Streets of blood

24

The neon half-blinded the mage. It was two-thirty in Newark International, and all he wanted to do was get through Customs and Immigration and park himself in one of the coffin hotels around the airport complex. He needed to catch up on the sleep that rising at five in London had cost him.

“It’s a kind of permanent temporary pass,” he explained to the suspicious, gun-toting official who looked like he was missing his sleep as much as Serrin was. It didn’t make him any too helpful. When they wanted to be, New York’s finest could wield the old quadruplicate red-tape routine as well as any Brit. The guy had already scanned the pass twice and come up with approvals on the security checks, yet he still glared at the pass as if it were a rabid dog. Entry into Manhattan required one of at least a dozen different kinds of passes and permits. Serrin’s was the kind the guard was least familiar with.

“Allows me twenty days’ stay every year; there’s a week left on it. Hey, I’m only going to be here two days.” Serrin was beginning to lose his patience, though he knew he shouldn’t. With an effort he calmed himself and was rewarded by finally being waved on his way. Having caught sight of a couple of Hispanics in the queue, the official suddenly seemed more eager to harass them than to detain the elf any longer. Serrin trudged wearily off into the monstrous concrete complex beyond.

As planned he went straight to bed to catch up on his sleep, but awoke feeling slightly worse, if anything. He had slept too long, nearly twelve hours altogether, albeit interrupted by the flight. His head felt thick and he shivered in the cold morning air. He was a bit light-headed from hunger, but Serrin didn’t think he could face real food.

Well, he thought, I’m in Manhattan now. I don’t have to eat real food if I don’t want to. I can live off garbage like everyone else.

Getting through the access points and more checks with his pass, he then took a bus into the city, where he decided to stay at the opulent Hyatt. After the second shave of the day and a steaming hot shower, he began to feel more alive. While dressing he surveyed the contents of his suitcase, feeling some distaste at how tacky and ridiculous were the souvenirs he’d bought in the Heathrow shops. Smiling to himself, he picked up the druid doll dressed in a white robe with the blue insignia and carrying a gilt sickle. The only druid he’d ever seen didn't look much like this. She was for real.

He jump-started his body with a pot of coffee as thick and syrupy as he could get it in the hotel coffee shop, stuffed down a couple of bagels, and then did what he aways did when he First hit Manhattan. He had some people to see, maybe a contact or two to check, but something else always came first.

Grand Central wasn’t far from the Hyatt, one of the reasons he’d decided to stay there. Serrin had been barely three feet tall the first time he’d sat amazed by the sheer scale of the station, its endless spaces and swirling masses of people. Something of that awe remained, always ready to strike a chord in his emotions whenever he was there. He sat down with a magazine and another cup of coffee and just took in the scene.

There were suits, kids, fresh-faced youngsters from out of town come to find out how long their wide-eyed looks would last before the poison of the city destroyed their dreams, a sprinkling of metahumans and Hispanics mostly doomed to suffer indifference or outright hatred, a couple of guys who were obviously racing to find out which they could destroy first, their bodies with steroids or their minds with essence-the usual panoply of folks.

It’s been cleaned up, though, Serrin thought. Security didn’t take long to pounce on any wino or other wretched soul with terminal despair who might still think he could drift in here. Those for whom it all had become too much, who would burst into tears, begging any stranger, “Got a cigarette, oh, any damned brand,” just to have something to say. Just to get a glance, a touch of a hand, a chance word or two in reply.

Serrin hated Manhattan. Its soul was deader than any city he’d ever known. It swept away its poor and hopeless, its disabled, handicapped, troubled people, its blacks and Hispanics and Puerto Ricans into decayed sumps of suburbs-if they were lucky. What about the street shamans? he wondered. How could any totem breathe life into a soul when the very essence of a place was dead?

“A dollar for your thoughts.” Looking over his shoulder at the woman who sat down beside him, he suddenly broke into a broad, beaming smile.

Barbara! What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same! I'm just finishing college.”

“Hey, that’s great!” He was genuinely delighted. “And how is delightful Lafayette? And Judy?”

They had met in Serrin’s birthplace, not long after he’d been shot up bad in the Renraku business. For some reason, he’d decided to use a little of the money they’d paid him to spend a few weeks in the place of his birth. Not that he had any roots there; his parents had traveled too widely and too often for that. It was just to see what the city was like.

“Oh, I moved from there not long after you went to Japan. Figured I couldn’t stick around much longer. I met a good man in Syracuse, he looked after us real well. John and I were together five years, but after he got sick with cancer, I drifted around awhile before ending up here. Put myself through college. And Judy’s doing real well. She sells some of her stuff in the Village. She’s a really bright kid.”

He was glad. Trying to get by as an unmarried mother with a half-caste child in Louisiana hadn’t exactly been a bed of roses for her. The child had been clever, sensitive, vulnerable, and he had feared for her. Serrin hadn’t been in much shape, physically or emotionally, to do much about it himself, but it was good to know Barbara had picked up the pieces.

He studied her as she sipped her coffee. Passing through her thirties had been good for her; she wasn’t so painfully thin, the lines around her eyes and mouth looked like they came from laughter and smiles. At least, in fair measure. Her hands were the same as ever, great knuckled fingers more like a man’s, well-suited to sculpting the pots, ceramics, and oil burners, all the little things she made.

“What about you?” She wanted his news, but he hardly knew where to begin.

“Well, I’m only in town a couple of days, but I always like to come here whenever I am,” Serrin replied, gesturing around at the huge station. “Just like to sit and watch it all. Watch the world go by. I guess I’ve been doing that a lot, one way or another. Hey, I got something for Judy!” He reached into his pocket and brought out the little toy. He pressed the small control panel in its back and placed it on the ground.

It was a Beefeater, a toy soldier with black pants and a red jacket and the impossibly large, furry black hat of a real Tower of London guard. The toy jerked into life and began to march, high-stepping it along the floor while holding its ceremonial rifle over one shoulder, swinging the other arm along to the marching rhythm. After a dozen steps it swiveled in a perfect U-turn and marched all the way back again. Barbara burst into delighted laughter.

“Oh, that’s priceless!” She picked up the hand-sized doll, giggling with pleasure. “Thank you. Jude’ll love it.”

“It has an optional feature. You can get it to sing God Save the King while it marches if you like. I guess Judy’s too old for this stuff now, but it’s genuine Olde England.” He chuckled.

She grinned, clasped the toy and hugged him. “Got time for some conversation during your stay?”

“You betcha. Hey, you want to show me Judy’s stuff?”

Most of the day had gone by the time they finally said their goodbyes, Serrin taking Barbara’s number and promising to call. Judy had remembered him. She was fifteen now, painting cards and murals and even getting a commission for a couple of posters. She had her mind set on compgraphics and Matrix sculpting. She still had the same gifts and sensitivity Serrin remembered, but now she was worldly for a kid of fifteen. Somehow that disappointed him. It was as if Manhattan was already beginning to take her over. He hoped she would hang on to what she'd started out with. The disappointment made the goodbyes less difficult, though.

Thus it was after dark when he started making the calls from his hotel room. It was a long shot, and he had called Seattle, Philly, DeeCee, and half of California Free State by the time he roused Kerman.

The bleary-eyed face stared unhappily at him through the static. “You fraggin’ pointy-eared SOB. What you wake me up for?”

“Wake you up? Are you kidding, it’s five-fifty.”

“Yeah, well it’s only three-fifty here, you scumsucker. When did I ever get out of bed before five?”

Serrin grinned. “You missed a beautiful day. Here I am in the Rotten Apple, walking in the winter sunshine and admiring the poseurs and wannabees in the Village. And you just sleep your life away.”

“Look, chummer, life starts at midnight. Spare me the drek. What you want?”

“Kerman. I’m involved in something in Britain. Old London town. Funny thing is, it rings a bell and I can’t place the connection. I had to get out of the Smoke for a couple of days so I flew over to see if I could check out a few things with some people. I didn’t think of you till the last moment, or I’d have come back just to see your sweet smiling face in the flesh.”

The man was yawning affectedly. “Yeah, yeah. What do you want?”

“All right. What do you know about Jack the Ripper?”

Kerman was not amused. What the frag should I know? You’re the one who’s been in London. Didn’t he go a-merrily butchering over there a century or two ago?”

“Yeah But it may be that someone’s getting into some very accurate re-creations. That’s NFP, so keep it to yourself for now, please. Funny thing is, I seem to remember some crazy Jack stories in Seattle two, three years ago. I was only in and out of the city then, didn’t pay any attention, and missed the full version. You remember anything?”

Kerman rubbed his chin, avoiding the unpleasant spot on it, and screwed up his face in concentration. “Yeah. Got it. There was some madman serial killer around. Nothing special in that, but I remember mutterings about the Ripper. Story wasn’t around long. There was a big Mitsuhama/yakuza story that broke right after, if I remember right, and that pretty much took over. Look, can I get back to you on this?”

There was a whining “Hun-ee, come back to bed” from somewhere behind and to the right of Kerman, clearly audible over the phone.

Serrin grinned at Kermans wince of discomfort. “Sure. But make it this evening. I haven’t got long.”

It was three and a half hours before the return call came. Serrin was eager for it; tracking down the Manhattanites on his list had yielded little more than some desultory invitations for drinks and the usual litany of polite “how ya doin’s.”

“Pointy!” Shaven, bathed, and resplendent in a dinner jacket and bow tie, Kerman beamed at the elf over the telecom screen.

“Hi, there, chuninier. Hey, you’re looking good.”

“Naturally. But no time to waste. Here’s how it pans out. Know about Global Technologies?”

Serrin recalled the small skillsoft and simsense corporation in Seattle, but couldn’t remember any details.

“Yeah. What of it?”

They’re the only lead I could get. Rumor associates them with the Ripper thing, but who knows if that’s just a little bit of street slander. If I believed ten percent of what I hear about Renraku, I’d have to believe they were run by baby-eating Satanists who drink nuclear waste for breakfast and piss it out in the water supply. But my source is good on this. For a little something, I could give you a name and address in Manhattan that might get you further. Can’t make any cast-iron promises, but it’s interesting.”

Serrin groaned audibly. His credsticks were running low uncomfortably fast. “Hey, you sleazeball, what about that Atlantean business? Hell, you ripped me off big-time on that one. If we’d split it, we’d have made fifty thou apiece for that fake drek we sold ‘em.” The Atlantean Foundation probably still believed the “artifacts” were genuine. That scam had been a real joy.

“That’s business, ear-features. Five thousand gets you a name and something to check out.”

“What? You fraggin’ vampire,’ Serrin squealed, and they got down to some serious haggling. By the time Serrin had cleared a credit transfer of three thousand, he got a name he should have remembered himself, and cursed his corrupted-disk memory.

It was past ten at night, but SoHo only really came alive around then anyway. He had never seen Her Ladyship, and the telecom got a pre-recorded from a troll who looked more machine than meat. Okay, what the hell, Serrin decided, the security rating’s good. Let’s give it a whirl.