Bone Song (2 page)

Grabbing a broom from his cart, the cleaner got to work in the gutter, no longer looking up or sideways. Not even from the edge of his vision. Some things are not meant to be stared at directly.

*You think he's honest?*
the air whispered.

The woman in gray pulled a compact out of her handbag and flipped it open. The mirror was one-third silver, the remaining two-thirds black but still reflective: plenty of time remaining.

She snapped the compact shut, replaced it beside her platinum-coated pistol, and slung the bag back over her shoulder.

*Well?*

“I don't know,” she said. “Do you think we could use him if he isn't?”

*No.*

“Neither do I.” The woman looked down the long perspective of the dark avenue, watching as the taxi hooked into a fast left turn and was gone. “If he doesn't survive, it doesn't matter either way.”

*I thought I was the negative one.*

The woman turned and strode toward the nearest black hydrant. Her dark, finned car—a Vixen—was waiting at the curb. As she walked, a half-glimpsed ripple passed through the air alongside her, keeping pace.

*Or maybe you're afraid to let yourself admire him. Is that it?*

The woman stopped, fingers touching the car's door handle. She looked up at the air.

“Am I that transparent?”

There was another ripple, altering the outline of the art gallery beyond.

*Is that meant to be funny?*

“Well, I laughed.” The woman got inside the car and slammed the door.

After a moment, she opened the passenger door from the inside, waited for approximately thirty seconds, then reached across and pulled it shut.

“Let's go keep watch. If Lieutenant Riordan doesn't reappear, we'll have someone to charge with his murder. There's always a bright side, Xalia. Didn't you know?”

*I prefer the darkness, Laura.*

“You would.”

*And you don't?*

The car slid away from the curb.

Two great pillars of stone reached up. If a visitor craned his head back, he would see, against a background of purple sky, that each pillar was surmounted by a skull wearing an Ouroboros headband, a flattened Möbius serpent twisting around and swallowing its own tail.

Lowering his gaze just a little, he would register the immense size and weight of the solid black iron gates and the great walls formed of granite stretching off to either side, encircling the Downtown Core Complex.

The taxi stopped, small in the foreshortened black drive that stopped at the gates. Behind the taxi, beyond the street, rose the attenuated blocks of old denuded buildings, empty niches showing where gargoyles once perched.

“Man,” murmured the taxi driver. “This place . . .”

Donal said: “Sound your horn.”

“Oh, I don't—”

“Sound it.”

A long howl rose from under the taxi's purple hood. “There. Are you—”

There was a grinding sound, and the taxi shuddered as the gates began to move, sliding to either side. Donal remained impassive while the driver swallowed twice, three times, then rolled the taxi forward.

As they entered a gargantuan courtyard, the driver almost had his eyes shut, but Donal was scanning the environment, checking the gun slits on the walls, noting the internal stairs that led to watchtowers.

Then the taxi slowed and halted on a brass circular area at the courtyard's center. The brass disk's diameter was perhaps twice the length of a delivery truck.

“PLEASE CUT THE ENGINE.”
The voice reverberated around the courtyard.

“Oh, man . . .”

“Do it.”

As soon as the driver switched off the engine, the taxi shuddered once more. The courtyard wall begin to slide sideways—

“Sweet Hades.”

—except that it wasn't the wall that was moving, it was the taxi and the great brass disk it stood on, slowly rotating.

“Is the parking brake on properly?” said Donal.

“Yeah.” But the driver yanked up hard on the lever. “Yeah, we're okay.”

The wall moved faster now, and Donal could feel the sinking motion as the brass disk screwed itself downward. The driver clutched his face and tried not to look at the hollow threaded wall rising past the windows.

The disk screwed into the earth, carrying the taxi down.

It took seven minutes by Donal's watch to descend through the shaft. Then the walls were gone, replaced by a vast underground space, as the giant screw continued to lower the taxi down to the floor of the cavernous complex.

The place was vast, with great shadowed aisles separating the huge, square-edged stone piles. Even the darkness seemed to flicker, and that might not have been Donal's imagination.

For these were the necrofusion piles, the reactors that kept the city powered and its inhabitants alive.

When the brass disk finally slowed and stopped, the driver was muttering a prayer over and over: “St.-Magnus-slayer-of-evil-behead-my-enemies-and-keep-me-safe. St.-Magnus-slayer-of . . .”

Donal pulled out his wallet and counted out thirty florins, in accordance with the needle on the dashboard's dial. “I'll need a receipt.”

“. . . enemies-and—what? Say what?”

“Receipt. Please.”

“Oh. Sure.” The driver pulled a receipt book from under the dashboard and looked for a pen.

“Behind your ear,” said Donal.

“Huh? Oh.” The driver found the pen, pulled the cap. He tried to write while casting glances out the windshield and side windows, but his hands were shaking. “Look . . .”

“What?”

“Take the receipt, man. Write in your own amount, okay?”

Donal handed over the florin notes and took the blank receipt. “All right. If you wait for me on the street up above—out on the street, mind you—you'll get another fifty for the journey back.”

The driver stared at Donal in the mirror, then nodded his head, fast. Outside, figures in coveralls were walking their way.

“You won't be there,” said Donal.

“Man, I—”

“Better not lie.” But Donal had work to do. He opened the door and stepped out onto the brass. “Don't break any speed limits.”

He slammed the purple door shut and walked off the brass disk onto solid stone. Behind him the brass cylinder began to screw its way upward once more.

But it was the three men in gray coveralls who dominated Donal's attention. He noted the skull-and-Ouroboros symbol on their chests, the calm look in their eyes—and the protective platinum earplugs, the liquid-amber vests inside their coveralls.

“I'm here to see Malfax Cortindo.”

The brass cylinder had reached the cavern ceiling and was now a rotating column, bearing the taxi upward through solid ground.

“Of course, sir. Director Cortindo's office is this way.”

“How do you know he'll see me?”

“You're on his schedule,” said the largest of the three men. “Lieutenant Riordan.”

Donal had presented no ID.

“That's nice,” he said.

The large man gestured. “Sir?”

“Lead on.”

In fact, the men walked beside and behind Donal, escorting him along a vast black-floored alley that separated two rows of necrofusion piles. Even with the lead-and-carbon cladding, Donal felt a twisting in the air, and his chest labored as he walked.

“You ever had a leak in here?” Donal's voice sounded softer than he had intended.

But none of his escort answered; they walked on in silence. There was only the hum of the reactors (overlaid with gut-liquefying subsonics), plus an ozone tang that hooked at Donal's nostrils, and something else—a feeling that was dry and damp, like poisoned silk drawn softly across his skin.

This was where the dead paid back for the comforts of their life. And kept repaying.

“Up the staircase, sir. The director's assistant will be waiting at the top.”

Repaying forever.

“Thank you.”

It was an ordinary iron spiral, and Donal began to climb.

A
t the top of the
spiral staircase was a landing, also of black iron. Set in the stone wall was a circular door of polished steel, on which the skull-and-Ouroboros was inlaid in shining brass.

The door swung inward with a faint sucking sound.

“Good evening, Lieutenant.” The gray-haired secretary drew her shoulders forward, hollowing her chest, as though afraid to take up too much space. “Director Cortindo will see you right away.”

“That's good of him.” Donal scanned the outer office. There was a low ceiling and black-flame candles in niches on the walls, though the true illumination was indirect, glowing from channels at the floor's edge.

He pulled off his overcoat and hung it on the black iron coat stand.

“Can I bring you a cup of tea, Lieutenant? Zurinam Black, or we have Axil Red.”

“Not for me.”

Donal wanted to tell the woman to straighten up and breathe deeply. He wondered if she had always stooped like this or whether the dark, oppressive weight of this place had worn her down over the years.

He smiled, but the woman looked uncertain as she flicked three glass toggles and waited. The big steel door to the inner office swung open.

The man who rose from behind the blue glass desk was perhaps sixty years old, with a gray goatee.

“Lieutenant Riordan. How wonderful to meet you.”

This had to be Malfax Cortindo. He wore a silver cravat instead of a tie and a suit cut from some soft, dark fabric. A walking stick leaned against his chair: ebony, with a plain silver handle, instead of the skull-and-worm that Donal had half-expected.

“Thank you. Likewise.”

They shook hands. Cortindo's hand was smooth—there was a hint of lilac scent—but strong. Donal decided that there was more to this man than an air of elegance.

“Won't you take a seat?”

“Thanks.”

Donal sat down. On the other side of the desk, Malfax Cortindo sat in his more ornate chair, with its curved back and arms. Then Cortindo crossed his legs and steepled his fingers together.

“I'm really happy to help you. Your visit is something out of the ordinary routine, Lieutenant. Thank you for that, at least.”

“And the department is grateful for your agreeing to help.”

Donal and Cortindo looked at each other. In this insulated office, richly appointed with carvings and other ornaments, the reactors' sound was a background hum. A golden clock, formed of interlocking metal bones wielding a miniature scythe, sliced away the half seconds from a vertical thread of flowing amber liquid, cutting the thread into discrete drops.

They fell into a cup:
snick-snack, snick-snack.

Malfax Cortindo broke the impasse. “I'm not entirely clear on how I'm supposed to help, mind you.”

Donal let out a breath. “You want the truth? Neither am I.”

“In that case”—with an elegant chuckle—“can I tempt you with some brandy, while we try to work this out? I have Sintro Mundo, shipped in from Alfrikstan.”

“No, thank you.” Not in this place. “Now, I have to be careful about giving away specifics about this case.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“In addition to which, it's more a case of preventing a crime than solving one.” Donal never used the word
solve
when talking with fellow detectives; he had never thought of his job as a puzzle or a game. “But in other cities, some notable people have been murdered—”

Something shifted in Cortindo's eyes.

“Murdered? This is serious.”

“Yes.” Donal held back what he wanted to say: that otherwise he wouldn't be in this place. “And in several cases, the death has been in a public venue, before an audience. The link is that someone took the bodies, sometimes in audacious ways.”

Malfax Cortindo uncrossed his legs and leaned on the dark-blue desk. “This sounds like some kind of widespread conspiracy.”

“Oh, no,” said Donal, lying. “I just mean, there's a particular type of crime that sometimes occurs. A type we've identified and would like to prevent.”

“Interesting.” Malfax Cortindo's gaze remained fixed on Donal. “Interesting . . . Do I take it you're going to be in charge of Maria daLivnova's security?”

“What?” Donal straightened up in his chair. “Who said anything about her?”

“Ah. You did, Lieutenant. You provided a strong hint, anyway, which you've just confirmed.”

“This isn't a game.”

“I've always thought a playful spirit allows one to work so much better. But we don't have to agree on that. You want me to explain my thought process?”

“Why not.”

“The guesswork was this: when you mentioned deaths in public places, and audiences, and the stealing of bodies, I assumed you meant the . . . victims . . . were performers or artists of some kind. Once I'd gotten that far, the subsequent deduction was obvious.”

“You mean about the diva.”

“I mean Maria daLivnova, of course. Her forthcoming performances will be the highlight of the current season, as I'm sure you're aware.”

“Naturally.”

“Ah. . . not an opera fan, Lieutenant?”

“I sometimes sing in the shower.”

Malfax Cortindo gestured at his office. “Take a look. You see that statuette? It's Zurinese, maybe four hundred years old. And that painting, the dark one, is by Turinette in the last month before his death. And that embroidery of a poem? If you look closely, you'll see the verses are from Zar Cuchon's epic
Gladius Mortis,
the part where he's in the forest and—”

“Fascinating.”

Donal was less interested in statuettes and embroidery than he was in Malfax Cortindo himself. A blizzard of fine-sounding words could not disguise the intuitive leap that made Cortindo identify public performers as the victims of murder and body-stealing.

But the man was too self-possessed to crack easily—and he was supposed to be a resource, not a suspect, for Death's sake.

“The point is, Lieutenant, the people who created these works were very special. Even if they didn't know it themselves, their dreams were priceless, beyond any kind of material worth I know.”

“If you say so.”

“Perhaps we should take a look at the facility. It'll be a start in explaining what I mean.”

This was the part that Donal had not been looking forward to.

“Good idea,” he said.

“First, let me show you the overview.” Still sitting, Malfax Cortindo made a gesture over the blue glass desk. Something rippled inside the glass. “Here we are.”

There was a soft groan, and then the wall to Donal's right began to move. It slid slowly, a vast yard-thick slab of granite, into a recess, revealing the caverns beyond. This room was high up, close to the ceiling. Down below, seven rows of reactor piles were visible; others were out of sight, hidden by supporting columns and walls: this was a whole system of caverns, not a single space.

“See below the ground”—Malfax Cortindo pointed—“where the air appears to shift and waver?”

“Um. . . got it.”

“Those are the power-conduction channels. The necroflux itself must remain confined within the reactor piles, or there would be a heterodyning buildup that would become catastrophic.”

“You mean an explosion?”

“Exactly.” Malfax Cortindo took hold of his elegant cane and stood. “Shall we go down and take a look?”

Down at the floor level, the air seemed thicker, and a buzz floated inside Donal's head. Each reactor was taller and more solid than it had appeared from Malfax Cortindo's office. Workers in gray coveralls moved constantly among the piles, and Donal could see the stress lines clamped on their faces: the price of nonstop vigilance.

They walked, Donal and Malfax Cortindo, for ten minutes along one wide aisle, with minimal conversation. The scale of it was greater than Donal had thought it would or could be. Finally, they came to a reactor whose casing was open.

“Don't worry,” said Malfax Cortindo. “It's been scrubbed and decontaminated, ready for recommissioning.”

Seven men in heavy protective suits and helmets were working on the casing.

“Could I poke my head inside the cavity?” said Donal. “Just to take a look.”

Malfax Cortindo shook his head. “I wouldn't do that if I were you, Lieutenant.”

“Didn't you say it's been scrubbed?”

“Cleanliness”—with a quarter-second smile—“is relative, sir.

Everything here has a memory, which is part of the problem.”

One of the workers stopped and stiffened. Then one of his colleagues snapped open a lead-lined case. “Okay, Karl. I'm ready.”

Donal started to step forward, but Malfax Cortindo touched his sleeve. “We need to keep our distance, I believe.”

“All right.”

The bent-over worker, Karl, was wearing heavy stub-fingered gauntlets as part of his protective gear. It must have made fine work harder, but after a few seconds he straightened up and backed out of the hollow reactor casing, bearing something in one palm. It was a sliver of gray, a bone splinter, no more.

But immediately Donal felt sickness clutch his stomach, and the floor seemed to sway.

“Come along.” Malfax Cortindo's grip was strong on his upper arm. “Let's leave these gentlemen to their work.”

Screaming, the inchoate mix of faces and touch, softness and the feel of intestines bursting, tears and the stink of . . .

Then they were farther along the aisle, and the air seemed clear, though still heavy.

“What the Hades was that?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. The splinter was bigger than I thought, or I'd have gotten us out of there right away.”

“A bone splinter? Just a splinter?”

“Yes. A fragment that's spent considerable time as part of the reactor fuel. You understand what goes on inside these things?”

“We touched on it in school”—Donal wiped his face with the back of his hand—“which was a damned long time ago.”

“Best days of your life. Isn't that what we tell our grandchildren?”

Donal doubted whether he and Cortindo had attended the same kinds of schools. There were places where you needed fists as well as brains in order to graduate.

Malfax Cortindo gestured up at the nearest reactor with his cane.

“It takes the bones of two thousand corpses,” he said, “to form the critical mass for a single pile. What we're talking about is a resonant cavity, where standing waves of necroflux vibrate and strengthen, giving off a plethora of harmonics.”

Two thousand people's remains, just in that one reactor.

“Okay.” Donal blinked, forcing down his natural dread and sadness. “Two thousand. Large number.”

“There's no shortage of raw components, Lieutenant.”

After a moment, Donal said, “I don't suppose there is.”

As they walked back to the staircase together, Malfax Cortindo spoke more of the underlying process. Donal tried to follow, not knowing whether any of this had a bearing on his job.

Cortindo explained how the microstructures of living bones are altered by the perceptions and actions of the body they're encased in. But after death, when those same bones are part of a reactor pile, the necroflux moans and howls, diffracted by the bones' internal structure as it replays the memories of the dead.

“But not in a coherent whole,” said Malfax Cortindo. “They're just mixed-up memory fragments from two thousand individuals. The conglomeration does not truly think or feel anything.”

Donal stopped and looked back at the long straight rows of reactors.

“Not even pain?”

“No.” Malfax Cortindo looked at him for a long moment, then tapped the stone floor with his cane. “At least, that's what I'll tell anyone who asks me officially. You understand me, Lieutenant?”

Biting his lip, Donal considered how the city would react if there were suddenly no power, no transport, and therefore no food in the stores.

“I understand.”

On the wall beside the staircase was a row of brass-encircled, glass-covered dials. Malfax Cortindo stopped to check the leftmost dial, labeled
MN f
^–2
. Beside it, a dial labeled
GW
showed the total power output, Donal assumed, in gigawatts.

“What's the first dial?” he asked.

“It's the mean flux rating across all piles,” said Malfax Cortindo, “in meganecrons per square foot.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“Hmm. Shall we go back up”—with an elegant smile—“and have a cup of tea?”

In Malfax Cortindo's office once more, Donal accepted the offer of tea. The gray-haired secretary brought it on a tray, served in the best bone china.

Hoping to Hades that there were no real bones involved in the cup's manufacture, Donal took hold of the fragile handle and sipped. It was the best tea he had ever tasted.

“That's good.” Carefully, he replaced the cup on the saucer. “That's very good.”