Hellbender (The Fangborn Series Book 3)

by Dana Cameron

  “Excuse me, I must go,” I said to the ensign Cousin, who was agape. “Naserian, would you please stay here and answer any questions these folks might have?”

  “Certainly, Hellbender.”

  “Particularly that gentleman, in the very nice blazer.” I pointed at Senator Knight, who flinched under the dragon’s gaze. He saw me watching him, saw me raise my pretend pistol to my lips and blow across the pretend barrel before I followed the dragons to the meta-space of the Makers.

  I slowed as I approached the door to the Castle, the silent cityscape of Boston University around me. I was grubby from the explosion and frankly hadn’t spent a lot of quality time with the tweezers and razor lately.

  I didn’t have time to think of a whole new metaphor, and I’d felt surprisingly weak after the explosion. I didn’t want to waste my energy by creating a whole new meta-me; besides, if I went all badassed and swaggery and Queen Empress of Doom, rolling up in a blacked-out Escalade followed by a retinue of scary-looking troll praetorian guards, it would have been rude. The Makers had, in their way, been nice enough to show up and interact with me, heavy-handed as it had been. I couldn’t afford to be rude, but I had to be . . . more of an equal. I had demands to make and negotiating to do.

  I could change what I was wearing. Clean it up a little.

  I was in the lab.

  “Sean!”

  He looked up from the catalog he was working on, smoothed his mustache. “Yeah?”

  “I need something to wear.”

  “Like what? I’m not exactly Tim Gunn.”

  And it was moments like those that I realized it was only an idea of Sean derived from my memories, not his. Alive, he wouldn’t know Tim Gunn from Tiny Tim. “Uh . . . something that resonates power—not like a Transformer,” I hastened to add. “Like . . . worldly power.”

  “Like the pope?”

  I took a minute to figure out how “pope” and “worldly power” went together, in Sean’s mind, and then shook my head. “Um . . . less masculine?”

  “Wonder Woman.”

  “No, jeez, not like a comic book—” Then I realized, I wasn’t sure what to do. Time was drawing short, and if it was an illusion for the Administrator, it wasn’t for me. Putting it off wouldn’t do me any good, and my nerves were already clanging.

  Fuck it.

  I clapped my hands once: My jeans were new and clean and fit me as if angels had collaborated with Edith Head to design them. My old boots—tired, beat up, multipurpose hiking and digging—were replaced with cowboy boots. I hadn’t ever worn them, but they were gorgeous and comfortable and were so complex—what with the brown and red detail and bronzed studs—that I felt as if I’d grown four inches and had built-in swagger.

  A blouse, silk, plain, button down, tailored to a fare-thee-well. Midnight blue was a color, at least, and not a retreat into my gothic-punk attitude, so I counted that as a win. I couldn’t put on my battered jacket. It was falling apart, even within my imagination, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I held a Viking funeral for it.

  I knew what I wanted even before I knew it: calf-length, dark brown suede, super-simple, elegant, and it secretly made me think “Browncoat.” I stuck a Swiss Army knife into the pocket, and tucked a trowel into my belt, under the coat. Metaphorical, of course, but good-luck charms nonetheless, and I felt better with them.

  I walked through the outer office without a word to anyone. They were all terribly busy. Something serious must be going down. I knocked on the door, and when I heard the muffled “Come in,” I entered, closing the door behind me.

  The Administrator looked up from the papers he was working on. “Miss Miller, have a seat, won’t you?”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’ve determined to try and fix you. You have thirty rotations to effect this. You will bring the population to order and we shall consider ourselves satisfied. We will give you the power necessary, but only for one major attempt at imposing order, subject to our review. If we are convinced you are making significant progress, we will give you more.”

  “Order . . . can mean a great deal of things,” I said carefully, trying to ignore the sound of my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. “What does this goal look like for you?”

  The Administrator frowned. “Order such that we may get what we need when we decide it’s time to visit your plane of being.”

  Visit . . . plane of . . . holy shit. I cleared my throat. “Why not one more senior to me?”

  “Because we are in contact with you,” he said impatiently. “And it is easier for you, being there, being conversant with the local cultures. It saves us a great deal of energy to have you as our proxy.”

  I felt my blood turn to ice.

  “That makes you the one we deal with directly in regards to this species,” he said.

  I’d thought that I’d act only as a go-between, the one who opened up a channel of communication, like Lieutenant Uhura. I thought it would be someone like Senator Knight who’d do the real talking; he was a dickhead, but he knew how to do this kind of thing.

  I spoke carefully, trying to ignore my overflowing panic and hoping the Administrator would be able to hear me over the chattering of my teeth. “I appreciate the trust you’re putting in me, but perhaps it would be more . . . convenient, to speak to one senior to me.”

  “If there were someone senior to you, they would have been the ones speaking to us,” he said tartly.

  Don’t let Senator Knight hear I’m senior to him, I thought. He’ll call an air strike on my ass. Inspiration struck me. “It is not the way of my people to circumvent protocol. It would offend my elders for me to do as you wish.” Oh, jeez, I sounded like a bad alien movie. But I was trying to walk a very fine line between insisting politely and saying “Hells to the no” outright.

  The Administrator gave me a sour look that told me that he was equally unimpressed by this effort. “I’m sure you can work it out. It’s power that makes precedence.”

  Oof. Definitely not going to tell Senator Knight that. Looks like Lieutenant Uhura just got a promotion, I thought grimly, but it was a ship I was unwilling and incapable of handling. I wracked my brains but was at a loss. “I shall do my best.”

  “Good. Your full cooperation in this is expected, and we will confer on you what you need to accomplish this. We expect a noticeable improvement at the end of the thirty rotations.”

  Like I was being put on academic probation. But it was probation for . . . all of us.

  I had the feeling the meeting was about to wrap up. “If I may, some of the oracles—all of them, actually—were overwhelmed by a . . . command that seemed to come from me. Was that you?”

  He frowned. “I said we would help you, make things clear to your kind. You are in charge. You are our proxy.”

  “Many of them were injured,” I insisted, “and some killed by this announcement. Please, do not do it again.”

  His frown deepened, and he pressed the tip of his finger against his lip. “I will consider it. I presume it was effective on the entire . . . oracle . . . population?”

  I worked hard, not entirely successfully, to keep the anger from my voice. “I haven’t had time to take a poll.”

  “You’ve no idea the expense and time we’ve spent already on this system,” he said, sighing. “Mostly because of your actions, and those around you.”

  “Which you’ve agreed were misunderstood by you. I misunderstood your intentions as well.”

  “Yes, we agree on that. But tell me, Zoe.” The Administrator tented his fingers. “How much time would you spend on a weed?”

  I got a sick feeling. I knew what he was going after, and knew I had to answer. “It depends.”

  The Administrator sighed. “Your kind says that entirely too often.”

  “Because it is relevant entirely too often,” I answered briskly. “At this level—my level—there’s a lot to consider that might not occur to you. Depends on whether the weed is ornamenta
l or helps keep other pests away from the garden. Depends on whether the weed threatens to take over the entire yard, is an invasive species that has outstayed its purpose. Depends on whether the weed is good to eat. Depends on whether it is rare. Depends on whether the local bees like it. Depends on—”

  “Yes, I see your point. The analogy is more complicated for you, I understand. This is one of the problems between us. While we can communicate directly, we still lack . . .”

  “A common context.” I nodded. “But I am patient, and I think it is worthwhile for you to be patient, too. Here’s the thing. We’re usually able to figure out pretty quick if a weed needs to go or not, and the fact that you’re hesitating makes me think you should consider we are a pretty weed, possibly beneficial in the long run.”

  “Bring your people to order. It’s in their best interests that we sort this out quickly. You’ve clearly shown an interest, demonstrated your abilities, and you’re eager for power, based on your rapid, some would say startling, accumulation of what you call ‘artifacts.’ You should use it to this end.”

  “What does . . . ‘to order’ mean?” I asked again, desperate to get more information from him. “What does that look like, to you?”

  “It depends.” He smiled a little at his use of my mitigation. “Our worlds are models of organization and structure, not the chaos you seem to have here. We’ll give you the power to make them orderly. How you do it is up to you, using your understanding of their ways.” He stood up abruptly. “Zoe, thank you for your time. Please stop by the desk on your way out. They’ll have what you need there. We’ll meet again soon and I’ll work out something so that you don’t need the dragons to bring us together. It is awkward.”

  “Wait, I—”

  I found myself in the antechamber, signing forms. Just like I was checking out a library book. “One use,” the assistant said. “No more, without prior approval.”

  “Right. How do I—”

  She pulled out a key and unlocked a safe behind the desk. From that, she removed a petty-cash box, and from that, a smaller velvet tray.

  I had an idea and popped into the lab.

  “Whatcha doing, Zoe?” Sean hadn’t moved from the computer since I’d seen him last. Geoffrey was nowhere to be seen.

  “I’m thinking of robbing the Makers, Sean.” I was astonished by my idea but sick of feeling powerless in the face of the Administrator. The trick would be to act with such brass ovaries that it seemed I was doing exactly what I was meant to be doing. Or to be so quick and slick, no one would notice until it was too late. It made me nervous to contemplate.

  “Why not just copy them?” Sean said, glancing over. “Same as you do with the artifacts? Much less likely to be detected, and I bet Dr. O can extrapolate or reverse engineer a lot just by having that information.”

  I thought about it. It made sense and would be a lot of data for far less risk. “Okay, how? Take pictures somehow?”

  Sean seemed to think a long moment. “No, touch them, I think—that’s how Porter’s ring and the sword and the chip got here, right? That will leave an impression, kinda like Silly Putty. Or making an impression of a key, so that you leave the key there but know exactly what to cut in a new one.”

  I nodded. “Sounds about right. But if they start getting antsy, showing the least little frown, the least concern?”

  “I’ll get you out of there.”

  “Thanks.”

  I was back at the desk, finishing my sentence. “—implement this . . . loan?”

  “I’ll plug it in for you.” She put the velvet tray down; on it was a variety of jewels, like the ones on my body but far finer. Instead of flat-jeweled tiles joined with metallic solder, these were fully crafted individual pieces, like something out of the window of Tiffany or Van Cleef and Arpels. I’d never seen anything like them in person, unless you counted the jewels at the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History.

  She reached for a ring, a monstrous slab of a sapphire flanked by clusters of pavé diamonds. I darted under her hand and touched a brooch in the shape of a dragonfly set with garnet and emerald. “What does this one do?” I asked, hoping just a touch would be enough for me to record an imprint.

  “That’s not for you.” She grabbed my wrist and pressed the ring into it. It vanished into my bracelet, leaving a smooth flat stone on my forearm. “There. It also enhances the Makers’ abilities to summon you. They like to keep a close eye on things.”

  Like they didn’t already! I thought angrily. “So if I use this power—any of my powers?”

  “Anything not related to your natural, given form will cue us that you’re working on our behalf. High emotional responses will, too. We must be thrifty and economical with how we expend our energy.” She smiled, pleased with the sensibility of this feature. It scared the devil out of me.

  I swallowed hard, trying not to think of the Makers having this direct link to me and what I was doing. “Okay, thanks.”

  I touched the doorknob. Alarms began to go off in my head.

  Back in the lab, I asked, “Sean, what’s wrong? What did I trip?”

  “It’s not you, Zoe!” Sean said. “It’s coming from outside all of us, but I think you’re going to want to get to minimum safe distance, above the high-water mark, whatever, because it’s gonna hit in five, four—”

  At “three,” I was already out of the lab, yanking the door to the Castle open. The office assistants were swarming like ants, lights dimmed, an emergency beacon flashing.

  By “two,” I’d cleared the building.

  It was about that point that I saw a flash of black, red, and green: Quarrel, Naserian, and Yuan blasted through the streaks of light and color that ran along meta–Commonwealth Avenue. They were descending on the Castle.

  “Quarrel, what are you doing?” I screamed, still running. “You’ll be killed!”

  “I seek what you seek, Hellbender! If you may, I may!”

  There was a madness in his eyes that I’d only seen when he’d decided he would eat me, back in Turkey. I knew then that Quarrel and the other dragons were only on my side so long as I was stronger than they were. I was just another avenue to power for another organism.

  About thirty things went through my head at that moment . . .

  I felt a bit sad, thinking Quarrel was my enemy.

  No, it’s not that he was my enemy, just . . . not a friend the way I thought of a friend.

  Not so unlike Dmitri Parshin.

  Not so unlike myself. We were in a survival situation, and sometimes that involved being grabby, being needy, being scared.

  And I should have remembered at least a few of the stories about dragons being lustful for shiny objects and power . . .

  They are not human. They don’t have human values.

  Could I rescue Quarrel? Did I need to?

  Maybe he’d—

  Boom.

  The Makers tried to shut down whatever Quarrel and the other dragons were doing, which looked an awful lot to me like the smash and grab I’d considered. Being dragons, however, their attempt was on a far grander, much more psychotic scale. The assistants streamed to the Castle from all over the landscape, like ants over a dropped hot dog bun in the dirt.

  The dragons were tearing up the joint. If I’d been considering stealth, they were not. They were more like coke fiends who’d just found someone else’s stash, or hyperactive kids who’d been given the merest taste of sugar and then were let loose in Willy Wonka’s factory. “Rapacious” wasn’t the word, and I was now planning on replacing “bull in a china shop” with “dragon sees a new hoard.”

  Then I watched with horror as the Administrator’s people began to absorb each other, growing in size and aggression. The creature that resulted was lean and horned, red skinned and scaled and many headed, with a surplus of red, gold, and orange. I had the scary feeling the colors meant it was going to be big into fire and acid attacks.

  It was going to demolish Quarrel and the others. Th
eir lust was going to get us all killed.

  I couldn’t let them do that. I had to try to protect them, even if what they were doing constituted an assault on the Makers and, quite probably, a challenge if not an assault on me.

  I felt the call of the artifacts, especially now that the dragons were trying to extricate them and the administrators were channeling their power into their überdragon. It was a firestorm of sound, a thousand trilling notes of outrage and color.

  It was like the fight with Toshi for the power of the mosaic, I realized. It was, if not a competition, then survival of the strongest, the greediest, the most strategic. I had to take them myself.

  As soon as I had the thought, I knew it would be bad. But too much depended on me keeping the dragons in check and keeping my fragile, tentative relationship with the Makers intact to second-guess myself. Yelling, “Quarrel, Naserian, Yuan, stop! I command you,” I braced myself.

  Not that I thought me yelling or commanding anything, especially a dragon in the heat of battle and out of its mind with jewel lust, was going to help, but I had to try.

  Deep breath. And . . .

  As soon as I actively entered the fray, it was as though ten thousand bullets slammed into me, in the form of energy and information. Somewhere through that, I knew I couldn’t possibly overwhelm the new guardian beast and three dragons who were battling each other. I didn’t want to if I could help it. And I worried what kind of spillover would affect the situation at home.

  I had to pick a side and neither choice seemed tenable. But despite his bad—no, dragon-like—behavior in starting this fracas, Quarrel was my friend. He’d come to my aid on several occasions, after all.

  “Quarrel, I demand you cease this!” I shouted, more in the hope of giving myself some courage for what I was about to do. I opened myself up to the artifacts that had attracted the dragons, hoping that I could find some that would enhance my vampiric abilities to persuade.

  Immediately, a number of things happened. Naserian, the oldest, began losing artifacts to me and turned in rage to attack.

  “Naserian! You pledged yourself to me! Stop!” But she was caught up in the frenzy.