SOULSTORM.

By Chet Williamson.

Prologue.

These were the swift to harry; These were the keen-scented; These were the souls of blood.

-Ezra Pound, "The Return"

Within The Pines it waited, not with the patience of men, but of stone. And as it waited, it dreamed, not knowing if its dreams would ever live as it did.

It dreamed of men, of the time when men had come, and of the time men would come again, though it could not say if such a time would ever be.

As it dreamed, it ached with need-the need for dream to become reality. But this time would be different. This time need would be tempered with wisdom. This time the dream would live. All it needed was for men to come again.

Men and the needs of men.

And at last men came, moving through its dwelling like beetles crawling through an empty skull; and in the presence of men the dreams screamed for release and were let slip once, twice, and then held in check. For the time was not right. These men had not come to stay. But from their words it learned that other men would come soon, others who would stay, who would have no choice but to remain and dream the dreams, do the deeds.

It waited now, not with the patience of stone, but of the damp gray moss that clings to it.

Manhattan 12/14.

"Did you hit him or didn't you?"

The captain was angrier than Wickstrom had ever seen him. He was standing, leaning forward over his shabby gray desk like a school princ.i.p.al confronting a restroom smoker.

"Well?"

"Yeah," Wickstrom said. "Yeah, Cap. I hit him."

The captain sighed, and most of the redness left his face as he let his fat body fall back into the worn leather chair. "What's the matter with you, Kelly? You're a G.o.dd.a.m.n good cop, but you'd be a h.e.l.luva lot better if you weren't so hot under the collar."

"I'm sorry, Cap . . ."

"Sorry, yeah. Great."

"I read him his rights . . ."

"I know you read him his lousy . . ."

"But then he took a punch at me."

"Then subdue him, for crissake, don't break his nose!" The captain shook his head in frustration as Wickstrom looked down at his hands in his lap. They were big hands, fleshy but sharp-knuckled.

"I didn't mean to hit him so hard."

"You didn't mean to hit your wife so hard either, did you?"

As soon as Wickstrom looked up, hurt and angry, the captain was sorry he'd said it. "My ex-wife," Wickstrom corrected him.

"Yeah." The captain nodded. "Yeah." They glared at each other until the captain spoke again. "You know what this means?"

"I'm out. Right?"

"You don't seem too upset about it."

"It was gonna happen sooner or later."

"I tried, Kelly. I mean I really tried."

"I know."

"You haven't made it easy. First that pimp, then that foreign kid, now this spic..."

"Cap, the pimp pulled a knife on me, this Garcia guy tried to tap me out, and that French kid, who you d.a.m.n well know was packing enough snow to make the whole city fly, was so stoned himself that he put up a h.e.l.l of a fight!"

"You didn't have to blind him."

"I didn't try!" Wickstrom roared. "It was a lucky punch!"

"You don't mean that," the captain said after a moment of silence.

"No."

"Because if I thought you did, I'd have your a.s.s in a sling so deep, you'd be b.u.mping bedrock." He pushed back his chair and put his polished black shoes on the desktop. "There's going to be a hearing next week."

"What if I just resign now?"

"It'd be better," the captain said, nodding. "For everybody."

Wickstrom gave a twisted smile. "Will that satisfy the spic? Or will he want to press charges too?"

"He won't. I'll see he doesn't."

Wickstrom stood up, took off his badge, and set it and his ID on the captain's desk. "Thanks for that much."

"I'm sorry, Kelly. I really am." He stood and shook Wickstrom's hand. "Good luck, huh?"

Wickstrom smiled. "I sure as h.e.l.l could use a little."

Rio de Janeiro 3/11.

George McNeely sat in the waiting lounge at the airport. A tall thin young man in his early twenties sat beside him, flipping through a Portuguese edition of Playboy. When the young man came to the centerfold, he surrept.i.tiously unfolded it.

"Great interview this month, eh?" McNeely asked.

The young man laughed. "Been a long time, George. Be nice to get some States p.u.s.s.y again. Jesus, I'm sick of south."

McNeely inhaled deeply, wis.h.i.+ng he hadn't quit smoking. "Hamilton's recruiting for the Mideast."

"No s.h.i.+t? Which?"

"I forget the name. Another emirate that needs a show of force."

The young man shook his head. "Christ. Show of force. That's all we were supposed to do for Fernandez."

"Yes. Well, sometimes mercs have to do what they're paid for. Thank G.o.d those times are few and far between. A man could get killed."

"Like Welsh," the young man said. "Or Tony or Skip."

"Or Fernandez," McNeely said with a small smile. They sat in silence for a while, and then the young man spoke. "Was it true, George?"

McNeely raised an eyebrow.

"You know what I mean. Did you start it because you knew he'd take the first shot?"

"I suspected we were advancing into an ambush, fired, and killed, you'll recall, a sniper. There were more. It was simply Fernandez's misfortune to be walking point."

"The other guys said that the rebels wouldn't have bothered us, that they'd've let us pa.s.s without firing."

McNeely turned his eyes directly on the young man, who shuddered at their cold grayness. "Do you believe that?"

The young man steeled himself and nodded.

"You're smart," said McNeely. "So did I." He kept looking at the young man, who stared back like a bird fascinated by a snake. "We were there to kill rebels, right? Well, those little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the trees were rebels. And we killed every single one."

"But Fernandez . . ."

"Yes. Fernandez and Tony and Welsh and Mecklin and Skip. I remember. They were soldiers. Sometimes soldiers get killed." He looked away from the young man, out to where the plane was taking on baggage. "It was stupid, though. You're young. Don't ever make a mistake like that. Don't ever hate any son of a b.i.t.c.h that much. And if you do, slit his throat in the middle of the night." He gave a short laugh, the self-consciousness of which surprised the young man. "It's finished me."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Hamilton wouldn't take me for the Mideast. Heard I wasn't safe anymore. Heard I got people killed."

Instructions to board the flight to New York came on the P.A. system, and McNeely stood up. "Take care. Stay away from people like me, huh?" He held out his hand and the young man took it.

"That's bulls.h.i.+t, George. You're still the best."

"Not bad with an AK-47, maybe. I don't know about the rest."

The young man grinned. "Jesus, I'm gonna miss that gun."

"Sell it?"

"Yeah. Got eighteen hundred. How about you?"

"It's in my luggage."

"In your luggage? You're taking it to the States?"

McNeely shrugged. "An unemployed merc's got to find something to do in his fatherland. And something to do it with. "

"How you gonna get it through customs?"

"They never check me at customs."

"But what if they do?"

"Then I suppose I'll have to kill most of them, save a few for hostages, and steal a plane. Good hunting." George McNeely picked up his flight bag and started for the gate.

Manhattan 3/27 Seth c.u.mmings looked at the picture of his wife for a long time before he took it down from the wall. But finally he lifted it off the hanger and placed it gently in the suitcase beside his pipe rack, desk set, and other memorabilia of his ten years at Stahr, Incorporated. Then he closed it and snapped the latches shut. He sat down behind the oak desk one final time and looked across the wide office out the window to the harbor beyond, where Stahr freighters sat side by side like a gleaming row of cities.

G.o.d d.a.m.n Vern Warren, he thought bitterly. G.o.d d.a.m.n that son of a b.i.t.c.h to burning h.e.l.l forever. Ten years. Ten years of his life wiped out in a day. In a way, Seth c.u.mmings was disappointed in himself. He'd never thought to find anyone more ruthless than he was.

But was Warren really ruthless, c.u.mmings thought, or wasn't it more a stupid antagonism combined with dumb luck? c.u.mmings hadn't been ready for such a blunt frontal attack. He'd been looking for something more Machiavellian, more . . . civilized. A dagger in the ribs, poison in the gla.s.s. But instead, he'd received a conk from a s.h.i.+llelagh.

Dirty photos. Jesus, but what he wouldn't have given for those negatives. All Warren had had to do was ask.

He'd have given him money, all his influence in the company . . .

And I'd have ruined the b.a.s.t.a.r.d first chance I got. Of course it was stupid to pound old man Stahr's daughter, but she'd asked for it, hadn't she? So he'd drilled her right on the floor of the conservatory, never suspecting that Vern Warren or his hireling-he'd never learned who-was behind the nearest arras with a brand new Nikon. A few glossies in the right hands, and c.u.mmings was out of his vice-presidency, out of the business world, and out of his marriage, which made c.u.mmings angriest of all. What's more. Warren had impounded c.u.mmings's files as company property, and no doubt had tidily squirreled away for himself all the deep dark secrets c.u.mmings had acc.u.mulated during his cometary decade at Stahr.

Maybe he deserved it, he told himself. He'd been a nasty son of a b.i.t.c.h for a long time, ruined several careers-maybe his sins were finding him out. . . .

And that was bulls.h.i.+t. He'd been stupid, he'd been weak, he'd thought with his c.o.c.k instead of his brain, and he'd gotten what he deserved.

His office door opened, and Vern Warren walked in. There was a broad smile on his broad jock's face. "Taking off, huh?" he said.

"Yep." c.u.mmings smiled back even more broadly. He was d.a.m.ned if he was going to give Warren the satisfaction of seeing him miserable. "Time to move on to greener pastures."

"Well, we'll sure miss you, old buddy. Got any hot prospects for the future?"

c.u.mmings stood up and walked over to Warren. "Just one prospect," he said quietly. "Revenge. You know what that is, don't you, Vern?"

Warren's smile faded. "You threatening me, Seth?"