That storm still brewed in his head now and then. It came back at the most pressing times – that horrible scene, those cold winds, the pounding of his heart, the tingling in his fingers – when his stress was highest, in those moments when he once again felt the world pressing in and threatening to strike. Right now the storm was brewing and the world pressed in on all sides as Michael ducked into a cul-de-sac and took a deep breath.
Outside, on what had been Pratt Street in the 21st century, the winds whipped down the wide avenue and whistled through the ground clutter. Long ago what was once home to the bustling Baltimore Inner Harbor and the multi-use Harbor Place, once renowned as magnificent inner-city waterfront, was now awash in decay. Now, a high but crumbling wall blocked off frothy waters, and cloudscrapers climbed into the roiling sky, throwing the lowest levels of the city into shadow – narrow alleys between shacks and lean-to’s, small shops erected out of little more than scrap plasti-steel welded into place or molded carbon fiberboard pieces riveted together. People of all shapes and sizes filled these narrow spaces, pouring out of their cubes in the morning, crowded together like ants trapped under glass – the nooks and crannies of poverty in the Lowers. They moved with the flow of the day, gathering sustenance, picking up work where it could be found, garnering what money they could or bartering for goods and services. Some were wrapped in plastic coats to ward off the perpetual drizzle underneath the crosswalks and sky rails of the higher levels of the city; others protected themselves with cheap parasols and umbrellas, huddling underneath them with packages or children, valuables safely out of the wet. Eyes darted to and fro from under hoods and hats in search of threats or rewards, mouths moving in greetings or retorts, haggling for wares, chanting the prayers of the Lighter, mouthing tunes from the interweb stations. The Lowers moved with a unique, somewhat frenzied rhythm as if the life there was always on the verge of being extinguished. Here the names of streets and alleys hardly mattered, only the next day’s meals, the warmth of the cube, the imminent changes of territory between gangs of savage boys.
Michael inhaled deeply, breathing in the pungent, salty air as it swirled between the plasti-steel giants. Michael closed his eyes and willed his body to relax. Escalation demanded greater command of one’s body and mind, and the situation had escalated since the moment the security forces had put their hands on him. Even now he could hear the whoosh of hovercars overhead. Escalation. The Praetorian would have been called in by now, and they would be trying to lock down the whole district. He’d seen it happen so many times before – studied the decrypted files hacked from the local security networks, but never once had the net fallen over him. Every time a vampyre was compromised – and it happened only rarely – Charlotte had an after-action case study prepared from the stolen reports and data she or Christian had collected. The response pattern was the same; the response time, as well – predictable but still very dangerous – very thorough. Very few vampyres, once discovered, were able to escape. If there was anything he’d learned from the studies, it was simple: lose the broadband.
He pushed back his sleeve and looked at his scarred left forearm. It was already healing, the skin a bright pink, but it would be a while before the area looked as if the device had never existed. A fresh infusion of blood would change that quickly, but it wasn’t a concern, and there was nowhere to get it either way. To take it from another person, a human, was unthinkable, and while that might become a necessity in the near future, it wasn’t an option unless it was a dire situation.
He slid the sleeve down again and half-heartedly scratched at the spot over the top of the cloth. It would be nice to have the broadband – he could use a pick-up, a quick drop and load, but it was for the best that the broadband was gone.
After the third track down/take down of a member of the coven, he’d seen the greatest danger to the coven – the ability of the security forces to track a DNA signature. It was clear as day in the last incident’s case study, and he’d immediately gone back to the previous data to look for the same pattern. It had been there – somehow missed before, but more importantly now perceived and recorded – contact, flight, chase, identification of the fugitive’s DNA signature and subsequent trackdown and kill. Once the code was isolated, the myriad pick-up sites that would read the data for any number of reasons – usually for advertisements, newsfeeds, or currency exchange – would provide a track that officers could follow and would eventually lead to the perpetrator. There was no way around it if the fugitive didn’t know how he was being tracked. Even the safest hideaway was easily discovered when the runner left a trail of virtual bread crumbs behind. Each case study was unique, but each pattern and each result was the same: vampyre tracked down and terminated. If Isaac’s tech team had not tweaked some of the broadband code, causing the device to self-erase all data in case of death, they might have been in real trouble and on the verge of extinction.
As it was, there were only a few hundred vampyres left in the city, and all of them had been given evasion training along with the broadband protocols. “When in doubt, rip it out.” Michael had laughed at his invention at first, but silly, simple catch phrases had worked well in the 21st century and would still work well. A few thousand had been reduced to a few hundred, and that called for greater security, additional precautions and finally desperate measures – his infiltration into the heart of the city government and ultimately to within an arm’s length of The Council.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s angry and secretly trying to get back at me.
The thought hadn’t entered his mind, but it suddenly made sense – a theory, a premise – nothing more, but something to think about, something to consider. He was sure the Premier had been furious, at least somewhat embarrassed and humiliated, when she’d found out – after the deal had been struck – that the vampyres had had a man on the inside, someone in fact very close to The Council, and someone who had even spoken with her a handful of times. How else would they have found out about her condition and approached her to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse? No name had been revealed, no direct connection established with him, but there was little doubt that when Michael ceased to return to work after the deal had been struck, he was indeed the spy.
He’d waited in his flat since that day – no reporting to the coven – furlough, vacation, leave of absence, whatever he wanted to call it, but the Lord of the Vampyres, the man he’d protected since that bleak, windy day, had ordered him to go into “cooldown” mode and wait. There was wisdom in that decision. Would there be blowback? Would there any repercussions or reflections? There was no way to know. The Premier was a proud woman, even though she had been beaten down by her cancer and was desperate. Still, her zeal in combatting the “vampyre threat” had been tempered by reality – Michael had seen it himself over the last year – and there was something to be said for second chances, Willem had remarked, and getting a first-hand look at your own mortality. They’d each been given that look and a second chance, and he wasn’t inclined to deny even an adversary the same. The only question that remained now was who it was that had ordered this hit. There was only one way to find out: survive and track back through the clues. First of all, it was time to survive.
Michael let out a quick exhale of warm air over his hands – it was humid, as always, but it was still cold in late December in Baltimore. He pulled the coat he’d snatched tight around him, dragging the hood over his wet hair, and stepped out into the flow of humanity. He needed to disappear in the flotsam and jetsam of the city.
