“I don’t know about assimilating,” Abe said, “but it connects everything and everyone who wants to be connected. Even some people who don’t want to be connected, I imagine.”
Jack glanced at the clock on the wall behind the counter. “Speaking of connecting, I’m supposed to meet some guy to tell him I can’t help him.”
“You could do that on the phone.”
“It’s more polite in person.”
“Polite? Since when you’re polite?”
Abe’s fingers were edging toward a third donut. Jack snatched it up before they could reach it.
“Uh-uh. Mine.”
Abe pouted. “See what I said about polite?”
“I need it more than you. I have blocks to walk. I need the fuel.”
“It’s not that far.”
Jack took a big bite and headed for the door.
2
“All hostilities must cease immediately,” the dude in the white three-piece suit said in his oh-so-lightly accented voice. Sounded like German.
Darryl stared at him in disbelief. Who did this guy think he was?
“Hey, you can’t come into our house and talk to Hank like that.”
Hank, seated beside him, gave him a rough elbow nudge. “This is his house, remember?”
Darryl suddenly felt like a fool. Right. The Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order owned this big old fortress of a building—their downtown lodge—but they’d been letting the Kickers use it since the winter. Couldn’t blame him too much for getting confused. He’d been living here lately. Only natural to think of it as home.
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
The guy in white—Mr. Drexler—didn’t bother to look at him. Like Darryl wasn’t worth it. An older guy with an eagle-nosed face, black hair slicked straight back, and eyes like ice-blue lasers that could bore holes right through you.
Drexler was the point man for the leaders of the Order, the High Council of Seven that no one ever saw. Darryl wondered if even Drexler ever saw them. He’d called this meeting in the basement of the Lodge and Hank had dropped everything to make it. Darryl hated seeing Hank run whenever Drexler whistled. Hell, he was leader of the Kickers, man. Shouldn’t have to answer to nobody.
“I required the presence of you and Mister McCabe,” Drexler said to Hank. “I don’t recall authorizing anyone else.”
“Darryl’s okay,” Hank said. “Not much he doesn’t already know.” Darryl felt his chest puffing until Hank added, “Besides, we may need coffee or something.”
That’s me: trusted gofer.
Well, at least he got to hang with the Kicker Numero Uno.
His right arm started to itch. He scratched it. Damn rash.
The fourth guy at the table was Terry McCabe, the Kicker Evolution’s spinmeister. Drexler himself had brought him in, and McCabe was the guy responsible for the “hostilities” in the first place.
“They’ve provided a valuable distraction,” McCabe said. “Because of them, the press has forgotten our link to the horror show on Staten Island. As a result, so have most people. And the few who do remember think the Dormentalists were to blame.”
Drexler steepled his fingers and nodded. “Even though they were not involved in the least. All well and good, and rather entertaining in the short run. But the brawls and this ongoing Internet assault are beginning to have a deleterious effect on the Church’s abilities to fulfill its purpose.”
“ ‘Church’?” Hank said. “They’re a bunch of money-grubbing fucks whose ‘purpose’ is to fleece anyone they can grab. Their members are seeing the light and coming over to us.”
“Yes. Too many of them.”
Hank slammed his hand on the table. “Never too many! I won’t quit till every one of them becomes a Kicker.”
“You . . . will . . . stop . . . now,” Drexler said, his blue eyes glittering. “The Dormentalist Church is under our guidance and—”
“Yours? The Septimus Order’s connected to them?”
“The lower echelons do not realize it, but yes, we helped fund them in the early years until they became self-sufficient. They are involved in a project the Order had been guiding for millennia.”
McCabe frowned. “Millennia? As in thousands of years?”
“It’s called Opus Omega. You need know nothing beyond its name. I can tell you that it is near completion, but your too-successful assaults on the Church are distracting it and forcing it to direct its dwindling resources in directions other than Opus Omega. For that reason, you must back off.”
Scratching seemed only to worsen the itch on Darryl’s arm. He pulled up the sleeve of his black Polio T-shirt and examined the purple splotch. They’d been popping out on his skin for months. He had about a dozen now.
“What is that?” McCabe said, pointing to Darryl’s arm.
Darryl yanked down the sleeve. “Just a rash.”
“Well, get it looked at.” McCabe leaned away. “It looks kind of funky.”
“Funky?”
“Yeah. Like something catching. You—”
Drexler picked up his black cane and rapped it against the table. “Can we stick to the matter at hand?” He turned back to Hank. “Inform your followers to cease and desist, do you understand?”
Hank slouched and drummed his fingers on the table. “You know, we appreciate you letting us use this building and all, but we can’t let you Septimus people call the shots for Kickers. The reason for the Kicker Evolution is to get folks to break from the crowd and call their own shots.”
Darryl forgot the itch as he fought an urge to jump up and cheer.
You tell ’em, boss.
Drexler didn’t react. He simply kept his cold gaze fixed on Hank as he spoke. “On the night of your debacle in Staten Island, do you recall a visit from a rather unusual man?”
Hank jerked up straight in his chair. “How the hell do you know about that?”
Darryl’s gut twisted as he remembered that guy. He’d looked kind of wimpy at first, but his eyes . . . next to his, Drexler’s were like a warm, loving grandma’s. And he’d done something to Darryl and Hank that sort of paralyzed them.
Drexler’s thin lips twisted with what might have been amusement. “He is in contact with me from time to time. When he speaks, I listen. And when I relay word from him, you would be wise to listen.”
“All right, I’m listening,” Hank said. “What’s the word—and who is he, anyway?”
“Who is he? You would not understand. And you are better off not knowing. He goes by many names, none of which would mean a thing to you. Call him the One. But his ‘word,’ as you put it, is to cease and desist.”
“How do we know that?” Darryl blurted. “This could be your idea and you’re just saying it’s his.”
Drexler kept his eyes on Hank. “Would you like a personal visit from him?”
The words hung in the air for a few heartbeats, then Hank turned to McCabe. “Okay, Terry. You heard the man. We’ll back off the temples and leave the Dormies’ Web site alone.”
McCabe nodded. “I’ll get on it as soon as we’re finished here.”
“You are finished here now, Mister McCabe. Get to it immediately.” As McCabe rose and headed for the door, Drexler pointed to Darryl. “And take this fellow with you. I have something special I wish to discuss with Mister Thompson.”
“Darryl stays,” Hank said.
Darryl could have kissed him—not that he’d ever really kiss a guy.
“It is a sensitive matter.”
“Darryl stays.”
Darryl sensed that because Hank had given in on letting up on the Dormentalists, he wasn’t going to budge on this.
“Very well. But he must be sworn to secrecy, as must you, Mister Thompson. What I am about to reveal must remain secret from everyone, including your most trusted followers. Do you agree?”
“Yeah, sure,” Hank said. “I won’t breathe a word.” He turned to Darryl. “You cool with that?”
“My lips are seal
ed. Like with Krazy Glue.”
And he meant it. If Hank wanted tight lips about whatever this was, that was what he’d get.
Drexler nodded. “This is quite serious. Even though this nondisclosure agreement is not on paper, it is binding. Do you understand?”
They both nodded, then Hank said, “Let’s get to it.”
“One more thing,” Drexler said. “The gentleman we were discussing a moment ago suggests you allow the council to guide you into other areas of endeavor that will speed your goal of universal dissimilation.”
Darryl remembered the scary guy saying something about that.
Wouldn’t you like to see everyone on the planet dissimilated—every man, woman, and child an island? . . . That works into my plans as well. I may be able to assist you toward that end.
“And just what would those areas be?” Hank said.
“I’ve learned to avoid second-guessing him or the council, so I’ll stick to what I know, and . . .” His eyes seemed to glow as he smiled—the first real smile Darryl had ever seen on this guy’s puss. “What I am about to reveal is wonderful, in every sense of the word.”
“I can hardly stand the suspense,” Hank said in a bored tone. “What is it?”
“It would be almost impossible to explain.” Drexler rose from his seat. “So I will show you.”
“Better be close by,” Hank said. “ ’Cause I’ve got things to do.”
“Very close by. No more than thirty feet away.”
Hank looked around. “Where?”
Drexler pointed to the floor. “Straight down. Directly beneath our feet.”
“Nothing down there but rock.”
Drexler’s grin broadened. “Au contraire. There’s a subcellar, and it is occupied.”
3
Someone—no, two people were sitting at Jack’s table.
Right now they appeared as a pair of lighter splotches against the dark rear wall. He stood inside the door and waited for his eyes to adjust from the late morning sun.
Julio appeared. “They showed up half an hour ago. The guy handed me his pistol. I checked him and he’s not carrying a backup.”
Julio, short and muscular, had let his usual pencil-line mustache expand to a goatee. Jack didn’t think it was inspired by his own beard, but who knew.
“What about the other guy?”
“That’s not a guy. That’s a girl. A kid.”
“And you gave them my table?”
Julio shrugged. “They been here before, meng. You know them.”
As his eyes adjusted, Jack recognized Cal Davis, back to the wall, looking his way. And next to him . . . Diana.
He hadn’t seen these two since January; he hadn’t left Cal and his fellow yeniçeri on the best of terms.
He looked around the sparsely populated bar. No surprise, seeing as it was pre-noon, and only the heartiest digestive tracts dared eat at Julio’s.
“Any noobs?”
“Nah. All regulars.”
Jack went to the window and checked out the street. No sign of any yeniçeri. He stepped back toward Julio.
“They say what they want?”
“What else they gonna want? Talk. You gonna?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You gonna want coffee?”
“Yeah. I think I’m in the mood for a double mocha latte with extra whip cream.”
Julio gave him the finger over his shoulder as he walked away.
Jack approached the table. Davis rose but didn’t extend his hand, so Jack simply nodded. He did however offer his hand to the girl.
“Hello, Diana. This is a surprise.”
Despite the dim lighting, she wore large sunglasses. She’d changed some since Jack had last seen her, losing a bit of her baby fat, maybe a little taller.
She gave his hand a quick, light shake—more of a finger tug. “For me too.”
“How old are you now?”
She lifted her chin. “I just turned fourteen.”
Poor kid. Teen years were hard enough without being a bona fide freak.
He turned to Davis. “I assume this wasn’t your idea.”
He was dressed in a black suit and tie over a white shirt. His black fedora sat on an empty chair.
He glanced at Diana. “I was and still am opposed to coming here.”
“Well then, let’s do what we can to get you back to where you’d rather be and that’s my seat you’re sitting in.”
Davis offered a tight smile as he moved to another. “I know. I was keeping it warm for you.”
Jack took his usual place as Julio arrived with a cup of coffee that appeared to have a small turd floating in it.
“What is that?”
“As close as we get to mocha, meng.” And then he was gone.
Jack spooned out the object: a baby Snickers bar. He ate it, then sipped his coffee.
“So . . . still in Nantucket?”
Davis nodded. “What’s left of us. Just me and Grell and Novak now. Lewis, Cousino, and Geraci lit out after you that night and never came back. Finan and Dunsmore quit a couple of weeks later.”
He knew Davis was talking about his fellow yeniçeri, but Jack had no faces for the names.
“I thought all you yeniçeri dedicated your lives to guarding the Oculus,” he said with a nod toward Diana.
“Some more than others.” He gave Jack a hard stare. “What did you do to those three? They vanished without a trace.”
“The guys in the Hummer? You might want to drag the harbor.”
His eyes widened. “How—?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Diana has something to tell you.”
Jack turned to her. “You’ve had a vision?”
She nodded. “An Alarm, yes. My first.”
Oh, right. Oculi called their visions Alarms.
“Do I want to hear this? I mean, considering what your father’s last Alarm led to.”
Diana paled and Davis’s right hand balled into a fist.
She said, “I’m so sorry about that. I—”
“Not your fault. Not even your father’s fault.” He glanced at Davis. “But I can’t say the same for some of the yeniçeri.”
“We were being used,” Davis said through his teeth. “We were all being used. We’re still being used.”
Jack sighed and leaned back. “Yeah. I suppose we are.”
“And you got your revenge—in spades.”
Jack remembered that time. He’d really lost it.
“Revenge only in one case. The rest was preemptive. You gonna sit there and tell me you blame me, that if positions were reversed you wouldn’t have done the same?”
Davis looked away. “No. Still, a lot of them were friends.”
Jack dropped it. The past was past. No use rehashing it. But he and Gia and Vicky would live the rest of their lives with the fallout from that last Alarm. And Emma . . . Emma wasn’t living at all.
He turned to Diana. Might as well get to it.
“What did the Alarm show?”
As she related her vision Jack realized she was describing the carving and burial of an ancient Opus Omega column.
“You’re nodding,” she said. “You know about this?”
“It’s been going on for thousands of years. Those columns are buried around the globe in a specific pattern.”
Davis frowned. “To what end?”
“When they finish the job, they believe it will give the Otherness the edge to change the world.”
Jack also knew that every insertion of one of those columns into the ground was a knife in the back of the Lady with the dog, and left a scar. Was that the purpose—hurt her? Was she some sort of barrier between the Otherness and Earth, and if they weakened her enough the Otherness could make the leap?
He wished he knew. So many things he wished he knew.
“Are they crazy?” Davis said. “Don’t they know what that will mean? Hell on Earth.”
“Not for them. They believe participants in the Opus Omega
will be given special treatment and privileges in the new world order.”
Davis snorted and shook his head. “Privileges or not, they’ll still be in hell. Ignorant dumbasses.” He turned to the girl. “Sorry, Diana.”
She didn’t seem to have heard, or care if she had. She sat twisting her fingers together.
“But in the vision they sealed me in the column—alive—and then buried it.”
“Apparently it’s not enough simply to stick a body in the column. Someone has to die inside it.”
“It was horrible. But then the strangest thing happened. A glowing egg appeared and hatched something . . . something I couldn’t see . . . a dark shape that seemed to suck in the light around it.”
Jack tried to grasp that and failed. Could that be the goal of Opus Omega—create a cosmic egg with some sort of black hole within? He turned to Davis.
“You must have heard about a lot of these Alarms over the years.”
He nodded and glanced at the girl. “From Diana’s father, yes.”
“Did they tend to be pretty much true to life, or more metaphorical?”
“From what he told me, true to life. The Alarms showed either what would happen if we didn’t interfere, or what we should make happen. It wasn’t always clear which. They could be ambiguous at times, but definitely true to life.”
True to life . . . a big egg hatching something. Sheesh.
“But that’s not the strangest part,” Diana said. “The thing that came out of the column . . . it might have been human, but I don’t think so. If it was human, it wasn’t a normal human.”
More vagueness. Couldn’t anything be clear-cut?
“So you didn’t get a good look at it.”
She shook her head. “It was blurred, almost flickering, as if it was flashing in and out of existence. And then a word sounded in my head: Fhinntmanchca.”
“Say what?”
“Fhinntmanchca. Don’t ask me what it means. I have no idea.”
Davis said, “Don’t look at me. I’ve never in my life heard the word, or anything even close to it.”
“I think it refers to whatever came out of the egg.”
That seemed a reasonable assumption.
“Did the egg crack open?”
Another shake of her head. “No, this just sort of emerged from it. One second it wasn’t there, and then the next it was moving toward me.” She looked at Jack. “Fhinntmanchca . . . you’ve never heard of it?”
Ground Zero rj-13 Page 4
