by Beth Cato
“Yes.” He craned his head to look up, frowning all the while. “It’s always good to plan ahead for the next time we’re buried like this.”
Ingrid took in a shallower breath to calm herself. A hundred questions raced through her mind. How had she done this? What had exploded? Her power had always been such a fickle thing—as if its existence wasn’t baffling enough. Very few geomancers could see the blue aura of the earth’s power on the ground or in people, and no other geomancer could expel energy the way she could; not now, not in the histories. Everyone else took in the magic of the earth, could contain it for a time, and then poured it into kermanite.
Ingrid connected with the earth. That was the simplest way to state it. Now that connection had saved their lives, or at least extended them for a few minutes.
“You’re going to have to open this bubble soon,” Mr. Sakaguchi said. His voice was mild as always. In all her life, Ingrid had seen his veneer completely break only once, when Mama died. Apparently, exploding buildings and disembodied hands weren’t of that caliber. “And don’t look at me that way, Ingchan. You made this field around us. You can unmake it.”
“I can’t hear anyone or anything up there. We must have two floors’ worth of debris over us. If that bubble’s gone, we’ll be crushed to death.”
And that hand would drop directly on her shoulder. Somehow, that seemed far worse than blades of wood and heavy bricks.
“Death by oxygen deprivation might be gentler, true, but sometimes you must take a risk. Sometimes you must fight.”
Ingrid stared up at her hand where it was braced against the top of the bubble. If they were huddled on the basement floor, how would anyone find them?
Condensation beads formed across the top of the shield. Closing her eyes, she drew inward, searching for any remnants of energy. Heat fluttered through her chest, like the last swirl of water as it drained from a bathtub. Would that power be adequate? Sweat coursed along her arm.
Mr. Sakaguchi was right. They couldn’t go out without a fight.
“I’m going to try something,” she said.
“You’ll succeed.”
“Ojisan, no. Not the optimism like that, not now.” Not like when Mama was dying, when he insisted everything would be fine.
“You prefer I be a pessimist? Very well. We may die in the next few minutes, but since we should already be dead, I’m grateful for these extra minutes we’ve had together.”
“You’re a lousy pessimist.”
“I’ve been accused of worse,” he said, then paused. “Ingrid, I know I’m not forthright with my emotions. Your mother’s passing . . . I was never as open with her as I should have been. I regret that now. I regret many things.”
“Ojisan . . .”
“I love you, Ingrid. I never expected to have children or a family, not with my wandering life as a warden, but I’ve watched you grow from a young child to a beautiful young woman. You are, in all ways but blood, my daughter.”
Tears burned in her eyes. “I love you, too, Mr. Sakaguchi. I never knew Papa. I never needed to. I always had you.”
She heard the hitch in his breath, that rare sound that showed how close he was to losing all composure. “I fear I’ve been selfish in keeping you here with me. I should have sent you away.”
“Away? Where? I don’t understand.”
“How is your skin feeling?”
“Mr. Sakaguchi! You can’t change the subject like that! Why would you send me away?”
“Answer me, Ingrid. How much energy do you hold?”
Mr. Sakaguchi couldn’t see the auras of geomancers who held magic. Very few had that knack—no others in the Cordilleran Auxiliary, thank God. When any such wardens came to town, she had been housebound as a precaution.
She swallowed down her frustration. “I’m still holding some power, but it’s dwindling.”
She felt his body move as he nodded slightly. “If we wait much longer, you’ll succumb to hypothermia.”
The opposite extreme of what the students had endured earlier. Most geomancers only expelled the earth’s energy into kermanite. A rare few—usually those who saw auras—poured out their very life force if they stayed in contact with large kermanite for too long. The consequences of that were the same as standard hypothermia, as if someone succumbed to snow or cold water: confusion, a drop in heart rate and body temperature, and death.
“Our options are suffocation, hypothermia, or to be crushed? Can we get a fourth, better choice?” she asked.
“If an earthquake strikes us down here, we won’t have any means to disrupt contact, so we could both die of hyperthermia.”
Ingrid half choked on a laugh. Her lungs felt tight in the swampy air. “And then be crushed.”
“I think our need for oxygen is the most dire. Act now, Ingrid. You can do this.”
Whether she could or not, by God, she had to try. Taking a shallow but long breath, Ingrid stood with her hand still straight up. Heat flowed up her arm and burned through her fingertips. An airy sensation filled her skull as a sudden chill quaked through her. She ground her teeth together to prevent them from chattering.
Above, debris rattled and roared as it shifted. The shape of the bubble had changed with the contour of her body, creating a tall cone. Mr. Sakaguchi scrambled to his feet. They were of almost equal height. Tears burned in her eyes as he hugged her. She wrapped her free arm around him and squeezed.
“We’re not dead yet,” she whispered.
“Maybe today is our lucky day.” He craned up his head. “Light.”
A pencil-thin beam of honest-to-goodness sunlight pierced the mound of debris over them. Seeing a sunbeam on a foggy spring day often felt as precious as encountering a unicorn, but at this moment it was like God ripped a hole through the clouds, just to shine down on them.
But they were still heavily buried by boards and pipes and what looked to be slats of the roof. The hand was gone, fallen to one side. Blood stained the glasslike sheen.
“Anyone there?” A male voice boomed from somewhere close.
She opened her mouth to yell back. Mr. Sakaguchi squeezed her forearm.
“You have to open the bubble now, before they find us.”
“What would really happen if they knew what I could do?”
“You don’t want to know.” He said this with a strange tremble in his voice, as if he knew the answer all too well.
“If I drop this bubble, we could still be crushed or killed.”
“Yes, but we can stand now, and we’re that much closer to the top. Ingrid . . .” He hesitated. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”
“Mr. Sakaguchi, you and Mama have always fussed over me too much. I know you say I can’t handle pain, but I can deal with—”
She screeched in shock as Mr. Sakaguchi grabbed her around the waist and heaved her toward the light. Her upheld arm shoved through more debris until her focus slipped. Everything slid inward with a horrible rumble. Her gasp cut short as dust and fibers clogged her throat. Pressure crushed her. Not the comforting waves that arose from the earth, but painful weight squeezing and stabbing her entire body.
“Help!” Her cry bounced and echoed back at her. “Help! Ojisan, are you okay?” She didn’t care if anyone heard the familial term, not now.
She couldn’t hear a reply, but his hand squeezed her leg.
“Help! Help!” Ingrid screamed with renewed vigor. Her right arm was still above her head, and she clawed at the slats. Grit burned her eyes and dusted her tongue. Raw pain radiated from her lower back, her thigh, her ribs. She still felt strangely cold, but from those points of agony, she recognized the heat of blood. The hole above opened a wee bit more. “Help! Down here!”
A small earthquake shivered through the wreckage. Blue flared around her for a scant second. Debris rumbled. She took in the heat as dread twisted her stomach. God, don’t let a major earthquake hit now, not with the two of them and every other warden and student trapped in rubble.
“Hey! Hey!” The crunch of footsteps. A shadow, blocking the light. “We got one over here, alive! A woman!”
“Two of us!” Ingrid shouted. She could only see through slits; her eyes felt like they contained ground glass. Maybe they did. “Warden Sakaguchi’s here, too! Alive!”
“Sakaguchi! Sir! Sakaguchi’s over here!” the man yelled.
“They’re coming,” she yelled down to him. “Hold on.” Her voice sounded so strange, her throat tight with pain.
More male voices, along with more crunches and clatter. Light dawned over her. Everything became a chaotic blur. Her lungs sucked in full breaths. Iron-strong hands gripped her arm.
“Don’t pull me out yet! Everything will fall in on Mr. Sakaguchi,” she cried.
“Where is he?” someone asked.
“Down by my legs. We were standing together when—when everything happened. I . . . I managed to climb up.”
“Lieutenant, you and the rest move this beam. Start a line to carry this debris to the street. We need this warden alive.”
Ingrid waited, her shoulders exposed to the air. Reality seemed to waver around her like a heat mirage, and she wasn’t quite sure of the passage of time. Bit by bit, the weight against her vanished. The bodies around her flashed like shadows behind a campfire, and then hands grabbed hold of her again, and this time they pulled her out. Reality clarified itself as a hot lance of pain seared her backside. Someone screamed. She lay atop the rubble, acutely aware of pebbles and chunks of bricks grinding into the softness of her palms.
The earth moved once more.
The pressure wave was small, almost gentle. She braced herself, wondering if the building would swallow her again. The ruins shifted, but not much. Maybe the debris had already compacted. She absorbed the lap of heat, the risk of hypothermia fully gone, and blinked the grit from her eyes.
“Get her to the doctor.” The commanding voice came from directly above.
“Mr. Sakaguchi?” she asked.
“We can see him. He’s alive and almost out.”
“Thank you. Thank God,” Ingrid said. She looked up to see a pant leg of dark blue with gold trim down the calf.
They’d been rescued by the Unified Pacific’s American Army & Airship Corps.
Located a block away from the auxiliary, Dr. Hatsumi’s Reiki practice had been familiar to Ingrid for as long as she could remember. “You can’t handle pain well,” Mama always said, and rushed Ingrid there for everything from sliced fingertips to digestive irregularities.
Never had a visit been as urgent as this, though, nor had soldiers ever stood guard outside the door. She lay on her belly, lip pinched between her teeth, as the doctor muttered in Japanese. He didn’t seem to consider or care that she could understand his gripes about filthy American soldiers taking over his shop, but he always conducted his business with brusqueness.
An assistant poured fresh seeds into the bin. Mustiness fogged the air. Dr. Hatsumi began work on Ingrid.
Reiki magic was one of Japan’s many contributions to everyday American life. Its culture had infused society since the Unified Pacific had formed some forty years before during the brief War Between the States. Back then, Japanese airship technology had granted Union forces a quick victory over the Confederacy. The partnership had only grown stronger in recent years. Over a million Japanese citizens—mostly engineers of unparalleled skill—had moved to America’s shores, though their native isles still abounded with billions of people in need of land. Hence the need to clear China for settlement.
In truth, America’s contributions were milder, but vital—California contained kermanite, and the nation offered bountiful young men to serve in the Unified Pacific’s armed forces.
With sinuous motions, the Reiki doctor drew inherent life from the seeds and directed energy into Ingrid’s ki. Seeing auras was a rare skill for geomancers, but all Reiki doctors were said to see colors as they tugged on strings of life.
Ingrid gripped the thin mat on the wooden platform. Little earthquakes had continued since she was pulled from the rubble. A gauzy blue fog drifted across the floor. Ingrid looked to the pendulum light overhead and noted a smidgen of sway. With so many geomancers nearby, it was rare for a trembler to cause a physical reaction.
Pain spiked in her back again, and she muffled a yelp.
She couldn’t see the magic of Reiki, but she felt it like a dry electric spark in the air. No power existed in a vacuum. Reiki relied on the power of life to heal life, just as any geomancer relied on the roiling strength of the earth. Hatsumi was properly licensed, and used seeds and plants. Less reputable practitioners were more potent and bloody, and yanked life from chickens, dogs, cats, or even worse, other humans. Willing or otherwise.
“Still!” Dr. Hatsumi barked. His accent was thick, even in one word. Quite different from Mr. Sakaguchi, who had an almost aristocratic British lilt from his early years as a warden in Europe.
Ingrid pressed herself impossibly deeper into the mat. Cool tendrils radiated from the cut in her back. The wound smarted something fierce.
The sight of the auxiliary had hurt far more than her injury. Its three floors had dropped into the basement, creating a mound that seemed scarcely higher than the street. She knew that the ground beneath the building and much of downtown San Francisco was considered “made,” filled in with old rubble and other dirt to stabilize it enough to build on. In an earthquake zone, that generally wasn’t wise, as a severe tremor could liquefy the unstable ground. However, that also meant that the earth was a potent conductor—ideal for the wardens, and for the boys in training.
With wardens present, made ground was safe. The city existed as it did because of the auxiliary.
The doctor’s grunt signaled that her time on the table was done. She pushed herself upright, a blanket pressed against her chest, but the two men had already filed out and shut the door behind them. Her movement sent a mild stab of pain through her back. Reiki by plants didn’t heal wounds completely, but it quickened the process. Within a few days, she expected to feel normal. Normal as one could be, after being buried alive.
She shuddered at the memory. Whose hand had been there, draped above her bubble? Had it belonged to a warden or an adept? She shoved the terrible image from her mind.
The earth shivered again as her feet met the blue-fogged ground. Warmth flooded her feet, her legs, and whirled into a cozy knot in her torso. She welcomed the heat, her eyes closing briefly in bliss. Within seconds, the trembling stopped.
Her clothes were bloodied and torn, but decent enough for the trek home. She certainly had nothing to be ashamed of, surviving that. She had just finished dressing when a heavy knock shuddered through the door.
“Yes?” she called.
“Captain Sutcliff will talk to you.” No request, no niceties about it.
Ingrid opened the door. Despite her having shaken out her dress, every rustle of fabric emitted a cloud of dust. The soldier in the hallway gawked, his gaze unable to surmount her chest.
Indignation caused absorbed energy to flare to her skin. The current fashion was Orientalist and less formfitting, but Ingrid’s dress was weighted by plastered layers of muck. Not that the dress’s cut did much to hide her form anyway. Her body had the sensuous curves of the California foothills, her waist naturally defined as if she wore an antiquated corset.
“If you’re done leering, sir,” she said coolly, “I can speak with the captain now.”
Surprised anger furrowed his brows as he turned away. She could read his expression—you’re not supposed to talk back to me. She stood straighter, chin lifted as she followed him into the front parlor.
Mr. Sakaguchi and several soldiers awaited her. The doctor and his staff had vanished. Shades covered the windows.
“Miss Carmichael.” Mr. Sakaguchi’s smile tugged at new scabs across his cheeks and jaw. His suit jacket was gone, the white shirt blotched in black, brown, and flares of red. His vest, always prim and perfectly ironed, was
shredded in spots as though a kitten—no, a Sierran wyvern—had used it as a scratching post.
“How are you feeling?” Mr. Sakaguchi asked. He didn’t glow blue. He must have already funneled energy from the recent quakes into his kermanite.
“Much better now, thank you, Mr. Sakaguchi,” she murmured. “And you, sir?”
“Well enough.” He nodded to the man beside him. “This is Captain Sutcliff, newly arrived in the city. Captain, this is my secretary whom I was just telling you about.”
Captain Sutcliff could have worn sackcloth and she would have known him for a soldier. His posture was rigid, as if his spine were bolted to a metal pole. Measured calculation shone in his pale blue eyes. His vivid blond hair reminded her of the Valkyries depicted in Mr. Sakaguchi’s beloved Wagner prints, though Sutcliff’s hair was parted perfectly down the middle and cropped close to his ears.
Even more telling were his shoes. The captain’s black boots gleamed like mirrors, though she knew he’d been climbing about in the rubble.
“Carmichael.” Captain Sutcliff drew out her name. “You don’t look like a Carmichael.”
She’d been teased on the subject before, especially by the Irish sisters who did the auxiliary linens. “I look like my father, sir, and he was a Carmichael.”
“And where was he from?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Maybe he was Black Irish.” Captain Sutcliff snorted at his own joke. Ingrid grimaced. Mr. Sakaguchi’s smile was of poised politeness. He’d been Abram Carmichael’s friend and peer, but both he and Mama made it clear that Papa never spoke of his past. The man may as well have emerged from the wilderness at age ten, ready for formal training in geomancy.
“Maybe he was Cherokee, Mexican, or Hindu. I don’t know, sir.” She said it lightly out of practice.
“Hmm. You usually don’t have geomancers of that ilk, and he was a warden at a young age, correct? He must have been good.” The captain was not completely clueless after all, but a politician. Even more dangerous. “If you’ll both sit down, I have questions.”
“As do we.” Mr. Sakaguchi lowered himself to a red velvet seat, wincing. Ingrid sat on a carved bench across from him.
