Free Back From the Undead by DD Barant Page B

Eisfanger’s waiting, and call him on his cell. He comes out to the parking lot carrying his shamanic tools in a brushed-aluminum case and does a thorough scan of Stoker in the backseat.
    When he’s finished, Eisfanger gets out and gives me the news. “Okay. He’s got a few spells on him, but it’s all self-defense and stealth stuff. The only heavy-duty magic is a healing enchantment, but it’s one-use only. No tracking or eavesdropping bugs, no teleportation, nothing really lethal.”
    I feel a little of my tension go away. I don’t bother saying good-bye, because it’ll be back soon enough. “So he really is alone?”
    Eisfanger shrugs. “Near as I can tell. Which means he’s vulnerable—well, as vulnerable as a giant, genius-level psychopath with a lifetime of training can be.”
    “Thanks. Head back to the hotel—I still want you as backup for as long as possible.”
    “Sure.” He hesitates. “Uh, okay if I finish my sandwich first?”
    “Get it to go.” I get back in the car.
    “We ready to roll?” Stoker asks.
    “As ready as we’re going to be, I guess.”
    He gives me directions to our destination: Chinatown.
    Being on the Pacific Rim, Vancouver gets a lot of Asian immigrants. Unfortunately, being the kind of town it is, it doesn’t always attract the best and brightest; more like the bold and bloodthirsty. Chinese Tongs and Triads abound, mostly pires, many of their members professional soldiers that have been around since the Boxer Rebellion at the turn of the twentieth century or longer. On my world the Boxers were mystics and martial artists who wanted to get rid of Western influences in China; here it was much the same, only the mystics also drank blood and many of the Christian missionaries they wanted to get rid of howled at the moon after saying their bedtime prayers. Not that the whole dispute came down to thropes versus pires; there were plenty of Chinese peasants who preferred wolfhood to batkind, and more than one Western expat with an allergy to sunlight.
    The uprising failed in both worlds, with the Imperial Court dithering over whether they should support the movement or repress it, and an alliance of Western powers finally stepping in to stop the slaughter of their own people. Lems fought on both sides, but in the end the rebels were outnumbered and put down—though the success the Boxers enjoyed for a while spurred the creation of other secret societies in their wake. Some of those groups had less altruistic motives than saving Chinese culture, and a century later the hardiest of those organizations are still around; they specialize in gambling, prostitution, the drug trade, and the occasional murder or extortion to keep things lively.
    “But one of the biggest cash cows for them,” Stoker says from the backseat, “is counterfeiting. Not just money, either—goods.”
    “I know,” I say. “Designer clothing, name-brand electronics, furniture, toys—anything they can make cheaper and crappier.”
    “Lems, too,” Charlie says.
    “You’re not serious.”
    “I am. Low-grade dirt mixed with the sand. Thinner skin, no quality control. Juice ’em up with the life force of a mouse, put ’em to work in factories. They have a life span of a few months, but half of them don’t make it that long—they’ll put too much stress on a seam and burst open. Spill whatever life they have left all over the floor, and the next lem in line will have to sweep up the remains. The leftovers get recycled, of course; wouldn’t want to waste good dirt.”
    The car goes quiet for a second.
    “Yeah,” Stoker says, his voice hard. “That’s exactly right. That’s the value these … predators put on life. Any life.”
    “Unlike you,” Charlie says. “What with your newfound respect for it and all.”
    “I never had a problem with lems,” Stoker says. “I killed pires, I killed thropes. Never golems.”
    “You’re a real saint,” Charlie says. “How lucky I am to be in your