Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

The wind suddenly cut off as the stonework shielded him, his ears sang with cold. He stayed still, waiting, watching.

As Salva moved to cover the trashed remnants of the roof garden, Ecko realised that she was alone – her goons had not come with her.

At last, the Bogeyman’s luck was with him; he might just fucking do this after all.

Hope and adrenaline flooded his system.

Mom had built Ecko to be many things – stealther, spy, thief, tech – but her vision and genius had not stopped with reconnaissance and Bogeyman trickery. He had also been constructed to excel at something else.

Assassination.

Guilt, fear, compassion; these had little meaning against the adrenal boosting that supercharged his coordination and reflexes, against the ocular targeting that cross-haired the most elusive objective. His mottle-skin was spider-silk woven, lighter and tougher than Kevlar; biospheres in his bloodstream doubled his healing rate and fought infection. Increased capillarisation improved his body’s ability to transport and process oxygen. He was as strong, as tough, as fit as the characters he’d grown up with.

As Salva came closer, so Ecko went from joker to combat machine.

He had one shot at this.

The first kick hit her knee and snapped her leg. The same foot flashed again, connecting with the side of her head as she fell. Doctor Grey’s elite fighter never knew what’d hit her – she was dead before she hit the gravel.

Her rifle was in Ecko’s hands.

But the ’bot was moving.

He heard the high-pitched whine of the barrels, saw the thing turn into his field of vision. He raised the rifle butt to his shoulder; his targeters cross-haired the sensor array in its head. With a snarl of defiance, he squeezed the trigger to blow it away.

He missed.

His arms were shaking too badly. Overstrained, he wasn’t strong enough to hold the weapon and it climbed, rounds flying high and wide of his target.

In the split second he had before the tin can opened fire, Ecko knew he was screwed.

There was no cover up here; nowhere to go. Turbocharged or not, he wasn’t a fucking action-movie hero able to dodge short-range rifle suppression with no cover.

He did the only thing he could do. He went over the edge.

And fell down, down into the screaming and the dark.

3: THE WANDERER

THE WANDERER, ROVIARATH

Ecko drifted through layers of consciousness.

“...Why he even brought it inside.” The speaker was young, female. His head was clouded with fug; as the voice hazed into focus, he groped for a name. “We’ve got enough strays: new cook, new bar staff. Oh come on, mush, I’m never inhospitable...”

“The Bard said he knew what it was.” The second voice was male, clear and deep. Soft footsteps moved somewhere behind where Ecko lay.

Behind him...? Where...?

He couldn’t think. His limbs and head felt heavy: he’d been sleeping very deeply. The last thing he remembered...

The roof garden. Bloody handprints across the shattered wall. Insanity screaming in muscle and weather.

Falling.

Stupidly, his first solid thought was that Lugan never reached him in time.

They must’ve scraped him off the tarmac like so much roadkill. In the thick, sheltered blanket of awakening, he wondered: why was there no pain?

“Anyway, we can’t leave it up here.” The woman was brisk, authoritative. “I don’t even know what it is – we can’t have it running around, it’ll scare the customers.”

“This is Roviarath,” the man answered her. “Their only concern would be what they could trade it for.”

She giggled.

No pain... Ecko tried to focus on that realisation. No pain. Only his hands... Gradually, pushing back the smothering warmth, he allowed his awareness to expand. He wasn’t restrained, though his webbing and cloak had gone. His cheek rested upon something supple, cool to his skin. He had no injuries. A brief, subvisual check showed all systems normal, although the flamethrower tanks in his chest weren’t full. His memories were washing up slowly, garbage on the riverbank – Doctor Grey with his half a reefer, a scanner, blood red through the rain...

In the bottom corner of his field of vision, his digital time readout was jittery: he’d no clue how long he’d been out.

Even Grey wouldn’t’ve seen anything like Ecko before. Dimly he wondered: maybe they were gonna do experiments on him?

Humour flickered. Heh... would they be in for a surprise.

He remained still, his breathing unchanged. The air was clean – but there was no hum of purifiers. He could hear a party – but there was no music. More fragments floated belly-up to the surface – the woman, burning on the bed; Lugan saying, “You get in, you get out. No mess.”

Yeah, right. Whatcha gonna do about it now , biker-boy?

The female voice tutted. “Look, do you think it’s all right to leave it? I need you downstairs, we’re in the wrong part of the city here.” She walked round where Ecko lay, her footsteps soft, indicating carpets or rugs. “Roviarath can be difficult – c’mon, Sera.”

Ecko waited for a third voice but the man answered, “It seems quiet for the moment... yet it seems you are not giving me the choice.”

Sarah? A guy called “Sarah”, for chrissakes? Ecko tried to pull his concentration together. What was downstairs? And where was “Rovi-ar-ath”?

Were Grey’s goons talking like this when they’d passed him on the stairwell?

He heard a door open.

The sound was two, maybe three metres away. Though still unseen, the room took on shape and size. For a moment, the noise of the party became louder.

Then long, easy bootsteps crossed towards him.

A sudden, peculiar tension brought Ecko fully awake. He lay motionless, stilled by incomprehension. Who...?

The footsteps stopped; the newcomer was right over him.

Salva was dead; it had to be Grey. What was he carrying – pistol, hypo? Ecko’s targeters twitched although his eyes were still closed. Could he spark and flame before – ?

“Karine, Sera.”

The voice was male, warm, light and fine; it had a timbre and vibrancy so compelling that his questions braked to a screeching halt. It wasn’t Grey; the subtle accent was completely alien. And yet...

“It seems the traditional brawl is brewing early.” Where had he heard it before? That hint of wry humour was familiar, so familiar...

...was this the deal – were they gonna talk him into submission?

Shit. He remembered that Lugan’d sent him on this fucking mission without a radio. He’d have no help getting out of here.

“They should be drinking, not fighting,” the woman said. There was a faint scuffle. “Go on, you dirty great bouncer, get your arse down there and sort them out. I don’t want the place trashed.”

“Will never happen.” “Sarah” headed for the door.

When he’d gone, there was a pause.

The long footsteps of the guy with the voice crossed to another point in the room. There was a shuffling of what sounded like paper – paper , for chrissakes? – and the woman said gently, “What’s up?”

Ecko heard the guy inhale, let his breath out again in a half-muffled sigh like he was rubbing a hand over his face.

“How I wish I understood,” he said. “This is so unexpected, and yet it brings me hope.” The voice held – what was that? Anticipation? Fear? “My dear Karine, you know the tales as well as anyone –”

“You’re a nutjob, looking for something that isn’t there.”

The man chuckled. “Perhaps.” His voice danced with irony as he added, “Perhaps I’m the only sane one.”