The Chronicles of Edward
[Episode 46 -- 14 Sept 1998]
"Down and Dirty"
The food was plain. That was being charitable. The food was actually only of
recommendation from it being plentiful and not too congealed. It was a step above
that available in the bowels of Utumno. As if that was something to comfort him.
The flavor, of course, was not enhanced by the slight coppery taste that every bite brought. Blood. He had been trying to focus his abilities to shift shape to cause his wounds to heal, and it's likely that was preventing him from dying on the spot. But it was a slow process.
Edward looked around him as he mopped up the cool, runny eggs with the stale biscuit. Noting exits, of course, as well as the most likely opponents. Or contacts, if the dice rolled that way.
Edward smiled -- wincing at his split lip. He did not believe in dice. One made one's own story.
Something was beginning to bother him, though. He tried to figure out what it was. Nothing looked all that unusual. Indeed, it all looked quite normal ....
Ah. Hence the problem. Everything did look normal. As in, back home. As in, the technology, the dress, the general appearance -- all looked as though ... he were still ...
Mind casting back. He had thought it was rotted wood he crashed through. But it might have been flimsy or decaying plastic.
All that Shadow-shifting, and he hadn't moved a bit? He was still on the floating city, albeit quite a bit further down?
Well, if he hadn't moved to another place, whatever he had done had saved his life. After all, he might have hit concrete rather than the (relatively) soft material he'd hit -- and hit -- and hit ...
A deep hum, vibrating through the building, brought him back to the present. That sound was familiar. Gravcar, large one ....
"ATTENTION. THIS BLOCK IS UNDER INTERDICTION, PENDING AN ALL-BUILDING SEARCH. STAY WHERE YOU ARE. COOPERATE, OR FACE SANCTION."
Swatsweep. Jolly. Even before the amplified voice was done telling everyone to stay where they were, three-quarters of the cafe patrons had started heading toward the rear exits -- some bothering to leave money for their food, most not. Edward was among them, having left some appropriate change -- the restaurateur would notice such things, and Edward might need to return. He zeroed in on one pair who seemed to know what they were doing, where they were going -- and a pair he had tagged earlier as being possible trouble.
Even as they ran, Edward was shifting his form, looking seedier, more bedraggled, less like someone who had fallen through a roof and more like someone who had -- well, more like someone who had stolen the clothes off of someone who had fallen through a roof.
His selection of people to follow seemed wise, as the pair -- one short, rat-like, the other large and belligerent-looking -- moved swiftly and silently through the maze of alleys and buildings within the tenement block. And, though wracked with pain from ribs that still felt broken, Edward managed to be quiet enough in his pursuit that neither of his targets noticed him until the very end ...
The pair had run out into the main street, when the large one was warned by some sixth sense -- or, perhaps, a painful gasp by Edward -- and turned. "Hey! Who are you?! What are you doing followin' us?!" And he pulled out a very large, very lethal-looking pistol --
-- and was cut down, along with his friend, by heavy-caliber fire from either side. And, Edward was astonished and pleased to see, the spasm sent the gun flying back toward the alley, skittering to his feet. He couldn't believe his luck.
"Hey, he had a gun. Retrieve it. Be careful -- he might have friends in the alley."
Ah, yes. Luck.
Edward grabbed up the gun, and looked to either side. There was a dearth of fire escapes, doors, or windows. He could run -- maybe even shift Shadow. But the sounds of armored feet were so close.
There. A storm drain. Rather thin hole. This was going to hurt.
And it did. Not helped by his feet getting caught for a brief moment, long enough to send him tumbling to the water below -- all six inches of it, flat on his back, mercifully without any shattered glass within it.
Edward meditated on the concept of pain, having so much concrete to formulate into the abstract. Yes, pain, the universal constant.
A sliver of light above. If they looked down the drain, they'd see him. He painfully -- oh, the pain of it all -- rolled onto a dryer spot, further into the shadows.
"Hey, I can't find it. You sure he had one?"
"I know it when a dreggie's got a gun, mate. You two, look through there."
"Oh grife, captain. This stuff reeks!"
Try lying in its run-off, you cretin, Edward pondered, wishing he had fallen on his nose.
"All right, you pansies. Thomas, you're with me. We'll check out further on. The three of you stay on watch here." Which was followed by the sounds of very large rounds being chambered into very large-bore guns.
Edward lay still, pondering whether it would be worthwhile trying to get one of those assault rifles. He ultimately rejected it. He could probably sneak attack at least one guard -- assuming his injured body did not betray him. But three? Starting from down in a storm drain? And what would it profit him. He was armed, with something that was easily portable -- and just as useful against most targets (and as useless against most others) as one of those spine-crunches.
He carefully got to his feet, and, in probably the most painful crouch that the Fates could have arranged, moved out into the storm drain. He'd try to get out of the interdict district before getting back to topside. But he'd have to watch his step -- if he hit a downpipe, it was a very, very long way to the surface of the planet below.
And he'd fallen far enough for his taste for quite some time.
* * *
Edward paused at the manhole cover, then went on.
After all, he was quite safe, if not altogether comfortable, where he was. And storm drains led in as well as out. He continued on his way.
* * *
He was ravenous. A few moments' qualms (after all, they could hardly be less sanitary than his breakfast had been) allowed him to feast on the lean rats he easily caught. His eyes, enhanced to peer through the darkness, let him find his way inward, to the central core, and upwards.
He tried Bleys' Trump a few times. It grew cold, as it was supposed to, but nothing happened beyond that. He wished he knew precisely what that meant. Hopefully not that his father was dead, which would make this all a rather annoying waste of time.
As he made his way upwards, he easily bypassed the occasional guards. More intriguing were the engineers. They might provide easier access up above. And --
His mind was made up when he saw a quartet carrying lunch boxes. He moved after them.
* * *
Edward wiped his hands, a bit bloody, on his shirt, then threw it to the ground. He would take one of the engineers' outfits -- hip-waders, an elasticized over-shirt, gloves, broad-brimmed hat - in lieu of his own bedraggled clothing.
He smacked his lips, the four lunches already committed to memory. It occurred to him that his hunger might have something to do with the rapid knitting of his body's wounds. It also occurred to him that, given his newly-attained ability to manipulate probability, he could probably have arranged to find some clothing and food without running the further risk. Almost seems like cheating. How droll. On the other hand, this way, though riskier, was a bit more fun. And cathartic.
The engineers also had tool belts, and were armed with shock-sticks. He preferred a knife, or the gun he wore slung over his shoulder, but the shock-sticks might prove more versatile under certain circumstances. They also were carrying radios and, wonder of wonders, data access cards. He took all four, and finished rolling the bodies into an oubliette from which they'd not be recovered any time soon. He didn't know if they had tracers on them, though the range for such within these steel drainpipes would be quite limited. He'd find out soon enough, he supposed.
There was a water spigot nearby, and he used it to wash off both his healing wounds and the accumulated grime. His fingernails were a wreck, and would require a wire brush to clean.
Nonetheless, he felt much better as he climbed into the relatively clean clothing best approximating his own lean size.
* * *
Information. That's what he needed. He was stumbling blind, when it was all too likely that he had unwitting allies who would lend a hand. He'd changed his visage to that of - he glanced at the data access card - Andrew Llewellyn. He would probably have to try the personal infiltration game again. But so much simpler, in the short run, to find a data terminal such as the one he stood before.
First off, he'd access the news. Any word on explosions, alarums and excursions up above yesterday? The battle with and demolition of the security bot could not have gone unnoticed, and there might be word about a prisoner. Failing that, he would attempt to access the maintenance records; even if city security was keeping it all hush-hush, there would be work orders flying. Lots of catwalk to replace.
And, failing all that, he could have a stab at the security system itself. He was, after all, a professional at this sort of thing.
He cracked his knuckles, and started to insert the data access card --
-- and felt a peculiar cold sensation on the back of his neck, as though he were about to sneeze, as though there was electricity in the air, as though someone was trying to reach out and --
Ah. A Trump contact. He'd not received one, as yet. Though that raised the issue of who had a Trump of him. And who would be using it?
He palmed his knife again, rested his other hand on his slung pistol, and opened his mind to the call …
The Chronicles of Edward
[Episode 47 -- 19 Sept 1998]
"The Baying of the Hounds"
The Trump call beckoned.
It had actually taken a few hours to get there, to the terminal he was working on. In the meantime, he had encountered some of the charming fauna of the storm drain system. Most notable was something that looked like a rather disgusting-looking pancakes, with faerie wings upon its back. It seemed to feed on the power conduits, but was not averse to flesh. Horrid. The plasma welder sizzled each nicely as he encountered them.
But back to the Trump contact. Edward held the dagger, a hand upon his pistol. "Hello?"
Nothing. A growing sense of presence, but no answer. "Helloooooo?"
The presence grew stronger, looming.
Feminine.
Dark.
Strong.
Authority.
Locking down on his brain ...
... magickal energies crackling about him ...
Edward panicked. Nothing to shoot at, nothing to stab, to hit. He tried to force the onslaught off with all his will, but she was too powerful for him.
Magic against magic. Edward uttered a Word, designed to disrupt the neural processes of an opponent. But there was nothing physical there for it to work against. Edward felt anger from the woman on the other end, an increase in whatever effort was going on. He ran through the various possibilities he had in the way of similar cantrips. Nothing for this sort of attack, damn it.
He shouted another Word, trying to induce fear in his opponent. This caused a pause, then even greater force of will, more anger. The magicks about him didn’t seem focused on him in particular, but ... this was not going well.
Edward thought of the stories he’d heard of wolves chewing off trapped legs in order to be free. A gruesome suggestion, to be sure, but of some application here. Before he could reconider, he invoked the first Word again -- but turned on himself.
"Gyaaaarrrrggggh!" His back spasmed until he thought it would snap. His knees collapsed, and the back of his head smashed against the catwalk. And all was, mercifuly, blackness.
* * *
Not much time passed, at least according to the display on the terminal. He sat up, regretting it immediately. A hand gingerly applied to the back of his head came back wet and sticky.
But the contact was gone. "Aha," Edward mumured to himself. His voice sounded strange. "That showed her. Ow."
He redirected his healing powers to the wound on his head. Ow, indeed. He levered himself up, and staggered over to the terminal. A few taps, logging in by the card on his chest, and he was tied into city news, looking as intended for information on the contretemps the day before.
Terrorist attack. Things blowing up. The Duchess’ Security Forces were questioning the survivor. Ah. Glad to hear you’re still among the living, Father.
A special item scrolled across the screen for engineering workers. Warnings. Fugitive on the run in the drains. Security forces being sent in. Stay out of sectors -- oh. Edward called up a map. The sector he was in. And the sectors around him. The search was centered. Focused. On him.
The warning was posted right about when he had awakened. What the devil --?
No time for speculation. He might be able to slip past -- but they presumably knew this area better than he did. So ... change the rules. Work from within. A time-honored and usualy effective tactic.
He started in on the keyboard. Tappity-tappity, tap-tap-tap, tapping from this terminal here into that terminal over there, just on the outskirts of the sectors he was supposed to be in. Ooooooh, what is this evil -- but not quite competent enough -- intruder doing over there, eh? Well, why not make it some information that was of value? Pop, up onto the screen came the disposition of those security forces, slowly closing in on him ... slowly closing in on him ... pause ... pause ... wipe away the sweat ... finger the knife ... wait for it ... and Tally-ho, there they go hallooing after the evil-but-not-quite-competent-enough intruder.
Oh, this is too much fun. He programmed in a timed sequence, then headed upwards, at a tangent to the path taken by the converging guards. And behind him, he could just see it ...
The lead tac-team creeps forward. The target is around the corner, down the hall. Squads three and five are ready for backup. The team leader raises an arm ...
... and on cue, the fire retardant foam begins to spew from the floor grates. And the sprinkler system starts to kick in. And the klaxons announce everything from fire to grav unit failure to explosive decompression.
The team leader screams to make himself heard. "He’s covering his escape!" The teams charge forward, barely visible to each other in the water and foam and sparks and red emergency lighting. Perhaps they even open fire on each other ...
Then someone notices the automatic door slowly closing. She calls it into Security. Aha, says Security. We show these doors have just been opened in sequence. And the baying hounds continue on their merry way ... a way away from Edward ...
The Chronicles of Edward
Chapter 48 - 28 September 1998
"Thumbs Up, Calls In, and Banquets Away"
Edward continued to climb. And climb. Thrice more, someone attempted to make Trump contact. Each time, he fended off the attempt. The third time was particularly bad, and he hung precariously from a ladder for some minutes until the caller gave up.
Of course, for all he knew, the calls were from someone beneficent. Not that he was going to take the chance, mind you.
At last he found himself on a major causeway. At the far end was clearly the door he wanted to go. He could tell by the blast doors, the retinal/thumb scanner, and the laser net over the keypad.
Edward examined the door. No way to get through it by force, which was, after all, sort of the point. He was familiar with the security measures of this sort of system. If his retinal scan matched, the door would answer. If only the thumb print matched -- more easily spoofed -- he would then get access to the keypad.
First things first. If he knew who was authorized, he might have been able to shapeshift what retina patterns he needed. But there was no way to tell. The thumb print, however --
He shifted his vision, telescoping in on the panel. There were the oil whorls and bridges he needed. He worked back and forth with the thumb print and his own thumb -- making sure to reverse the print -- until he was satisfied.
He applied his modified thumb to the pad, and, with the sudden cessation of a slight buzz, the laser grid over the keypad turned off.
And with a slight hiss, an anti-personnel gun dropped down to cover him and the rest of the hallway.
Here’s where it becomes entertaining, thought Edward. HotCall LokFast Keypad. Standard setting was four digits. And, hey presto, four keys showed distinct wear: 0, 1, 2, and 7. And the 2 looked like it was the first of the sequence, based on the surrounding grime.
So -- that leaves one thousand combinations. This could take a while. Assuming the gun doesn’t go off, or Security doesn’t notice.
That gun, now. Unlikely it would go off at a "mistake." That would chew up too many fumble-fingered visitors. So -- was it a "Three Strikes and You’re Out"? Or --
Edward was familiar with a particularly insidious -- or clever -- style of coding this sort of door. Certain codes were leaked to hackers, the Underground, the Mob, whomever might be in opposition. Those codes were the only ones that would set the gun a-firing. By noting which codes were tried by those who would break in, Security knew which leak avenues were most usable ...
He studied the numbers. Might the code be meaningful? If this really was his mother -- her birthday? Hell, why not be egotistical -- his birthday? The date of his first sentencing? His first parole? The number of lashes he --
Ah. Could that be it? His mother’s date of death, on the certificate he could see in his mind. "27.10."
He glanced at the anti-personnel gun, took a breath, and keyed in the sequence.
An endless pause. Then a hiss as the gun rose back into the ceiling, and a metallic grinding as the blast doors opened ...
* * *
What luck.
Edward mistrusted it. After all, he was fairly certain that his mother didn’t choose the codes for all the security doors herself. Which meant that either this was a wild coincidence -- equally mistrusted -- or else anyone who knew of her ostensible death was to be admitted.
Worst Case Scenario -- the guards would haul him before her and let her see him tortured to death. Surely mere execution was not in the cards, else the gun would have opened up.
Well, if that’s all ...
He made his way down the corridor. His engineering outfit was garish, but would still fit in here. Engineers were valuable but looked down upon. His presence would be accepted, but ignored. All the better.
He eventually found what he was looking for -- a computer terminal. Time to find out more on where he was going.
He flipped the little sign on top to show the terminal was under service, opened a panel and displayed some wires. Protective coloration.
Next. Obviously he couldn’t use Buster’s cardkey -- that one was doubtless redflagged from his previous activities. So, were Buster’s lunch mates equally dangerous? Nobody could have found their bodies thus far, and it had only been four hours since their deaths, so they wouldn’t yet be considered missing. Still --
Still, it was better than wandering around until he tripped over Security.
Darren’s cardkey seemed to work fine, and the engineering schematics for the complex were downloaded into his convenient engineering pad. And there were the holding cells, there were the redundant power systems, communications uplinks, video --
He considered tapping to the security cell cameras, but decided instead to give Bleys’ Trump one more try.
"Edward."
Edward was surprised, after all the failures. And, of course, suspicious. "Bleys."
"How are you?"
"Just fine."
"Glad to see that the fall did not injure you, other than your sense of fashion."
Edward smiled, automatically and falsely at the joke. There was something -- off about this conversation.
"Well," Bleys said. "I think I’m someplace more secure than you. Why don’t you come through?"
"I -- well, why don’t I bring you through here?"
Bleys smiled. And Edward realized that Bleys was paying far more attention to his words, to his conversation, to him than he’d ever seen. Carefully choosing his words. Playing to an audience?
The terminal behind Edward shut itself off.
"I’ll get back to you," Edward said quickly and, as Quinn had showed him, passed his hand across the Trump, breaking the contact.
And ran for his life.
* * *
Not, as one might imagine, away. Even assuming that was an option, Edward had worked hard enough to get where he was. And running away seemed a logical course, which meant that running inward, further into the Duchess' palace, was the illogical but reasonable thing to do.
Of course, that brought its drawbacks. He had a mental image of the schematic in his head, furiously translating conduits, power relays, and the like into something approaching a map. Which worked fine as far as it went, but did lead to an embarrassing encounter with an automated weapons system and a motion sensor, realized a split-second before the weapon opened up. Mercifully, there was a laundry chute nearby.
Actually, the mercy was that it was laundry, not waste. This made for a relatively soft landing on the other end. In fact, quite a bit of the clothing and whatnot he had landed in were clearly from the kitchen. Which gave him an idea.
Infiltrating a site through the kitchen was close to an SOP. Nobody looks at kitchen staff, but they usually have access both to security portals (the loading docks) and into practically any place in the building they wanted. Nobody questioned someone pushing a delivery cart, or carrying a platter.
Well, they sometimes were questioned, but much less so than dark-clad assassins with sniper rifles.
He donned a relatively clean cooking jacket and apron, took on Clem's face (putting the remaining two good cardkeys into his pocket), put one of those amusing little hats on his head, and headed for the stairs ...
He reached the top of the stairs, and opened the door into a bustling kitchen. He quickly gathered that there were preparations for a banquet underway. Excellent. Lots of people, lots of to-do, lots of irregular staff such as himself sent scuttling off on errands.
Lots of guards making a sweep through the kitchen, though their attention was as much on the food as looking for lurking evil-doers. Edward picked up two large boxes and carried them past the guards, before settling in to work.
It was actually somewhat relaxing. Edward was a gourmet cook, largely self-taught. Of course, part of that came from having to know which poisons went with which wines and the like. And occasions he had spent infiltrating through kitchens hadn't hurt. And, again, having spent substantial amounts of time in hiding, he had found that cooking both livened up a day and kept one from becoming stir-crazy.
At any rate, he bustled about, looking busy, ready to give as an excuse for his unfamiliar appearance some sort of rationale about being brought in for help with the big gathering. Nobody asked, however, so Edward assumed he wasn't the only temp worker. Though, hopefully, the only one of his sort.
At last the feast was ready. And, if Edward did say so himself, much improved for his contribution. Imagine, using tarragon instead of basil in a port-pepper demiglaze. He'd killed men for lesser offenses. As it was, what Chef didn't know wouldn't hurt him. This time.
And, of course, not being on the permanent staff, Edward was one of the ones assigned to bring the food to the banquet hall. Indeed, everything was going so well -- from an avenue in to a full stomach -- that he began waiting for things to go horribly wrong.
Contrary to what he had initially expected, there were only three guests at the table.
The Duchess. Oh, yes, no mistaking her. Oh, Mother, this will be such a nice reunion. One way or another.
To her right was another woman, with short russet hair. Unfamiliar. He'd have to do something about that.
And to the Duchess' left -- how fitting -- sat his father. Edward was momentarily surprised to notice that, rather than being served wine from the decanter as the others were, he had his own bottle. Bayle's Red. The bottle he had brought Bleys when embarking on this little expedition. He didn't know whether to be touched or be amazed that it had survived intact.
At any rate, Edward mused, at least I know he'll be avoiding the fish ...