“But what…?” Brigid began, unable to find the words to finish her question. “This place.” Djugashvili nodded sagely, untying the chain that held Brigid’s wrists together. “Come, we have little time left.” Brigid followed Djugashvili out of the room with Yuri trailing behind her carrying a Fedorov rifle under each arm.

  THE SLEEK, BRONZE-HUED Manta soared through the air toward the Black Sea. Sitting at the controls, Grant studied the heads-up display as he banked in a wide arc toward Poti, dipping below the clouds. The shells of buildings jutted into the sky like fangs, and the tarmac roads were overgrown with grass and weeds. As Grant brought the Manta lower, he spotted the group of buildings that had once served as a Soviet naval base. They were dilapidated now, smashed windows and missing chunks from their roofs and walls. According to the sensors, Domi was in the largest building in the complex, her transponder signal steadily winking on the visual overlay inside Grant’s helmet.

  CLINGING TO THE ROOF BEAM, Domi watched as the townspeople circled below, their keen eyes urging her sylphlike body to fall. “I want her toes,” one man cried, brandishing a mason’s hammer in his hands. “A leg,” another shouted. “Look at her delicious, long legs.” A woman shouted over them, waving a chopping knife over her head. “I’m going to eat the angel’s face. Gonna drink her eyes.” Domi forced her grip on the beam to tighten as she tried to pull herself back up, but it was an impossible task from that angle. The woman with the tall hat was holding her sniper rifle loosely in her hands now, confident that Domi was about to lose her grip. “Come on, angel,” she encouraged, “come down and feed us.” Domi swung her body around, letting go of the beam for a fraction of a second and dropping two inches before she grasped the beam once more, this time with both hands. She gritted her teeth as she pulled herself up, getting her chest over the beam before resting against it, the weight on her stomach, her legs still dangling over the side. “She’s trying to fly, I think,” someone cried, and the others laughed. “Shoot her down,” the woman in the hat instructed, resting the butt of the sniper rifle against her shoulder and taking aim at the albino woman once again. Domi vaulted onto the roof beam as the bullet cut through the air and ripped a chunk of wood from the beam beside her. She looked across to the line of windows, still halfway across the vast room from her current position crouching on the thin beam. Another shot whipped by her, shattering a disused light fixture and showering Domi with splinters of brittle plastic. Domi unzipped her coat and reached in for the Detonics Combat Master .45 that she wore at her shoulder. Swiftly, she popped her head over the edge of the rafter and located the woman with the sniper rifle before whipping her head back in as another bullet whizzed toward her. As the bullet drilled into the roof above, Domi flipped over so that she was resting flat on the beam, her right arm dangling over the side, Combat Master in hand. A series of bullets streaked past her, several clipping at the empty folds of the parka, as she sought her target. Then, Domi fired the Detonics and the bullet raced away behind a burst of explosive, arrowing to the ground and splitting the woman’s tall hat—and skull—in two. The leader in the ornate red dress dropped her sniper rifle and screamed, her hands reaching up to the sides of her head as her hat slipped and blood began to pour down her forehead. The woman was wailing loudly as she tried to hold her head together. Domi fired a second shot, and the bullet pounded through the woman’s eye and into her brain, silencing her with a final, hideous yelp. As the woman fell to the floor, Domi started to select more targets. Those with ballistic weapons were her first priority; the knife wielders could wait. She drew her arm back behind the wooden shield of the roof beam as an angry cry came up from the mob and another volley of bullets sprayed the air around her. Domi felt the thin beam that she was resting on shake with the impacts, and she saw chunks splinter away all along its length. She heard a creak and realized that the beam had lost integrity and would split or snap if she didn’t remove her weight shortly. Her ruby eyes scanned both ends of the roof beam and the area all around it. There was a cross beam about ten feet along from her at the end that her feet were pointed at. The cross beam looked relatively undamaged and capable of supporting her weight. Lifting herself up like a cat, back arched, Domi rolled to her feet, her left arm out to steady her. Bullets zinged all around as Domi sprinted along the thin beam, one foot directly in front of the other, and then she heard the loud explosion of some kind of antiaircraft missile launcher cut the air. She leaped the corner gap to the cross beam as a rocket blasted behind her, turning the beam that she was just standing on to so much firewood. Smoke clogged the air, and the ceiling above where the missile hit was now on fire, a small circle of red-orange flames flickering to life. Ultimately a child of the Outlands, Domi had seen plenty of people like these, well-armed and crazy as rabid dogs. Seeing their leader die before their eyes had sent them into a killing frenzy, their own safety no longer a concern. Domi danced along the beams, trying to keep moving toward the windows as bullets zinged around her. She reeled off a series of shots at the crowd as she ran, no longer taking aim, just trusting that her bullets would find targets. As a second missile burst into the air with a cacophonous roar, Domi heard a voice in her head. She struggled to distinguish the voice as the symphony of violence exploded all around her. “Domi, do you copy? I repeat, do you copy?” It was Grant, speaking over her Commtact. She switched to broadcast and spoke softly. There was no need to shout, de- spite the racket all around—the Commtact could pick up and add sound to subvocalized conversations if need be. “Grant, this is Domi. I read you.” There was relief in Grant’s voice as he spoke again. “Domi, I’m just over the Poti naval base in the Manta. My display says you’re inside. That right?” “I think so,” Domi answered, realizing that Grant had to have been told about the tech problems that Cerberus was having with the transponders. “There’s a wide skirt of concrete here that I can land on,” Grant told her. “Southeast corner of the complex. Think you can get there?” Domi leaped from the beam she was running along as a third missile rushed toward it. As the roof beam disintegrated, Domi took to the air and landed on a parallel beam, struggling for a moment to keep from toppling. “I’m in what looks like a ship-repair center,” she told Grant over the Commtact, “but I’m having a little trouble.” “What kind of trouble?” Grant asked, concern in his voice. “Hungry locals mistook me for dinner,” Domi told him. “Now they’re trying to flambé me with a rocket launcher.” “Crap!” Grant spit. “I’m bringing the Manta down now. What do you need me to do?” “Hang tight and I’ll come find you,” Domi said as she skipped along the beam between another hail of gunfire. “And, Grant—keep the engine running, okay?” “Roger that,” Grant responded.

  BRIGID BAPTISTE’S BODY remained unmoving in her trance while Kane watched her. Occasionally, he noted, her breathing sped up and he could see her eyes darting back and forth rapidly beneath her eyelids, but she gave no indication of being in pain or distress, and no further wounds had appeared that he could see. Having tidied up and bandaged the cuts on her face, Kane decided to leave Brigid alone in the brightly lit Cheka office while he took a look at the bunks. The bunk room was quite large but felt small because of all of the high beds within it, lining each wall. Kane counted twenty-four units to each wall, so the room contained forty-eight beds in all. A little over half the beds were occupied; there were twenty-seven skeletons in the room. Each was fully dressed, eleven of them in military uniform, their Fedorovs still clutched across their chests by skeletal fingers. Like the pair in the dining area, there was no visible sign of cause of death; it looked as if they had just lain down and gone to sleep. Kane brushed the beam of his microlight across the walls of the dark, silent room, feeling uncomfortable and somehow expecting something to move, to jump out at him. Whatever had happened there had better not be about to happen to Baptiste. He wouldn’t forgive himself if it did.

  NEVERWALK SAT IN THE SAND, watching the emaciated goats and sucking on a pebble as he waited for his next instruction. The first dreamwalk had proved a strain for Good Father, and he had needed to sit down on a little out-cropping to catch his breath. Until he was ready, the strike team had to wait. Bad Father was standing over Good Father, speaking softly to him, words that didn’t carry to Neverwalk’s position. As he watched, Good Father pushed hard against the gnarled walking cane and got back to his feet, dismissing Bad Father’s proffered hand. “We are ready,” Bad Father announced, encouraging the group to gather around. Rock Streaming slammed the lid of his laptop shut, and Neverwalk bent over and he slipped it back in the carry case on his back. “Their communications are veiled,” Rock Streaming told everyone significantly. “They suspect tampering.” “Do they know anything about us?” Bad Father rumbled gruffly. Rock Streaming shook his head. “They have not identified the source of their woes yet.” “Will they?” Good Father asked urgently. Rock Streaming’s gaze took in the other warriors around him. “I cannot adjust the coding while we are in the Dreaming,” he said. “If they were to crack it now there is a possibility…” “What possibility?” Bad Father snapped, his voice raised. Rock Streaming shook his head. “Hard to say,” he admitted, “but I suggest we keep moving while we still have the advantage of surprise.” “Agreed,” Bad Father and Good Father stated in unison. During the stopover in Africa, Cloud Singer had etched out twin circles in the sand with the end of her pole, mirroring those at the edge of their tribal village in Australia. Good Father took up his position in the smaller circle while the other warriors gathered around Bad Father in the larger disk. Good Father whipped the bull roarer above his head, spinning it to begin the long ululation. And they were gone.

  DOMI’S ARMS PUMPED as she ran the final fifteen feet of the roof beam, bullets slicing through the air all around her and patches of flame licking at the ceiling. The bank of windows was ahead of her now, and she raised her Detonics pistol and fired repeatedly at the central panes of glass, shooting them out in an explosion of shards. “She’s making a run for it,” one of the crowd hollered, “trying to fly back to heaven.” “Kill her,” a woman screamed. “Don’t let our angel meat escape.” Domi turned her head back, pulling the fur-lined hood of the parka over her head with her left hand as she dived through the shattered window. Glass flew everywhere as she crashed through the opening, knocking the crossbars of the window frame with her as she fell toward the ground fifteen feet below. She could hear the wind rushing about her, then suddenly there was a jarring impact as she slapped against the ground and tucked into a roll, whirling across the hard concrete as broken glass tinkled all about her. Shoving the hood back, Domi turned, the Detonics Combat Master up and ready, like an extension of her arm, pointing at the building she had just exited. She could see flames licking at the holes made by the rockets. As she watched, three heads appeared in the windows as her pursuers tried to clamber out. She loosed a shot, and the head in the center turned into a cloud of blood, bone and brain mat- ter while the other two ducked back down out of sight. There was a crash off to her left, and she turned to see a set of double doors burst open in the building. A crowd of armed townspeople ran after her. Still crouched, Domi squeezed the trigger and dropped out the lead runners. The others just kept coming, firing shots and waving knives and axes that twinkled in the morning sunlight. Domi spun, launching into a run straight from her crouch, the pistol still clutched in her right hand. She looked up at the sky to locate the sun, heading in its direction to find Grant and the Manta. There was a huge dirty white building running right up to the sea, and Domi dashed toward it as the cries of the mob behind her grew louder. As she reached the corner of the building a wad of buckshot slapped against the wall beside her, and she tripped and fell to the hard concrete with a shriek. Lying there, Domi turned to push herself upright, and she saw that the lead cannibals were only a dozen paces away. Domi took careful aim with the Detonics, conscious that she would need to reload momentarily. Two of her pursuers went down, screaming as they took the force of the bullets in the abdomen and shoulder, respectively. Behind them, the crowd stopped for a moment, unsure what to do. Domi pointed the gun at a mustached man in ragged, blood-soiled clothes as he stepped forward, wielding a sledgehammer in his hands. She pulled the trigger. Nothing. Her gun was empty. Domi leaped from the ground and sprinted away from the group, head down, arms pumping, the now-useless weapon still clutched in her hand. The crowd was just behind her now. She could hear rapid breathing over her shoulder, footfalls mirroring hers on the hard concrete of the ground. She reached into her open coat and fumbled for the spare ammo she had stashed in the inner pocket. Come on, she urged herself, come on. Domi felt something then, the brush of a hand as someone reached for the bouncing hood of the parka. “I have her!” a man crowed, but the braggart had spoken too soon. Domi twisted to elude his grasp and looked up to see the familiar bronze metal shape of the Manta as she rounded the far side of the large white building. Relief soared through her, relief and joy as she recognized Grant sitting in the cockpit, the hatch open and pushed back. He held a long shaft of black metal in his hand— his Copperhead subgun. Domi threw herself on the rock-hard ground, rolling to take the impact on her left shoulder. As soon as she hit the ground, she heard the rapid drumming of the Copperhead as Grant unleashed a storm of 4.85 mm steel-jacketed death into the mob. Domi put her arms over her head, covering her ears as the slugs drilled into the startled crowd of hungry killers. It was over in less than ten seconds, Grant standing in the cockpit spraying the area behind Domi with bullets. As spent casings tinkled against the swooping wings of the Manta, Grant scanned the horizon, spotting more people running their way. “You want a lift?” he shouted as Domi rose from the ground and jogged toward the Manta. She smiled at him, ruby-red eyes catching the sun’s rays. “Hell, yeah,” she told him. Grant waited, Copperhead poised, as Domi leaped into the seat behind his. “You okay, Domi?” he asked, not looking behind him. “Yeah,” she told him. “Let’s just get out of here, okay?” Grant unleashed another burst of rapid-fire from the Copperhead, forcing the approaching group to back away, before he closed the hatch and quickly ran through the pre-flight sequence. “Seem like a friendly bunch,” he muttered as he pulled at the throttle and the Manta lifted into the air. “Bastards wanted to eat me alive,” Domi spit, watching the town of Poti disappear below them. “Yeah,” Grant said, “you’ve got to learn to choose your friends better.”

  THE STRIKE TEAM STEPPED OUT of the Dreaming and found itself in a forest in the

  mountains, the cool, fresh air whistling through the trees. Its members spread out, weapons at the ready, checking their surroundings warily. Neverwalk stayed close to Good Father as he leaned against his walking stick and kept to the shadows. Cloud Singer and Rabbit in the Moon rushed ahead to check that the area was secure. Ahead of them, Neverwalk could see a clearing and a single-story building, just a box really, built of concrete with slit windows all around. Over the far side of the building were more trees, and just before them was a wide, sleek metallic object finished in a glistening bronze that glowed like fire in the rays of the early-morning sun. Neverwalk recognized it from the Vela-class satellite feed as one of the vehicles that the Cerberus people had traveled there in. But hadn’t they used two of the graceful aircraft to get there? “Good Father,” Neverwalk said, keeping his voice to a whisper, “look. One of their vehicles is missing.” Good Father looked to where Neverwalk was pointing, nodding when he noticed the lone metal-shelled craft sitting there. “What does it mean?” Neverwalk whispered urgently.

  Good Father held a finger to his lips, shushing the boy. Rabbit in the Moon dashed back to the others, his compound bow in one hand. “The area is clear,” he assured them. “No one is around.” Bad Father stroked his beard thoughtfully as he looked around the clearing at the overgrown road. “They spoke of a burrow,” he said slowly. “Beneath our feet.” As the strike force made its way toward the clearing, Cloud Singer cried out from the end of the blacktop opposite the low concrete building. The road was shaped like a hangman’s noose there, a little circle for turning large vehicles, and an old, rusty truck was parked at a lurch, its wheels rotted through. “Here!” Cloud Singer shouted, pointing to a patch of weed-covered ground at her feet. The team jogged across to look, and Cloud Singer gestured to a wide, circular grille of rusty bars, partly obscured by the undergrowth. On one side of the circle there was a space where a large hole had been cut and a thin cord snaked from the hole, snaking into the grass until it attached to a climber’s piton that had been driven into the ground. “They came this way,” Rock Streaming decided. “Do we follow?” Good Father unhooked the bull roarer from his belt and looked to Bad Father and Rabbit in the Moon. “We’ll get there through the Dreaming,” he stated, and the two navigators agreed with nods. The five of them gathered around Good Father, forming a rough circle as the bull roarer gathered speed above his head. After a tingling of the implants at the base of their necks, they all emerged in Realworld. In this instance, Realworld was a close-walled tunnel, almost entirely dark apart from a light source shining from a rectangular opening at the far end. As one, the strike team called on the electrochemical polymer lenses that appeared over their eyes on nictitating membranes, and suddenly the corridor was revealed to them clearly, as though well lit. “Silent now,” Bad Father hissed as the bull roarer stopped spinning. “We’re in the lap of the enemy.” Neverwalk swallowed, and it felt hard and jagged in his throat. He watched as Cloud Singer and Rock Streaming moved ahead, warily checking the open doors to the left and right of them.

 

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