The Dragon's Den

Journal of Rowana, daughter of Rowetha
25 / 04 / 2120 of the Fourth Age, cont'd

Civilians would have frozen in place. I immediately moved back to the nearest wall, eyes wide and ears open. The room was as big as a good-sized aircraft hangar. There was a metal catwalk above the lights on the high ceiling, and the focus seemed to be on the dozen freestanding tanks that stood in a row. Green-brown humanoid forms floated in those tanks, while technicians in white labcoats checked the screens monitoring their vitals.

Uruk-hai. Azzie's genetic brothers and sisters.

There was the stamp of feet, and the door opened. A dozen guards poured in, weapons pointed at everything, but I was already moving away along the wall. Beyond the tanks I now saw were two groups of people—one mostly megacorporate-types in suits, labcoats, and security uniforms; the other dressed like gangbangers, mostly Orcs and Goblin-men, the standout being the lone Man—the biggest bitch I had ever seen, eight feet tall and with short brown hair and a jaw that could break fists. That had to be Daleman.

There was palpable tension between the two groups, like they were caught in the middle of an arms deal, neither side really trusting the other. Then my eyes fastened past them, on the far end of the room, where they were clustered.

Stock certificates and credsticks were littered among the piles of gold, gems, and shed scales. The body was blue-grey, scales like polished slate that rose to a crest along its spine. Thick transparent cables descended from the ceiling and plugged into its skull, the bundles of optical fibers pulsed with light. There was a listless sort of quality as the sinuous neck rose, and the glowing, golden lies opened, to shed a pale light on the assembled.

"We are not alone," the voice buzzed through my earpiece, but I also heard it come from the far end of the hangar. "Is this some little spy of yours, Morgaun Morgain?"

Legere. The cold drake behind Drake Industries. I'd walked straight into the dragon's den. The reptile was plugged straight into the security system.

The voices of the others were less distinct. A pale Orc, tall for his people, skin mottled black and palest white, bald save for a single scalp-lock, stepped forward to address the dragon directly. The big bitch hung back, eyes scanning the room, keeping an eye on the security without looking like she was. I recognized a professional, and her stance and the way she looked screamed cop. I hoped Looseleaf was right that she could be trusted.

I kept an eye on the guards who had poured in through the doorway I had come too, even while I kept moving, stepping silently as I could, free hand always near my pistol-holster. Safety was off. I was deep in enemy territory, surrounded by hostiles.

Even invisible, I looked around for cover, and found it: a separate tank, apart from the others, set against the wall. It was more like an aquarium than the tubes, and the water was dark, cloudy. None of the labcoat-types were near it, and it was the furthest point from any of the groups. I made my way to crouch in its shadow, even as the dragon's head swung this way and that, the light from its eyes piercing shadows, the Orc megacorporate security poking and prodding where I had been.

The ring made things too sharp, too bright. It was like moving through a world at a higher resolution, every detail almost painful. Yet what worried me were the other things. The pale Orc that spoke to Legere had pale, dark forms clustered around him. Small, shadowy shapes. There were tendrils of darkness that tied them to him, nine or ten, like the shadows of Men—and one that was smaller, the size of a child.

Then the lead Orc, Morgaun Morgain, turned to me. Our eyes met. That should have been impossible, but I remembered what Azzie said. How some Orcs could see the unseen. I tensed, the Elf-blade in my hand, as he grabbed something that hung on a chain about his neck—it looked like a long, wavy-bladed dagger, the dull grey metal blackened at the edges. He bared mithril-tipped fangs as he pushed his own security out of the way and stalked toward me, tearing off his shirt.

A ring of Black Speech was tattooed on his chest. Black letters where his skin was pale white, white characters where the skin was black. I couldn't swear that it was exactly the same as on the tent that night Aedre died, but it looked practically identical. My heart hammered in my chest as an old, old anger and loss stirred inside of me, and my grip on the handle of the Elf-blade tightened until I **** my hand to relax.

"Could use a distraction," I subvocalized, hoping the hackers could hear me.

In my peripheral vision, I saw something press against the glass side of the tank I crouched by. A small, four-fingered hand, delicate digits splayed wide, slightly webbed.

Immediately, the lights in the hangar flickered and strobed. Emergency sirens blared. Legere threw back his head and roared. To my right, the six tanks suddenly emptied, amniotic fluid spilling out onto the floor, the green bodies within twitching and shaking.

I ignored the firefight as I stood up. Morgaun Morgain approached me, blade in hand. Eyes mad with something I hadn't seen before, the shadows dragged along behind him.

"Come to me. This is your destiny," he whispered, as he tossed the dagger from hand to hand. The veins stood out on his neck, and the muscles bulged unnaturally, small scars showing where they had been grafted onto him. "I will tear the magic from you and use you like a woman."

"I am a woman," I said, just loud enough for him to hear. Lightning flashed along mithril, wired reflexes pushing muscles to inhuman speed as my hand drew and fired the Great Eagle in one smooth motion. Blood blossomed on his chest, right in the middle of that circle of foul script, but the fucker kept coming, at a dead run now, speed incredible, white froth on his lips. I had seen Orcs on combat **** act like that. Black berserker rages, feeling no pain. Two more shots hit him center of mass before he was close enough to bring that blade down in an arc aimed at my unarmored neck. I already had my own arm up, caught the downward sweep—I wanted to deflect, trap, strike—but the strength was implacable, fueled by **** and surgically-enhanced strength.

I didn't scream as the blade stabbed through my body armor. Pain lanced through me as the tip scraped the bone of my sternum. Right between the tits.

"Hah!" he laughed in my face, his free hand grasped at my left wrist. The hand that held both the ring and the Great Eagle. "Man-cunt! You will be my ****!"

I had known this asshole for less than thirty seconds and already I knew one of us was going to die here. There was a look of terrible triumph on his face, a moment before I suddenly twisted my left hand, breaking his grip. I pressed the muzzle of my gun under his chin and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Some soldiers say that sometimes you can see the moment the spirit leaves the body. The moment when things just stop. In my experience, **** is rarely so clear-cut. The Orc's eyes kept moving as the corpse slunk to the floor, taking the dagger with it. It's mithril-coated fangs spasmed open and closed, some part of the augmented bastard still operating at some level.

I sagged against the tank, sucking in air as blood oozed from the wound. Even a stab has to hit something vital; I knew if he missed an artery or my heart, I might live for hours. At my first shot, the tension between the groups had exploded into sudden, massive ****; no one had seen who fired the shot or who the Orc had been attacking. Automatic weapons fire rang out as the Orc gangsters and megacorporate types fired at each other. The dragon shook its head, sparks bursting from the ceiling as cables came loose, its body still sluggish as it struggled with its consciousness divided between the Matrix and the real world. In my ear, a voice sounded, distorted by the dragon's roar.

"The tank! Break the tank!"

That big bitch was already pointing a handcannon in my direction. I slid away from the tank, Elf-blade in my right hand, Great Eagle in my left. Pain lanced through my chest. It felt like part of the fucking knife was still in there. There was a boom as the shot rang out, and the heavy glass cracked, spiderwebbed, then burst forth.

Ropey hands on the ends of tentacles slid out as an amorphous body oozed onto the floor. I got an impression of too many eyes, too many limbs. There was something wrong with its head. Metal plates screwed into the flesh, around the eye sockets. Then the voice came again. Not Looseleaf's. The other hacker. Carvedinstone.

"Bob! Grab her!"

Daleman stepped on what was left of Morgain's skull, crushing the few remaining brains and bits of electronics to pulp as she knelt down and opened her coat, covering Bob's movement. Long, sinuous arms reached up and hugged themselves against my body, to pull themselves up and cling to me, heaving itself around until it hung like a living backpack. It was heavier than it looked, maybe sixty pounds.

Daleman's free hand dropped down and grabbed the Orc's blade, gingerly stuffing it in one deep pocket.

"Rowethasdottir. Go," she whispered aloud. We were barely inches apart, but she couldn't see me, not with the ring on. "I'll cover you."

I pushed myself to my feet. The dragon wouldn't stop fucking roaring. I half-supported myself against the wall, and the big bitch kept pace with me, her shadow over me, gun up but not firing. Stray shots sometimes hit the walls and floor around us, but she didn't flinch. When we got to the door she opened it and I scuttled through, under her outstretched arm.

In the hallway, it was eerily quiet, the gunfire muffled. Bob squirmed, its tentacles pushing under my body armor, groping for my breasts, the horny little fucker, its small hands pressing in on my nipples. My chest was on fire, and it was harder to breathe. I could feel the warm wetness of blood soak my shirt under the armor from the wound.

"Can you make it back the way you got in?" Daleman asked quietly.

"I have to," my voice came out in a wheeze.

She nodded curtly. "Good luck. Let's hope this shit was worth it."

I nodded too, though she couldn't see it. The giant of a woman moved down the corridor with a long stride. Bob, whatever the fuck Bob was, clung to me, keeping low on my back, shifting their weight with me like I was a motorcycle and it was a well-trained passenger.

"Move, Rowena," I told myself, voice thick and phlegmy as I staggered back the way I had come. Alarms still blared. I hoped the Orc guard's card and keycode would get us back down to the reservoir...then it was just a long, cold, wet trek through the spider-haunted darkness, assuming I didn't bleed out first.

That was when I saw those shadows again. The ones that had been tied to the wild-eyed Orc. Now they clustered around me, keeping pace with each step.