Wen Spencer - Tinker

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Tinker

Wen Spencer

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.

in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-7165-2

Cover art by Bob Eggleton

Map by Avram Grumer

First printing, November 2003

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

Instant Message conversation dated

February 24, 2003, 7:00 p.m.

WS: To Don, who always helped me grow.

DK: Wow! Thanks. But that's kind of lame. How about: To Don, cute, but prickly

like a hedgehog.

WS: ...*

DK: Um, don't use that....

WS: To Don, who will someday get his hedgehog. To Don, the hedgehog is just

for you.

DK: To Don Kosak, King of hedgehogs.

WS: To Don, I will never look at hedgehogs the same way again? To Don,

Champion of the hedgehogs! To Don, "What, no, it's not a hedgehog, it's his

head!" To Don, it's hedgehogs the whole way down. To Don, who is forever

seeing hedgehogs.

DK: To Don, How do you know that Don doesn't know that the hedgehogs are

enjoying themselves in the spring.

WS: To zen Don, who may or may not be there.

DK: Hee hee. Okay.

* footnote: ... is the Japanese way to indicate stunned or annoyed silence.

1: Life Debt

The wargs chased the elf over Pittsburgh Scrap and Salvage's tall chain-link fence shortly

after the hyperphase gate powered down.

Tinker had been high up in the crane tower, shuffling cars around the dark sprawling maze of

her scrap yard, trying to make room for the influx of wrecks Shutdown Day always brought in.

Her cousin, Oilcan, was out with the flatbed wrecker, clearing their third call of the night, and it

wasn't Shutdown proper yet.

Normally, clearing space was an interesting puzzle game, played on a gigantic scale. Move

this stripped car to the crusher. Consolidate two piles of engine blocks. Lightly place a new

acquisition onto the tower of to-be-stripped vehicles. She had waited until too late, though,

tinkering in her workshop with her newest invention. Shuffling the scrap around at night was

proving nearly impossible. Starting with the crane's usual clumsy handling—its ancient fishing

pole design and manual controls often translated the lightest tap into a several-foot movement of

the large electromagnet strung off the boom—she also had to factor in the distorted shadows

thrown by the crane's twin floodlights, the deep pools of darkness, and the urge to rush, since

Shutdown was quickly approaching.

Worse yet, the powerful electromagnet was accumulating a dangerous level of magic. A

strong ley line ran through the scrap yard, so using the crane always attracted some amount of

magic. She had invented a siphon to drain off the power to a storage unit also of her own design.

The prolonged periods of running the crane were overwhelming the siphon's capacity. Even with

taking short breaks with the magnet turned off, the accumulated magic writhed a deep purple

about the disc and boom.

At ten minutes to midnight, she gave up and shut down the electromagnet. The electric

company changed over from the local Pittsburgh power grid to the national grid to protect

Pittsburgh's limited resources from the spike in usage that Shutdown brought. She had no reason

to risk dropping a car sixty feet onto something valuable because some yutz flipped a switch

early.

So she sat and waited for Shutdown, idly kicking her steel-tipped boots against the side of the

crane's control booth. Her scrap yard sat on a hill overlooking the Ohio River. From the crane,

she could see the barges choking the waterway, the West End Bridge snarled with traffic, and ten

or more miles of rolling hills in all directions. She also had an unobstructed view of the full

Elfhome moon, rising up through the veil effect on the Eastern horizon. The distortion came from

the hyperphase lightly holding its kidnapping victim, a fifty-mile-diameter chunk of Earth

complete with parts of downtown Pittsburgh, prisoner in the foreign dimension of Elfhome. The

veil shimmered like heat waves over the pale moon face, nearly identical to that of Earth's own

moon. Ribbons of red and blue danced in the sky along the Rim's curve, the collision of realities

mimicking the borealis effect. Where the Rim cut through the heart of Pittsburgh, just a few miles

southeast, the colors gleamed brilliantly. They paled as the Rim arced off, defining the displaced

land mass. Beyond the Rim, the dark forest of Elfhome joined the night sky, black meeting black,

the blaze of stars the only indication where the first ended and the second began.

So much beauty! Part of her hated going back to Earth, even for a day. Pittsburgh, however,

needed the influx of goods that Shutdown Day brought; the North American counterpart of

Elfhome was lightly populated and couldn't support a city of sixty thousand humans.

Off in the west, somewhere near the idle airport, a firework streaked skyward and boomed

into bright flowers of color—the advent of Shutdown providing the grounded airplane crews with

an excuse to party. Another firework followed.

Between the whistle and thunder of the fireworks, the impatient hum of distant traffic, the

echoing blare of tugboat horns, the shushing of the siphon still draining magic off the

electromagnet, and the thumping of her boots, she nearly didn't hear the wargs approaching. A

howl rose, harsh and wild, from somewhere toward the airport. She stilled her foot, then reached

out with an oil-stained finger to snap off the siphon. The shushing died away, and the large disc

at the end of the crane boom started to gleam violet again.

In a moment of relative silence, she heard a full pack in voice, their prey in sight. While the

elfin rangers killed the packs of wargs that strayed too close to Pittsburgh, one heard their

howling echoing up the river valleys quite often. This sound was deeper, though, than any wargs

she'd heard before, closer to the deep-chest roar of a saurus. As she tried to judge how close the

wargs were—and more important, if they were heading in her direction—St. Paul started to ring

midnight.

"Oh no, not now," she whispered as the church bells drowned out the hoarse baying.

Impatiently, she counted out the peals. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

In another dimension infinitesimally close and mind-bogglingly far, the Chinese powered

down their hyperphase gate in geosynchronous orbit, and yanked Pittsburgh back off the world of

Elfhome. Returning to Earth reminded Tinker of being on the edge of sleep and having a

sensation of falling so real that she would jerk back awake, flat in bed so she couldn't actually

have fallen anywhere. The gate turned off, the universe went black and fell away, and then, snap,

she was sitting in the crane's operating chair, eyes wide open, and nothing had moved.

But everything had changed.

A hush came with Shutdown. The world went silent and held its breath. All the city lights

were out; the Pittsburgh power grid shut down. The aurora dancing along the Rim dissipated,

replaced by the horizon-hugging gleam of light pollution, as if a million bonfires had been lit. A

storm wind whispered through the silent darkness, stirred up as the weather fronts coming across

Ohio collided with the returning Pittsburgh air. On the wind came a haze that smudged what had

been crystalline sky.

"Oh, goddamn it. You would think that after twenty years they would figure out a saner way

of doing this. Let's get the power back on! Come on."

The wargs took voice again, only a block away and closing fast.

Was she safe in the crane? If the oncoming menace had been a saurus, she'd say she was safe

on the high tower, for while the saurus was a nightmarish cousin of the dinosaur, it was a natural

creature. Apparently designed as weapons of mass destruction in some ancient magical war,

wargs were far more than pony-sized wolves; it was quite possible they could climb.

But could she make it to her workshop trailer, the walls and windows reinforced against such

a possible attack?

Tinker dug into the big side pocket of her carpenter pants, took out her night goggles, and

pulled them on. In the green wash of the goggles' vision, she then saw the elf. He was coming at

her over the burned-out booster rockets, dead cars, and obsolete computers. Behind him, the

wargs checked at the high chain-link fence of the scrap yard. She got the impression of five or six

of the huge, wolflike creatures as they milled there, probably balking more at the metal content of

the fence than at its twelve-foot height or the additional three-foot razor-wire crown. Magic and

metal didn't mix. Even as she whispered, "Just leave! Give up!" the first warg backed up, took a

running start at the fence, and leaped it, clearing it by an easy three or four feet.

"Oh, shit!" Tinker yanked on her gloves, swung out of the open control cage, and slid down

the ladder.

"Sparks?" she whispered, hoping the backup power had kicked in on her computer network.

"Is the phone online?"

"No, Boss," came the reply on her headset, the AI annoyingly chipper.

Her fuel cell batteries kept her computer system operational. Unfortunately, the phone

company wasn't as reliable. That her security programs needed a dial tone to call the police was a

weakness she'd have to fix, but until then, she was screwed. Shit, they could build a hyperphase

gate in geostationary orbit and put a man in the seas of Europa, but they couldn't get the damn

phones to work on Shutdown Day!

"Sparks, open a channel to the wrecker."

"Done, Boss."

"Oilcan? Can you hear me? Oilcan?" Damn, her cousin was out of the wrecker's cab. She

paused, waiting to see if he would answer, then gave up. "Sparks, at two-minute intervals repeat

following message: 'Oilcan, this is Tinker. I've got trouble. Big trouble. Get back here. Bring

cops. Send cops. I'll probably need an ambulance too. Get me help! Hurry.' End message."

"Okay, Boss."

She landed at the foot of the ladder. A noise to her left made her look up. The elf was on one

of the tarp-covered shuttle booster rockets, pausing to draw his long thin sword, apparently

deciding to stop and fight. Six to one—it would be more a slaughter than a fight. That fact alone

would normally make her sick.

Worse, though, she recognized the elf: Windwolf. She didn't know him in any personal sense.

Their interaction had been limited to an ironically similar situation five years ago. A saurus had

broken out of its cage during the Mayday Faire, chewing its way through the frightened crowd. In

a moment of childish stupidity, she'd attacked it, wielding a tire iron. She had nearly gotten

herself killed. A furious Windwolf had saved her and cast a spell on her, placing a life debt on her

essence, linking her fate with his. If her actions got him killed, she would die too.

Or at least, that's what Tooloo said the spell would do.

Sane logic made her question the old half-elf. Why would Windwolf save her only to doom

her? But Windwolf was an elf noble—thus one of the arrogant domana caste—and one had to

keep in mind that elves were alien creatures, despite their human appearance. Just look at loony

old Tooloo.

And according to crazy Tooloo, the life debt had never been canceled.

Of all the elves in Pittsburgh, why did it have to be Windwolf?

"Oh, Tinker, you're screwed with all capital letters," she muttered to herself.

Her scrap yard ran six city blocks, a virtual maze of exotic junk. She had the advantage of

knowing the yard intimately. The first warg charged across the top of a PAT bus sitting next to

the booster rockets. The polymer roof dimpled under its weight; the beast left hubcap-sized

footprints in its wake. Windwolf swung his sword, catching the huge creature in its midsection.

Tinker flinched, expecting blood and viscera; despite their magical origin, wargs were living

creatures.

Along the savage cut, however, there was a crackling brilliance like electrical discharge. For a

second, the warg's body flashed from solid flesh to the violet, intricate, circuitlike pattern of a

spell. That gleaming, rune-covered shell hung in mid-air, outlining the mass of the warg. She

could recognize various subsections: expansion, increase vector, artificial inertia. Inside the

artificial construct hung a small dark mass—an animal acting like the hand inside of a puppet.

She couldn't identify the controlling beast, shrouded as it was by the shifting lines of spell, but it

looked only slightly larger than a house cat.

What the hell?

Then the spell vanished back to illusionary flesh, reforming the appearance of a great dog.

The monster rammed Windwolf in a collision of bodies, and they went tumbling down off the

rocket.

These creatures weren't wargs, nor were they totally real. They weren't flesh-and-blood

animals, at least not on the surface. Someone had done a weird illusionary enhancement,

something along the lines of a solid hologram. If she disrupted the spell, the monsters should be

reduced back to the much smaller, and hopefully less dangerous, animal providing the

intelligence and movement to the construct.

And she had to try something quick, before the pseudo-warg killed Windwolf.

She ran twenty feet to a pile of sucker poles brought in last year from a well salvage job.

They were fifteen feet long, but only two inches thick, making them light but awkward. More

importantly, they were at hand. She snatched one up, worked her hands down it until she had a

stiff spear of five feet fed out in front of her, and then ran toward the fight.

The monster had Windwolf pinned to the ground. Up close, there was no mistaking the weird-

looking thing for a standard wolfish warg. While equally massive, the vaguely doglike creature

was square-jawed and pug-nosed with a mane and stub tail of thick, short, curly hair. The

monster dog had Windwolf by the shoulder and was shaking him hard. The elf had lost his sword

and was trying to draw his dagger.

Tinker put all her speed and weight into punching the pole tip through the dog's chest. She

hoped that even if the pole failed to penetrate, she might be able to knock the monster back off of

Windwolf. As she closed, she wondered at the wisdom of her plan. The thing was huge. She

never could remember that she was a small person; she had unconsciously used Windwolf as a

scale, and had forgotten that he was nearly a foot taller than she.

This is going to hurt me more than it, she thought, and slammed the pole home.

Amazingly, there was only a moment of resistance, as if she had struck true flesh, and then

the spell parted under the solid metal, and the pole sank up to her clenched hands. The beast

shifted form, back to the gleaming spell. Both the spell form and the creature within reeled in

pain; luckily someone had been careless in the sensory feedback limit. She reached down the

pole, grabbed hold at the eight-foot mark, and shoved hard. The pole speared through the massive

spell form, bursting out through the heavily muscled back, near the rear haunch.

The dog shrieked, breath blasting hot over her, smelling of smoke and sandalwood. It lifted a

front foot to bat at her. She saw—too late to react—that the paw had five-inch claws. Before it

could hit her, though, Windwolf's legs scissored around her waist, and she found herself airborne,

sailing toward the side of the booster rocket.

I was right. This is going to hurt.

But then Windwolf plucked her out of the air on his way up to the top of the rocket. The

crane's floodlights snapped on—the transfer of Pittsburgh to the national power grid apparently

now complete—and spotlighted them where they landed. Beyond the fence, the rest of the city

lights flickered on.

"Fool," Windwolf growled, dropping her to her feet. "It would have killed you."

They were nearly the exact words he had said during their battle with the saurus. Were they

fated to replay this drama again and again? If so, his next words would be for her to leave.

Windwolf grunted, pushing her behind him. "Run."

There was her cue. Coming across the booster rocket were three of the monstrous dogs, the

poly-coated tarp insulating their charge. Enter monsters, stage right. Exit brave heroine, stage

left, in a dash and jump for the crane ladder.

What disrupted magic better than a length of steel was magnetism! With the power back on,

the crane was operational. If she could get up to it and switch on the electromagnet, the dogs

were toast. Through the bars of the ladder, she could see a fourth monster coming across the

scrap yard, leaping from nonconductive pile to nonconductive pile like a cat transversing a creek

via stepping stones.

She was twenty feet from the cage when it landed on the crane trusses and started up after

her. And she had thought herself so clever in using ironwood instead of steel to build the crane

tower.

"Oh damn, my stupid luck." She frantically scrambled up the rungs, fighting panic now. She

was forty feet up; falling would be bad.

The dog was being equally cautious, taking the time to judge its jump before making it. She

climbed fifteen feet before it took its first leap, landing nearly where she had been when it first

reached the crane. It reared and stretched out its front legs, claws extended, trying to fish her

down off the steel ladder without actually touching metal. She climbed frantically up and into the

crane's mostly wood cage. She slapped on the power button and fumbled wildly through the dark

interior for a weapon, tipping toward panic.

With the scrabble of claws on wood, the monster landed on the window ledge.

Her hand closed on the portable radio. No. Well, maybe. She flung it at the massive head. The

tool kit followed. She snatched up the fire extinguisher as the monster growled and reached out

for her like a cat with a cornered mouse. Cat? Dog? What the hell were these things? She'd have

to figure it out later; it would bug her until she knew.

She started to throw the fire extinguisher and then caught herself. These things seemed to

have full sensory feedback! Flipping the fire extinguisher, she yanked out the pin, pressed the

lever, and unloaded the foam into the monster's face. The creature jerked back, teetering on the

edge as it rubbed a paw at its foam-covered eyes. She changed her grip on the extinguisher,

hauled back, and then nailed the dog with a full roundhouse swing to the head.

There was a nice satisfying clang, a wail of terror, a brief fast scramble of claws, and then it

fell.

With luck, it wouldn't land on its feet.

She jumped to the crane controls. She had to lean way out to see Windwolf at the foot of the

crane as she swung the boom around. Three of the monster dogs had him down, tearing at him

like a rag doll. Was she too late? "Oh, gods, let this work!"

She activated the electromagnet, hit the siphon to drain off magic to the magic sink, and

dropped the disc as fast and close as she dared onto the tight knot of bodies.

Luckily Windwolf and the dogs were on the booster rocket, which was far too big to be lifted

by the electromagnet. The illusionary flesh of the dogs shifted to semitransparent shells. The

spells unraveled, their power sucked away by the magnet, dropping the small animals controlling

the monsters onto the rocket.

Dogs. Small, ugly, pug-nosed dogs, not much bigger than alley cats. Still, they launched

themselves at Windwolf, barking and growling. She swore, swung out of the crane's cage, and

slid down the ladder. As she landed, she saw a huge dark figure coming at her.

Shit, the monster dog she'd smacked out the window!

She raced for the booster rocket with the electromagnet still hovering over it, magic

wreathing about the black disc. She could smell the dog's smoky breath, feel it blasting furnace

hot against her back. With a strange clinical detachment, she remembered that cats killed their

prey by biting down and breaking their necks. What did dogs do?

The dog hit her. She flung her hands back to protect her neck, and the massive jaws closed on

her left hand. She screamed as they tumbled onto the ground. Gunshots cracked and echoed over

the scrap yard as the dog shook its head, ravaging her hand.

"Help!" she screamed to the unknown shooter. "Help me!"

With a sharp crack, a bullet caught the dog in the center of its forehead, snapping its head

backward. The flesh vanished to spell form, flaring deep violet, as the steel blasted through it.

The dog released her hand, and she dropped to the ground. Immediately, she half crawled, half

stumbled for the booster rocket. The shooter fired, again and again. She glanced back as she ran.

The bullets struck the dog in a quick sharp hail, punching it backward. The runes flared with each

shot, giving lightning flashes of the dog within, a vulnerable heart to the monstrous construct.

The spell form, however, was robbing the bullets of their velocity and diverting them from a

straight path. The monster came on, the dog within unharmed.

Sobbing in pain and fear, she hit the side of the booster rocket and clawed desperately for a

handhold, leaving bloody smears with her savaged hand.

The monster launched itself at her—and hit the electromagnet's radius of influence. The spell

flashed brilliantly, and then unraveled, the magic fraying upward in momentarily visible violet

particles.

The small ugly dog within landed at Tinker's feet, growling.

"Oh, you're so dead!" she told it, and kicked it hard with her steel-toe boot. The dog landed a

dozen feet away, struggled to its feet, and fled, yelping. "And it's good!" Tinker held her hands up

like a referee judging a field goal. "And the fans go wild! Tink-ker! Tink-ker! Tink-ker!"

Elation lasted only a minute. The numbness in her hand gave way to pain. The wound bled at

an alarming rate, though she suspected any rate would be frightening. Blood just had a way of

being upsetting.

And there was still Windwolf to save.

"Sparks?"

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Is the phone working yet?"

"No dial tone, Boss."

Her luck, the phone company would only get the phones online an hour before Startup.

She struggled through cutting up her oversized shirt with her Swiss Army knife, reducing it

down to a midriff. She had an individually wrapped feminine hygiene pad in her pants pocket.

(They made good sterile bandages in such emergencies, and held twice their weight in motor oil.)

She cut the pad in half and used her shirt to tie the two halves tight to either side of her bleeding

hand. Not a great job, but it would have to do.

She walked around to the front of the booster rocket and clambered up the twelve feet to its

top. Windwolf lay sprawled in a pool of blood. The ugly pug-faced dogs lay around him, dead.

As she checked Windwolf's pulse, his almond eyes opened, recognized her, and closed.

The wounds that the dogs had inflicted on him were hideous. She needed to swallow hard to

keep her stomach down. She noticed an empty shoulder holster tucked under his arm.

Oh, yeah, someone had shot the dog before it could kill her!

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摘要：

TinkerWenSpencerThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2003byWenSpencerAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaenBooksOriginalBaenPublishingEnterp...

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