“Mother of us all! You are right.”
“Paired Ares Predators?” Ghost asked.
“Could be. You’re the expert on ironmongery, Sir Razorguy, not I. Whatever breed they were, they were matched brace.”
“How did you spot him?” Sam asked.
“I had one of mine staked on that stoop.”
Sam beard the anger in Ghost’s voice. “And you think that…”
“The Dwarf got him. My boy wouldn’t have left voluntarily.”
Sam snatched another look. The derelict didn’t look dangerous except to one’s sense of propriety. “What do you thing he’s doing there?”
“Waiting for you, Sir Twist,” Dodger replied.
“He and his mates probably already hit the squat,” Ghost added.
“Hit the-” Sam’s stomach lurched. “Sally was supposed to be there.”
Ghost turned his bead to stare at Sam. His eyes narrowed, as razor-sharp chromed blades flicked in and out of his fingertips. It was the lack of expression on the face of the man with whom he had shared the night’s adventure that frightened Sam. The man he had trusted with his life seemed now on the verge of taking it.
Blades vanished as Ghost spun the stool and slid off, directly into the chest of Dodger. The Elf stood with his arms wide to block Ghost’s movement. Dodger folded them in around the Indian before the street samurai could slip past. The Elf had been anticipating Ghost’s maneuver.
“Discretion, Ghost. Charging in blindly won’t help her.” For a moment, the Indian seemed ready to fight Dodger, too. Then the tension went out of Ghost’s muscles and Dodger loosened his hold. “We don’t even know what happened.”
Dodger turned Ghost around, urged him back onto the stool, and sat by his side. Leaning over the counter, the Elf spoke across Ghost. “Sam, your magic can help.”
“What magic? I don’t know any spells.”
“Astral projection. You can scout the building and squat. If someone hostile is out there looking for you, they won’t expect that. Anyone who knows that you’re a magician is friendly and would just come up and talk.”
“Greerson,” Ghost whispered.
“What?” Sam asked.
“Who?” Dodger echoed.
“Greerson. Bounty-hunting Dwarf. Heard he works the ambush game.”
Dodger and Sam exchanged glances. “You know him?” Dodger asked.
Ghost shook his head. “Heard of him. Meanest halfer on the coast.”
“Well, Sir Twist, ’twould seem your demise is no longer counted a certainty in some circles. ’Twould also seem that your reconnaissance is not a convenience but a necessity. We cannot be sure that Greerson has not learned of your associates as well. Since none of us can walk invisibly past him, we must have the next best thing. Only your astral presence can slip in and let us know if our suspicions are correct. And more important, you can ascertain whether Lady Tsung is held captive in your dwelling.”
Dodger’s last argument was the clincher. If Sally were a prisoner, they would need to know everything they could to rescue her. “All right. I’ll give it a try.”
“That’s the brave knight errant.”
Sam didn’t feel like a knight. He felt more like an untrained page about to be suited up in armor and tossed into a battle without a sword. “I said I’d try, but I’m not very good at this stuff. Half of it seems to be hallucination and I’m not sure I can always tell which half is which.”
“But you will try.” To Sam’s slow nod of agreement, Dodger added, “Your best is all that you can do.”
Sam closed his eyes, trying to shut out the street sounds and concentrate. The noise wouldn’t go away, but the passage of vehicles in the roadway began to take on a rhythm. The harder he tried, the heavier his head felt. It sank down slowly only to jerk up again, jolting him from his effort. He tried again. This time, when the jerk came, he realized that he was standing. Now both his head and his whole body felt light, open, and clear, nearly floating. He opened his eyes and looked himself over. Everything seemed normal, except that all his equipment and belongings, save for his good-luck fossil tooth, looked slightly insubstantial. The tooth was as real and solid as his flesh.
He turned to say something to Dodger and Ghost and found them paying attention to the person slumped face-down over the counter-himself. Seeing that, Sam knew that he had succeeded, more fully than ever before. This time he was aware of his presence in astral space as well as knowing that his own body lay quietly awaiting his return. It was a liberating, exhilarating, profoundly disturbing realization.
For the first time, he was viewing astrally a scene that was familiar. At least he thought it was. The world around him had gone strange; colors shifted buildings appeared washed out, and people glowed starkly against the urban background.
Near at hand, the fires that lit Dodger and Ghost burned brightly but were scored with dark areas, the street samurai’s more than Elf’s. The counterman’s aura was dull with a sickly green overlay that-smelled wasn’t the right word but it was appropriate-bad.
Sam walked over to the Dwarf who had taken their attention. Approaching him, he could see the glow that overlay the tatterdemalion image and knew, he didn’t know how, that the Dwarf was healthy. His aura didn’t have the “smell” of the noodle vendor and there was no taint to the color that would have been present if the Dwarf was the substance-abuser he pretended. Even more than Ghost, this person’s glow was blotched and crisscrossed with dark, dead places- the marks, Sam realized, of extensive cybernetic enhancements.
Sam’s approach was a test of sorts to see if he really was invisible to this watcher. He stepped directly into the false derelict’s line-of-sight, but there was no reaction. Satisfied, Sam turned and crossed the street.
It was a flickering whirl of glowing people and shadow machines, flittering flashes of light from unknown sources and the sudden, fleeting presence of motion at the corners of his perception. The rapidly mounting load of sensory input drove him faster across the roadway. He fled into the building, away from the bustle of life, feeling relieved to reach the untenanted vestibule. He took a moment to steady himself before proceeding.
Not knowing how to call an astral elevator, he took the stairs, stepping though the door that his hand could not touch. After a couple of flights, he realized he could not read the signs showing each floor’s number. He could see them and feel a sense of identity, but the words were gibberish. He should have counted landings. He began to stick his head through the doors at each landing, seeking the pattern of scars and debris that marked his own floor. It only took a couple of tries.