Keith gave up the struggle quite easily, then after a few moments panting into the side of Gunther’s neck, bent to deliver an oral finishing move to which he knew Gunther was defenseless.
He’d just righted himself and curled against Gunther’s back to sleep when the phone sounded again.
“If that’s your mom, pretend you’re asleep,” Keith murmured.
“It’s not my mom. It’s my cousin Jerry. He’s just found a parking spot and is on his way over.”
Keith pulled back slightly. “Jarhead Jerry?”
“He’s asking if he can stay here.” Gunther thumbed through the incoming stream of texts. “They still haven’t found a place for him to stay since his transfer from the air force to NIAD.”
Three sharp knocks announced Jerry’s arrival and Keith struggled into a set of sweats and hastened downstairs to let him in. Like Gunther, Jerry had been custom made, but the mage who had transformed him had left more of his snow goblin bone structure intact. He was tall and lean with a broad, down-turning mouth, bristling blond hair and deep-set eyes.
“I appreciate you two letting me camp out here. The only space they’ve got left at the temporary housing is some kind of dog kennel or something.” Jerry dropped his heavy duffel bag in the entryway. Though he’d just made a twenty-seven-hour drive alone, his shirt was perfectly tucked in and his eyes showed only the barest fatigue, though the acrid smell of tobacco sweat wafted off him.
Keith’s cat, Cheeto, who had followed him downstairs, started for the duffel bag with a decidedly acquisitive manner. He shook his fluffy orange tail, preparing to spray.
“No problem.” Keith bent to scoop up Cheeto while Gunther lifted Jerry’s bag to safety.
“I’ll just take this up to the guest room.” Gunther started toward the stairs.
“Can I get you anything?” Keith asked. “Are you hungry? There’s fried chicken in the refrigerator.”
“I think I’d just like to get to bed if you don’t mind.” Jerry’s voice was flat and devoid of its usual bravado. “I’ve been driving a long time.”
Chapter Five
Feeding one insatiable trans-goblin breakfast was an exercise in strategic parboiling and make-ahead tactics, but after a couple of days Keith found that feeding two unexpectedly stretched his early morning faculties.
A man of unyielding habit, Jerry rose at five o’clock, exercised, shaved, showered and had the coffee going every morning by six thirty, when Keith managed to shakily achieve verticality. Jerry would have made breakfast for them all as well, except Gunther had informed their guest that the refrigerator was “Keith’s territory” and therefore off-limits.
Which was as it should be.
Still, now that Keith was on his third day of frying pork chops, he was almost at the point of ceding sovereign rights to his Fresh Meats drawer to anybody willing to put in the extra-greasy effort.
Unable to sit by and happily wait, Jerry had, by day two, taken charge of toast (the one aspect of breakfast that had nothing to do with the refrigerator) and was in the midst of feeding slices of marbled rye into the toaster by the time Keith shuffled, pajama-clad, into the kitchen.
Gunther sat at the kitchen table, chewing a filterless cigarette and scrolling through something on his phone. FaeBook probably. Sunlight filtered in through the wide window.
“How are you this morning, Jerry?” Keith shot a wink to Gunther, who shook his head and gave a discreet eye roll. “Looking forward to rolling out with the strike force?”
“Honestly, I can’t say I am.” Jerry didn’t look up from the bread, which Keith thought maybe he was trying to heat with the power of his displeasure. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here. Do you know where they sent us yesterday? Vegas. To tell some drunks to move along.”
“They were satyrs,” Gunther said. “That same group that’s always getting into trouble. I seriously think some of them could benefit from alcohol counseling.”
“I just thought being raging drunk was their culture,” Keith remarked.
“But is it though?” Gunther asked. “Or are they just doing what they think they should be doing?”
“Who the hell cares? I’m not a cop. Taking care of this petty shit isn’t my business.” Jerry jammed two more slices of bread into the toaster. That brought the total up to twelve. Keith wondered if he was going to toast the entire loaf of bread.
“No, you’re a peace officer. And taking care of petty shit is our business. Regular citizens have the right not to be molested by people who got thrown out of the Elysian realm for being drunk and disorderly.” Gunther gave his cousin a pointed eyeballing, which would have had more effect if Jerry had been looking at him instead of savagely mangling more slices of marble rye. “You should be proud.”
Keith silently prodded the pan of sizzling pork chops. He’d given up attempting to referee Heartmans in conflict. That way madness lay. He’d jump in if Jerry slammed Gunther directly, but otherwise he’d learned it was best to let them work it out.
“Proud? Of being a washout in some bullshit loser job? Yeah, I’m. So. Proud.”
“That’s just hurtful,” Gunther said before Keith could get a word in. “I know you don’t want to be here, but you don’t have to insult me and Keith.”
Jerry stilled, browned rye in his hands. Then he hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about my feelings. I don’t belong here. I’m a pilot, for fuck’s sake. I fly mage jets through portals to defend our country at the edge of outer space. I’m not cut out to dissipate a situation by hugging a drunk old goat till he cries.”
“Sometimes that’s just what’s necessary.” Gunther glanced to Keith. “I learned that move in that aikido book you bought me.”
“Money well spent then.” Keith cracked eight eggs into a second hot skillet. “I didn’t realize you flew fighter jets, Jerry. Though it does explain your love of checklists.”
“I’m a first lieutenant. Or at least I used to be. And as long as I’m being a complete wuss I’m gonna admit that I miss Annie.”
“You have a girlfriend?” Gunther’s hopeful tone could have been channeled directly from his mother.
“No. If the air force had wanted me to have a girlfriend they would have issued me one,” Jerry said. “Annie’s my jet. I’ve never been away from her this long. She keeps texting me. Telling me she doesn’t like the guy that’s flying her—that he can’t handle the G’s and keeps passing out, forcing her to abort. What am I supposed to do about that from over here?”
“Wait.” Keith turned off the burner. “Your jet has an AI? Why does she need a pilot at all?”
“Robots can’t make ethically ambiguous decisions.” Jerry’s fourteenth batch of toast popped up and he started to butter them. “Or override their orders. They’re very subject to viruses and corruption and even possession. Plus you don’t want a world run by robots. I’ve seen it.”
“Where?” Keith couldn’t help but ask. “Where have you seen that?”
“Never mind. Just believe me. You don’t want robots running the show. That’s how you end up with hell-beings in the stratosphere.” Jerry seated himself next to Gunther.
“Now you’re making things up.” Gunther gave a sigh.
“Hand on my heart I am not,” Jerry countered.“Okay, how about this? Blissco is run by robots. Look what that gets us.”
“Fast, free delivery and hassle-free refunds?” Keith offered. He felt he had to, for Susan. He divided the eggs and meats between two plates and set them in front of the trans-goblins, then set two additional eggs to boil (these would go into his pocket for lunch) and went to fill his cereal bowl. A small pillar of buttered toast stood on the table beside the orange juice pitcher.
“Algorithmic manipulation and corporate doublespeak,” Jerry said.
“So much better than military doublespeak,” Gunther remarked.
“At least that’s a language I understand.” Jerry’s phone vibrated and briefly a
n image of a sleek black airplane flashed across the screen. He began to text back immediately.
As Keith chomped on his cereal he couldn’t help but think that the air force had issued Jerry a girlfriend after all.
“Gunther thinks you air force guys are being targeted specifically for being trans-goblins,” Keith said.
“I know we are,” Jerry said. “I even know who is doing it: Senator Blaze Gregson.”
“He’s not in the air force . . . is he?” Keith asked.
“No, but his son is. Right after he came to Space Wing we were all suddenly being questioned about our extended goblin families and who we really owed our allegiance to. As if we would all just drop everything and go back to our ancient roots to help the high king of the sidhe try and take over Ireland or some such shit.”
“I’m pretty sure the high king dissolved the monarchy recently anyway,” Keith said.
“Exactly! And Blaze Jr. doesn’t even know that. But once he found our cousin had violated the Secrecy Act I was yanked out of Annie—actually pulled physically from the cockpit—by a couple of MPs. And Annie was arming her missiles, thinking I was being abducted.” Jerry sighed. “The whole scene was not good.”
“So let me break this down. Space Wing has developed some kind of ultra high-flying jet that only trans-goblin pilots can fly in order to battle space aliens,” Keith began.
“Hell-beings, not aliens. And not just trans-goblins. Other kinds of extra-humans can take the G’s, but yeah. Mainly trans-goblins since there are so many of us in the military anyway,” Jerry said.
“But then Gregson comes along and says—what?” Keith asked. “That we’ve signed an agreement with the hell-beings so we don’t need the mage jets anymore?”
“No, the hell-beings are still out there,” Jerry said. “Gregson says it’s a budget thing. The platinum supplements we take and the cost of keeping doctors trained in extra-human physiology is too much of a taxpayer burden, which—again, bullshit. We’re fucking indestructible. That’s how we got to be test pilots in the first place. Without us they’re going to be going through human pilots by the dozens. And you know what will cost even more? Retrofitting the jets to support humans in the first place and than retrofitting them again each time they lose a pilot. But does that stop them? No. You know why?”
“Because they’re racists?” Keith offered.
Gunther nodded and took a slice of toast.
“It’s not just that.” Jerry shook his head. “The modern military is the most racially integrated organization in America. It’s because they’re puritan isolationists. They think they can somehow conceal the fact that there are thousands—millions—who the fuck knows . . . probably infinite realms of existence. And all of them are full of magic.”
“You think they’re afraid of magic itself?” Gunther asked and he looked thoughtful. “But they can’t eliminate it so they just demand that everybody keep it a secret.”
“Or pretend they don’t have it,” Jerry said. “But everybody has magic.”
“I don’t,” Keith remarked. It was actually a sore spot in his ego.
“You do,” Jerry said. “Telling you that you don’t is one of the ways that people like Gregson try to minimize others around them. But believe me when I say that every single living creature has magic. Just because there’s no official way to measure yours doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
When he arrived at work, Keith was happy to see that the lab had delivered his results. Although the Critical Mass! formulation contained one of the same ingredients as Lupe’s fouled blood sample, two other key active ingredients were missing. Keith was both gratified and annoyed. His hunch about the answer being found in the goblin market was correct and he’d discovered which substance was being used, but he still hadn’t found the source of contamination or the person or persons responsible.
But now he knew the name of the adulterant: expandinol, a magically charged molecule (and Schedule M drug) developed and patented by the Mage Technica Bottling Company, sold mainly in the troll market as an equivalent to caffeine. The energizing effect was much more pronounced on humans, as Keith had seen close up at Seven Moon.
When he searched for expandinol adulteration, he got not one but two hits in NIAD’s international database. Two other blood-dependent individuals who shared Lupe’s extra-human designation had received meals tainted in the same fashion within the last six months: one in Finland and the other in Mexico.
When he contacted the Helsinki office, Johanna, the Food/MED agent there, suggested they set up a three-way video conference to discuss the issue. They decided on midnight DC time, as it was one of the only times all three of them would be awake, since their Mexican counterpart, Damien Navarro, only worked at night. To pass the time while he waited, Keith looked up his international counterparts’ personnel data.
Johanna held a degree in nutrition and was married to a dentist who specialized reconstructive work on näkki, which were a kind of shape-changing female water spirit. Apparently special-forces teams of näkki patrolled the waterways of Finland.
Absently, Keith wondered how Jerry was doing. If it didn’t work out for him on Gunther’s strike force, could he move somewhere like Finland? Or Germany? Would Jerry be guilty of treason if he were to go enlist somewhere else? He didn’t know—he didn’t even know if doing such a thing would violate the provisions of the Secrecy Act—the very act whose misuse got him booted out of the air force in the first place.
But considering that Jerry had an American flag sticker on virtually every item he owned, Keith doubted it would even occur to him to take himself and his expertise elsewhere. He would just stand there still loyal, even when jilted.
The thought left a sour taste in Keith’s mouth. So he turned his attention to his Mexican counterpart, by way of distraction.
Damien had taken a master’s degree in food science from Stanford. He’d joined NIAD after being divorced by his wife, who worked as the chief agronomist of Mexico’s ministry of agriculture.
Keith wondered if NIAD might be his punishment.
The clock struck midnight and Johanna logged in. Behind her Keith could see the bright morning light slanting into the windows of her airy office. She had very short hair, pale eyes and wore the kind of neutral-toned fine knitwear that made all residents of Nordic countries look effortlessly stylish and comfortable at once. Framed certificates covered the wall behind her. A weird amoeba-shaped vase held a prominent place on her windowsill. After a few pleasantries, Johanna said, “We shouldn’t be bothered to wait for Damien. He always is late. Anyway I’m happy to speak to you about this important food security issue.”
“How many of your citizens have been affected?”
“Just one. But one is too many,” Johanna said.
Damien joined the conference then. He looked about fifty years old, slightly paunchy but with a neat mustache and a sharply tailored suit. He held a thin, brown unlit cigarette in his fingers. From the background noise, Keith could tell the Mexico City branch office was busy, even in the dead of night. But the extraordinary thing Keith noted was the sheer number of small shrines, charms and magic-repelling tchotchkes that encrusted the wall behind Damien. The cluttered profusion reminded Keith of icing roses erupting from the surface of an over-decorated wedding cake. Or coral reef. Or wedding cake made to look like a coral reef.
“I’m sorry for being late,” Damien said. “I have this old woman who every day is trying to kill me.”
“Is it your ex-wife?” Johanna asked.
“I wish she would try to kill me. Then I would have a good reason to block her calls. No, it’s my landlady. She thinks I flush the toilet too much so she turns off my water. Then when I go down there she gives me this bag that I’m pretty sure contains some kind of curse or tarantula. Look at it moving around.” Damien held a clearly squirming paper bag aloft. “So, you must be Keith Curry, huh? It’s good to meet you. Did you know you are the first person from the US office to e
ver call me?”
“No, I didn’t realize.”
“Before we formally begin we’ll agree to conduct the call in English, okay?” Johanna said.
“That’s good news, since I don’t speak any other language,” Keith remarked.
“Yes, this is what I thought.” Johanna seemed pleased with herself.
Keith kept his business smile stuck on, feeling hopelessly outclassed by both his counterparts.
“I do understand quite a bit of snow goblin,” he added.
“I bet you do,” Damien said. “Good friends with a guy in strike force, I see. That must be very convenient.”
“It is.” It hadn’t occurred to him that his international counterparts would have also reviewed his file, or that he should have done that himself to see what weirdly specific information they had on him.
“But your boss has to know that this pending complaint about you is shit, right?” Damien opened up a briefcase and withdrew what looked like a chocolate pudding cup. He opened this and set it on the far corner of his desk.
“Absolutely,” Johanna agreed. “It’s not appropriate to reprimand you for such a thing. I will write to your supervisor myself if you’d like.”
“Latest complaint?” Keith checked the company email on his phone. There were no outstanding messages.
“In your file here it says that some asshole called Nash filed a complaint about you donating blood to a client without filing any of the appropriate paperwork,” Damien said.
“Nobody’s reprimanded me about that, but yeah, it happened,” Keith said.
Johanna’s eyes widened slightly with suppressed delight. “Oh, Keith, you should not just admit things like this.”
“It’s not like I have plausible deniability.” Keith gave a shrug.
“That might be true,” Damien cut in. “But as a twenty year veteran of this shitty job I want to give you a piece of advice: never admit anything to anyone ever. Especially not your wife. And especially when you’re somebody who obviously gets in trouble a lot.”
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