The Lucifer Deck (23 page)

She started chanting the mantra that had saved her in the alley, the night she’d hidden in the dumpster.
Don’t
let
him
notice
me
.
Don’t
let
him
see
me
. But then the clang of metal on metal made her jump and broke her concentration.

"Hey, you!" the cop said, louder this time. "The girl in the black jacket and torn jeans. Prisoner Number 500387378. I said turn around. Now!"

A clear space had suddenly formed around Pita. So much for the ORC slogans of solidarity. The "sisters" had abandoned her. Swallowing her fear, she turned to face the cop. She nearly fainted when she saw what he’d rapped on the bars with. His ungloved hand. It was made of articulated metal joints covered with gleaming chrome. She recognized the distinctive clicking and whirring noise it made as he extended a finger, pointing it at her. It had made the same noise as he wielded the machete that had carved up Chen and her other two chummers.

The flutter returned to her stomach. Pita was certain she was going to be sick again. She put out a hand, hoping one of the other prisoners would sense her plight and rush to her side to support her.

No one did.

"Is this yours?" the cop asked. In his other, meat hand, he held the book Pita had stolen from Aziz’s shop.

Pita opened her mouth but was unable to speak. She managed only a slight nod. Her eyes were wide and round, locked on the cop’s metal hand.

"Are you a shaman?"

"I—" pita was unable to croak out any more. Her legs felt as if all the muscles in them had lost their elasticity. She was certain they would collapse under her at any moment.

"Where’s your thaumaturgy license?" the cop asked. "If you’re practicing magic within the city limits, you need a license."

Pita almost laughed with relief. Was that all the cop wanted? To enforce some stupid little bylaw? Maybe he hadn’t recognized her, after all. The street where Chen and the others had been shot had been dimly lit. Perhaps the cops hadn’t gotten a good look at her through the tinted windows of their patrol car.

The officer cocked a metallic finger at Pita. "Come with me. There’s some special processing we’ve got to do."

Pita’s hands began to tremble. Had the cop emphasized the word "special"? What did he mean by it? She didn’t want to find out. She searched, desperately, for somewhere to hide.

But it was too late. The cop had already tucked the book under one arm and was opening the door of the cell.

20

The air wasn’t cold. Even so, Pita was shivering. She sat on the plastifoam chair that smelled faintly of stale sweat, her hands nervously kneading the worn fabric of her jeans. The room was small and absolutely bare, with concrete walls and a single green metal door. There were no windows. The only light came from a single halogen bulb set into a recess in the ceiling.

The cop who’d pulled her from the detention cell—the same cop who’d killed Chen—walked around Pita in slow, predatory circles. He paused only once, to turn off the camera that was monitoring the room. He hadn’t spoken since removing her from the cell, except to curtly direct her to this room. He’d flipped up the visor on his helmet, but what lay underneath was even worse: one cold blue eye and a cybernetic implant of glinting metal with a flat lens at the center of it.

Pita concentrated on looking at the ground, not wanting to look into that face again.

Suddenly, the cop was in her face. "Hey, porkie!" he shouted.

Pita jerked back, then tried to hide the trembling in her hands by clenching her fists around the folds in her jeans.

The cop chuckled, low and soft. He paced once more around Pita, then stood behind her, where she couldn’t see him. But she could feel his eyes on her back.

"I asked you a question earlier." the cop said in a soft growl. "Are you a shaman, or not?"

"No." Pita whispered, not sure if she was lying. She wasn’t formally trained, after all. "I’m just a kid." She tried to focus her mind, as she had earlier when controlling the yakuza’s thoughts. But all she could picture was Chen’s bloody corpse and the inhuman monster behind her leaning over it, hacking at it, dipping his cyberhand in the blood to smear a slogan on the wall. . .

"You don’t look like a kid to me. You look awfully . . . developed . . . for the age you gave in Processing." He let the words hang in the air a moment.

Pita swallowed. What did he mean by that? She was big for her age—big for a human, that was, although not so big for an ork. But the human standing behind her was even taller than she was, and twice as muscular. And he had a cybernetic hand that could crush her skull like an egg.

"You didn’t give an address." He said it hard and flat, like an accusation.

"I don’t have one. But I used to live in Puyallup until . . ."
Until
I
goblinized,
she thought to herself.
Until
my
parents
threw
me
out
.

"You’re a Barrens brat, huh?" he guessed. But he was wrong. Pita and her family had lived on the other side of the tracks, in a neighborhood where metahumans weren’t welcome.

The cop leaned closer; Pita could feel his breath on the back of her neck. "Well, you should have stayed in the Barrens. It’s gutterpunks like you who cause all the problems downtown. Panhandling, breaking into shops, cluttering up the sidewalk by sleeping on it in your filthy blankets, spreading lice and disease . . . What are decent people supposed to do when they see you kids hanging about in gangs on the streets, selling drugs and sex? My girlfriend is afraid to go out at night because of trash like you. But oh, no—you porkies just keep breeding like rabbits. Spilling out of the Barrens in a never-ending wave of degeneracy. It’s time somebody put a stop to it. Somebody with the guts to do what’s right."

"Somebody like the Humanis Policlub?"

The words just slipped out. As soon as she said them, Pita cringed. She tensed her shoulders, waiting for his blow. But instead the cop paused—either to take a breath or to savor her fear—then started in on a new tack. "You and your precious committee want special rights, huh? And you think you’re going to get them by blocking the streets and tossing trash at our government buildings? You aren’t fit to sit in the gutter in front of Metroplex Hall, let alone walk in the front door and demand special treatment. Why don’t you porkers stay in the Underground where you belong?"

Pita sat through the tirade, shoulders hunched. She didn’t dare speak. Had she been human, none of this would be happening. She’d be safe at home, still attending high school, snug in her circle of friends. She hated being an ork—hated the way she looked. But not as much as this man did.

The cop strode around to face Pita and lifted her chin with the tip of his stun baton. He held the baton fully at arms’ length, as if using it to shift a piece of foul-smelling trash. "So tell me, kid. How do you make a living on the streets? By selling yourself?" His eyes were no longer on her face, but were scanning her body.

Pita felt a tear trickle down her cheek. She hated this man for what he was doing to her, for how he made her feel. Cheap. And dirty. She had sold herself—but only twice, and only since Chen’s death—for the drugs that had helped to ease her grief. Both times, it was to humans who looked at her much as the cop eyed her now, with equal mixtures of loathing and lust. Who wanted "something exotic." Not someone—some
thing
. But what could she tell this cop? That she kept herself alive by stealing? He was probably just looking for an excuse to hurt her. Either with his stun baton, or . . .

She jerked her head back, finally finding the courage to speak. "You wouldn’t be doing this to me if I were human." she said in a quavering voice. "The woman in the processing room said I get to see a lawyer. Well, I want to see one. Now."

The cop laughed out loud. "The waiting list for public defenders is three weeks long." he said. "But I suppose you’re talking about a real lawyer. How do you expect to pay for one, street trash?" His baton slid down her body. "With this?"

"I get to make a telecom call." Pita protested.

The cop rested the baton on his shoulder. "Yeah? Who to? You didn’t list any next of kin. Maybe your pimp, huh?"

Pita thought about what Chen had told her. He’d been arrested once, for shoplifting. He’d done a year in a juvenile detention center. She hoped the rules were still the same. And that this cop would follow them. "I don’t have to tell you that."

The cop was still holding the book on cat shamans in his flesh hand. He smacked Pita’s face with it. "Don’t get smart with me, porkie."

Pita rubbed her cheek. "I get one call." she said stubbornly. She cringed as he raised his hand. But this time, he shook the book in her face.

"You get nothing until I say so. You’re a shaman, aren’t you?"

One
telecom
call,
Pita thought desperately.
Just
let
me
make
one
call
. She couldn’t think who she would call—who would possibly want to help her? Not her parents. Not the friends who’d deserted her when she began to goblinize. But if she could just get out of this room . . .

The cop waved the book at her. "We have a special processing procedure for shamans. It’s called the mage-mask. It’s a tight plastic hood, with nothing but a mouth tube for breathing. With it on your head, you won’t be able to hear or see anything. And when the white-noise generator is turned on, you won’t be able to think, either." He paused, and Pita could hear his cyberhand whirring as he tightened his grip on the handle of the stun baton. "I think it’s just what you need."

Pita closed her eyes, shutting out the room. If she could just find an excuse to get out of here, into an area where there were other people, maybe she could call for help.

One
phone
call
.
One
phone
call
.
One
phone
call
. She chanted it over and over in her mind, her lips whispering it silently. At the same time, she cast her thoughts out desperately, searching for Cat.
Please,
Cat,
she cried.
Help
me
.
Please
.

When the answer came, Pita nearly missed it. The touch was velvety soft, like a paw against her skin. A paw with claws sheathed.

As the invisible presence stroked her hand, an image came to Pita’s mind. Of a hand slipping into a velvet glove. All at once, she knew what she had to do. She had to slide—soft as velvet—into the mind of her opponent. To become one with his thoughts. To guide him gently, instead of attacking him directly as she had the yakuza back at the hotel.

Cat purred, conveying pleasure that the message had been understood. The touch disappeared.

Pita forced her thoughts outward, toward the cop. She imagined herself flowing like a ghost, slipping gently into his mind through his ear. When his thoughts started to boil past her in an angry torrent, she nearly backed away, nearly broke contact. His mind was a seething cauldron of hatred, filled with his urge to hurt her, to humiliate her. There were memory pictures there, too—of the view from inside the Lone Star cruiser of a group of four teenaged orks on a darkened sidewalk. Of watching one of them—her friend Shaz—throw a chunk of concrete at the vehicle. Of the cop’s partner—a man with the nickname Reno—smiling and squeezing the trigger that activated a machine gun built into the front of the cruiser. Of three orks falling, jerking like bloody puppets, while one ran off into the night. Of following the running ork, whose face merged in the cop’s mind with the face of every other ork he’d ever seen, ever hated ...

With a start, Pita realized that this cop had not, in fact, recognized her. She was just a young meta he’d picked out of the detention cell because she was smaller than the others and he thought he could bully her. He didn’t believe she had any magical ability at all and didn’t see her as a threat; he’d just used the cat shaman book as an excuse to bring her to this room. But the thoughts that swirled through his mind as he looked at her now—as she looked through his eyes at herself, cringing with eyes closed and mouth whispering as she sat on the plastifoam chair—made it clear that this wouldn’t help her. He didn’t care which ork he took out his misguided "vengeance" on. He only cared about making her too frightened to tell his fellow cops about it afterward.

Entering the cop’s mind had taken only a second or two. Pita changed her whisper, molding it to his train of thought.
Let
the
kid
make
one
telecom
call,
she urged.
It’ll
look
better
that
way
.
You
can
bring
her
back
to
the
room
later,
in
a
few
hours,
when
things
cool
down
.
It’ll
look
less
suspicious
that
way
.
But
if
you
don’t
let
her
make
the
call,
the
guards
in
Detention
will
start
to
talk
.
They’ll
wonder
why
the
kid
was
taken
from
the
cell
.
And
why
you’re
not
following
procedure
.