Finn Fancy Necromancy

by Randy Henderson

Zeke glared at me, unamused.

  * * *

  Zeke, Mort, and I stood outside a side exit to the EMP, waiting in the chill night air. Zeke wore his enforcer outfit in full camo mode, with his duffel slung across his back. I wore Carhartt work pants and steel-toe boots bought in the city, and a leather biker jacket left behind by Dawn’s ex. Not as good as the magical armor that Zeke had, but at least as good as +1 leather armor. If, you know, such a thing really existed.

  Sammy’s voice whispered in my ear through the device she’d lent me, a Bluebeard or something. “Alarm is down, cameras are on a loop, and the warden patrol just moved past you. You’re good to go.”

  “Ten-four, good buddie,” I said and nodded at Zeke.

  Zeke used his skeleton key to open the door and his Casio watch to neutralize the threshold wards. We slipped inside. The lack of pulsing lights, pounding music, and noisy customers made the place feel a bit cold and cavernous, a dark structure of concrete, steel, and dead glass.

  We moved past the ticket kiosk and headed down the second stairwell on the left, a long, narrow descent between concrete walls. Near the base, Zeke said, “Hold up.” He dug through his duffel, and pulled out a glass potion bottle and some fishing line. He set up a booby trap with quick, efficient movements. “That should hold off any wardens for a bit if things go to hell.”

  We continued past the stairs into an antechamber, and to our left the wall lit up with row after row of etched hologram faces captured in glowing blue squares. The sign overhead read “Science Fiction Hall of Fame.” I spotted Bradbury, Le Guin, Asimov, Butler, and more. One of the faces, H. G. Welles, looked up at us and said, “Your identity, sirs?”

  “Warden Graham,” I said, holding up my hand with the warden’s persona ring. “Escorting guests.”

  Welles’ gaze narrowed on the ring. He gave a nod. “Proceed, constable.”

  Past the antechamber was a tunnel of sorts, made of tubes of white light. There was room to skirt past the tunnel, but that would be a mistake. The tunnel was designed to strip away glamours and identify feybloods, and the door we needed would not open for us unless we passed through this first. I exchanged anxious glances with Zeke, then proceeded through. I felt the light tingle of magical energy, but nothing more. Zeke and Mort followed. So far, so good.

  The science fiction museum itself appeared to be a maze of free-standing walls lined with props and displays. I spotted the command chair to our left and had a moment equivalent perhaps to when a believer spots a holy relic. Kirk’s actual captain’s chair from Star Trek. The rest of the museum fairly disappeared for me and I crossed to the chair. Encased behind protective Plexiglas, the chair sat thronelike upon a gray pedestal, with tribble dolls scattered around it like softball-size balls of fur. The chair itself was black leather, with wooden armrests, and silver control panels ran along each side covered in lights, switches, and buttons. A magnificent sight.

  “We’ve reached the chair,” I whispered.

  “Try not to have a nerdgasm,” Sammy’s voice buzzed in my ear.

  “Acknowledged, Enterprise,” I replied. “Kirk out.” Yeah, my sister knew me well.

  Zeke waved at the chair, “Get ready, but don’t start ’til I’m back. I’m gonna secure the perimeter.”

  He stalked off to set more booby traps on the other entrances.

  “Sammy?” I whispered. “It’s time to get Petey on the line.”

  “Will do,” she replied.

  “Thanks. You and Vee should head for the ferry now.”

  “I feel weird just taking off. We can wait a bit longer.”

  “We talked about this already. If something goes wrong, it won’t help us if you get caught. And Zeke insisted Vee go home as soon as possible.”

  Mort gave me a nervous look. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No,” I said. “Everything’s fine. Sammy and Vee are leaving is all.”

  “Fine,” Sammy said. “On our way, Captain Bossypants. I’ll be on the line if you need me.”

  “You’re positive you can talk and drive at the same time?” I asked.

  “You sure you can think and talk at the same time?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I replied. I wandered over to look at the nearby props while Sammy and Zeke were busy, but stayed within sight of the command chair—I didn’t want to set off any traps. I saw the earpiece Uhura wore in Star Trek, some sunglasses from something called Stargate SG-1, and a whole ton of stuff from Battlestar Galactica. Apparently, there was a new series!

  Gods, I hoped I didn’t get exiled.

  Zeke returned and plopped down his bag in front of the command chair. “Good to go, Gramaraye,” he said.

  “Pete’s on,” Sammy’s voice buzzed.

  “Hi, Finn,” Pete said.

  “Hi, Petey.” I returned to the command chair. “Just hang on, I’ll let you know if I need your help.”

  I turned the warden’s persona ring around so the stone was palm-side down, then placed my hand against the Plexiglas. I could feel magic, dangerous magic, beneath my hand like a swarm of pissed-off hornets buzzing and beating against the Plexiglas. I swallowed and said, “Aperire Ostium, Meadowlark.”

  An archway opened in the Plexiglas, spreading out from my hand and granting access to the chair. The sense of dangerous magic dissipated.

  “The daily password worked,” I said. “Tell Vee thanks.”

  “Roger that, geek command,” Sammy replied.

  “Masks,” Zeke said. He reached into his bag, and pulled out a gas mask—Sammy’s simple solution to gaseous alchemical attacks. I pulled a similar mask from the satchel on my hip and slipped it over my head. It felt stifling, limited my peripheral vision, and smelled of pickles and farts, which I did my best not to wonder about since we’d purchased them second hand from an Army/Navy Surplus store.

  I stepped up to the chair, and sat in it with reverent slowness. I ran my hands along the smooth wooden arms, then leaned forward and said in my best Shatnerian, “Sulu, set a course … for … Awesome, warp factor five.” Nerdgasm achieved.

  “Quit screwin’ around, fool, and put in the code,” Zeke whispered harshly.

  Right. I leaned back and pulled the instructions from my pocket. On the right-hand console were five white buttons with round lights next to them. On the left-hand side, eight colored plastic switches, and nine lights of various shapes and bright colors that looked like costume jewelry.

  I flipped four of the eight switches in the order described in the instructions, then held my breath and pressed the white button labeled “Jettison Pod.” A single one of the jeweled lights flickered briefly.

  Then nothing happened.

  And more nothing happened.

  I looked at the instructions, and at the switches again. Everything looked correct.

  “Do you see a door anywhere?” I asked Zeke, my voice muffled by the mask. I stood to peer at the wall to our right where a door was supposed to have revealed itself.

  The archway in the Plexiglas disappeared, replaced once again by a clear but solid wall, blocking my exit.

  Pink gas poured out in a swirling cloud from the base of the chair, rapidly filling up the enclosed space.

  “Crap,” I said. “Pete, I think I’m going to need your help.”

  * * *

  After the planning meeting in the dining room broke up, I spent several hours in my room, coding on my Commodore. It felt good, relaxing, like meditation. I could almost pretend everything that had happened—Felicity’s attack, my exile, and all the craziness since my return—was all just a dream, a really bad dream.

  Pete watched me, propped up in my bed and wrapped in bandages, chatting with me as I worked. He looked better, or at least not in so much pain, though I knew there would still be ugly scars under those bandages even with Heather’s help.

  “I’m still mad at you,” he said at one point. “But I don’t want to be. It doesn’t feel good.”

  “It’s okay. I understand. And I’
m sorry, again. I love you, bro.”

  “Love you too.” He took a bite of chocolate pudding. “And I love pudding. But I love you more.”

  I finished coding, entered the save command. I ran to the bathroom and then fixed some Mexican cocoa while the program saved amidst the loud buzzing and grinding of the floppy disk drive. When it was done, I moved my computer and monitor beside the bed, then booted the game back up. “I made you a game, Petey,” I said.

  What I’d created was a variation of a game we used to play together called Mastermind. In the original version, one person set up four pegs of various colors, hidden from the other player, and that other player had to guess the color and position of the pegs by process of elimination. Like in all puzzle games, Pete blew everyone else away when it came to Mastermind.

  I’d created a version on the Commodore before exile, and tweaked it now based on the buttons on Kirk’s chair. I’d set the game to randomly choose four switches to be “on,” and the order in which they had to be flipped to win.

  “Here,” I said, “Watch me play.”

  I played a round. It took me eighteen tries to get it right.

  “It’s like Mastermind,” Pete said.

  “It’s important you practice this, Petey. If something goes wrong, we’ll need you to figure out this code—super fast.”

  * * *

  I plopped back down in the chair as Pete said, “Okay. Try one, two, three, four.”

  As I reset the switches and began flipping one through four, Mort turned his ring around and pressed it against the outside of the Plexiglas, and said what I assume was the password, though the chamber cut off outside noise. The arch didn’t appear for him, and the gas continued to pour out. It reached my waist now, and the skin of my legs began to tingle.

  I hit the white button.

  “Pete? Two lights flickered.”

  “Okay. Try five, six, seven, and eight.”

  Zeke’s baton extended in his hand and burst into blue-white fire. He said something to Mort, who moved back, then Zeke struck at the Plexiglas. There was a bright yellow flash, and he was thrown back several feet to hit a wall—just as a flash of lightning speared through the spot where he’d been standing. I followed the path of the lightning to its source.

  A dalek advanced on Zeke.

  The robot from Doctor Who looked like a man-size salt shaker with gold bumps all over it and a single protruding appendage. This wasn’t a real dalek, of course, at least not in the sense of being an actual robot tank with a genocidal alien slug inside. It was a prop donated to the museum, and animated through thaumaturgy and possibly a bit of science. That still made it dangerous, especially since I doubted Zeke had a sonic screwdriver in his arsenal.

  The dalek pointed its appendage at Zeke, and lightning began to dance along its length, building up toward another discharge.

  “Crap. Oh crap. Pete, we need to hurry.” I flipped the switches and hit the white button. “Two lights flickered.”

  “Okay. Now try three, four, five, and six.”

  Zeke dove and rolled across the floor toward the robot as lightning arced over him. He came up and swung at the dalek. Another bright yellow flash as when Zeke struck the Plexiglas. He flew onto his back, and the baton spun across the floor.

  The potion’s gas had completely surrounded me now, making it increasingly difficult to see what was happening.

  The dalek’s arm lowered, pointing at Zeke again, the lightning building. I flipped switches as Zeke brought his knees up to his chest, then kicked out and up at the dalek.

  The dalek teetered backward. The lightning swept in an arc up and across the ceiling as the robot tumbled over onto its back, revealing thaumaturgic symbols engraved all around its underside. It began rolling back and forth, trying to right itself using its appendage. Then the gas became too thick to see more.

  I hit the white button.

  The high-pitched wooshing sound of a vacuum filled the chamber, and the gas rapidly dissipated. The exit did not reappear, however, so I doubted the vacuum was because of anything I’d done. More likely, it was clearing the gas to allow wardens access to my dead body. Or to make way for something worse.

  “Pete, two lights flickered and one lit up brightly this time.”

  Zeke stood over his bag holding a bottle, and he threw it at the dalek’s base. Glass shattered and liquid splashed over the thaumaturgic symbols, melting them away. The dalek’s thrashing slowed to a stop.

  Something tickled my ankle. I looked down.

  Tribbles surrounded me. Not just the few that had been on the floor to start. They had duplicated, multiplied, until now they were several layers thick and cresting the pedestal to cover my feet.

  “Bat’s breath!” What killed tribbles in the series? Bright light? Radiation?

  Poisoned grain.

  Great. And me without a shipment of poisoned quadrotriticale in my satchel. Thankfully, the fur balls didn’t seem interested in devouring me. So that was good. As was the fact that it wouldn’t hurt the least bit when they crushed me, since I’d already be smothered to death by that point.

  I continued running through combinations with Pete as rapidly as I could flip switches and call out how many lights flickered or glowed. Four more tries, and the tribbles were up to my chest. I had to flip the switches by feel, and dig down to the lights to see the result when I pressed the button.

  “Pete, I think we’re close. Two glowing, two flickering.”

  A silver and crystal star floated into view outside my chamber, a softball-size core of fine crystal spikes with a dozen larger silver spikes jutting out in all directions. It took me a second to recognize it as a model of the spaceship that baby Superman rode to Earth.

  There was a flash at its heart, and the lights in the room flickered. The Bluebeard thingy squealed in my ear.

  Zeke jumped in front of Mort, holding his jacket open wide to provide as much protection as possible. The crystal spaceship exploded and spikes flew in all directions. I was temporarily blinded by golden flashes as several spikes struck the Plexiglas barrier. When I could see again, Zeke was down on one knee, clutching his right hand, which had a spike impaled through its center.

  “Petey, what next?”

  No response.

  “Pete? Sammy?”

  I pulled the mobile telephone out of my pocket and held it above the pile of tribbles, but the screen remained black no matter what button I pushed.

  “Awesome.” I reset the switches on the chair by feel. I could do this. Pete had gotten me most of the way there.

  A small pile of tribbles tumbled down from behind, spilling over my arms. I flipped the switches again, changing the order from memory, then swept tribbles clear of the arm long enough to see the result.

  Again, two solids, two flickers. Damn it!

  I spotted movement. Something scrambled in the shadows low to the ground. Neither Zeke nor Mort appeared to notice.

  “Zeke! Mort! Look out!” I shouted.

  Another flicker of movement, leaving me with the impression of a fast-moving fleshy spider.

  “Zeke!” I shouted so loud it felt like I’d torn my throat. He glanced up at me, frowning. I pointed behind him, sending tribbles flying with the motion.

  Zeke glanced behind him.

  The spidery creature leapt out of the darkness onto Zeke’s face, a snakelike tail whipping around his neck. It was a freaking face hugger from Alien.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Another avalanche of tribbles settled over me, burying me up to my shoulders now. I had to tunnel my hand back down to the chair’s console, wriggle and push with all my strength just to reach it through the tightly compacted fur balls. There was no way to see the lights now, but I knew which switches to flip. I just needed the right order.

  And I needed it soon. Zeke stabbed at the face hugger using the spike embedded in his hand, but it had little effect. The creature wasn’t made of real flesh and vital organs—thank the g
ods, since the last thing we needed was for Zeke to be splattered in acid blood. The thaumaturgic symbols were likely on the creature’s belly, pressed tight to Zeke’s face. To get it off his face, he would need to destroy the symbols. But to destroy the symbols, he needed to get it off his face.

  The tribbles reached my chin now. I tilted my head back to give myself as much breathing time as possible. I reset the switches, and then flipped them in a new order, counting out their positions by feel, one by one.

  Mort leaped forward and grabbed the face hugger, but he didn’t appear to be pulling on it, just touching it.

  The tribbles covered my mouth, filled my nostrils with the smell of dusty fake fur and tangy magic, making breathing difficult. I coughed, and on the inhale started to choke.

  I hit the white button. A loud beeping sounded.

  Panic scrabbled at the edges of my mind like the scratching and gnawing of a thousand tiny rats as the pressure built around my chest and head, and my lungs ached for air.

  I thought of Dawn then. Dawn had the soul of a nomad artist, a bard. I could have just run away from all of this and taken her with me, gone far away and lived a life free—

  Tribbles tumbled away from my face, and I sucked in a huge breath of air. The archway in the Plexiglas stood open and the tribbles spilled out, freeing my chest, my arms. The last button combination must have worked! I jumped up and half-stumbled half-waded out, pushing a small avalanche of fur before me as a blue steel door appeared in the concrete wall to the right.

  Zeke and Mort stood over the face hugger, which lay unmoving on the floor. Zeke kicked it across the room.

  “What happened to it?” I asked and spat out a remaining bit of fur.

  “I dispelled the spirit animating it,” Mort said.

  “Dude,” I said, surprised. “Good thinking. Really.”

  “Yeah. You did good, Gramaraye,” Zeke said.

  I swear, Mort actually blushed.

  Zeke yanked the spike out of his hand, and sucked in a sharp breath. “You’d better get moving. I’ll keep them fool wardens off your back long as I can.”

  I shook my head. “You’ll be caught. Or worse.”

  “I’ll be fine. But it’s best if I don’t have to worry about who’s friend and who’s foe. Make sure to close the door behind ya.”