The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [51]
Fire and wonder. . . .
Quickly, she read the entire entry. She remembered now. It was the day she had ridden alone into the canyon above Castle City, to make a satellite phone call to Farr. There, by the side of a deserted road, she had encountered a pale girl in an archaic black dress. Only later did she learn that both Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder had encountered this same girl, that her name was Child Samanda, and that there were two others she seemed to travel with: a preacher named Brother Cy, and a red-haired woman named Sister Mirrim.
The Seekers had never been able to locate any trace of these three individuals, but that didn't surprise Deirdre. Maybe Marji, the West Colfax Avenue psychic, had been right. Maybe Deirdre did have some ability as a shaman. Because Deirdre had known in an instant this was no normal child.
Cradling the journal, Deirdre ran her finger over the conversation she had transcribed over a year ago.
Seek them as you journey, the child had said.
What do you mean? Deirdre had asked. Seek what?
Fire and wonder.
At the time, there had been so much going on—the Burned Man, the illness of Travis's friend Max Bayfield, Duratek's agents in Castle City—that Deirdre hadn't noticed the connection. Now, at last, she did. What was the significance of the ghostly child's words? And why had she appeared to Deirdre?
She set the journal down and found herself staring once more at the box in the corner. Maybe it was a hunch. Or maybe it was what Marji would have called her gift. Either way, Deirdre moved to the box and knelt beside it. She broke the tape with a key, dug through layers of packing peanuts, and pulled out something cool and hard. It was a notebook computer. The machine was sleek and light, encased in brushed metal.
She took the computer to the dinette table, opened it, and pressed the power button. A chime sounded as it whirred to life. A login screen appeared, but there was no place to type her agent name or password.
She turned the computer, studying it. Inserted into the side was a silvery expansion module. The module bore a thin slit, about the width and thickness of a credit card. Deirdre reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her new ID card. It slid into place with a soft snick.
The login screen vanished, replaced by a spinning wheel. Just as Deirdre was thinking she should have plugged the computer into a phone jack, the screen went black. Then words scrolled into being, as if typed by invisible hands:
DNA authentication scan accepted. Seeker Agent Deirdre Falling Hawk—identity confirmed.
Working . . .
Deirdre let out a low whistle. So this thing was wireless. More glowing words scrolled across the screen.
Welcome to Echelon 7.
What do you want to do?
>
The cursor blinked on and off, expectant. Deirdre sat back in the chair and ran a hand through her red-black hair.
“Damn,” she said.
What was she supposed to do? There were no menus on the screen, no windows to explore, no buttons to click. Just the glowing words.
It asked you a question, Deirdre. So why not answer it?
She swallowed a nervous laugh, then leaned forward and tapped out words on the keyboard.
I want to find something.
She pressed Enter. A moment later new words appeared on the screen.
What do you want to find?
>
Deirdre hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys. Then, quickly, she typed three words.
Fire and wonder.
Again she pressed Enter. The words flashed, then vanished. Deirdre chewed her lip. Had she done something wrong? She reached out to press another key.
Before her finger touched the keyboard, the screen exploded into a riot of motion and color. Dozens of session windows popped into being. Text poured through some of the windows