Angel - Shakedown Part 16

Baasalt had led Feldspaar back into the depths, but they had not returned to their people-not physically. It was at the midway point between the region the Tremblors called home and the Skin of the World that Baasalt chose to broadcast his message.

People of the Fourth Tribe, hear my thoughts. I, Baasalt, First Warrior-Priest, have knowledge to share with all of you.

His thoughts were forceful, and they echoed throughout the minds of all the Tremblors. Such an announcement was highly unusual; they halted whatever mental gymnastics they were practicing, stopped their calculations, meditations, or communications, and listened.

I have a new game for you.

This was exciting, but hardly unusual; new games were proposed every few centuries. Most were variations of mathematical formulas.

Baasalt called up an image in his mind of a spherical stone.This is called the ball. The purpose of the game is to intersect a projection of the ball with a s.h.i.+fting complex variable-called a Human-within an established set of parameters, called the Field. The game requires nine players.

Players position themselves mentally at nine predetermined points on the field. Each has a ball.

The complex variable is positioned at the point called Home Plate. The player called the Pitcher projects his ball according to a set of mathematical principles called velocity, inertia and trajectory. The object is to intersect the complex variable in such a way as to reduce its value.

Once the ball is projected, the complex variable begins to s.h.i.+ft along a preset path toward the position of First Base. If the ball intersects the complex variable and causes it to collapse, a point is awardedthe pitcher and another complex variable is introduced at Home Plate.

If the ball does not intersect the variable, it continues. The player at First Base attempts to intersect the variable with his ball. If the variable reaches First Base without being reduced to zero, it continues toward Second Base, and the player there attempts the same maneuver. This continues until the variable has looped back to Home Plate. The Outfield positions can attempt to intersect the path of the complex variable with a ball at any time.

Positions alternate nine times. At the conclusion, the player with the most points is the winner.

There was a general murmur of interest in the minds of the Tremblor population. More than one wanted to know what the game was called.

It is called Stoning. . . .

"Angel? Did you hear what I said?"

Angel looked up. On the other side of the table, Kate was staring at him expectantly.

"Uh-no, I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I said, how's your soup?"

Angel glanced at his bowl of miso. "It's . . . chunkier than I prefer."

"I can't believe a diet of clear soups keeps you in the shape you're in. Maybe I should try it."

Angel took a sip of sake. "It's a-whole body regimen,actually. You have to avoid a lot of things. It's not for everyone."

"What sorts of things?" Kate picked up a piece of sus.h.i.+ with her chopsticks and dipped it into a mixture of wasabi and soy sauce before popping it into her mouth.

"Oh, certain spices, overexposure to the sun, wood-"

"Wood?"

"Uh-particular types of woods. They can cause an allergic response."

"Oh, I get it. I went to the academy with someone who was allergic to sandalwood. Broke out in hives if she got too close to some kinds of incense."

"Incense is bad. Especially the kind they use in Catholic churches."

"Funny-you don't strike me as the type."

Angel picked up his bowl of soup and sipped from it, j.a.panese-style. "Well, at least it's salty enough . . .

what type is that?"

"The California fad-diet type. I guess I don't really know you that well."

Angel smiled. "I'm more used to asking for information than giving it out."

"Not this time. Unless someone decides to rob this place at gunpoint in the next hour, you're trapped here with me. You're gonna have to make with the small talk, pal."

"Ouch. Are you this rough on all your interrogation subjects?"

Kate grinned, picked up another piece of sus.h.i.+ and and popped it into her mouth. She didn't say a word.

"Okay, I can do small talk . . ." Angel trailed off.

Kate chewed, swallowed. Waited.

"Nice night," Angel said.

"Smog's not too bad," Kate said evenly.

There was a pause.

"How's the sus.h.i.+?"

"Raw."

"Uh-seen any good movies lately?"

"I rentedThe Usual Suspectsthe other night. Thought Kevin s.p.a.cey was brilliant."

"I-haven't seen it. Actually, I don't go to movies very often."

Kate put down her chopsticks. "Okay, no movie talk. Sports?"

"Never seen the point."

"Books?"

"I read a lot, but it's mostly research, poetry or cla.s.sics."

"What about current fiction, bestsellers? I like Tom Clancy, myself."

"Does Mark Twain count as current?"

She sighed. "Music?"

Angel brightened. "Absolutely. I love music."

"Now we're getting somewhere. What flavor?"

"I like a lot of the British stuff, actually."

"You mean like Oasis and Blur? Or do you mean older stuff like the Beatles, the Who, the Stones?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of Thomas Augustine Arne or John Field."

Kate frowned. "And those would be?"

"Eighteenth-century composers."

"English ones, of course."

"It's not just the English ones I like. The Germans and the Italians were brilliant, too."

"I see."

"You . . . don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Sorry. My idea of cla.s.sical music is anything they play on an Oldies station."

"So . . . nice night, isn't it?"

Kate laughed and shook her head.

Thank G.o.d for sake,Angel thought, and took another gulp.

They sat in silence for a while, Kate pretending to be absorbed in her tuna roll. Angel wished desperately for something, anything, to say . . . but what did he and Kate have in common, really? He was more than two hundred years her senior, had been born in a century that hadn't seen the invention of the telephone. Her world was based on facts and scientific deduction; his centered around mystic visions and supernatural evil.

He'd gone over to Doyle's place once and found him watching a TV show calledBaywatch. To Angel, it had seemed to take place on another planet, a planet of s.h.i.+ning light and impossibly bright colors. He'd forgotten how sunlight could sparkle on the waves of the ocean. Sometimes, Angel was almost grateful for the guilt he carried. It kept him from thinking about the other, entire world he'd lost.

The world Kate still lived in.

"Tell me about the case you're working on," Kate said. "Did the information I sent over help?"

"It did. Thank you."

"So what exactly is the case? People connected to the four elements-is it some kind of bizarre serial killer thing?"

"Not exactly. I'm hoping the people who disappeared are still alive."

"Got any suspects?"

"Nothing I can talk about, I'm afraid."

"Of course. So . . . nice night."

"Uh-yeah."

Angel signaled the waiter for more sake.

"Cordy! What are you doin' here at this late hour?"

"I'd ask you the same, except I already know: you're sleeping on the couch."

Doyle sat up and stretched sleepily. "Yeah, well, Angel asked me t'stick around and keep an eye on Mr. Flintstone, upstairs. Don't know why; he's practically catatonic."

Cordelia tossed her purse on the desk, then sat on the edge herself. "Doyle, I have had the most amazing day. Maureen got me an audition for a movie! I read for the part of the secretary of the bad guy.

I think I really nailed it, too."

"That's great."

Cordelia squinted at him suspiciously. "Doyle, don't 'that's great' me. You show more enthusiasm when you have a dental appointment."

"Cordy, it's not that I'm not happy for you. It's just that-well, I still don't trust the Serpentene. I found out a few things about 'em."

"Like what?"

Doyle got up and walked over to the coffeemaker. He grabbed a cup and then hesitated. There was a mickey of whiskey next to the pot. "Coffee or whiskey?" he muttered. "Ah, the many choices of a rich an' varied life."

He poured himself a cup of coffee, then added a shot of whiskey. "If only they were all this simple-"

"What did you find out about the Serpentene?" Cordelia demanded. "Do they have something contagious, like-like snake cooties? Because I spent all day with Maureen, and we went back to the apartment complex, and Idohave this funny itchy spot-"

"Nothin' like that. It's just that it seems they deal in more than used cars and real estate." He told her the story about the hitman and the special bottle of Scotch.

"That's it? So they sell people magic stuff. Big deal. Did the Scotch turn him into a-a werescotsman or something?"

"No. But we're talkin' about demons, here, Cordy. They're not known for givin' stuff away. There's always a price."

"I thought you said the price was three-quarters of a million dollars?"

"That's what Graedeker bought it for. He doesn't know what the mob guy paid-and that's the part that worries me."

Cordelia frowned. "Are you saying he traded his soul for a bottle of Scotch? I don't think I believe that-and I work withyou."

Doyle took a sip from his mug, then nodded. "Doesn't really ring true for me, either. Still, his luck turned bad after he dealt with the Serpentene."

"Bythatstandard, you must have hocked your soul a dozen times since I've known you."

"Everythin' but, Cordy. Everythin' but."

Feldspaar was having a crisis of faith.