"I'm alive for you.
I'm awake because of you.
I'm alive I told you…."
"Awake", by Godsmack
The lights dimmed in the area of Warren and Madison at 3:47 AM Chicago time. The power dip was enough to reset any mundane security systems extant in the building—that they also reset all the other security systems in the area was of little consequence.
At 3:47:30, a hulking city spirit ripped the door of the low square building on the corner of Warren and Madison off its hinges as a large human dressed in tribal leathers and adorned with fetishes and talismans began casting a spell.
At 3:48 AM, a thick coating of ice started to spread over the floor of the building as a tall elf dressed in hockey gear removed the blade guards from his skates and a bulky human in black camo pants and t-shirt strapped cleats onto the bottoms of his shoes.
At 3:48:30, the elf stashed his guards in the waistband of his pants and skated into the building, followed by the black-clad human.
At 3:48:40, the lights came on to illuminate a skating rink, marked for a hockey game. A low buzz permeated the air as skaters dressed in green and gold and blue and red and white and black and orange went through their warm-ups at one end of the ice.
Neal skated to the door of the rink and stopped. He reached out and touched the door. It seemed real enough, even though the information the team had said nothing about a rink in this building. He pushed down on the lever and opened the door, then stepped onto the ice. A single jersey lay draped over the board in front of the bench. A snow-white jersey, with a red-black-white-silver design on the front.
"Mauer? Firestorm? Hoho, you out there?" Neal spoke, to be answered only by a low buzz. The rink had seemed to sink into the ground, and there were bleachers all around that were filling with people.
No, not people. Bugs. Hundreds of them, thousands of them. Bug spirits, both flesh-form and true-form, buzzing in the stands. In a suite at the far end was the largest one of all—the Queen. Neal reached to tear off his throat mike and earpiece, and found them missing. The air of the rink was cold, brisk. It should have been affecting the bugs, but they didn't seem the least bit discomfited.
Neal was alone on his end of the ice. He looked at the far end, and saw some of the numbers. 99. 77. 21. Two wearing 9. 66. 33. 22. 4. 29. All of them dressed in colors and wearing crests that echoed from the pages of history. He looked down at the jersey on the bench, and noted that the crest and colors on it had no representation at that far end of the ice. There was a number on this jersey as well—6. He picked it up and turned it over, noting with some mild amusement that the name on the back was his own. Somebody had known he was coming, and had obviously prepared a show for him.
He pulled the jersey on over his pads and looked up to see players wearing his colors materialized on the ice in front of him, engaging in their own warm-ups. He recognized them all, from old photographs and stories that his grandfather had told him—stories from the Fifth World, a time when the last true vestiges of magic was held by a 16-kilo piece of silver that men willingly, almost gleefully sacrificed their bodies and their hearts and in some cases their minds for.
He looked around again as he semiconsciously put a leg up on the boards and started stretching out. The air seemed a little chillier all of a sudden. Everything had an ethereal quality to it—as if he was here and not here.
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Neal had barely gotten two feet into the building when the jolt hit him, knocking him unconscious. He dropped like a stone and slid a foot or two more before coming to a stop, flat on his back. Mauer spun around, his katana in one hand and Predator III in the other. "Man down!" he barked into his throat mike as he moved crouched in a fighting stance near the elf's unconscious form.
"Don't touch him."
The response came in unison from Hoho and Firestorm as they entered the building, stepping gingerly on the ice-covered floor. Hoho knelt down next to Neal and levered one of his eyes open. "Frag." He looked up at Mauer. "We can't move him." The Bear shaman looked down at Neal and felt for a pulse. "He's alive, but something's dragged him into astral space—if we move his body it could wind up killing him."
The street samurai cursed. He'd not bargained on this.
"Plan B, people. Hoho, you guard Casey. Firestorm, see if you can set up some kind of perimeter. We'll have to wait on the Acid Queen before we can do anything else."
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"Whaddaya say, Hedi?"
Neal looked over his shoulder at the blonde man stretching out next to him. There was a smile gracing his pixyish china-doll face and a twinkle in his hazel-grey eyes. Neal raised an eyebrow and simply asked, "Where am I?"
His teammate's eyes widened, jaw dropping slightly as he gave Neal a look of complete disbelief. "Don't tell me you forgot—it's Game 7! Tonight we play for all the marbles, remember?"
Neal blinked a couple of times, and then looked around the arena again. The bugs in the stands had become people, spectators at a hockey game. He looked into the glass behind the bench and saw a face that was very familiar, but was not his. He didn't have a goatee, didn't have slightly arched eyebrows, his ears bore more than hints of Elven heritage, and he wore his hair a lot longer.
"Oh, right. How silly of me." Neal smiled slightly, masking his confusion. "Sorry, I was a little distracted."
The two men shared a laugh as they finished their stretching exercises. Neal took his place in the warm-up rotation, taking a few shots first on the little goalie with grubby pads and nondescript teakettle helmet, then on the tall ebon-skinned goalie with immaculate cat-motif pads and gleaming painted sleek state of the art helmet. He snagged a puck and went to the neutral zone with it, performing an elaborate puck-handling routine that he had learned as a child. He skated around, concentrating on the game to come and trying to remember everything his grandfather had ever told him about the high and far-off times of his days playing in the Fifth World.
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Acid Queen drifted lazily through the dark spaces of the Matrix, past icons representing corps and governments and other drifters. Her icon—an LSD molecule wearing a crown of thorns—was distinctive, inasmuch as every other user icon in the Matrix was distinctive. She drifted through the LTGs and PLTGs from Chicago to Denver, the Treaty City. A haven of neutrality in the middle of the Native American Nations, jointly administered by the UCAS and the NAN, but in reality home to smugglers and drug-runners and shadowrunners of all sorts—a virtual Seattle, without the force of UCAS law holding it together. In another time and place, some would have referred to it as "a wretched hive of scum and villainy".
It was home to the one source of information she needed to access: Shadowland, the major source for underground information in the Sixth World. If you wanted to get the scuttlebutt on something, you came to Shadowland—but you had to know people to get the access codes to the data haven, and you had to be known to the SysOps. Acid Queen was very well known in these parts.
In realspace, Acid Queen slotted a new program into her cyberdeck. In the Matrix, her icon turned into a classic femme fatale wearing a tight-fitting tie-dyed dress. The crown of thorns on her head turned into a pillbox hat. She stepped through the door of the nightclub, regarding the doorman with a cool glance as she paid her cover charge. The doorman nodded and let her beyond the velvet rope, past the throngs of people clamoring to get in. The darkened nightclub approximated a popular nightspot in Seattle, complete with neon and laser-light wall adornments, pumping dance music, and wall-to-wall people—all logged into Shadowland.
She walked through the press of people to the back of the club, looking for a specific table. She found it easily enough—a gaunt black-clad mage sat in the booth with his back to the wall, observing the decker carefully. His face was pale, his ghost-grey eyes sunken and ringed by dark circles. She sat down at the table and took one of the mage's hands. "Hello Arawn."
He turned his head to look at her. "Hello, my Queen." His hands were cold. "I did not expect you to come."
"Liar." Acid Queen afforded herself a slight smile. "You knew I'd be here." She looked around for a moment before continuing. "And I think you know why I'm here, too."
The mage's icon waved a hand dismissively. "What happens in Chicago is of no consequence to me."
She pursed her lips. "That's drek. You obviously have a vested interest in this, and I know you still at least care about me or you wouldn't have bothered showing up."
The mage sighed. "That was years ago. Before…"
The decker reached out and brushed back a lock of the mage's hair. "I know. But that was then—this is now, and I need to know what you know."
==============================
"Where's Acid Queen?" Mauer's question was curt, delivered with a slight edge of nervousness.
Hoho pointed out the door. "Still jacked in." The large shaman looked round. "No sign of the bugs. I thought this was supposed to be a big hive."
A faint buzzing sound echoed through the halls, interspersed with the sounds of footsteps on plascrete.
"Perhaps," Firestorm rejoined as she stepped over Neal's unconscious form, "you may have spoken too soon." Mauer holstered his pistol and hefted his katana as his female companion crouched and began chanting. Hoho sat next to Neal's unconscious body and chanted softly. He soon fell unconscious himself, leaving Mauer and Firestorm alone to deal with the pair of insect-man monstrosities lurching down the hall toward them.
Mauer scanned around the room, switching his cybernetic eyes to use their thermographic capabilities. Firestorm could handle the two flesh-form insect spirits—Mauer, however, saw several true-form spirits buzzing toward them. Man-sized wasps, the spirits stood out against the slowly melting ice that still covered the floor. His wired muscles burned as he tensed, ready to spring.
Firestorm reached forward and cut loose with twin blasts of mana, knocking both flesh-form spirits down the hallway. Her hands were ablaze with the raw stuff of magic, illuminating her midlength flame-red hair and pale freckled complexion and deep green eyes as she prepared to cast again. Another twin blast of mana issued forth from her hands, incinerating the insect-man hybrids as they slowly got up from the floor and started to lurch back toward her.
Mauer rolled forward and sprang up, slicing into one of the true-form spirits with his nicotine-laced katana. The spirit shrieked as the concentrated poison uncoupled its nervous system. Sticky ichor mingled with the melting ice as the body fell backwards, drifting lazily over the ice as its muscles spasmed uncontrollably in their death throes. The corpse came to rest against the wall as the street samurai quickly sliced through two, then three, then four more spirits. Once, twice, thrice. His wire-enhanced reflexes and reaction times turned him into a whirlwind of death as he deftly spun on the ice-coated floor, his ice-cleats affording him purchase on the slick surface as he battled the wasps.
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Hoho stood and looked around. It was not very light inside, the last time he looked. Now there were lights on, and though he was in astral space the air was a little chilly. There was a faint buzz in the air. He heard the sounds of skates on ice and bodies on boards and pucks on sticks coming from behind him. He turned to see seat backs facing him. He walked forward and looked down to see a full-blown hockey rink with players on it. There were spectators in the stands, ushers at the top of each section. Hoho recognized this place. It seemed so very familiar to him, like a page out of the history books.
The big man lumbered down a set of stairs into the bowl of the arena, finding a seat near the ice. He turned to look at the spectator next to him, almost jumping out of his skin when he saw two black multifaceted eyes staring back at him. Hoho raised a hand and prepared to cast a spell, but the spectator simply pointed a clawed hand toward the ice. "Watccchhh…" was all he—it?—said with a slight chittering sound in its voice, before turning back to the rink. Hoho stood and looked around—the "spectators" in the stands all bore some sort of insectoid features, as flesh-form spirits. Mandibles here, antennae there, multifaceted eyes, vestigial wings, spindly legs. All sitting in their seats watching as the game was about to start.
Hoho looked back to the ice, and almost immediately spotted the dark-haired goateed human in the white jersey with the 6 on his back. He squinted slightly and concentrated a bit, and felt his head starting to hurt. He stopped concentrating, and the ache subsided. He sat back to watch, knowing full well who was in that jersey.
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"And there's the faceoff, won by Francis, passing it back to Hedican. Hedican taking it up the ice for Jeff O'Neill, who gets pick-pocketed by Orr! Bobby Orr, kicking in the jets and starting up the ice toward the Hurricanes' zone, Ward dropping back to cover him as Kapanen scrambles to back check, he shoots! And Arturs Irbe gloves the puck down, and hangs on for a whistle as Maurice Richard lurks in front of the net looking for a rebound…"
Mauer looked around as he carefully cleaned the ichor off his katana. He reached up and toggled his throat mike to another channel—and the disembodied voice continued. He searched all frequencies, and still he heard the radio call of a hockey game. He and Firestorm looked at each other quizzically, and communicated via hand signals that one would stay while the other did a sweep of the area. Mauer reapplied a sticky coating of concentrated nicotine to his blade, and put it in its scabbard before turning to go down a hallway.
"And Tomas Malec will send the puck up into the opposing zone, where it will be touched up by big Stan Mikita for the whistle, and icing is called for a faceoff in the Hurricanes' zone. The score is tied at zero in the first in this crucial seventh game of the Stanley Cup Finals."
Firestorm tried to block out the voice echoing in her ear as she drew a ritual circle around Hoho and Neal, and started to cast a warding spell.
"Gretzky wins the draw, passes the puck back to Bossy, Bossy goes blistering by Wallin, centering pass to Gretzky, who shoots…he SCORRRRRES!! Wayne Gretzky, on a pass from Mike Bossy, makes a beautiful roof shot over Arturs Irbe as Bret Hedican tried to throw himself in front of the puck but couldn't get to it in time, and the Hurricanes are down by 1 with 5:00 to go in the first period!"
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Hoho felt his soul shaken by the force of the blast from the large air horn in the rafters of this astral arena. The spectators around him in the stands jumped up and cheered wildly, an almost comical cacophony of clicks and buzzes, chitters and chirps. The man in the blue-and-orange 99 jersey received the congratulations of his teammates as the goal tallied up on the scoreboard. They settled down in unison as the linesman went back to the faceoff circle and prepared for another draw. The players in the white jerseys, who went blistering their way into the enemy zone, won this faceoff. The puck squirted back to the player in the white #6 jersey, who paused for the briefest instant before moving up the ice with a smooth loping stride.
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Neal had the puck. He concentrated for a moment, feeling the surge of power through his astral body as he raced up the ice with it. He outstripped his teammates and the other team and was heading for the goal when a shout echoed in his hears.
"Heads up!"
Neal looked up in time to dodge an elbow flung at him by a crew-cut man in a red jersey with a 9 on the sleeve. He got to the right faceoff circle in the opposing zone and ripped off a shot that blistered toward the net and was redirected past the ear of the maroon-and-blue clad goaltender and into the net by a teammate. The red light went on, and Neal threw his arms up in exultation. It felt so good to get on the tally sheet again, to feel his teammates clustering around him to congratulate him. That the spectators booed did not matter to him. He was enjoying the hell out of this, and that was all he cared about.
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"Face-off won by Brind'amour, back to Cole, who passes to Hedican. Hedican, racing up the ice into the Avalanche zone, dodges an elbow thrown his way by Rob Blake, lets loose with a wrister, AND HE SCORRRRES! Bret Hedican, with nobody but Rob Blake to cover him, went right in on Patrick Roy to let loose with a wrist-shot on Roy's glove side, and the Hurricanes have tied it at 1 a piece on a deflection by Jaroslav Svoboda; a beautiful response to Peter Forsberg's high shot, and the fans at the Pepsi Center are not pleased. Back with more, after this."
Bret sighed as he sat on the porch listening to the old audio disc. He sipped on a drink, savoring the cool flavor of sugary mint-tinged bourbon on ice as it rolled over his tongue with silky smoky smoothness, and looked off into the Indian summer night towards the south. Towards Chicago.
"You're worried about him, aren't you?"
Bret turned and looked into the eyes of the silver-haired lady standing in front of him—still barefoot and still wearing a simple grey smock. She smiled down at him and sat next to him on the porch swing, curling up next to him as he put an arm around her.
"He's our only grandson. It stands to reason that I'd worry about him." He didn't have to ask if she shared his worry—he knew what her answer would be. She worried about Neal also, even though she would never show it. He took another sip from his mint julep and sighed. "You're terrible, you know."
Danielle looked up at him with bright hazel eyes. "Why?"
Bret smiled and held up the silver julep cup. "You got me hooked on these."
They shared a quiet laugh and gave each other a squeeze. "Nothing the god of mixology would bar me from heaven for, I'm sure. So tell me," she said as she pointed to the player, "what made you drag this out?"
He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "I wanted to remember," he said as he set his julep cup down on the small table next to the audio disc player before stretching out and drawing his old friend up to rest her head on his chest. He put both arms around her and started the swing moving slowly, as the game continued to play.
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"Let me see if I have this straight. The bugs are there, in that building in Chicago, and they want to use the Cup as a focus for something—but they're not doing anything with it?" Acid Queen looked incredulously at the pale mage on the other side of the table.
Arawn smiled, revealing slightly elongated canines. "That, O Queen of my heart, is a mystery to me. There is something going on there, not one hundred-fifty feet away from your lovely meat body, which is both strange and wonderful." He kissed her hand delicately, continued kissing his way up her arm to the elbow. "Why did you have to make your real self look like a bag lady?"
The decker said, "Why did you have to make your icon look like your real self?"
The mage stopped his kisses and looked up at her, then sat back with a slight chuckle. "Why not? After all, who is going to believe that a mage infected with Human Metahuman Vampiric Virus would actually enter the Matrix?" He leaned forward slightly and smiled again, flicking his tongue across one of his slightly elongated canines. "But we aren't here to discuss me, my affliction, or the avatar I use when I wear my electrode link to take a foray into the Matrix. We are here because you want to know…"
Acid Queen laughed. "…why I'm in Chicago and why the bugs have an astrally polluted hunk of silver."
"Ah," said Arawn softly, "therein lies the crux of the matter." He smiled again. "For you see, the Stanley Cup is not entirely made of silver. Nor is it really polluted."
"Right—there's the hollow base."
"Forget about the base," he answered as he waved his hand dismissively. "The base is of no consequence. If you ever get a chance to get a good close look at the Stanley Cup..." Arawn raised a stick-thin finger and traced coppery tendrils in the air, tendrils that shimmered in the virtual light of the virtual nightclub. "…you will see what made it magical even in the days of no magic."
Acid Queen sat back, stunned. "You're kidding me."
He nodded. "Orichalcum. An alloy that had not seen in much quantity until the dawning of the Sixth World. The silver used to create the Cup is rife with it. That is why it absorbed so much and has held it so well, my darling Queen." He waved a hand, dismissing the illusion that hung in the air. "It hosts free spirits that have taken on the characteristics of every player and every coach who has ever raised it over his head. It holds their emotions, their happiness, their sadness, and those spirits have kept the bugs at bay in their own hive. For all practical intents and purposes, the Cup is alive."
She shrugged. "So we can just walk in and take it back, then."
"Au contraire, ma belle Reine." The mage shook his head. "The Cup wants to go back to where it belongs, that much I know. But you cannot just walk away with it, not without paying a heavy price—that is what the insects of Chicago did. Heavens only know how many innocents died to bring their soldiers into this world."
"I don't understand."
He laughed. "My dear, how can such a violent person as you not be a hockey fan? It's such a deliciously bloody sport." He leaned forward and spoke softly. "My love, every Keeper of the Cup has been a player from a team that has won it. All others are…shall we say, "rejected" by it—rather violently so." His voice sank to a low purr. "It's very particular. Only those who win it are allowed to touch it."
Acid Queen sighed. "So what you're saying is…."
"…that your little hockey-playing elf is, at this very moment, fighting to prove that he is worthy to lay his little elven hands on the Stanley Cup."
The decker sighed and scratched her forehead. "Wow."
"Yes." The mage smiled softly. "I never was much for hockey, until I saw the Cup for the first time. The spirits around the Cup are most fascinating creatures."
She nodded slowly. "Well, that was…enlightening."
"You're most welcome, my regal tie-dyed angel."
Acid Queen laughed softly. "Flatterer," she said as she prepared to jack out of the Matrix. "I'll see you around sometime." She stood from the table and leaned over to kiss the mage sitting across from her before jacking out.
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"And the score is tied 2-2 in the second overtime period as the Hurricanes prepare for a face-off in their zone, big Josef Vasicek taking the draw against Mario Lemieux…"
Mauer tore out his earpiece as he silently padded through the hallways of the abandoned building. There was no further resistance after the initial insect patrols jumped him and Firestorm near the back entrance, which made the samurai's job that much easier. He rounded a corner and saw eight men wearing deep blue coats, black pants, and white gloves standing quietly around a small round table, hands clasped in front of them. A small circle of light came down from the ceiling to illuminate the table and the object sitting on it.
Mauer stepped toward the doorway of the room and toggled his throat mike to speak, stopping cold when one of the blue-coated men—tall and blond, with ice-blue eyes and a firm Nordic jaw—raised a hand.
"No," was all he said, in a calm voice that rang softly like the deep chime of a muffled church bell as his thin lips unconsciously turned up in a half-smile.
Mauer took another step forward, and found himself blocked, as if a hand was pressing on his chest. He pressed forward, and the man with the upraised hand made a gentle pushing motion. Mauer found himself flung back across the hallway, landing hard against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he shook his head violently to fight back the wave of unconsciousness that threatened to overcome him. He sat against the wall for a moment, and then stood. The man in the blue coat had reassumed his stance in front of the table, staring blankly into space. Mauer heard faint buzzes and clicks and chitters, accompanied by the faint sound of a horn. He grabbed his earpiece and stuck it in his ear.
"…and the play is under review!"
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"The fans in this building are clamoring for a goal, and the Hurricanes are biting their nails as the play goes upstairs for review. It looked like the puck went in, but Arturs Irbe is insisting and Ron Francis is insisting that the puck had stopped a good six inches in front of the goal line even as the Avalanche are celebrating what would be the Cup-winner by Vaclav Nedorost…"
Bret and Danielle hugged each other tightly. It had been many years since they had listened to this old recording, and though they knew how it turned out it always made them nervous.
"…and referee Mike Hasenfratz hands the phone back through to the scorer's table before waving his hands to indicate no goal, and the fans at the Pepsi Center are not happy with that decision. Even above the boos you can hear the collective sigh of relief from the Hurricanes bench as their incredible luck saves them once more, and we go back to the faceoff circle. Vasicek once more taking the draw…"
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"…against Wayne Gretzky. Gretzky wins the faceoff, passes back to Bourque, who dishes it forward to Richard. Richard is checked hard off the puck by Tanabe, who takes the puck and flips it around the boards to Hedican. Hedican carries the puck to the blue line and passes it off to Cole…"
Acid Queen had jacked out of the Matrix to be greeted by white noise in her ear. When she breached the doorway of the building, the play-by-play sprang to life in her ear. She stopped cold, startled by the sudden burst of sound in her ear.
Firestorm was crouched next to the protective circle she had cast around Hoho and Neal's flesh bodies, listening to the game on her earpiece. She looked up at the decker as she came in. "They're alive. In astral space, but they're both still alive." Neal was sweating, the hot saltwater dripping to the ice underneath his body and adding to the melt.
"I know." She nodded, and then looked around the room before hunkering down next to Firestorm. She idly played with her stringy ratty hair as she listened to the game. What Arawn told her would have to wait.
"Vasicek steals it from Orr, feeds it to the slot…."
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Neal raced down the ice, his magically boosted muscles working overtime. He had been skating like mad forever, it seemed. He was in astral space, but still his lungs burned and his joints were on fire—and he didn't want to trade it for anything else in the world. This was what his grandfather had done. This was what he was born for. He was in Valhalla, playing the Sport of the Gods, and he was enjoying every minute of it. He felt free. He felt a joy that he hadn't felt in what seemed like forever.
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The clicking-buzzing-chirping-chittering noises from the stands got louder and louder around Hoho as he watched Neal burn his way down the ice, blasting through everyone that stood in his way. The puck was stolen from a man in black and gold by one of Neal's teammates, who dished it to Neal. Neal took the puck and gave it what looked like the gentlest of pushes right in front of the goaltender in the red-and-blue jersey….
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"…and they SCORRRRRRE!! Vasicek stole the puck along the far boards, fed it to Hedican at the top of the crease, and at 6:06 of overtime, the Hurricanes have done it again as Bret Hedican tips it past Ken Dryden!!"
Mauer slumped slightly against the wall, breathing an audible sigh of relief. The eight men standing around the table joined hands and bowed their heads. An unearthly glow radiated out from the Cup, a coppery-silvery sheen that joined with the circle of light and started to spread throughout the room. It spilled out through the doorway like a flood of molten light, coursing through the halls and around Mauer, who turned and ran to follow it back to Firestorm. He was suddenly exhausted as the light splashed and poured over him like a slow viscous river and drained him of his energy, but his wires kept his muscles pumping against their will, forcing him to run as the light flowed over and ahead of him. He heard the sounds of cheers and boos. He felt a mix of happiness, sadness, relief, pain, and anguish. Tears unconsciously ran down his cheeks as he ran.
He found Firestorm and Acid Queen slumped against each other, sleeping peacefully. They were covered with a moist copper-tinged silver sheen, a look of tired bliss on their faces. Mauer sank to his knees in front of the two of them. He reached out and took Firestorm's hand, squeezing it gently. The circle on the floor was gone, washed away by whatever magic had been worked by the mysterious blue-coated men, leaving Hoho and Neal lying on the floor unconscious.
Then he heard the shrieks, unearthly shrieks of agony and terror that emanated from every corner of the building. He tried to get up, but couldn't. A hand patted him on the shoulder. He looked up to see a slender dark-haired man looking down at him with wise brown eyes. His upper lip bore a scar from where it had once been split open on the left side, and his faintly rectangular face bore several other less noticeable scars. He smiled softly and spoke with the same clear tone as his blonde counterpart.
"Rest now. It will be over soon."
The three of them looked up at the dark-haired man, who straightened up and walked slowly through the hallway. Mauer opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out. He felt only a burning desire to rest.
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Hoho was positive that if he'd been in his meat body, he would have felt his teeth rattling as the horn went off. He leaped up out of his seat and roared with ecstasy as he watched an exact duplication of a goal that had been scored a long time ago in a place that now seemed so very, very far away. He howled his approval over the angry buzz-click-chirp-chitters of the insect-spirit spectators, not caring what happened to him.
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Neal almost didn't believe it. He just barely pushed the puck; just dinked it a little bit—and it went skittering under the goalie's legs and into the net! He turned and went rushing back up the ice. He fell to his knees, thrusting his hands toward the heavens in exultation as he slid and his teammates came swarming off the bench and mobbed him. A burning rush of joy coursed through him as he celebrated his goal. It was the greatest feeling on the planet. He had come into the house of the enemy with teammates, and together they had prevailed against seemingly impossible odds.
"We did it! We did it! My God, we won!" Neal looked into the faces of his teammates as they hugged him and each other in celebration. He wanted to tell them that he wasn't who they thought he was, that he was the grandson of the man whose jersey he was wearing and that it was years after they had won, that they were all spirits.
His teammate with the china-doll features grabbed him in a tight embrace and quietly said, "we knew you could do it." Neal looked at him and dumbly said, "Do what?"
His answer was a laugh and a pat on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get in the handshake line."
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Hoho watched as the players lined up for the traditional handshake. His heart swelled with pride—he'd known that this was coming, ever since the vision quest he had partaken in Newfoundland. He'd known that his friend had a destiny that he was only beginning to realize.
He felt a slight burning sensation and looked down to see molten coppery-silver light coursing down the steps and over the seats. He heard inhuman shrieking, shrieking that threatened to shatter him as the light splashed over the insect spirits around him. They burned, melted, twisted, were vaporized. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a tall man in a dark blue coat and wearing white gloves looking at him with a slight wry smile on his oval face. His dark brown hair was somewhat tousled, and his dark hazel eyes twinkled merrily.
"Come," he said in tones that rang as clear and deep as a bell even as they were laced with a little bit of humor. "You need rest." He patted Hoho as he led him up the steps. "It will be over soon." Hoho stepped through the doorway at the top of the stairs, and the world went dark.
Behind them, the light flowed over the glass and onto the ice, engulfing everyone like a tidal wave. The others on the ice vanished, swept away by the glittering tsunami. It coalesced around Neal's astral form, imbuing him with new energy. Two words echoed in the air: "Free us." He started down the ice toward the opponent's end, and then launched himself into the air and over the glass toward the suite. The Queen of the hive shrieked and extended her claws in a futile attempt to cast a spell at the skater, who stopped in mid-air for the briefest instant before diving at the Queen. Neal swung his stick with all his might, driving the blade deep into the Queen spirit. The luminescent waves of energy surrounding him were channeled down the stick and into the Queen's body, causing her to shriek and writhe in agony. Neal stood and watched as the Queen was torn apart from the inside and a cascading wave of copper-tinged silver exploded outward with a roar.
The world went dark.
If Neal had been able to stay, he would have seen eight men coming out to place a gleaming silver trophy on a cloth-covered table at center ice.
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The five of them dreamed.
After the traditional handshakes, the opposing players—legends of the game—lined up at their blue line. They stood in solemn silence as the eight men—spirits embodying past Keepers of the Cup—stood their watch. The tall dark-haired Keeper with the scar on his lip stepped forward, speaking in the ethereal bell-like tones that they had all heard.
"Who would claim this prize?"
Neal turned, looking for his captain—but he was alone. He looked at the Keeper, whose brown eyes had turned to solid silver and now glowed with an unearthly light, and spoke up.
"I would."
"Name yourself."
"My name," he said—and he felt himself falter for a moment before steeling himself and continuing, "is Neal Hedican."
The keeper nodded slowly. His voice took on another sound, like that of an entire choir of voices. "This trophy accepts only those who have won the right to touch it, those who are known to the Cup by right of victory. We know that you are the heir to a champion, and that you now claim championship for yourself. Come forth then Neal Hedican, Son of James and Grandson of Bret, and let your worthiness be judged."
Neal skated forward to the table as the dark-haired Keeper raised the Cup from the table and held it out to him. He reached out to touch it, and felt himself start to fade. He willed himself to stand, to fight the drain as he put his hands on the Cup and removed it from the Keeper's grasp. The ancient trophy glowed brightly in his hands, suffusing him with deep healing warmth. He saw all of those who had gone before, people that he had only heard about and seen in books and trids. He felt welcome. Tears of joy ran down his face. Neal knew that he would never see his name engraved on the Cup. Nevertheless, he had won it and been accepted just the same.
The Keepers stepped forward. Their apparent leader and spokesman held his hands out. Neal passed the Cup back to him, and felt darkness overtake him. The last thing he heard as he slipped into night was a heartfelt "Thank you."
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A joined sigh came from the porch swing as the audio disc ended, followed by a soft sniffle.
"I told you that you would do it." The soft smack of a kiss and the rustle of cloth on cloth were the only sounds that fell on the porch. "But you didn't listen."
"Just like I've told you lots of things that you didn't listen to, either."
Danielle sighed and chuckled softly. She shifted slightly, looking up. "Hey."
Bret looked down at her. "Yes?"
"You want another one of those?" She nodded at the julep cup and smiled as she got up and turned, her grey dress swirling about her calves. "I'm going to fix myself one, and I don't want to be rude and not share."
"Actually, I think I'd rather just sit out here for a while longer and watch the sun rise." He sat up and gazed over to the east as the first silver-golden rays of dawn stretched across the sky, then reached out a hand. "Please stay here and watch it with me."
She set the cup down on the table next to the player. "Well since you insist," she said as she sat back down on the swing and put an arm around Bret, "I'll just park my old hoop here and watch it with you."
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(Neal's POV)
We got back to the Cities in about 4 and a half hours. Acid Queen drove like a juiced-up rigger from hell—how she managed to avoid getting pulled over, I'll never know. I sat in the back with the Cup. The Stanley freaking Cup. Wow.
There wasn't anything to clean up in the old hive. Whatever happened to the bugs, they weren't there anymore. They'd been obliterated. We woke up in the abandoned building that had been their hive, and the Cup was just sitting there on the floor waiting for us—for me. I walked over to it and picked it up, half-expecting to be struck down. But nothing happened—I just picked it up and carried it toward the door.
"I think our work is done here," I said. "Could somebody get the door for me please?"
We pulled up in front of Granddad and Nana's place at about 10 or so in the morning. They were asleep on the porch swing, with an audio disc player on the little table by the swing. They'd been listening to the old call of the game where Granddad won the Cup—Firestorm thought it was cute. I thought it was…well, come on! They're my GRANDPARENTS for frag's sakes! I just didn't think about them that way, you know?
Hoho opened the door on the back of the van, and I piled out with the Cup. I took it up onto the porch and knelt before the swing, setting it in front of Granddad. I shook his knee a little bit. "Granddad…Granddad… Look what I brought."
His leg brushed ever so slightly against the Cup, and his eyes snapped open. He raised his head and looked down at the Cup and me, and smiled. He scooted forward on the swing a bit, and we hugged. He wept. I wept. Nana wept.
We had made it out alive—with the Cup. I told him about the game. I told him about the bugs at my apartment. I told him almost everything. However, I didn't tell him of my encounter with the Keepers—I didn't have to. He knew. He just knew.
You remember how I told you earlier that my bike is armored, and to remember that because it would come in later? Get this:
Acid Queen drove me back to my doss. I have to walk past my bike to get to the elevator that goes up to my apartment—and I come to find out that some fraggin' go-gang had decided to have a little firefight in the parking deck…and they shot up MY fraggin' bike! If Bolo hadn't been armored, then good-bye Draft Day Present and hello Super-Fragged-Off Neal.
I received a hero's welcome in Toronto—as much of a hero's welcome as you can get when you come in on a charter flight under cover of darkness and without any fanfare whatsoever, anyway. The caretakers of the Hall of Fame were grateful to have the Cup back. The NHL apologized for drumming me out earlier, and they offered to toss out the "no adepts" rule and let me back in—but I politely declined. After what I'd been through in one night, a 20-year career in the NHL somehow seemed like an anticlimax. Besides, I didn't want any special treatment. Let the rule change or not change on its own time, and let players play.
This is the part where I say "the end", right? Not exactly.
You see, the Cup sang to me on the flight, as I snoozed with my arms around it. It told me of past glories, old heroes and tales of celebrations. I saw all of the places it had been to, saw the wonder in the eyes of the people that gathered by the thousands in public squares and auditoriums and sports stadiums just to get a glimpse of it. It sang to me like a lover, told me stories of sacrifice and valor, introduced me to all those that had won it before. I wept tears of joy as I slept—and more after I woke up.
The spirits in the Cup wanted me to win, needed me to help it be free of the insects—but I had to do it honestly. The drain I felt when I took the Cup was when part of me was absorbed into it. Any player will tell you that they feel tired after winning the Cup—that's why. They take away the memories and the honor of having their names engraved on it, and in return, it takes a little bit of them so that they'll live on. When you've had the honor of winning the Cup, you become a part of it and it becomes a part of you in a strange and wonderful symbiosis. It's alive because of everybody that's ever won it. It doesn't eat, it doesn't sleep, it doesn't breathe—but it talks, lives, sees, hears, and feels all the same, and all because of the men that have freely given of themselves so that they can spend a little time with it. Those that have won the Cup know. They don't have to tell each other about how it feels to win the Cup—they all know. It's a feeling that you just can't adequately describe to somebody who hasn't been there.
It sounds a little weird, I'm sure—but I guarantee you that any player will tell you that they'll happily sacrifice a little bit of themselves to the Cup if it means that they can hold it for a while. This was what I had worked my whole life to attain. And I had to fight the damn bugs to do it. If I had to do it again, I would happily do it—and here's why:
That game in Chicago was the most perfect game I have ever played, folks. It was beautiful, even if it was in astral space. It was something I'll never forget. Every moment that I played in that game, I felt as though another one of my cares had been lifted off my shoulders. The hurt from the hits was a good hurt. It was a happy hurt. I loved it. I had never been as happy as I was when I played in that game, and I don't know if I'll be that happy again for as long as I live.
I only hope that one day, after my time in the physical world is over, I'll be able to play in that eternal game and be happy forever.