Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure Read online

  Shadowtrap

  A Black Foxes Adventure

  A novel by

  Dennis L. McKiernan

  ISBN 978-0-9903555-1-9

  Thornwall Press

  Tucson

  The characters and events and locations in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 1994, 2014 by Dennis L. McKiernan

  Cover photo from Shutterstock: “Lightning Sky,” Copyright: szpeti

  Demongem photo from Shutterstock: “Illustration of Different Cut,” copyright: Igor Nazarenko

  Cover design by Dennis L. McKiernan

  Cover design © 2012 by Thornwall Press

  Thornwall Press is wholly owned by Dennis L. McKiernan

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  Thornwall Press

  2115 N Wentworth Rd

  Tucson, AZ 85749-9741

  First e-book edition, April 2014

  ISBN 978-0-9903555-1-9

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  The Mithgar and Faery novels of Dennis L. McKiernan have long enchanted fans and critics alike. And they were equally enthralled with his bestselling science-fiction/fantasy novel, Caverns of Socrates. And now this splendid story has been remastered to e-book form and retitled Shadowtrap. It is a gripping tale to fire the imagination and make the heart pound. . . .

  They call themselves the Black Foxes. . . .

  They are an award-winning group of adventure gamers who are reunited for one more contest, this time against an artificial intelligence named Avery. But this is no ordinary challenge, for the game will be played in Avery’s virtual reality, a place so convincingly real that those who experience are certain it actually exists, and that they are truly the person Avery casts them as. Thus, in this particular test, each of the Black Foxes will not know who he really is, but instead will become his own Black Fox alter ego: a lady pathfinder of special powers; a master healer whose touch can cure though not without penalty to himself; a magical bard whose arcane abilities allow her shape sound; a syldari Shadowmaster, able to bend darkness itself; and, finally, their leader, a warrior extraordinaire. A sixth person will become part of the team: a former king’s spy and master thief. The plan was to test Avery, but what no one anticipated was losing control of him, and the only hope for the Black Foxes is for them to defeat Avery at his own deadly game

  Dennis L. McKiernan holds us spellbound by weaving together science and magic and hazard and derring-do in a heart-clutching story, a breathtaking saga of science fiction, of fantasy, and a riveting account of a desperate group of skilled scientists trying to keep the Black Foxes alive long enough for them to survive.

  From Dennis L. McKiernan, one of the most prolific and imaginative authors in science fiction and fantasy today, comes Shadowtrap, the thrilling recompilation of his acclaimed Caverns of Socrates.

  By Dennis L. McKiernan:

  Strange Reflections (a story collection)

  At the Edge of the Forest

  The Black Foxes Series

  Shadowtrap (Caverns of Socrates)

  Shadowprey

  The Faery Series

  Once Upon a Winter’s Night

  Once Upon a Summer Day

  Once Upon an Autumn Eve

  Once upon a Spring Morn

  Once Upon a Dreadful Time

  The Mithgar Series

  The Dragonstone

  Voyage of the Fox Rider

  Hèl’s Crucible duology:

  Book 1: Into the Forge

  Book 2: Into the Fire

  Dragondoom

  Stolen Crown

  The Iron Tower

  The Silver Call

  Tales of Mithgar (a story collection)

  The Vulgmaster (the graphic novel)

  The Eye of the Hunter

  Silver Wolf, Black Falcon

  City of Jade

  Red Slippers: More Tales of Mithgar (a story collection)

  To absent friends

  And to present friends as well

  Acknowledgments

  To Martha Lee McKiernan for her enduring support, careful reading, patience, and love.

  And to Daniel Kian Mc Kiernan, who said of Plato’s Cave—a Cavern of Socrates—that:

  “Our job is to escape the cave, look around, then come back and tell the others what we have seen. . . . Of course, they won’t believe us.”

  Shadowtrap E-book Edition Foreword

  In 1994 (five years before “The Matrix” film) Caverns of Socrates (now retitled Shadowtrap) was published. I wrote the following foreword then, and it’s just as true today as it was ’94.

  Dennis L. McKiernan

  April 2014

  Foreword

  There is an anecdote that Samuel Johnson, the British writer, was asked how he would refute Bishop Berkeley’s statement that the world was an illusion.

  “I refute it thus!” he said, and kicked a large rock.

  Some people think he was right; some think he was wrong; and some don’t think about it at all.

  I’ve been thinking about it.

  You see, what both Johnson and Berkeley were concerned with is the nature of reality. Perhaps Johnson’s answer showed a profound understanding of the nature of reality; on the other hand, perhaps it showed a profound ignorance. It could have shown a profound frustration, because what we are talking about here is metaphysics, which means we are dealing with beliefs, with faith—scientific proof is lacking.

  In all of my novels I get to delve into some rather interesting themes, with thought-provoking questions posed, explored, but not necessarily definitively answered. Herein I take up (and perhaps shed some light on) three intriguing questions:

  1. What is the nature of reality?

  2. What is consciousness; what is the mind?

  3. Do people have spirits, souls, and if so would an Artificial Intelligence have a soul?

  Becoming entangled in metaphysical issues has both its rewards and its penalties: wonderful intellectual stimulation; no way to know if you are right.

  In spite of the fact that I am dealing with three questions (wrapped in what I hope are two thrilling adventures), the fundamental issue this tale concerns itself with is the nature of reality.

  I think I’ll go outside now and kick a rock.

  Dennis L. McKiernan

  March 1994

  Note

  This e-book, Shadowtrap (formerly known as Caverns of Socrates), is a stand-alone novel, as is its companion sequel, Shadowprey. Each can be read separately, though I will say, that Shadowprey takes up the story at the point where Shadowtrap ends.

  What can possibly go wrong? I ask.

  Everything, I answer.

  1

  Arrival

  (Tucson)

  Lightning jagged across the ebony sky, thunder crashing after. Rain hammered down, drumming on the roof of the cab, nearly drowning out the frantic thwpp-thwpp-thwpping of the overborne windshield wipers and the hiss of tires running through water. With the tips of her fingers Alice Maxon squeaked a hole in the fog clinging to her window and peered outward, attempting in vain to see through the runneling liquid sheeting down the pane.

  “My god, I thought Tucson was in the desert. How can you see to drive?”

  “It’s the monsoon season, miss.”

  “Monsoon season?”r />
  The cabby laughed. “Yeah. That’s what we call it. From the feast of Saint John the Baptist to the feast of Saint Giles—late June to the beginning of September—come the wind-borne rains. This year, though, they seem to be stronger and last longer—deadly in the arroyos. I blame it on El Niño.”

  Another bolt scored the sky, thunder slapping down. In the flash Alice caught a momentary glimpse of a dark shell of a building alongside the road, like so many this one abandoned too, or so it seemed.

  “Most of our water rides in on the storms,” added the cabby, his thick finger punching the A/C button. “Wells, you know.”

  Thwpp-thwpp . . .

  “Wells?”

  “Yep. Phoenix has rivers and dams. We got aquifers and wells.”

  “Oh.”

  Another thunderclap hammered through the air.

  “And lightning,” she added.

  He barked a laugh. “Yeah. And lightning.”

  Through the deluge they drove another mile down Tanque Verde—or so Alice hoped—the slender biologist still wondering just how in the hell this guy could see the road, and if he had the foggiest idea as to where he was going. . . . Speaking of fog, the A/C had cleared the windows nicely, though the sheeting rain made the glass look as if it were continuously dissolving, mesmerizing in its flux. And as the vehicle tunneled onward through the pit of a rain-dark night, with its tires shsshing and its windows melting hypnotically, she fell into musing about monsoons and flash floods and whether or not she should have hired an ark instead of a cab, while outside lightning stroked and thunder rolled in the weeping black skies above.

  Thwpp-thwpp-thwpp-thwpp . . .

  “Almost there, miss.” His words broke into her idle thoughts.

  Alice slid over and stared through the sheathing water and into downpour beyond. Out in the rain-blurred darkness she could see a set of lights at what appeared to be a . . . ah yes, a gate, inset along a high fence of heavy iron bars. And past the fence, past the gate, up an unseen drive—or so she surmised—on the crest of a rise bleared the glimmering lights of a building, a fair-sized building, this one not abandoned.

  The cab swung leftward across the water-glutted road toward the gate and sloshed to the barrier and stopped. Flashlight in hand, a guard in yellow slicker splatted out from the gatehouse to the driver’s window. The cabby lowered the glass. Rain spattered inward. Water dripping from his cowl, the guard glanced briefly at the driver, then shined his light into the back. “Miss Maxon?” he called out above the constant drumming of the rain.

  Thwpp-thwpp-thwpp-thwpp . . .

  Shielding her eyes from the halogen glare, Alice nodded and called back, “Yes.”

  “Have you any identification?”

  Alice fumbled about in her purse, locating her Connecticut driver’s license. The guard looked at the hologram and at her, comparing—brown hair, brown eyes, late twenties—and then stepped into the gatehouse. Within a minute he returned, only this time he crossed to the passenger-side door, sliding into the seat next to the driver. Casting back his wet hood, he turned and handed the ID to Alice. “Sorry for the delay, but we can’t be too careful.” He smiled, then added, “They’re all waiting, ma’am.” With the flashlight he signaled to someone in the gatehouse, and the heavy grillwork swung wide. He looked at the cabby. “Let’s go.”

  The road upward was virtually invisible in the downpour, yet the driver seemed to easily follow the quarter-mile-long arc of blacktop to the building looming above. Lightning flares now and again illuminated the edifice, though here and there lights glistered from within. In the brief glares, Alice estimated that the structure rose no more than ten stories high. Looks like ordinary glass and steel. But only nine or ten stories—I thought it would be more imposing.

  The cab drew up under a portico before a lighted entryway. The guard leapt out and opened her door. In spite of the sheltering roof, water washed across the drive, and Alice splashed two or three steps before reaching the curb. She turned and watched as the cabby unloaded her luggage, the guard helping. A footstep sounded behind her, and softly above the drum of the rain someone spoke her name. Her heart pounding, she slowly turned, and as lightning slashed down and thunder hammered after, there stood Eric. “Alice,” he said again, and stepped to her and took her face in his hands and gently kissed her.

  2

  Teams

  (Coburn Facility)

  Eric drew back and gazed down into Alice’s eyes, their color nearly matching her hair. “My god, Alice Maxon, but it’s good to see you again. Last I knew you were in Brazil, trying to capture the golden unicorn, or some such fabled beast.”

  Alice laughed, looking up at him—at six foot one he overtopped her by a full six inches. “I’m glad to see you, too, Eric Flannery. And it wasn’t a golden unicorn—I haven’t the bait—but a red-fringed golden marmoset instead. But you, you big Irish Viking, what about you? Finish that book? Ogres in outer space, wasn’t it?”

  He roared with laughter and shook his long mane of pale yellow hair, for in spite of the name of Flannery, he was one of those descendants of Eire with flaxen locks and eyes the color of a meadow bluebell—a raider’s get, or so he claimed. “No, no, love,” he protested. “’twas an urban fantasy—elves in Central Park. But look now, even though I would rather we chuck this all and run off to some Eden together”—he turned and slipped her arm through his—”we’ve got to go and have you meet the others . . . they sent me down to fetch you up straightaway.”

  “Straightaway?”

  “Damn, Alice, you know me. Accents tend to rub off. Doctor Adkins’ this time. She’s a Brit, you know . . . not a cheerio, pip-pip kind, but one of those ‘straightaway’ Brits.”

  He started for the entrance, drawing Alice with him. “But wait,” she protested. “My luggage, the driver—he’ll want his fare.”

  “Fear not, love. You need lift no finger nor part with a single cred. They’ll take care of it at the front desk. Didn’t I tell you that this was a first-class operation?”

  “You didn’t tell me anything about this operation, Eric.”

  “Well, I told ’em to tell you.”

  They entered the foyer and stepped across a terrazzo floor to a wide mahogany desk manned by a uniformed armed guard. Behind and above, mounted on the wall, was a large metallic logo—a disk of beaten brass with an ornate C dead center, emblazoned in gold. Pinned to the guard’s chest was a badge—a miniature version of the logo, with Coburn Industries, Ltd., engraved around the rim.

  Alice glanced at Eric. “Is this the same Coburn who produced the vaccine?”

  Eric nodded, grinning. “Did I not say this is a class act?”

  “I need a voice print and a retinal scan, Miss Maxon,” said the guard, “and a holo. Everything else is done.”

  Moments later Alice had a plaston ID, similar to the one Eric wore, clipped to the pocket of her battered Levi jacket. As they headed for the elevator, Alice plucked at her hair and said, “God, Eric, if I had known they were going to take a holo, I’d have done something about this frizz. It’s this damn rain, you know, curls me up just like sheep’s wool.”

  “Love, you are gorgeous no matter what. And don’t complain about the rain. It’s a blessed relief from the dragon weather we get before and after.”

  “Dragon weather?”

  “Triple digits. Bone dry. Sirocco blowing—the dragon’s breath. It happens in May and June, and again after the monsoons—September and most of October. Better this than that.”

  “Perhaps, but it caused my plane to land in Phoenix instead of here.”

  “How was the maglev? I’ve never ridden one myself.”

  Alice shrugged. “Smooth. Fast. Less than an hour’s ride, though I didn’t much care for the wait in Phoenix—too many reminders of the ’demic.”

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

  As they stepped inside, Alice grinned. “You know, Eric, you’ve gone to one helluva lot of trouble just to play a game.
”

  Eric smiled back, though this time his manner was serious. “This is no ordinary game, love. Besides, I needed to see you and tell you that you were right all along.”

  ding

  The doors slid shut and in silence the two rode upward.

  On the top floor, down a carpeted hallway and behind a walnut-paneled door, they came into a large conference room, seemingly filled with a gabbling throng of standing people—though there were only eleven—all talking at once, over coffee and tea and soft drinks. Beyond the horde, beyond a long, walnut safety rail, one wall was made up entirely of windows, the drapery drawn back; this glass, too, seemed to be melting as outside raged the storm, water sheathing down the panes. The scattered bleared lights of Tucson could be seen westerly through the downpour, and now and again lightning flared, and rain gusted hard against the glass. In room center sat a long walnut conference table, with unoccupied chairs ranging down either side; on the table were two decimated trays of sandwiches and a wicker basket partly filled with fruit. At one end was a small stage and a glassed screen—whether vid or holo or slide, Alice could not tell. As Eric and Alice moved into the babble, a slender African-American woman, chocolate brown and an inch or two taller than Alice, turned from the discussion and smiled a great smile and stepped toward her with open arms.

  “Oh, Alice, it is so good to see you.”

  Fiercely they embraced, Alice whispering, “Meredith.” Over Meredith’s shoulder, Alice could see Hiroko towing Caine by the hand and snaking among the others to reach her side—Caine at six foot three simply towering over tiny Hiroko’s four foot ten. Beyond them, hanging on the back wall, a banner proclaimed “Up the Black Foxes!” Alice’s eyes flooded with tears.