THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

  Missiles like that were notoriously difficult to operate. They’d even talked about it in Level IV, during Weber’s tactics class—debated the relative utility of using less advanced systems in lieu of expending time and power training specialized forces to work the command line-of-sight. Half the soldiers carrying these systems on their shoulders right now weren’t trained.

  But they didn’t need to be.

  Noam’s technopathy tangled up in those too-advanced systems, and he shut his eyes, focusing his attention down to nothing but data.

  Aim.

  Fire.

  The percussive bursts of rocket fire followed a brief and rapid rhythm. Noam felt them make contact with aircraft not because his magic had breached the planes’ antiwitching shields but because he felt the missiles themselves collide with something hard and solid, felt them blossom in fire and heat.

  He opened his eyes.

  The sky was aflame, rose-gold light flourishing against a dark field.

  But that wasn’t the end. Of course it wasn’t.

  Four planes made it to the ground, and although Noam’s unit was able to take out some of the soldiers parachuting down from the damaged carriers, they couldn’t get them all.

  “Defend the structure,” Noam repeated his own orders to himself. “Let them siege. Wait for reinforcements.”

  His soldiers fell into formation at the entrance to the hangar, and Noam sensed all the other units doing the same. Then the peppery rhythm of machine gun fire. From all sides—the antiwitching soldiers would have to split their efforts even more than they had already, would make themselves easy to pick off.

  Noam hoped.

  “Sir.” Lieutenant Colonel Harris appeared at his elbow, her own gun in hand—although hopefully she wouldn’t have to use it. “You need to get to a more defensible position.”

  Right. She was right. No matter how much every fiber of Noam screamed to stay in place, do his part to protect the soldiers he was responsible for, ultimately he was more useful applying his technopathy to their own side’s weaponry and making sure the power grid stayed down. Couldn’t do that if he got shot.

  He nodded, once, and turned to head deeper in the aircraft hangar, under the shadowy wings of a dark-windowed Texan jet. The sound of gunfire retreated until the uneven gasps of his own breath were louder—and there, hidden behind forty-five tons of steel and fiberglass, Noam let himself tip forward and press his brow against the cold wall. He clenched his eyes shut and focused on his heartbeat, trying to slow the frantic patter of his pulse against his ribs.

  Calm down. You have to be in control.

  If he wasn’t in control, all those people would die. And it would be all his fault.

  Pull it together, Álvaro.

  He pushed off the wall and headed toward the back stairs, taking them two at a time up to the third floor. He found a spot by a window in someone’s abandoned office where he could see the battle playing out down on the ground and reached out with his power again—this time for the comms, repeating the message he’d been sending out since they came up with this fucking plan: Urgent reinforcements needed at Houston airport; antiwitching units on the ground.

  Nobody answered. Not that he could sense.

  That was the part he didn’t dare tell the lieutenant colonel or the major—or even Bethany.

  What if we’re alone out here?

  He couldn’t watch the bloodshed. Couldn’t watch his own people getting gunned down, see the way their bodies contorted when the bullets hit them, reeling back and then slumping to the ground. He turned his gaze toward the antiwitching planes instead, half planning to see if there was any way he could use magic on something adjacent to them to strand the soldiers on the ground, only—

  Only there were more people coming out of the final plane. And although they were escorted by soldiers in that shimmering, iridescent armor . . . they weren’t wearing it themselves.

  “Shit!”

  Noam lurched to his feet, but he didn’t get a chance to run downstairs, didn’t even get a chance to send off a comm to the lieutenant colonel or the major.

  One of those unarmored men lifted a hand, then brought it down in a heavy swoop.

  The aircraft hangar began to cave in on itself, dust and plaster raining down on Noam’s hair a split second before he managed to shift his focus up and grasp the building with telekinesis.

  And—fuck, goddamn it, this building was heavy. Noam gritted his teeth against the effort of it.

  He should—he couldn’t hold this, he couldn’t, he had to—put it somewhere. Only there were people here, people in here; he couldn’t expose them to gunfire—

  Even the floor under Noam’s feet was unsteady as he staggered out of the room and toward the stairs. The whole building swayed like the deck of a ship, the metal grip on the stairs slippery and uneven underfoot as Noam made his way down. He almost reached for the handrail, but—no, that’d be worse. He’d probably tip over the side and fall, fall, fall . . .

  He made it to the ground floor with sweat beading his brow. Half his magic was still tied up maintaining the Faraday shield on his mind; he barely—he could barely keep this building up, barely keep one mental finger on the Texan witchings’ abilities in case they tried something new. Which of course they would.

  “Noam!” Bethany ran toward him, white faced with blood on her neck. Someone else’s, Noam assumed.

  “Get people out of here,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Out. I can’t—I can’t hold it. Watch them. Witchings. They’ll try—”

  He couldn’t. Couldn’t talk. Even breathing felt strenuous.

  To her credit, Bethany didn’t question him. She just wet her lips before she spun on her heel and dashed toward the lieutenant colonel and the front lines.

  Noam’s legs were shaking, little waves of dizziness cresting through his head. He gave up standing and dropped to his knees there on the floor, pressing both palms against the cold concrete and sucking in a narrow breath. He vaguely sensed Bethany’s magic, pale pink and fiery, flashing out in reaction to something one of the Texan witchings did.

  Texan witchings. Two words Noam never thought he’d think in a sentence together, but there was no mistaking it: they were . . .

  Internment hospitals. Right. These weren’t Texan soldiers; they were—they were research subjects. They were incarcerated just like Lehrer had been during the catastrophe.

  Bile rocked up in Noam’s throat, and he swallowed against it; if he vomited now, he’d lose focus and kill them all.

  Fuck it. Lehrer wasn’t here. Fuck it—

  Noam released the Faraday shield around his mind.

  Magic flooded his system, a wash of energy like cool water dousing him from overhead. The building stabilized—at least for now—as Noam pushed himself up again, dragging a shaky hand over his sweaty brow.

  He had to get out. Before the building collapsed. Before those antiwitching soldiers—and their witchings—moved in on whatever was left of the hangar. Noam couldn’t fight them, after all, not with that armor.

  He should retreat with the rest of his unit.

  A lot of shoulds. Noam’d never been much for those.

  He went forward instead, through the glittering dust that still rained down from the fractured ceiling, toward the glowing white lights of the aerodromes. Toward the Texan soldiers and their prisoners.

  Toward Texan witchings.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  NOAM

  Noam sensed the last of his soldiers escape the crumbling building, the metal of their guns fleeing out a back door. He waited for them to get clear before he let go.

  The hangar collapsed, a slow but immediate implosion, like an island caving into the sea. Noam didn’t look back. He didn’t need to; he felt it happen, the steel skeleton of the building crumpling like scrap paper and tugging on his magnetism like an electrical circuit. But he couldn’t focus on that—because ahead, beyond the plume of dust and smoke, he also sensed the sizzl
e of strangers’ magic.

  And they’d sense him too.

  Noam tasted his own fear in his mouth, hot and ferrous. It coiled down his spine like a snake: venomous.

  Fear was as much a weapon as anger.

  Noam acted first. He threw his magic out, tight and constricting as a web, sparking with as many volts of electricity as he could muster. Better to end this quickly, kill them before they could figure out a strategy.

  Only, shit, at least a few of them managed to deflect the net—he felt their magic sizzling against his, an opposing magnetic pole that sent light striking up toward the dim sky. Noam’s palms were damp already. But there was no time for that, no time to submit to the adrenaline searing through his veins.

  The witchings retaliated almost instantly. All of them. A storm of magic, crackling with too much—everything. Fire, electricity, the threat of imminent pain. And—shit—Noam deflected the flurry of bullets just in time. It hurt, it physically hurt, extending his magic like this: blocking the witchings’ attack, evading the bullets. He didn’t even . . . god, he didn’t even have an automatic weapon, only his service pistol.

  He drew that anyway, flicking off the safety and reaching out with his power to sense—

  He couldn’t sense them. Of course. Antiwitching armor.

  Noam’s magic lashed out again, and he used the cover to step out from the smoke wreathing the collapsed hangar.

  Four of them. Four witchings, twelve antiwitching soldiers . . . shit, shit.

  Noam aimed his gun at them anyway and fired, over and over; he hit one in the neck, and the soldier in that armor collapsed like a broken doll. He squinted against the white flares of light as they held down the triggers on their machine guns, Noam’s electromagnetic shield the only thing keeping those bullets from tearing into him like he was made of paper.

  He couldn’t shoot them all. He was gonna run out of bullets. He couldn’t use his magic against that antiwitching armor, either; he had to—fuck, he had to be smarter.

  Okay.

  Focus.

  It was taking almost all his focus fighting those damn witchings.

  One of the witchings had their own electromagnetic shield up now, defending the antiwitching soldiers from Noam’s bullets. Question was, which one?

  Violet-colored magic—okay, trace it back to the source. There.

  That one. Blond hair.

  Noam redirected his magical attacks, using whatever he could spare from his defenses to assault that one witching. The others noticed, of course, and so he had to contend with their efforts to protect blond guy—

  A shot of lightning zipped past him, uncomfortably close. Shit. He couldn’t drop his guard.

  Just. Kill the blond guy.

  Noam threw as much power as he could behind the attack, yelling with the effort of it. It felt like magic was barbed wire ripping through his veins. Like it would tear him open and he’d bleed out here on this field, like he’d burn himself to cinder—

  Fuck it.

  He started running full tilt across the tarmac. He got the chance to see the blond guy’s eyes widen a split second before Noam collided with him, and they both toppled to the hard ground.

  He was inside their shield now, could have shot his own gun at the antiwitching soldiers if he wasn’t so busy deflecting their bullets. Noam slammed his elbow against the blond guy’s throat—it was bright, so bright, the night lit up with the pop-pop of automatic gunfire as the soldiers emptied their magazines on Noam.

  He had the Texan witching gripped between his knees, the man’s fingers pressing hard into Noam’s thighs as he tried to fight him off with superstrength.

  “Just die already,” Noam growled and thrust forward with as much strength as he could muster.

  The witching’s skull crushed under the weight of Noam’s hand. His blood sprayed out like paint. His insides splattered Noam’s face. They tasted like red meat.

  Some distant part of Noam was aware enough to know he should be horrified. But there was no time for that.

  He swept out another wave of magic. And this time, his bullets found their targets, slipping into the vulnerable cracks between armor to bury deep in living flesh, the antiwitching soldiers dropping around Noam like puppets with their strings cut.

  Noam couldn’t move. He was frozen amid the carnage, gore dripping off his face and smearing his hands. Distant gunfire rounded off. Someone’s magic tore a plane from the sky, and it crashed into the dirt, black smoke pluming toward heaven.

  I killed them.

  I killed them all.

  His legs gave out, and he collapsed forward, pressing his brow against the hot tarmac. When Noam’s eyes slid shut, all he could see was Dara. They were in the Level IV common room. Dara was curled up on the sofa, his bare feet tucked between the cushions and a book held against his knees. He was reading Tolstoy.

  I love Tolstoy, Noam wanted to tell him.

  Say it. He should say it.

  Have you read this one before? We can talk about it if you want.

  He’d been too afraid. Nervous Dara would fix him with that derisive glare and say something snide and dismissive that would make Noam want to vanish into the cracks between the floorboards.

  He should have said something.

  Why had he waited so long to say something?

  A terrible wind ripped through Noam’s hair and caught the back of his uniform shirt, whipping it against his spine. Another helicopter. Texan reinforcements.

  Get up.

  Noam didn’t move.

  Get up. You’ll die here.

  Noam stayed where he was. He breathed in the scent of smoke and death.

  Gravel crunched under the weight of boots on the ground. Noam stayed where he was, his eyes shut, trying to remember Dara’s face. The way Dara had looked up, just then, and met Noam’s gaze across the common room, and the corner of his mouth lifted like he knew a secret Noam didn’t.

  “Álvaro!”

  They knew his name. How did they know his name?

  “Álvaro,” the voice said again, and then a hand pressed against the nape of his neck and turned him over onto his back, the aerodrome lights careening overhead. Then a face slid into focus.

  Major General García crouched over him, her hair tangling up in the helicopter wind. She had two fingers pressed to his neck like she was checking for a pulse.

  “Oh,” Noam said. His voice sounded like it came from very far away. “Hi.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  Noam thought about it for a moment. “No. It’s not my blood.”

  García’s brows raised. “I can see that. Come on—let’s get you up.”

  She curved an arm under his back and helped hoist him to his feet. It was only once Noam was standing, gazing back toward the destroyed hangar and all the wreckage he’d left in his wake, that he realized . . .

  “Did we win?”

  “You demolished them,” she said, and her hand lingered on his nape a beat longer before falling away. “Come on. Time to go.”

  Noam was still staring at the smoke, his eyes watering with the heat of it. “Go where?”

  “You’ve been called back to Dallas. The chancellor wants to see you.”

  From an interview originally published in Ariel, a popular magazine in Texas.

  Ariel: Dr. Rathbone, you spent six years living in Durham, Carolinia, and studying at Carolinia National University. Can you tell us a little bit about how this was possible, given that you aren’t a Carolinian citizen?

  Rathbone: You’re quite right: I’m not Carolinian. I was born in York, actually, and lived there most of my life. I studied biology at Cornell University—but what I was really interested in was genetics. Say what you will about Carolinia being stuck in the past; they have some of the best genetics researchers on this planet. When I was offered a fully funded PhD fellowship at Carolinia National University, I would have been a fool to turn it down. But . . . you’re right. I was the only person in my program who was
n’t a born Carolinian citizen.

  Ariel: That must have been quite the culture shock.

  Rathbone: It was. Not just the fact that I had to get used to using the kind of technology that was popular when my grandparents were university aged. Carolinians have a very peculiar political consciousness. Compared to York and Texas, they have relatively European social policies: single-payer health care, guaranteed housing, free higher education, a livable minimum wage, prolonged parental leave. And they’re very much on par with the rest of the world when it comes to their progressive pro-LGBTQ attitudes, gender equality, and—forgive me, but I have to agree with them when it comes to witching rights. They are the only country in the world right now where it is safe to be a powerful witching.

  Ariel: I’m sensing a but there.

  Rathbone: But . . . well, I think we can all agree their immigration policy leaves something to be desired. It’s all well and good providing affordable housing for Carolinian citizens, but there were neighborhoods you didn’t go to at night. Atlantian refugees were left to cobble together shared housing in tenements and slums, with no government health care, no education . . . even the strictest quarantine laws in the world can’t stop magic from spreading once it’s taken root in one of the refugee communities. And of course that only created more xenophobia, more violence.

  Ariel: We’ve all heard rumors, too, of the ironclad strength of the Carolinian propaganda machine.

  Rathbone: Ah, yes. Well. All you have to do is look at historical records to uncover the truth. In Carolinia, children are taught that Calix and Adalwolf Lehrer almost single-handedly destroyed the former United States with the efforts of their Avenging Angels. However, outside of Carolinia, it is common knowledge that—although the Avenging Angels were responsible for the establishment of the nation of Carolinia and the destruction of Washington, DC—there were multiple revolutionary organizations working in concert to help bring down the United States.

  Ariel: How aware, would you say, is the average Carolinian about how the present nations of North America were formed?