Black Sun

by Gail Z Martin

  The swanky room’s marble floors, satin upholstered furniture, and crystal goblets were a world away from my normal experience. The gap between it and my humble rooming house was far more than the dozen streets that separated them. I sat down and settled into the couch. I didn’t mind enjoying how the other half lived when the opportunity presented itself.

  “Everyone’s on edge about labor disputes,” West added, sipping a cup of coffee that he’d poured from a silver thermal urn sent up from the kitchen. “Especially with what the Bolsheviks have done in Russia. The anarchists seem determined to make their move, and the industrialists are holding on tighter than ever.” He shrugged. “Which means a reasonable solution is probably unlikely.”

  “I understand what the Free Society is selling to the working men,” I chimed in, trying to hold my china cup in large hands not meant for fragile porcelain. “But where’s the appeal to the owners of the mines and the mills and the railroads?”

  “A good con artist sells the mark his own fantasies,” West replied, perching on the corner of a marble-topped desk. “If the miners and workers want to see their bosses laid low, then the bosses want a never-ending supply of drones who will work until they drop, not demand wage raises, and never rebel.”

  “And since the con artist is the only one who wins, we’ve got to consider what Hanussen wants,” Sarah added, stirring a dollop of whiskey into her coffee from a silver hip flask. “And what he’ll repackage to sell back to the palookas he’s fleeced.”

  “Free labor and cheap energy,” West replied. “Odds are Hanussen will charge a small fortune for ‘access,’ then skip out with the money. And you were right, Joe. The ideas were all there in that Lovecraft book I read. A new power source with mystical origins called ‘vril,’ and a legion of monsters from the depths, the ‘Vril-ya.’ Catnip to the men with the power and purse strings.”

  “Do you think Hanussen is somehow manipulating the Free Society as well as courting the members of The Order? Playing both ends against the middle?” I asked, wondering why people bothered with cups that barely held a thimbleful of liquid.

  “I think it’s possible,” West replied. “But what’s keeping them from unveiling the whole thing?”

  “Maybe they were waiting for their armanenschaft,” I said. “Their high priest, to summon the Vril-ya. Hanussen.”

  “The bigwigs at Reading Railroad have to be drooling at the prospect,” Sarah added. She sat opposite me on the couch, with her legs drawn up beneath her. Sarah looked svelte and classy in a black, slit-to-the-hip sheath that covered daring wide-legged pants. Others would see her outfit as a fashion statement. West and I knew it served for her to climb to the bell tower and retrieve the prophecy. Or make a quick getaway.

  “The railroad is losing money. Several of the executives are in debt. The coal and iron mines are even worse. Most likely, it’s general incompetence coupled with the very high operating costs of three large businesses,” Sarah went on.

  Anyone who mistook her for just another pretty face was sorely mistaken. While she had sold the coal company she inherited from her late husband for a handsome profit, she understood its inner workings and balance sheet as well or better than most of the executives. The only daughter of James “Barron” McAllen had been raised from birth to play a man’s game and win.

  “So the idea of free labor and free, unlimited energy would have been a siren call to them at any time,” she went on, “but now? They’re likely to ask even fewer questions than usual. Investors are wary. There’s talk that the Market may not be solid. Those executives will pounce on an opportunity that would give them the advantage to weather a bad economy.”

  “So who ultimately wins?” I asked, carefully setting my fragile cup aside before I broke it. “Who’s pulling Hanussen’s strings? He doesn’t seem likely to be the mastermind.”

  West chewed his lip, a sure tell that he knew more than he was supposed to say. “There are troubling voices rising in Germany, angry young men who have gained a following. Hanussen’s known to have admirers among them.”

  “America spoiled the plans of the Kaiser, coming in on the Great War at the end. If monsters from the deep were unleashed in America, it might keep us too busy to intervene the next time someone in Europe got ambitious,” I suggested.

  West shot me a sharp glance, telling me without saying a word that I’d cut to the chase.

  “Good thing we’re on the job,” Sarah replied with a grin. “Let’s go climb a bell tower.”

  I don’t know where Sarah got the cherry-red Duesenberg Model J when I knew for a fact she and West came into Reading by private Pullman car. No doubt, her infinite network of friends came into play, from boarding school, university, country clubs, and family by blood and marriage. I’m good behind the wheel, but driving a car that cost far more than I could have earned in my entire mortal life made me nervous. Fortunately, to Sarah, it was just a car.

  I knew the plan. I’d pull up at the front of the Pagoda so Sarah and West could make a high-profile entrance. The invitation-only gathering wouldn’t be covered by the press or photographers, but Sarah knew the value of making a memorable impression. People would remember where they were, so they would be less likely to recall later where they weren’t.

  After I dropped them off, I took the car around back and parked to make a quick getaway. I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary, but I didn’t trust our luck to last. Once I stashed the car, I’d made my way in through the servants’ entrance and unlock as many of the doors to the bell tower as possible.

  Sarah drew the short straw of going up to the top of the building to examine the prophetic inscription on the bell since the space was too tight for the likes of West or me. Fortunately, the bell tower was accessible from inside the building. Unfortunately, Sarah had no plausible reason to be there if she were discovered.

  A burly guard stood watch over the back door. I knocked him out as gently as I could and dragged his body into the shadows. It didn’t take me long to pick the lock.

  The dark entranceway was deserted, so I headed for the door to the stairs. It, too, was locked, and I felt tempted to just rip the door from the frame, but that would be noisy. With a sigh, I made quick work of the lock and headed up the first flight of steps.

  At the top, I paused to listen and heard footsteps on the other side of yet another locked door. Someone must have heard me because two bullets ripped through the wood right where I’d been standing only seconds before.

  I pulled my gun and yanked the door open, tearing it loose from its hinges, and seized the moment of surprise to fire on the guard, who died with a look of utter shock on his face. The noise drew another goon watching from the upper level, who tried to shoot down the stairwell at me. He hit the plaster wall. I didn’t miss, and his body came tumbling down the steps, leaving a bloody trail.

  I dragged the two corpses away from the stairs and took a moment to pat them down. Where one man’s sleeve rode up, I saw the wolfsangel tattoo. A death’s head mark on the other goon’s neck showed beneath his collar.

  That confirmed that the bruisers weren’t the usual Pagoda security. The bell itself weighed hundreds of pounds, so no one was likely to be worried about it being stolen. Whatever the inscription was on the bell, it had to be important if Hanussen was going to this much effort to keep it a secret. That told me that the prophecy might reveal a weak point we could use to our advantage.

  By the time Sarah had made it through the social gauntlet and excused herself to powder her nose, I was at the base of the stairs, waiting for her.

  “All clear?” she asked when she slipped through the door.

  “Smooth sailing, all the way to the top,” I assured her. “Don’t mind the mess.” I handed her the hard wax and special paper she’d need to do a rubbing of the bell’s mysterious inscription. She headed up the steps, and I leaned back against the door, effectively blocking it should anyone else decide to go exploring.

  Sooner than I expected,
Sarah hurried down, handing off the wax and paper. “I hope it’s readable. I pressed as hard as I dared. Didn’t want to make it ring by accident and draw attention.” She dragged the soles of her high-heeled shoes across the floor a few times to clean away any traces of blood.

  “Nice work,” she said with a wink. “Although the housekeeper probably won’t approve.”

  I tucked the items back into the interior pocket of my coat and checked the corridor before waving her through. Once Sarah headed back to the big party, I wound back through the service hallways until I found a quiet place to the right of the stage. If I positioned myself carefully, I could see through the crack between the two swinging doors, while not drawing attention to myself. The other drivers would either wait in their cars or huddle around the employee doors having a smoke and sharing a flask. I knew West and Sarah would report what happened, but I felt the need to see for myself.

  I startled when I spotted the night’s speaker. He was the other man on the train, the well-dressed one who kept looking at me, the one I suspected of being a witch. A sinking feeling hit my gut. I wished for a way to signal to West and Sarah, but I couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t make it even more likely we’d be caught. I kept my gun in hand and waited for the shit to hit the fan.

  Hanussen cut a striking figure in his tuxedo. Thick dark hair and heavy black eyebrows gave him a dramatic appearance, as I remembered from the train. Not a handsome man, but memorable, less because of his features than for his manner. Whatever else he might be, for good or ill, Hanussen was a consummate performer. He didn’t overplay his part, like a cut-rate vaudevillian, or bore the crowd with a lecture.

  Hanussen’s showmanship transfixed the room as he spoke of ancient mysteries, translated ciphers, and arcane lore. His dark eyes gleamed with passion, and perhaps more, as I recalled his reputation as a mesmerist. I could see the audience leaning forward to catch every word, following his movements with rapt attention.

  From where I stood, I couldn’t tell where West and Sarah were in the crowd, although I knew they’d be toward the back, on an end, where they could make a quick getaway if things went south. Whatever cover story they’d used had bought them entry among Reading’s elite. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns filled the audience. Expensive jewelry gleamed beneath the electric chandelier, one of the modern luxuries the Pagoda boasted of as a promise of things to come with the planned hotel expansion.

  “…gateway to hidden knowledge, the wisdom of the ancients,” Hanussen said. He sounded educated and cultured, which would appeal to his audience, and this being Reading, they would not be put off by his German accent.

  “The wonders of King Tutankhamen’s tomb are nothing compared to what we will learn when we engage the secrets of the Elders. In my visions, they have shown me glimpses so that I may share those insights with you. You are worthy of being among the first to hear these truths, which have not been uttered lo these many millennia.”

  He had them eating out of the palm of his hand, shills willing to be fleeced, and as much as I despised Hanussen on principle, I had to admire his skill as a con man.

  “Not everyone has the mental fortitude to appreciate this information,” Hanussen continued. “It is not for the weak-minded or the weak of will. But for those who are superior, who do not shrink from what is difficult, who are foreordained to lead, the secrets I am about to share with you will be invaluable.”

  I’d expected parlor tricks from Hanussen, a bit of high-class mumbo jumbo—putting volunteers into trances, a bit of “mind reading” that depended on hidden advance research, a little sleight of hand.

  But the longer I watched him stride back and forth across the dais, the more I felt a prickle of warning that he was more than just an excellent performer. My intuition, grown stronger after my deal with Krukis, told me that Hanussen had a bit of real magic, either of his own, or gifted by an entity who used him for its own purposes. I remembered Krukis’s warning in my vision on the train and repressed a shiver.

  “Think of the possibilities for unlimited energy,” Hanussen urged his audience. “Energy to power factories and railroads, mills, and steamships, without worry about its cost or the need to transport the bulk of wood, coal, or oil. Imagine what you could achieve with a superior workforce that asks for nothing except purpose, that cannot comprehend insubordination, that lives only to serve.”

  “This is the future I have glimpsed, ladies and gentlemen. The future that is just now within our ability to grasp.” Like a spider, Hanussen had woven a beautiful web, and now came the time to invite the fly to dinner.

  “I have no doubts,” he proclaimed. “And before I ask for your help, before I present the ways in which you might become involved in making this glorious future come true, I wish to offer you proof. Proof, so that, like me, you will also have no doubts.”

  The warning prickle grew stronger. Perhaps the magic that bound me to Krukis sensed Hanussen’s ability, or maybe I’d just been fucked over enough times in my life to see it coming, but my gut clenched, and I knew we needed to leave.

  But we couldn’t, not yet, not until we saw what we came to see and heard what Hanussen planned to offer the elite of Reading in exchange for their souls.

  Two black-clad stagehands rolled a table and chair out onto the dais. On the table’s dark covering lay something, but from my angle, I couldn’t see what. Those in the audience strained for a look, and Hanussen chuckled, promising he would reveal all very soon.

  “I propose a demonstration! I will show you just a bit of the Vril power that lies, untapped, beneath us. Power that cannot be withdrawn with shovels and picks, or with machines and steam. No, this power is called forth by mind and will, and only those suitable to the task—like you—can wield it.”

  Hanussen walked around the small table and sat, managing through the gracefulness of his movement and the fluttering of his hands to keep every eye on him, riveted. He lifted the artifact on the table, and I realized it was a sonnenrad, the lightning-spoked wheel-within-a-wheel. The relic he held looked to be about a foot wide, large enough for him to see the crowd over it, but big enough for them to clearly see it as well.

  “I present the Black Sun, one of the most potent ancient symbols of the Vril-ya, the People of the Power,” he said, voice dropping as if he conveyed information of the gravest importance.

  “This rare artifact amplifies my natural mesmerism, my psychic talent, so that I can channel the ancient energy, to settle any doubts you may have.”

  He slowly scanned the audience. “I do not want you to harbor any doubts, any concerns, that what I am sharing with you is real. I give to you my whole truth, holding nothing back.”

  Hanussen gripped the Black Sun with one hand on each side. It began to glow from within, emphasizing the double wolfsangel bolts that formed the dark rays. A hush fell over the audience, and Hanussen’s baritone voice rose in a chant, in a language that did not sound like anything spoken on this world.

  I figured it was time to call in the big guns. Krukis, I call on you. Lend me your strength and spirit so that I can protect and defend. Make me your instrument!

  I felt the shift, as Krukis’s power filled me. My skin warmed, as the old god’s magic made it into thin, flexible metal, and my bones took on the strength of steel. I could pull with the power of a mule team and run with the speed of a racehorse. Enhanced by an extra touch of the divine, my senses sharpened, as did my intuition.

  I knew we were all in terrible danger.

  Light flared from the relic Hanussen clutched. It did not burst forth toward the audience, like a sunbeam. Instead, a deep violet glow suffused the black sun, and then outlined the mesmerist in its otherworldly radiance. Hanussen raised his head, and even where I stood, I could make out that same purple light shining from his eyes. The audience gasped, but I caught my breath as my heart pounded.

  Hanussen channeled Veles, the god of the underworld. He went by many names, Chernabog, Morok, the Horned God. All of t
hem spelled trouble.

  Why is Veles screwing around with a guy like Hanussen? I didn’t doubt that it was borrowed power from Veles and not the Vril that gave Hanussen his fancy glow. But as soon as the question formed in my mind, so did the answer.

  Veles is the god of the underworld. Death and destruction make him more powerful. War, riots, marauding monsters, all increase the death toll. If Hanussen is raising money to help a new angry power rise in Germany, a few parlor tricks would be nothing compared to the deaths Veles could reap.

  An assistant brought out an electric lamp, making it clear that the fixture was not plugged in. Hanussen stretched out his hand, purple light arced, and the lamp glowed brightly. The crowd clapped and cheered.

  Two more assistants brought out a small electric motor on a board, also unplugged. They set it on the table in front of Hanussen, who repeated his parlor trick. The purple glow surrounded the entire motor, which roared to life as if by “magic.”

  This time, the crowd surged to its feet, applauding Hanussen as if he were an inventor and not just a conduit. He’d have their cash and be safely back in Germany before they realized how easily they’d been bilked.

  The “free energy” Hanussen promised was a pipe dream, but the monsters that The Order and the Free Society wanted to raise were real. West and Sarah and I needed to close down this deadly game before it turned bloody.

  The mesmerist turned in his seat so that his eyes seemed to see right through the doors that hid me. “We have a traitor in our midst! One who could seek to prevent our victory. He hides there! Seize him!” Hanussen cried out, pointing right at my hiding place.

  In that split second, I had a choice to fight an ancient god in a room full of breakable mortals, or run and hope the plans we’d made would bottle up the creatures before Hanussen could complete his scheme.

  Sarah screamed a bloodcurdling shriek, which I was sure was intended for distraction. A shot fired, and its bullet hit the chandelier, plunging the room into darkness.