transmission.

Zeldan gazed at the blank crystal Terminal for several long moments before Rathand turned it off from the console.

"It's a good thing she can wait for the rest," Rathand said, looking over the port at the base of the Terminal. "This matrix would never have handled another surge like that last without cooling off first."

Zeldan wanted to feel relieved. Morrigan was satisfied, much more than she admitted, and the Black Dream elixir would arrive unimpeded for awhile longer. But the satisfaction wouldn't last. With four more packets of artificial node energy in store, he figured she would be satiated for a few days, at least.

"We'd better get to work constructing another port," Zeldan said. What he really meant was that Rathand had better get to work. "Make for us a crystal port which can withstand more than we transmitted today. I don't know how to do it, but do it. This is your area of expertise." Zeldan considered something disturbing, which made him praise Bridget—and curse her at the same time. "I have a feeling Morrigan may expect this level of power each time she asks it. We might have just raised our own standards without realizing it."

"Yes, Your Darkness," Rathand said, with bitterness behind it. Rathand clearly didn't want to get to work; his posture gave him away.

Zeldan smirked to himself, enjoying this play of power on not only a subordinate but a captured Seleighe. When Morrigan was pleased, Zeldan Dhu was especially pleased, and even this mild form of complaint from Rathand did not change his good spirits.

He left his minion to do his work, and stopped next door at the Factory. This was another room built and outfitted for the specific purpose of manufacturing Black Dream. Before cutting his particular deal with Morrigan, Zeldan and his people had mastered the relatively simple task of making crack cocaine. Presto, now one of Zeldan's human lieutenants, had been most helpful in showing them how to make rock.

One evening Presto invited Zeldan over to his apartment. The elf had no reason to suspect Presto was any wiser to his true identity; Zeldan had always met him in human seeming, disguised as the properly pumped-up health freak, Peter Pritchard. At his apartment, Presto showed Zeldan how to increase his cocaine profits by "stepping" on the coke. The result was a greater quantity of an acceptable grade of coke, ready for peddling on the street.

"What about crack?" Zeldan asked. "That's what everyone wants. How do you build a crack factory?"

At this point Presto started to act a little suspicious, and Zeldan had to lay a spell on him to dispel any doubts of his intentions. In a zombielike trance, Presto took the ki he had just stepped on, dumped it into a shallow pot on the stove, and proceeded to make a batch of crack.

"You don't need a factory, man," Presto said, holding the pan out for his inspection. "All you need is a stove and a pot. This here's a motherlode of
crack.
That's all there is to it."

Not only was crack more lucrative, it was more addictive than the original agent. The final step boiled away most impurities, leaving behind nearly pure, smokable coke.

The result of this meeting was the drug lab under the fitness center, constructed with the help of Presto and Rathand, though Presto, nor any other human, had not ever set foot in the basement. Rathand quickly mastered the technique for making crack and was soon turning out their own street version, which they called Black Dream.

Along one wall was the equipment, a series of vats and gas burners, used to cook the cocaine. Each batch received one drop of Morrigan's potent elixir.

On a long table in the middle of the room were several cases of tiny vials. The vials had black rubber stoppers to identify the product as Black Dream. On another table were ten ki's of raw cocaine hydrochloride wrapped in neat, butcher-paper packages.

In a corner of the room was another Terminal, without the central crystal. This Terminal was a receiver only, with a circle of crystals on the top of it. And in this circle was a clear vial of elixir, which Morrigan had apparently just sent.

"
Ambrosia,
" Zeldan whispered, gently picking up the small vial, which was about as big around as his finger. The elixir was the color and consistency of used motor oil. He stored the vial in a small safe, which Rathand would open up when he got to work on the next batch of Black Dream.

We'll have to watch the dosage a little closer, next time,
he remarked to himself.
That last batch was a bit too strong.
On the news he had seen the coverage of the nineteen deaths at the Wintons'. Fortunately, the police suspected no deliberate foul play.

If only they knew . . . 

His crew of Unseleighe had gone over to the party to test a newer, more potent batch of Dream and handed sample after free sample to the kids. This batch produced some impressive fear, terror, and hallucinations in the humans who took it, and this power now resided in Rathand's bank number four. Unfortunately, the humans died of heart failure before Rathand siphoned off the bulk of their terror; the rest vanished with their souls to whatever realm the humans went in the afterlife.

This situation might have created complications for their operation, and might yet as the humans fumbled about with their investigation. But since human kids died frequently enough from drug overdoses, he doubted the humans would cast much suspicion on anyone.

As Zeldan left his domain and entered the humans' world as Peter Pritchard, he remembered another task he had to do himself. Presto had recently avoided jail with the help of a human
lawyer,
in spite of the fact he'd been caught with enough crack to put him away for decades. Zeldan already knew of these professionals called
lawyers,
hired negotiators human criminals used to avoid imprisonment, but only recently learned that some lawyers were better than others. They cost more, too, but that was not a problem for the Unseleighe. Zeldan anticipated an increase of Black Dream distribution, and with that, an increase in arrests. The situation at the Wintons' might yet develop into a full-scale problem, or might even recur somewhere else. Though the human helpers he had were expendable to an extent, he needed to keep as many as possible. Replacements took time
and
elven resources.

Presto had given him a business card of the lawyer, one of the best in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

He regarded the card, with its raised golden letters, with some skepticism.

It may be worth my time to give this Paul Bendis a call.

Rathand watched Zeldan leave the basement, his human seeming flowing back into place as he exited. The moment he was out of sight, he exhaled a sigh of relief.

That was close,
Rathand thought, touching the red crystal installed in his temple.
I must be more careful than that.
Satisfied Zeldan was far enough away, he returned to the console of crystals and resumed his act of sabotage.

The technology Rathand had assembled for his master was less than perfect, but it had something in its favor, something that would make the entire system his ally.

I'm the only one who understands how this creation works!

Rathand wanted nothing more than to be rid of his master, but to do away with him would be suicide. And a painful one, at that; he wasn't prepared for such martyrdom. With that in mind, Rathand had looked for other ways to foul up Zeldan's plan, and his solution was simple: he found subtle ways for the artificial nodes to act against themselves.

Crossing the lines from the Terminal to the banks was one way. This had caused a short in the power flows, and half the banks had, over a period off weeks, slowly drained themselves of the artificial node energy. So far Zeldan had not detected the short, but given time, he would have to. That it might well result in the destruction of the device didn't matter to Rathand.

I hope it takes him if it does blow,
he thought, retracing his work, making certain the short was in place.

Perhaps there is a way to hasten the process. . . . 

At the door came a knock, and when Adam answered it, Spence came in, without his human seeming.

"Your Majesty," Spence said, bowing. "I am Iarbanel of Avalon, and I wish to be of service. Sire." The elf wore a maroon Bugle Boy shirt, slacks, casual shoes—his usual attire. The only thing noticeably different about him were the pointed elven ears. His bowing seemed odd, alien, uncomfortable. But it was something Adam would have to get used to.

"I'm glad you've decided to join our little party," Adam said, dispensing with the royal formalities and giving Spence a hug. "I'm only recently, well, re-elfed, I guess. This is still new to me," he added, dismissing the glamorie and returning to his full elven splendor.

Spence nodded, as if he'd expected the reply. The moment felt awkward to Adam, since he'd looked up to Spence and his wisdom in spite of his youth. And now, Adam was his King.

Take it slowly,
Adam thought.
Just because I'm the ruler now doesn't mean I can't still look up to him. Didn't Father say that wisdom was part humility, and knowing when to seek advice?