"Or you're going to work me over the same way you did Agarwal, right?" She tried to keep her voice steady, but didn't quite succeed.

Knife-Edge shook his head slowly. "That wasn't us," he told her. "That was barbaric and primitive. Dangerous, too. There's always the chance the subject will die before breaking. A weak heart, a brain aneurysm ... so many things can go wrong. We've updated the procedure. The, um, persuasive benefits of torture without the physical risks." He chuckled, the sound sending a shudder through Sly's body. "Why damage the physical body at all when we can directly access to the mind?" He reached out and gently touched Sly's datajack with a fingertip.

Oh, Jesus fragging Christ . . . She flung herself against the straps that held her. Uselessly. They didn't give a centimeter, just bit deeper into her flesh as she struggled against them. She couldn't even tip over the chair she was strapped into.

Knife-Edge merely watched her dispa.s.sionately until she stopped, panting with exertion. He beckoned to the woman.

She approached, taking something from her pocket. A small black box not much bigger than her palm. Trailing from one end of it was a fiber-optic lead tipped with a brain plug. The woman took the plug, reached out to insert it into Sly's datajack.

"No!" Sly screamed. She tried to turn her head, to pull it away from the plug. But the headband, too, was tight enough to prevent any movement. She could do nothing as the woman slipped the plug firmly into the datajack. Sly felt the click as it socketed into place. Waves of sickening fear and despair washed over her.

"You can tell us what we want to know at any time," Knife-Edge said. "Then we'll turn off the box."

"And then you'll kill me," Sly spat.

Knife-Edge stood, shrugged. "Why should we?" he asked reasonably. "There's no percentage in it once we've got what we want."

"Liar!" she shouted.

Knife-Edge nodded to the weasel woman, headed for the single door. "Catch you later, Sly," he said tauntingly.

The woman pressed a b.u.t.ton on the black box.

Images of defilement, degradation, and terror blossomed in Sly's mind. And overlaying everything was wrenching, burning agony.

Sly couldn't help herself. There was nothing to do but scream.

28.

Falcon stood on a rolling plain covered with green gra.s.s and a profusion of wildflowers. The air smelled fresh and pure, untouched by man and his taint, as clean as it must have been when the world was new. A breeze stirred the gra.s.s, ruffled his hair, bringing him more distant scents of deep, old-growth forests.

How long have I been here? he wondered. A moment? My whole life? Forever, since the dawn of time? Deep within, he recognized that the true answer had something of all three.

The breeze brought him more than scents: the chuckle of a distant stream, a symphony of birdcalls . . . And, beyond them all, there was music. A low complex rhythm and melody. Strong and dignified, ringing with power. But joyful too, free and unchained. The music seemed to resonate within him, resounding with the fundamental frequencies of his bones, his nerves, setting up an echo in the very core of him. He could still hear it with his ears. But now he could also hear it with his heart. The music called to him, and he came.

He ran toward the distant source of it, ran faster than he'd ever run before, faster than any human could. Ran faster than the deer, swifter even than the eagle. There was no strain, no effort. His breathing was as slow and steady as if he were standing still, perfectly relaxed. But still he ran on, with every pa.s.sing moment gaining more and more speed.

And running with him was someone else, effortlessly keeping pace. Mary Windsong.

And yet not Mary, not quite. There was something different about her appearance. Her hair looked more like the pelt of an animal, her nose and jaws more p.r.o.nounced, almost resembling a snout. But the eyes were hers, as was the smile.

He bared his teeth in a wild, feral smile, and howled his joy to the infinite azure skies. "Why didn't you tell me it would be like this?" he cried to the girl.

Her laughter was like bright mountain melt water dancing over stones. "Would you have believed me?"

They ran on.

How long did they run, how far? The questions were meaningless here, Falcon knew. Here they experienced time, but were not of it. They were outside the world as he knew it. Maybe he should have been afraid, but with the wind in his hair and the music in his heart, fear was inconceivable.

Now he could see the forest rising ahead of him. Almost instantly they came to its edge, and were forced to slow down, to walk rather than run.

Sunlight lanced shifting golden beams through the leaves overhead as he and Mary Windsong walked along.

He heard large animals moving on either side, invisible in the underbrush, flanking them as they moved. Again he probed his emotions for fear, found none. The animals aren't stalking us, he realized, they're escorting us.

The music still sounded, clearer and stronger now, its source somewhere ahead. After some immeasurable time, they reached a clearing, a great gra.s.sy opening in the midst of the forest. Falcon stepped into the open, hesitated when he saw that Mary had stopped, still standing within the trees.

"I can guide you no further," she replied to his unspoken question,"but you have no further need of my guidance. See?" She pointed. He looked in the direction she indicated.

The clearing was no longer empty as it had been a moment before. A large animal stood in the midst of the open s.p.a.ce. A wolf, gray-black and with hackles of silver, watched Falcon steadily.

No, not a wolf. This was Wolf.

Now, for the first time, he felt fear. His stomach twisted, his pulse pounded in his head. I can't do this. . . .

He looked back at Mary for help. She smiled rea.s.suringly, nodded to him. Go ahead. He heard the words, her voice, inside his head.

The music was still there, around him, within him, still calling to him. How could he deny it? This is what I've wanted all my life. . . . Isn't it? He swallowed hard, stepped forward.

The first step was the hardest. As he drew nearer to Wolf, his fear lifted, to be replaced once more with antic.i.p.ation-just as intense, but enabling rather than incapacitating. The creatures that had traveled alongside through the forest now stepped forth into the sunlight. Timber wolves, huge but still smaller than Wolf. They kept their distance, watching Falcon respectfully, pacing him like an honor guard.

And then Wolf was before him, its great gray eyes steady. The music faded from Falcon's ears, but continued to sound fully in his heart.

"Do you know me?" The words-clear and sharp as crystal-rang within Falcon's mind. Wolf's mouth didn't move, but Falcon had no doubt whose mental "voice" he was hearing.

He swallowed again, forced words through a dry throat. "I know you." Only as he said it did he realize it was true. "I have always known you, just didn't know that I knew."

"As I have known you." Wolf moved closer; Falcon felt its breath warm on his face. "My song is within you, Man. It has always been there, though you could not hear it. Now you can hear it, and you can choose to follow it.

"But if you do so choose, it will be difficult, sometimes the most difficult thing you have ever done. It may demand from you more than you feel willing to give. But never will it demand more than you can give.

"Will you follow it, Man?"

Emotions warred within Falcon. Fear, exaltation, sadness, antic.i.p.ation. He was overwhelmed by the enormity of what Wolf said-even more by what Wolf left unsaid. But the song still rang within his breast, and he could no more have answered differently than he could have stopped breathing. "I will follow it."

"Then you have taken your first steps on the path of the shaman." Wolf told him. "You will embellish my song, you will make it your own, as does each one who hears it with the heart. Now, I would teach you some other songs-lesser songs, perhaps, but still songs of power."

Falcon bowed his head. There was nothing he could say, nothing he wanted to say.

And that was when the first scream sounded in his head. A woman's scream, one of absolute agony, powerful enough almost to unseat his reason.

He spun, looked back at Mary. She still stood at the edge of the forest, watching him, the expression on her face confused now. The scream hadn't been hers; she hadn't even heard it.

It sounded again, louder, even more piercing. And this time he recognized whose voice it was.

Sly!

A third scream. He could feel her agony almost as if it were his own, feel her terror and her powerlessness. Could feel her calling for help. Calling to him?

He turned back to Wolf. The great creature seemed totally unmoved, as though not hearing the screams. "I would teach you songs," Wolf repeated.

"I can't." The words were out of his mouth even before Falcon could think.

Wolf raised its eyebrows in a human expression of surprise.

Falcon rushed on. "I have to leave this place. A woman is ... a woman needs me."

Wolf growled quietly, the first actual sound Falcon had heard from the creature. Its eyebrows drew together in a scowl. "You would leave?" Wolf asked. "You would scorn my teachings? Who is this woman to you?"

Maybe I should stay. . . . But he couldn't. Falcon knew that.

He swallowed hard. "She is my friend," he said as forcefully as he could. "She is . . ."

He paused; his eyes were drawn to the timber wolves flanking him.

"She is of my pack," he finished.

Wolf's scowl faded. After a moment it spoke, its mental "voice" tinged with amus.e.m.e.nt . . . and approval. "Yes, of your pack. You follow my song perhaps better than you know. You have always followed it."

Falcon had the strong impression he'd pa.s.sed some kind of test.

Wolf sat back on its haunches. "Go, Man," it said gently. "There will be time later for you to learn more. For now, go in peace."

And, without any warning, reality seemed to burst into a million fragments, flying apart around him.

Falcon was standing on a nighttime city street, Mary beside him. Looking around, he saw people pa.s.sing by, but not many. All were going about their own business, but it struck Falcon as strange that none spared him or Mary even a single glance.

There was something strange about the street, something strange about the buildings. Everything looked too clear, too sharp. He could see into all the pools of shadows, even the deepest where no light fell. He turned to Mary.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Outside The Buffalo Jump," she answered slowly, "but we're on the astral plane. Did you do that?"

Falcon shook his head slowly. He couldn't have done it; he didn't even know for sure what the astral plane was. "It was Wolf," he told her.

"Why?"

The terrible scream rang out again, shaking his mind to its foundations. That's why, he realized. "Did you hear that?" he asked Mary.

"Hear what?"

So this is just for me, whatever this is.

Though Falcon knew he'd heard Sly's scream with his mind, not with his ears, he thought he could sense the direction from which it came. He turned his head, scanning with senses he hadn't known he had. It came from that direction.

"Come on," he urged Mary. He started to run, the shaman-the other shaman-on his heels.

Running here was almost like running on the plane of the totems. He was moving much faster than his legs could possibly pump, and there seemed to be no effort involved, no strain. Though Falcon didn't know where the thought came from, the idea blossomed in his brain that his will was all that limited his speed here. He exercised that will, and his speed doubled, trebled.

At first he dodged around obstacles such as parked cars and buildings. But then, as an experiment, he ran directly at the wall of a building, pa.s.sing right through it as though it wasn't there. He cried with exultation.

Another scream, much closer now, much louder-and much more terrible. Somehow he knew from where it came. A small building up ahead, the dead neon sign identifying it as a machine shop. The doors and windows were boarded up.

That didn't stop Falcon. With Mary close on his heels, he plunged into the building. Pa.s.sing through the walls like a wraith, he found himself in a large, empty room. Dust and refuse were everywhere. No sign of life.

But-somehow-he could feel life below him. With nothing but an exercise of will, he pa.s.sed through the floor.

Found himself in a bare concrete room. Two standing figures flanked a third, who sat in a high-backed chair. One was thin, almost skeletally so. Strange objects dangled from his clothing. Falcon saw those objects with some kind of double sight. He saw them as what they were-tiny amalgamations of wood, bone, and feathers- but also as what they represented-flickering, shifting concentrations of power.

He focused on the strange items for only a moment before his attention was drawn to the figure in the chair.

Writhing and twisting against the straps that bound her, face twisted into a rictus of agony, it was Sly. She screamed again, and this time Falcon could hear it both with his ears and with the strange internal sense that had led him straight to her. He realized only then that Mary Windsong was still with him. The young woman stared, aghast, at Falcon's tortured friend.

The second figure standing there was a scrawny, soulless-looking woman. Reaching out to a black box connected to Sly's datajack, the woman flicked a switch.

29.

0223 hours, November 16, 2053 G.o.d, let me die! Sly tried to scream the words, tried to beg for the release of death.

The agony thrummed and rang through every nerve fiber, burned through the marrow of each bone. Her head pounded with it, her stomach and bowels twisted with it. Sometimes it was formless. Other times it had a shape- trolls gang-raping her, tearing at her body; surgical instruments in the hands of a demented artist; fire consuming her from within; rats consuming her from without . . . Each time she thought she had reached the boundaries of pain, thought she understood its limits, the form changed-so fast she couldn't adapt.

All she could do was scream.

And then, the pain was gone. The terrible sensations stopped pouring into her mind, replaced with the very real sensations of her own body.

She was weak, weak as a baby or a woman who'd run a dozen marathons. Her muscles twitched and vibrated- an aftereffect of her convulsions, she guessed. Her clothes were drenched with sweat, her throat hoa.r.s.e with screaming. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Falcon," she moaned.

But Falcon's not here, another part of herself answered wearily. Why did you call for him?

She opened her eyes, looked up into the face of the soulless technician.

"Do you want to talk?" the woman said.