Mark Sheperd - Lazerwarz

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Lazerwarz

Mark Shepherd

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-57806-5

First printing, May 1999

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue

Only five seconds into the game, and Joystik had reached his favorite position, a large barred

window on the second level. From here he covered the arena's main alley, a vulnerable zigzag of

partitions where the inexperienced usually wandered through. The position gave his vest targets good

cover, while allowing him to watch the activity below. Sniping was always good here.

From this position he also covered the ramps leading to this level, and for a time he could enjoy a

monopoly on the blue-yellow-red targets moving aimlessly below. As usual the prey didn't seem to notice

the game had started, and from his window Joystik quickly picked off four players, favoring the ten-point

chest and back targets over the easier five-point ones on the shoulders. The packs now temporarily

down, he pulled back, counted to five, and resumed his position. As expected, they hadn't moved; in

fact, they didn't even seem to notice they had been tagged.

I know I was never that stupid, Joystik thought, tagging the same four again. He had cupped his

hand over the small metal speaker on top of the weapon to protect his position, a legit move as long as

he didn't cover his lighted targets. The loud sci-fi sounds these guns made could betray one's location as

surely as the flashing lights. He repeated the process, methodically taking their packs down and adding to

his score three more times before one of them bothered to look up.

"There he is! Up there," the kid shouted, shooting in his general direction. The beams danced

harmlessly on the walls and ceiling behind him. The four were moving towards him, and didn't seem to be

firing at each other. They were obviously teaming up, an infraction in a solo game where everyone was

against everyone, or was supposed to be. He could notify a judge and turn them in, but that took too

long, and every second counted. And unless the judge caught them red-handed he probably wouldn't

take them out of the game. Instead he kept one eye on the ramps while scanning the arena for more

targets.

On the opposite side of the arena was the other upper level, slightly lower than his own. A lively

exchange was taking place over there, orchestrated by Irishman, another member and this month's top

player. Joystik sent one of his ten rapid fire rounds into the middle of the melee, heard the unmistakable

groan of a pack or two going down. Directly below, another target walked into view, but he left that one

alone. If he gave away his position to that player he would be an easy target through the metal grate he

stood on, and this was too good a place to forfeit just yet. The other level was returning fire now, but just

moving an inch or two to the left completely concealed him. Soon they tired of shooting at nothing and

returned to their more immediate threat, Irishman.

Joystik glanced at the tiny computer screen on the back of his gun, where his rank in the game

appeared. He was number one, but with Irishman in the game it was probably close. Better start looking

for more points.

Irishman is still blasting away over there . . .

The points came looking for him. The four clueless ones from down below had found the ramp and

were tromping loudly up it, announcing their presence before he saw them. A few paces away was

another window, giving him a clear shot of their back targets.

"He's tagged me again! There's the bastard up there!" one yelled, sounding rather indignant at being

tagged in a game of laser tag. While their packs were down they continued up the ramp, but Joystik was

inwardly chanting the five second mantra, and resumed his previous position when their packs came back

up . . . and took them all down, again. He was ranked number one, with 780 points. Not bad.

But the game was quickly becoming a matter of principle, not points. These four morons were

teaming up against him, disregarding the rules and the code of ethics which Joystik embraced and

honored. They even had the build of football players, a particular subspecies of high school critter that

Joystik found repulsive. Maintaining a 4.0 didn't endear one to one's classmates, and when one blew the

test curve in chemistry one could become downright unpopular, especially when the star quarterback

ended up flunking the class, resulting in an automatic suspension from the team . . . a week before the Big

Game. Life is not good for overachievers, and the fallout can reach into the next school year. Meanwhile,

it was summer vacation, and in the arena Joystik could forget reality and be exceptional at something

other than academics.

No physical contact was allowed in the game, but when he finally saw the four players he wondered

briefly if they would disregard this rule and beat the crap out of him anyway. They certainly weren't

pleased. One of them was the star quarterback. It didn't look like they'd recognized him. Yet.

In the upper level was a smaller maze, and Joystik could traverse every inch of it with his eyes

closed. Another player came up the ramp, then another, distracting the original four, giving Joystik time to

disappear in a hidden hallway along the back.

But he didn't leave the upper level, just waited a few seconds, then reappeared. The four had taken

his sniper position, and were firing at targets below. With his speaker covered, he took out their back

targets, and ducked back quietly. The plan worked; they thought they were getting tagged from below,

not behind. They were too stupid to look at their screens, which showed which targets got tagged. All

the better for Joystik, who continued the ruse for another few cycles, relishing their anguished moans of

defeat.

This easy scoring might have continued for the remainder of the game, but one of them realized the

fire was coming from behind, not below. In seconds they had him surrounded, and were firing mercilessly

at him.

When Joystik had first started playing, being surrounded unfairly like this had enraged him to no end,

sometimes to the brink of tears. It was completely unfair and prevented any kind of retribution . . . until

he discovered the secret of dodging, a crude form of tai chi learned on the fly in situations like these.

Being small and underweight gave him the advantage. He twisted and wriggled away from the

crisscrossing beams until he got his pack back, and started returning fire. In their confusion he stepped

away from the trap, and proceeded to thump them, one by one. Thumping was a particularly useful form

of revenge which rendered the opponent defenseless, and required intensive recitation of the five-second

mantra, times four. As he backed away he re-tagged each one of them a half second before their guns

came up. One could effectively thump a group like this only when their pack cycles were spaced enough

apart . . . and they were. It was precisely the tactic they had tried using against him, only now it was one

against four.

Just when he thought they were going to give up on the game and come after him with fists, lights

came on in the arena. On the back of the guns flashed the message, "Game Over."

Hoo rah. Let's hear it for the team.

He ducked out at the other end of the upper level, and chose a long circuitous route towards the exit.

The other players would stumble about for several minutes looking for the exit anyway, and this gave him

a chance to refresh his mental map of parts of the maze he usually didn't use. Under the upper level, south

side, Joystik found himself in a tight maze of narrow hallways and no wall openings, a strategically

unimportant part of the arena, but good for some one-on-one with another experienced member.

Leading off to the right, however, was a tunnel he'd never seen before. It went directly into what he

had thought was the solid south wall of the arena. Puzzling. A service hall of some kind?

He went into it.

Long and dark, the tunnel narrowed, with tubular black lights illuminating it. Probably not a service

hall, but a part of the maze, maybe a new wing not opened yet? It probably wouldn't get him to the

exit, but he had a few minutes to explore. Besides, he didn't look forward to confronting the football

players in full daylight. His treatment would be bad enough when he returned to school the following

semester.

The tunnel curved into pitch blackness. With a penlight he kept handy for special lights-out games, he

shone it ahead of him, revealing only more tunnel.

This didn't feel right, Joystik decided, and turned to go back. Just then, his vest winked back to life,

as if another game was starting. Was the computer malfunctioning? If so he was looking forward to a free

game.

On the gun's screen flashed the message, "You have been selected."

For what? This was the kind of message you saw during special team games and role-playing stuff

they did on members' nights. Intrigued, he waited for the screen to tell him more.

A thick mist began to fill the tunnel, similar to the water based fog they filled the arena with, but that

had a metallic, unpleasant smell to it. Time to get out. Something's going wrong here, he thought, now

afraid the stuff might poison him. But his feet wouldn't move, or his body . . . The floor rushed up to catch

him as he fell over.

He figured intoxication must feel like this, but having never done alcohol or drugs, he had nothing to

measure the experience by. Whatever it was had immobilized him, and a scream rose from his throat.

Someone grabbed his arm, then the other, and two someones, dark and unidentifiable in the fog,

were carrying him deeper into the tunnel, away from the exit he now wished he had gone straight to,

football players be damned.

Chapter One

The graveyard shift at the mostly vacant shopping mall was the least eventful gig the security company

had to offer. And it was why Rick had asked for it; he had been a professional student for years, and he

needed a way to earn money without actually working. Most nights were eight-hour stretches of peace

and quiet, with no distractions, or interruptions besides his hourly rounds; a perfect environment for

study.

According to the weather reports he'd heard in the car, however, tonight promised to be different.

Two storm fronts were about to collide over Tulsa, and perhaps kick out a few twisters. At the 11 p.m.

shift change he scoped out the basement, then checked the batteries in his Maglite, an aluminum club that

happened to cast light. So long as the basement didn't flood, he figured he would make it through the

night intact. At midnight his rounds led him to ten different clocks around the darkened mall, where he

checked in by inserting his key. The key left the letter T on a tape, which his boss would read later to

verify his attention to the job. Only a few lights were on, just enough so he could see where he was going,

but not enough that he could really see. Lightning flashing through skylights briefly lit the darkened

recesses, showing him things in the corners and doorways he had never seen before, and couldn't quite

make out. A quick sweep with the Maglite's beam didn't help much. Creepy. Moving on, he laughed at

his jumpiness. This was a first for this place, which until tonight had all the animation of a morgue.

The place is actually giving me the heebie-jeebies, he thought, mildly annoyed. He had a test the

next day, and if he didn't get in a good night's study his grade would be doomed. By the time he had

finished his rounds the storm was raging full steam, shaking the skylights and rumbling through the mall

with a deep, bassy boom. His station was at the information booth at the main entrance. Most nights this

gave him a good view of a crumbling parking lot; tonight it was a parking lot drenched with rain.

He turned on the fluorescent lamp under the counter and reached for a heavy tome, Early

Oklahoma Law. He was looking forward to learning what mandated a hanging in this territory a hundred

years ago, which he found disturbingly more interesting than torts and misdemeanors.

When he had gotten to the part about stealing horses, a blast of lightning ripped through the sky,

followed immediately by a shroud of darkness. The fluorescent lamp went out, as did all the scant lighting

in the mall. The emergency lights did not come on, which didn't surprise him. Hell, they probably

weren't even connected, he thought, standing up.

Wind howled against the quadruple pairs of glass doors, shaking the half inch-thick plate glass as if it

was Saran Wrap. The Maglite cast a single white finger on the floor as he stepped from behind the

information booth. He regretted not having his weather radio, which he'd left in the car.

He considered wading through the soaking rain to retrieve it. If he had to go to the basement, it had

better be for a good reason. Surely, a tornado warning in his vicinity would justify being late for a round,

or missing it altogether. He had never had cause to test his boss's tolerance for lateness or absence from

his post, and he didn't really want to now. Maglite in one hand, building and car keys in the other, he

went to the glass entrance.

At the inner wall of doors, where a thin pool of water was seeping in, he peered into the storm, mildly

alarmed at the swaying light poles. If one snapped and fell on his Subaru, it would destroy it, a

monumental disaster in any college student's world. Sloshing through the foyer, he put his hand on the

outer doors, and hesitated.

The storm had stopped, totally. No rain, no lightning, no thunder. Nada. To a nonnative, Rick mused,

this might mean the end of a storm. Yet to a native of Oklahoma like himself such an abrupt cessation in

hostilities meant a tornado might be about to land on your head.

To hell with it, he thought, I'm going to the basement.

As he turned to retreat, a deep blast of lightning struck somewhere out there, nearby. The blast

thundered through his diaphragm and shook him down to his toes.

Still, the rain hadn't resumed. He suppressed an urge to run to the mall's comforting depths, and

turned around. Gradually, his eyes readjusted, then widened as he perceived something tall and

menacing, a narrow object, or a group of objects, in the parking lot. Something that hadn't been there

before.

My eyes are playing tricks on me, he figured. It was the only explanation.

Tall, immobile, the large objects were blocking the view across the street to a newer mall, where a

few parking lot lamps struggled to stay on. The silhouette reminded him of broken teeth, with random

spaces between.

Then fear gripped him.

My car.

All possibility of a tornado forgotten, he went outside to inspect this new phenomenon.

Not only had the rain vanished, the pavement was starting to dry. Thunder rolled in the distance,

sounding like it was coming from the next county. His light passed over the objects, but they were too far

away to see well. The sight of the towering structures was eerie enough to encourage him to turn back,

but the threat to his car kept him moving. This is stupid. Nothing happened to the car, he reasoned,

but reason didn't seem to have a place in his world right now.

His foot met soft, grassy ground where he had expected pavement. Then a knoll that took a bit of

effort to walk over. His flashlight passed over grass, with bare patches of light soil.

Did a bolt of lightning blast a crater here? No, that was stupid. Did the grass spontaneously grow?

Over an extensive stretch of grass he walked, the flashlight confirming what his feet felt: soft, but dry,

ground. He reached down, patted the grass, a blanket of velvet unlike the native prairie grass of

Oklahoma, or even of the ubiquitous Bermuda.

He stopped before a large stone arch, easily three times his height. Other arches, and single, standing

blocks of stone, joined it in a circle. I know what this is. Where have I seen this before? he thought.

Beyond the first few megaliths, the light's beam diminished. More shadows.

The car . . .

Back towards the building he found his car. At least he found half of it. His spirits sank as he studied

the remains of his Justy, parked where he had remembered parking it. The front half of it lay precisely at

the grass's edge, neatly severed behind the driver's seat. Bare cross sections of steel body glinted back,

shiny and polished under his flashlight. He touched it; still warm.

Still warm from what?

An enormous circle of turf had landed on the parking lot, complete with stones, taking out half his car

in the process. Also, a light pole was missing, from about where the stones stood. He suspected it was

wherever the hindquarters of his car had ended up.

Wherever the hell that is. He reached down and touched the distinct division between turf and

pavement. Perfectly level. He dug his fingers between the grass and asphalt, found the pavement cross

section smooth, as if cut by a laser. Just like the steel body of his car.

Now I know where I've seen this, Rick realized, staring at the megaliths. His high school band had

traveled to Europe one summer, and one of the stops was the Salisbury Plain in England. He recalled the

balmy afternoon he had stood at the famous archeological site. Then, it was perplexing to his

seventeen-year-old mind how a civilization from the stone age could move the slabs of rock from a

quarry twenty miles away.

If that was perplexing, he thought. This is downright un-fucking-real. What the hell is Stonehenge

doing in a parking lot in Tulsa, Oklahoma?

* * *

Sammi McDaris breathed a sigh of relief as the Boeing 727 rolled to a stop at Tulsa International's

gate 22. Through her tiny window the thunderstorm continued to rage, buffeting the plane with stiff gusts.

Now we're down. Thank the gods! she thought as she pulled her carry-on out of the overhead

compartment. Passengers had stood the moment the unfasten seat belt light came on, clearly grateful the

flight was over. She was too tired to fight the rush for the door, and instead let it carry her along at its

own speed. She didn't much care for using human technology to travel, but when concealing her origins

from her new employer the FBI, she didn't have many options.

It would not have done to simply gate here, in part because the Bureau had already mailed the

tickets, but mostly because they were sending her new partner to pick her up. From what she could tell

over the phone Special Agent Owen was a crusty, twenty-year veteran nearing retirement. In their brief

phone conversation he had said point-blank that he didn't like working with women, and had made it

clear who would be in charge of the investigation. She smirked, imagining his expression if he saw her

true form, or even an enhanced one, with fangs, or long, sharp claws to complement her pointed ears. It

was a tempting notion, but one she dismissed. Preserving her cover was critical, for without it she

wouldn't be able to do her work among humans. And strolling out of a circle of light would not have

convinced many of the sleep-deprived travelers, or her new partner, that she was of this world.

Once in the main concourse she looked around for Owen, found only one other human in a suit, and

he was young and kind of cute. Late twenties, with short dark hair, possibly with some Native American

blood . . . no, definitely Native, with high cheekbones and dark, smooth skin. He had a boyish face and a

build that was clearly athletic even under the suit. Certainly not Owen. But he was walking toward her,

and when their eyes met he definitely recognized her. Concealed beneath his coat she sensed the lump of

cold iron that could only have been a handgun.

"Samantha McDaris?" he asked, face brightening. He was holding up his badge. "I'm Special Agent

Hawk." He extended his hand. "Welcome to the Tulsa field office."

"Thank you," she replied, shaking his hand, giving it a firm pump to let him know she meant business.

"What happened to Special Agent Owen?"

Hawk's face darkened, and he looked down as he walked beside her. "Owen had a heart attack last

night."

"Oh dear," she said as they started down the concourse, keeping up with his quick stride. "Is he . . .

She didn't want to ask if he had dropped dead, and considered a more diplomatic way of posing the

question. Hawk saved her the trouble.

"He's going to make it, but he's still in the hospital. It also looks like he will be taking an early

retirement."

"I see," she said. In a way, she was relieved. Working with Owen hadn't sounded very promising.

But it also meant they were less one agent; to work this case they would need all the warm bodies they

could get.

Hawk didn't seem to want to talk further in the airport. He waved at the security guard at the metal

detectors, and led her to the baggage conveyor, where luggage was already parading past. "The rain has

stopped," he noted. It was dark and just past nine p.m., but the flight was booked solid. People streamed

by, some giving them furtive looks, apparently aware of their G-man aura. She claimed her bag, a single

large Samsonite. The handle snapped up and she rolled it and the overhead bag behind them as they

started for the parking lot.

His car was, of course, a Crown Victoria, unmarked except for the federal plates. Once they loaded

the suitcases in the trunk, Hawk continued, "I've been reading the files you sent on the Lazer Abductions.

The more I read, the more interested I got. I want a chance to work on it." He started the car and guided

it through the parking lot.

"Good," she said, and ventured, "Meaning no disrespect, of course, I don't think Owen was all that

enthusiastic about it."

"He wasn't," Hawk replied. He paid the parking attendant and drove towards an on ramp, and once

on the expressway he continued, "In fact, he rather disliked the notion of diverting FBI resources to

missing children. I disagreed and still do, but never said as much to him directly."

This is looking promising after all, Sammi thought, her estimation of the Tulsa field office rising a

notch. As they drove south on I-169, the rain started up again, and lightning streaked the sky. "If you

want my opinion, I don't think the FBI has done nearly enough about the missing children problem. Sure,

the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children sends us information regularly, but it seems the

Bureau is reacting to the problem instead of leading the way." He clicked the wipers up to a faster speed.

"I mean, when so much of it goes across state lines. And kidnapping is our game, or it's supposed to be.

Even after the shakeup after Hoover's death, it doesn't appear that we're doing what we're supposed to."

He's new, she thought, New, and brash, and independent. I think I can get to like this guy. No, I

know I can. In fact, I already do.

"How long have you been with the Bureau?" Sammi asked.

He cast a sly smile towards her. "You can tell I'm new. That's okay, I am. It's been about a year

now. Owen took me under his wing, so to speak, when I came here, but right away I knew he was old

school. You know, statistics, public image, go after the big cases but fill out the schedule with lots of

minor, easy ones to make the numbers come out right. And I'll tell you right now, I don't agree with that."

"I see that you don't," she said, mildly amused, but mostly impressed. "And I like that. I've been on

for almost two years. Before that, I was a homicide detective in Dallas."

Hawk perked up at the mention of Dallas. "You were? I'm from Dallas." Without being too obvious,

he glanced over at her, apparently studying her more closely. "I thought you looked familiar. You were

working that crack cocaine case. The one that killed all those kids in the rich neighborhood. I remember

that."

"You have a good memory," Sammi noted. She also wondered how much he knew, too. . . . That

was when many things came to the surface, or nearly so, including her elven identity. "I went to school

there," Hawk said. "I remember hearing about it. Your name was mentioned in a newspaper story, along

with your picture."

Hawk has an eye for details, she observed. Wonder if he has an eye for magic. Or glamories.

She briefly checked her own magical shields, making certain her human seeming was still in place. It was.

"Anyway, regarding the Lazer abductions. I counted one hundred fifty entries in the NCIC. That can't

be all of them."

Reminded of a glaring problem with the law enforcement system, Sammi sighed. The National Crime

Information Center was useful only when it was used. Convincing local law enforcement to enter cases

was sometimes difficult, particularly when dealing with what appeared, at first, to be runaways. Then

what turned out to not be a runaway became a "domestic dispute," something local, something they

should handle, if anyone did. The net result was that only a portion of the actual Lazer Abduction cases

made it into the computer, making it even more difficult to make important connections between them. It

wasn't until she had practically stumbled across the phenomenon in Baltimore, on her first assignment,

that she discovered the most important connection of all: Elven magics, tied directly to Underhill. The only

magical device that would leave such a strong sign was a Gate, and she held no doubts that one had

existed right there in the Baltimore arena in the not so distant past.

"No, I'm sure there are more," Sammi said. "But how many more, I can't say."

Hawk seemed confused. "How can kids disappear in a game arcade?"

"Well, Lazerwarz is not really an arcade," Sammi explained. She was patient, she knew he had never

seen one; the Tulsa arena wasn't due to open until next week. What irked her were the agents who had

seen one and still didn't understand what it was all about. "It's a laser tag game. The arena is very large

and dark, with a labyrinth of mazes. The object is to hide in the maze and 'tag' the others with a low

intensity laser. The one with the most points wins."

"So it's like the infrared rigs the army uses to train in," Hawk said.

"That's it," she said, glad that she wouldn't have to explain it in increasingly simpler terms. "That's also

why it's gone over so well. Kids are getting tired of Nintendo and arcade stuff."

"The files mentioned you thought the arenas themselves were involved in the disappearances."

She felt him pull back on the speed as traffic slowed in front of them. "I suspect," Sammi replied,

being careful. "There are too many coincidences. But I don't have any evidence. That's why I'm here in

Tulsa, before this new one opens. I can study it from the very beginning."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him grinning, just a little. She asked, "Sounds like something

you'd enjoy?"

"Yeah, I think so," Hawk replied enthusiastically.

"Good. Because as soon as it opens, we're going to be playing it quite a bit. Are you in good shape?"

Hawk cast her a puzzled look. "I like to think so. Why?"

"Because if you're not, you will be."

The puzzled look turned to confusion.

Do I have to spell it out? She thought, then replied, "Have you ever been chased around by a horde

of crazed teenagers with ray guns?"

* * *

Dobie started at the window's sudden, fierce rattle, and sat up awkwardly on the bed, blinking the

dream away. Deep thunder rolled off the house, shaking the aging timbers down to the ground. Lightning

strobed against pale, paisley wallpaper, reminding him of an old black and white movie. He was alone

here, as he had been since his mother passed on the previous summer. The two story house was no

mansion, but it felt big and empty without her. She had died here, but had left no ghost behind; sometimes

he thought he heard the wheeze of the oxygen machine, but this was a vague, probably imagined sound.

He often saw her in his dreams, but he never awakened afraid from those.

This dream had been a repeating, special dream, and he didn't feel so alone now; he'd just left a

world populated by people who were bigger than life and were far more interesting than the ones he saw

every day at the burger stand.

One of the deep dreams, with color and words and strange names, in a foreign tongue. Was the

language real, something that once existed? Dobie scratched his head. It had to have been real, at least at

one time. He lacked the imagination to make it up. Everyone knew that.

He went to his particle board-and-formica desk and turned on a lamp, a bedside fixture with stallions

on a torn cardboard shade. Beneath the glaring light he held out his hands, palms up. It was a ritual he'd

performed as long as he could remember, a calming, stilling exercise that never failed to put his mind and

body at ease. He spread all of his fingers, seven on each hand, until the tips formed a half-circle. His

hands shook. Then, after deep breaths, they relaxed. The circle has something to do with it, he

thought, as his heart thumped a little less loudly in his chest.

But don't get too damned calm . . . I have to get down what I just dreamed! On the desk was a

ragged spiral notebook, a remnant from his junior year at high school, that was his dream journal. I have

to start now. Before it goes away.

With a Bic pen, he started writing:

Fear, he wrote, is far more intense during sleep. You are completely helpless, and a tiny part of your

brain knows that when you're under . . .

He paused, feeling vulnerable, and considered striking out what he had written. Then left it as is. No

one will read this anyway.

The Bic scratched away. I saw the straw tents tonight, but what I thought were teepees are actually

houses, some pretty big. Rocks made up the walls in places, and in others it looked sort of like a basket,

with stuff woven in between timbers. It seemed like each family had their own hut. I was part of the big

family, where the chief was, but I didn't live in his house. The chief was my uncle or something.

Also, some of the strange sounding words. Here are some of them: Ma ha, hoo lin, iffy,

anoooin, tarn, danann . . . and Ayver.

He stared at that last one, knowing it meant something, a rather important something. The word

brought erotic images to mind. The ache in his loins drove home how important this word was.

A word . . . or a name? he thought. Moving on, before the dream was completely gone, he wrote

down what he could, in the language he possessed. The people are like Indians, but they are white. Very

white. With long hair, beards, and they are big. I am big, too, but I'm still a child? I guess I was. Their

shields are metal, not buffalo hide or wood (well, some of them were, with long pointy things like

bullhorns running lengthwise) but they don't have many bows and arrows, mostly spears. And the metal is

strange, kind of yellowish but light, so it can't be gold. They don't even have toilets. They must be poor.

The metal makes a strange sound when things hit it . . . like spears and clubs and stuff. Then—

It stopped there. All he could remember was now on the paper, the rest dissolving in his brain like

sugar in hot coffee. His eyes tracked back to the one word. Ayver. Is it a word, or a name?

Dobie was staring at the page as lightning ripped through the sky. Then the lamp went out.

"Aw shit," he said to the darkness. He was used to losing power during a storm. Dobie's

neighborhood was a confusing landscape of old frame houses, machine shops, small factories, and an

abundance of do not block driveway signs. Lining the main artery of Charles Page Boulevard were beer

bars, cheap motels, and large angry dogs of no particular breed barking through flimsy, sheet metal

fences. Whatever primeval network of wires brought electricity to this forgotten area north of downtown

was probably so old it couldn't stand up to a stiff breeze, and on most occasions it didn't.

In the silence he listened to the echoes of his dream.

Is something outside? Thunder pounded the sky again, this time a long, piercing rip, the kind that

makes you hold your breath until the inevitable sledgehammer pounding, announcing lightning contact with

some unlucky point on the ground.

Drums, chanting, drums, more chanting . . . It was coming up the stairs.

Then it was gone.

The lights came back on as he stood, and he found himself so light-headed dizzy he thought he was

going to be sick. Then the nausea passed.

What the hell was that? he thought as he reset the flashing clock for 4 a.m., the time on his watch,

and set the alarm for 8:45. At 9:00 he had to be at work at the Mega Burger just down the street.

I'm imagining shit again.

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摘要：

LazerwarzMarkShepherdThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright1999byMarkShepherdAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaenBooksOriginalBaenPublishing...

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Mark Sheperd - Lazerwarz

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