The Siege Against Tolkeen

Lucius Mallen sat hunched at his tiny desk, his massive Wolfen body straining the flimsy chair. There were dozens of grainy photographs and folders on his desk, along with a handful of pens, a good-luck crystal, and a tiny hologram of his wife. He looked down pensively at the photos, shuffling them like cards.

"What've you got there, Luke?" asked the D-Bee's partner, a human mystic named Pete Fransisco. Fransisco would have made a better techno-wizard. He disdained most forms of magic as demonology, and held a deep cynicism for anything that he could not sense. Of course, with his formidable psychic and magical powers, he could sense nearly everything. Mallen suspected that the mystic already knew the answer to his question.

"Crime scene photographs," the Wolfen said, holding up one of them. "Been looking them over for a tad more insight."

"And..."

"We were completely off on that Gergelleg pervert thing. To begin with, these wounds were obviously inflicted by a vibro-blade of some kind, probably a knife because the wounds aren't so deep. Secondly, even for a vibro-blade, the damage was really great. I'm thinking that the killer is some kind of enhanced human or D-Bee."

"Not a demon? We've been getting more and more of those lately. Ever since that god-damned war started, there's been all sorts of evil shit hanging around."

Lucius shook his head. "Demon would've used its claws or teeth, and probably would've stuck around to chew the fat, so to speak."

"So we've narrowed it down to some sort of enhanced being?"

"Right. I'm going to see if I can get the records of some local chop-shops and clinics to see if they've done any recent augmentations on suspicious characters."

"How do you define suspicious?"

"If they have any resemblance to you, they've probably commited some horrible crimes against deceny and are suspicious in the extreme." The two chuckled at the joke, and then got back to their duties.

Miles away, Jack Perrin sat in the beer-hall with a handful of HFA tech boys, sitting around a pile of transistors and computer parts. The techies (although Perrin preferred to call them City Rats) weren't doing much except chattering to each other in high-paced techno-can and occasionally fiddling with the electronics.

One of the punks reached over to tweak a dial, and accidentally knocked over his can of beer. The alcohol splashed over the exposed parts, dousing several microchips and exposed wires. The array of electrical equipment suddenly began to smoke, as a s park from a poorly stripped cable ignited a few drops of beer. There was a sudden, harsh squawk from the transmitter, and then just static.

"Oh, crap!" one of the techies muttered, as acrid smoke began pouring out of the burning thing. "Stick a fork in it, because this radio is done for. Sorry, sir."

Perrin began staring at the broken machine, his nostrils full of the fumes. "No, no, I understand," he said softly. "Probably wouldn't have worked anyway." He got to his feet, and began to stagger away. "I gotta piss."

The young man who had procured the last radio followed, full of concern. He found Jack in the filthy men's room, sitting in a corner and smoking a cigarette. "What's wrong, sir?" the man asked softly.

"I'm not cut out for leadership," Perrin sighed. "It was easier to be a pilot. We were told what to do, and we did it. But now people are asking me what to do, and I have no idea what to tell them. The fate of fucking humanity is in my hands, and I'm an incompetent leader."

"You're not..."

"Sure I am. Hell, I don't even know your name, and I'm supposed to be leading you into combat, risking your life? What right do I have to do that?"

"I'm Nicholas Thompson," the young man said. "And you have the right to lead me because I trust and respect you."

Perrin snorted. "Well, you're just about the only one here who does, other than that Freedom guy. Nick, how in the world did you get hooked up with this bunch of psychos?"

Thompson looked down at the ground for a moment, thinking deeply, as if considering some extremely difficult choice. Finally, he looked back up at Perrin again. "I used to be a wiz-kid," he said softly. "Ninth in my class at the Lazlo Institute of Mystical Learning. Destined for a career in the upper echelons of the Tolkeen government. And then one day, I was studying this magical sword, a rune weapon. It turned out a demon was living in it at the time. I got possessed by it, and killed about a dozen people while under its control. The HFA pretty much beat Satan out of me. They kicked my ass until the demon fled to avoid destruction. If I tried to regain my old life, the law would be on me for murder. The HFA is really the only place where I can exist."

The cigarette nearly dropped from Perrin's mouth. "Holy shit," he muttered. "You aren't still a mage, are you?"

Thompson shook his head sadly. "Lost my faith, so to speak. Never could conjure again, because I was too afraid that some demon would pop out of the spell and kill me. Even now my hands start shaking every time I see a monster."

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Then, Perrin spoke. "So, how are we going to get the word out to the CS about that damn pyramid?"

"There are a few members who might be able to slip across the border and deliver a message. I'll see if I can convince any of them to do it."

"Good man," said Perrin, rising from the floor. "I'll make a recording for them to deliver. If I know those generals, they wouldn't believe the word of God if it came from the mouth of a scruffy rebel soldier."

"He thinks he's a god or something!" barked the angry Juicer, his ankles chafing in thick plaster casts. "Jes' comes in, starts acting all high an' mighty, an' then uses his freakin' karate or something on me when I speak up about it!"

"He's definitely gone too far," agreed Lou. "Jeopardizing our whole organization for his so-called mission. And the worst part is, Freedom's eating up his lies like candy!"

The two men sat in Lou's dingy apartment, socializing over a pizza and some beer. The walls were draped in flags of the Coalition and of Nazi Germany, with an occasional porno-mag pinup here and there.

"So we agree," growled the Juicer, bits of chewed dough, firing from his mouth. "Ricky Freedom and that Parim shit have to take the fall."

"We've just gotta figure out how to do it."

Next Chapter

By David Haendler.

Copyright © 1996, 1997, 1998 David Haendler. All Rights Reserved.

Info