Retrievers - Burning Bridges Part 26

Of course, she didn't want herself to get conked on the head or otherwise b.l.o.o.d.y, either!

"All right. Time to get this show rolling, then."

"See you downtown."

"No, you won't, " Wren said, and disappeared.

P.B. snorted in amus.e.m.e.nt, and took the coffee cup from the bench where she had left it, chugging back the last few drops before getting up to join the exodus.

There was something going on. Sergei wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew. The air in the apartment was warm and comfortably moist. There was no reason for him to get out of bed at five in the morning, get dressed in warm, comfortable clothing and heavy-soled work boots, and go to his safe to retrieve his gun. There was no reason at all for him to do any of that, and then catch a cab downtown, telling the cabbie to keep driving until he said to stop.

No reason at all for him to rap once on the bulletproof divider and tell the cabbie to let him out on the corner of Elk and Chambers. None at all.

He stood on the corner, looking around. Narrow streets, quiet and still on a weekend morning, the small storefronts and restaurants closed up, the offices silent and still. He wasn't familiar with this part of town; he never had business down here, except maybe once every couple of years. Most of his dealings with city government were done on the phone, or online these days, and he was more often at Parsons than down at Pace University's city campus.

But something brought him down here.... Where? Where did the lure lead him to? Ground Zero? The Seaport? City Hall? Maybe.

He turned that way, looking at the old, still-impressive government buildings, thinking. What had woken him up, dragged him out here? What was he feeling? Up until now he had been operating on a purely instinctive manner, following a call. But now it was time to stop, study, evaluate.

He wasn't nervous. He should have been nervous, if only because he had no d.a.m.ned clue what was going on. But instead the annoyance of being awake and out in the cold was offset by a certain unnerving calmness, as though everything were going exactly according to plan. Not a front thought, but something stroking the back of his brain, almost like...

The way Wren described the urge she had to make tea, when he showed up. He had never understood what she was talking about, until now. Less a feeling, or a thinking, than a knowing.

Something was going down. Something that involved Wren.

Trusting that knowing, he started to walk, a long easy stride that carried him down the street and toward the pale stone bulk of City Hall.

"h.e.l.l no, we won't go?" Wren shook her head, not sure if she should be horrified or amused.

"I like the History Only Repeats if You're Not Listening one, myself."

She and Bart were standing in the plaza in front of City Hall, watching the lonejacks choosing and trading their signs, milling about while others were trying to get organized. Some of the signs were old-fas.h.i.+oned placards on plywood sticks, while others were long cloth banners that took three or more to hold them upright and readable. The Christopher Street crew had been matched by at least as many coming in from the boroughs, about seventy percent human, thirty percent fatae. The fatae who had actual hands were also carrying signs, but they seemed to be content with whatever they were handed.

In the summer, the area in front of them was green, filled with rosebushes and daffodils, gra.s.s and people lounging in the sunlight; walking, in-line skating and cycling across the span of the bridge that stretched between the lower part of Manhattan and the borough of Brooklyn across the river. Right now, it was bleak and dreary, the putty-colored government buildings around them managing by some magic of their own to be both ornate, and depressingly bland. The wind was cold, coming off the river and being funneled down the narrow maze of streets that made up the financial district.

Wren had warmed up on the subway downtown, but the wind was cutting enough to make her s.h.i.+ver, standing still. But neither of them made any move to get into shelter; things were going to get worse, not better, once the protest got underway, and being warm at the beginning simply meant that you would feel more miserable later.

"Who thought that a march past the police station would be a good idea?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"We're not exactly marching past it. More like down the side street away from it. Anyway, we have a permit."

That surprised her. She would have paid decent money to see what the request form had said. "How did you-"

"We're a tolerance march."

Wren snickered. Well, it was true. Except they planned to enforce that tolerance in a particularly intolerant manner....

Wren watched a teenager test his sign, swinging it like a flag, then swatting his neighbor on the a.s.s with it. "Equal Rights for All Genders? How old are these things? What, we raid Central Casting?"

"Pretty much." Bart shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, and hunched his shoulders until he looked like a blue-coated penguin, huddling over a chick. "Go get a sign, Valere."

Wren looked at him askance. "I don't think so."

"Valere..."

"Bart. I have to work hard just to not get stepped on in an empty room. Carrying a sign and singing protest songs isn't going to change that."

"So you can hit anyone who steps on you with your sign."

"If you try to make me march, I'm going to sing. 'Alice's Restaurant.' All the verses."

They matched stares, and he blinked first. "You're not that bad a singer, I'm sure I'd survive. But fine, go. What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry. I think I can cause some trouble here and there along the way..."

He just chuckled, and went back to watching his charges mingle and fuss.

She hated when people laughed at her, even though she knew it was mostly stress-release; the same reason she was flickering in and out like a lightning bug. Also, being invisible gave her a sense of security. If she'd had her new slicks already...But the order had only just been placed; she was going to have to wait at least another month for them to be made.

The light was beginning to change, in the eastern sky. Not yet sunrise, but false down, turning the dark blue sky into slate-gray to match the paving stones under her feet. The streetlights were going out, leaving the piles of dirty snow in shadows, the once icy whiteness now mixed with grime and soot.

"Up and at 'em! If you're ground patrol, get to your places! Air patrol, be ready! The rest of you, up and at 'em! We start in ten!" A human wearing a bright yellow snow bib and black boots stomped past, calling in a current-amplified voice. Why he didn't just carry a megaphone, Wren didn't understand. Sometimes, people got so dependent on their Talent, they forgot there were other, easier, less costly ways to do things.

But however he was doing it, he was getting heard.

The protest got started like a camel getting to its feet; slow, sluggish, and laughable. But once the banners caught the morning breeze, and the signs started waving, Wren had to admit that they looked almost impressive. Even more so was the sight of four griffins leading the horde, their eagle-tine heads raised above the rest of the crowd, wings tightly furled but still unmistakable. Almost any other fatae could and typically was overlooked; griffins got noticed.

People believed in them.

And n.o.body believes in you?

Smirking, she ran lightly beside the ma.s.s of pseudo protesters, until she was even with the griffins, then past them.

The plan was to circle City Hall once, make a reasonable if unnerving statement, and then start across the bridge into Brooklyn. At that point, fatae and lonejacks would combine to make a display that couldn't fail to attract the attention of anyone who already had a mad-on for anything nonhuman or Talented. A hundred-strong moving target-moving slowly, in plain sight.

It wasn't as risky as it sounded. That many bodies, anyone nastily inclined would have to risk a full-out riot to do significant damage. And the lonejacks were on alert, this time.

The griffins peeled off at the entrance to the bridge, posing like sentries-which, in point of fact, they were. The humans continued on, waving banners and signs and generally acting like they were Boy Scouts out for an early-morning jamboree.

That was one thing you could count on, with lonejacks; someone somewhere in there had a flask of some warming liquid that smelled nothing at all like coffee, and they were willing to share.

As the protesters rounded the front of City Hall, staying clear of the tall wrought-iron fence and the police boxes at each entrance, someone in the ma.s.s started a singsong chant: "Ain't your city only, it's Our city, too.

You want your piece of us, well We got a piece of you!"

Slowly, other voices picked it up, deep human voices only, surging with the rhythm of their marching. Ain't- stomp-your city only-stomp-it's- stomp-our city, too- stomp-You want-stomp-a piece of us- stomp-we got- stomp-a piece of you!

It sounded like a particularly weak protest song, much less impressive than the one Wren had threatened to sing, but it was far more than that; under the words, current surged from every lonejack present, formed by the words into a weapon. If you knew how to look, it was there, surging and roiling at shoulder level like low-lying fog, or a summer's thunderhead, dark red like molten lava, and faster moving.

You didn't need words to focus magic, not if you knew what you were doing, and were ready for it. But it helped. And when you were trying to pull a pranking that involved so many people, most of whom didn't know each other beyond a vague hi-how-ya-doin, it helped a lot.

Because that's what this was. The largest, nastiest, bloodiest pranking any lonejack had ever helped pull.

They were coming back around now, having picked up a single news van, rolling camera on the off-chance that it was a slow news day and they needed filler. Wren hoped that the van didn't get too much closer, as the current-cloud would turn all of their very expensive, very sensitive technology into a quivering pile of wires and blown fuses. Bad enough what they were going to do to the bridge-which was why the march was scheduled for this early on a Sunday morning. Later, or on a weekday or Sat.u.r.day, and there would be too many people wanting to use the bridge. Here, they were probably just going to inconvenience a bunch of joggers, and a lot of public workers, who could at least then pull down overtime pay.

Not that Wren had thought of any of that; she wasn't a big-picture person.

She moved away from the crowd, scanning the surroundings. Up there in City Hall, a few window shades moved; probably cleaning people, as she didn't think any of the public servants would be in the building at that hour. Curtains were being twitched aside in apartments above the storefronts, but it seemed unlikely anyone would come out to watch; they simply weren't interesting enough to move anyone out of their heated apartments. Maybe two or three students, or someone still dressed from being out the night before, but it was unlikely enough that Wren didn't worry about them.

There...She paused, and then jumped onto the nearest lamppost, s.h.i.+mmying up the metal structure to get a better view.

Yes. Two cars had pulled up: dark sedans with New York plates. There were at least three people: two in the front, one in back, in each car. Probably more. And then two more cars purred down the narrow street behind her, cruising like sharks coming up on something tasty to eat, or lions readying to rush an interloper pack of jackals....

"Ain't your city only, it's Our city, too.

You want your piece of us, well We got a piece of you!"

A higher-pitched chorus met them as they came around and up toward the bridge. The ground patrol-fatae set in place under the concrete and brick arches-and the air patrol, clinging to the cables and struts of the bridge itself. They were supposed to keep themselves in reserve, as the second wave, but the cantrip was apparently mindlessly catchy enough for them not to be able to resist.

Sometimes, all the human centric stories about fairy simplicity and gullibility were truer than the fatae wanted to admit. But it shouldn't matter; the trap had been set, the bait about to be s.n.a.t.c.hed up.

And then they stepped onto the bridge itself, and all h.e.l.l came loose.

"G.o.d save us from fools and bigots...." Sergei had been in mob scenes before. He'd been part of the group of Operatives and Handlers who had to clean up the kraken disaster of Nantucket back in' 93. He'd even attended one Democratic/Libertarian joint fund-raiser, working security control for the extra money. He had never, in his entire life, seen the potential for disaster that was waiting in front of him.

There were at least thirty humans grouped in front of him. Dressed in heavy jackets and work boots, they clearly weren't out for a Sunday-morning stroll with the kiddies. From his position over a hundred yards away and behind a bakery delivery van, Sergei couldn't tell if any of them had handguns, but there were a number of wooden bats and metal staves in evidence, and the physical ease with which they were carried suggested that every one of them knew how to land blows.

More disturbing to him was the dark sedan parked in front of the men, and the two figures speaking earnestly with one of the thugs. He knew those figures. Knew them, one well, and the other not quite so well, but enough that he had no hesitation, no having to wonder.

Although he did wonder who else was in the car, waiting out of the cold, with them.

Taking his time, aware that nothing had happened as yet, Sergei surveyed the group in front of him once again, this time picking up details. Between the ages of twenty and fifty; mostly white, although there were at least two blacks, and a slighter build that might have indicated Asian or Indian ancestry, if he were able to see the man's face to confirm. Not that it mattered, except to highlight the fact that bigotry needed only one target; the old sci-fi movies of the fifties had it right: give us an alien to shoot at-or a pointy-eared elf-and all men really were brothers under the skin.

Previous fatae survivors had mentioned that there had been women and teenagers, even the occasional child among the vigilantes. He was relieved to see that the group in front of him was almost entirely older males. It was s.e.xist of him, and it probably didn't matter when you had a metal weight coming down at you, but he fought easier against adult males, not women or children.

And with that, he realized that his gun was already in his hand; and that he had come here, not to observe, but to spill blood.

He had told Wren the truth: he had chosen his side. It didn't matter if she wanted him there or not, not anymore.

But he wasn't going for the thugs. The Cosa was more than capable of handling those miserable excuses for DNA, and more, they deserved the chance to do a little payback.

Sergei had his sights set on more rarified game.

And he was due a little payback, as well.

The thugs moved out, racing toward their targets, and Sergei stepped out of the shadows.

"Duncan. A word with you, if I may?"

The bridge was almost perfectly designed: two roadways on either side, one for inbound traffic and the other for cars heading into Brooklyn, with a walkway straight down the middle for pedestrian and cyclist traffic. Multiple concrete ramps led onto the walkways from the surrounding streets, and while traffic could become miserable at times, it never seemed to face the same sort of agony that was normal on the Jersey-bound side.

The marchers funneled up the middle walkway, waving at the occasional car pa.s.sing them on either side. Almost without exception, each driver honked and waved back.

As they pa.s.sed each light on the bridge, the current streaked up the wires, and snapped the light out with a glorious crack and waterfall of sparks, like miniature fireworks. Wren didn't know if someone was doing that deliberately, or if it was just a side effect, but it was a nice touch either way.

Then the chapel across and down the street sounded the hour: six gentle gongs in solemn procession, and the mood changed, just like that. Wren could feel it, a s.h.i.+ver than ran up her arms and down her back, under the skin, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the weather.

The griffins spread their wings and rose into the sky, beaks snapping at the air, their heavy bodies more than a match for the wind, where their smaller cousins would get blown about. Clutched in their great claws were heavy iron bars: Franklin poles, the Cosa called them, after one of the founding fathers of the American Cosa . Lonejacks on the bridge sent current up into the air, touching and sparking off the bars as it was absorbed and redirected back down onto the ground in flashes of red neon, like some fantastic lightning strikes out of the clear dawn sky.

That alone would get attention of anyone looking for current. It would also get the attention of everyone else who happened to be awake and looking up at that moment, but pity the poor soul who tried to capture the image with anything more advanced than a pencil and paper.

Magic wasn't meant to be captured. You just had to live in the moment.

Wren tore her eyes away from the display long enough to look around her, more than a little worried. By now, someone should have sent out an alert. There should be-and there they were.

Dozens of human figures appeared from doorways and alleys, swarming up the ramps on a direct intercept course with the lonejack "protestors." Within seconds, the battle was joined. Baseball bats and protest signs snapped and cracked over heads. Someone who had failed basic science tried to use a metal staff against an enraged lonejack, and fell to the ground, shuddering and s.h.i.+mmering from the current that ran up the metal length and into his unprotected flesh.

Idiot.

Wren, invisible, slipped through the crowd, tripping and poking the Nulls as she could, but more set on her own personal mission: to find someone who looked to be directing the action, or somehow connected to a leader off-site. Unseen, she would not be attacked, and so long as n.o.body accidentally swung at or stepped on her, she was in no danger, even in the thick of things.

She had told Sergei once that she could paint herself blue and waltz through Grand Central Station at rush hour, and not be noticed. She hadn't been exaggerating. Much.

The problem was, she couldn't do much of anything else, while waltzing. So every time someone did hit her, or step on her, she had to just swear and deal with it.

Frustrated, Wren reached the center span of the bridge a bit ahead of the battle, and looked back.

At some point, while she was sidestepping a swinging sign, the fatae had joined the fracas, giving the Nulls their preferred target. Occasionally a fatae would swing at the wrong sort of human-The Quad had ordered all lonejacks to wear a strip of dark red fabric on their s.h.i.+rts, to identify themselves just in case, but it looked like most of them had either forgotten or ignored the order entirely.

It was, she had to admit, an impressive sight even seen with Null eyes. Over the hundreds of milling bodies, four griffins still circled and wheeled, occasionally swooping to harry someone, or divert an a.s.sault. Smaller figures swooped lower, pulling hair and screaming insults and...

Wren almost laughed in the middle of it all, as she saw a slender, snakelike flying form very clearly take a s.h.i.+t on someone's head.

Occasionally, a body would be thrown over the side of the bridge. The crew a.s.signed to under-bridge detail had strict instructions not to let any of their own people actually hit ground. They had been given no such instructions about Nulls. Wren just hoped they were able to identify them quickly-or err on the side of caution, rather than letting everyone hit the pavement.

Further out behind her, the nausunni had marshaled the water fatae. Anyone who tried to come in or escape by the water would meet significant-and deadly-resistance there. Comforted by that thought, Wren didn't bother to guard her own back, but kept scanning the crowd in front of her.

A loup-garoux ran on four legs through the crowd, biting the ankles of anyone who-as far as Wren could tell from the yelps-looked tasty. The beast came panting up to her, working on scent, not sight, and she kicked it away without hesitation, not waiting to see if it considered her friend or foe. It could stand on its hind legs like the rest of them, and look you in the face when it bit, not nip at your d.a.m.n legs.

Okay, maybe she was a little shaky still over the h.e.l.lhound thing. She had cause, d.a.m.n it.

Shaking her head, she went back to observing the fight. Around and through the combatants, current raged. To Talented eyes, the air was aflame with an orgy of crackling neon. But even the most hopeless Null would be able to see the current that was running up through the wires and metal rigging of the bridge itself, like some kind of post-modernistic Saint Elmo's fire, blue flame sparked with gold and silver running through every metal-touched element of the bridge, crackling and hissing with a corona that made religious folk cross themselves and pray for salvation.

Ohm's law, to the science geeks. Current lash-back, to lonejacks.

But in all that, she saw nothing that looked like a point of leaders.h.i.+p. In fact, she saw nothing that looked like leaders.h.i.+p at all, just a confused ma.s.s of swinging arms, kicking legs, and the occasional swipe of a sign or bat.

She grabbed a thread of current and sent it winging up into the air, searching for the psychic flavor she had imprinted on it earlier that morning, when they were getting their marching orders. The thread found the source of that flavor, and created a connection between them, like a semi-secure landline.