Summoned Chaos

by Joshua Roots

  The thing that surprised me wasn’t so much the amount of information available, but rather the lack of certain information.

  Data on the recent attack was minimal at best. When I tried to dredge up the location of all the bodies, both from the assault on HQ and against me, the machine came up empty. No official record, just a note that mentioned all cadavers had been cremated. All traces of the practitioner had literally gone up in smoke.

  My efforts to uncover who the people were that actually transported and destroyed the bodies produced similar results. I swore. Whoever was involved knew the right way to cover their tracks. With no corpse or people to investigate, the Mimic trail was a dead end. It was almost as if the people pulling the strings had experience with this before.

  I froze, mulling over that thought.

  What if the answers I sought were in the past, not the present? Inspired, my hands flew over the keys. My search produced several results, one of which actually had some meat on the bone.

  The incident report was almost seventy years old and written by none other than Summoner Benjamin Devon.

  My heartbeat increased and I tapped my fingers impatiently while the machine struggled to bring up the page. When it finally loaded, however, there was only a report number and a filing date. I wrote both down, then started comparing them to books on the shelves. They didn’t match, but the old filing bin near the back was a hit. I flipped through the faded, yellow folders until I found the corresponding numbers, then gently removed the flat, dark plastic square. I walked carefully over to the microfiche reader and slid the copy into the machine.

  “Ancient, old crap,” I muttered, and flipped on the power.

  It took another minute or two of scanning dozens of old reports before I finally found the right one.

  Most of the paper was dry, academic crap. I skimmed the stuff that threatened to put me to sleep. Halfway through, however, a highly redacted section caused me to perk up.

  It is well-known that Mimics share many similarities to the insect world as their ability to mirror predators is nearly identical to species like moths. However, due to their remarkable ability to adapt and mirror other creatures, it stands to reason that their abilities may extend beyond basic defense. Only two other reports have ever been published that support this hypothesis [redacted] and [redacted], however in both cases, the Mimics attacked as a group rather than as individuals. Statements from survivors in the second report indicate that the Mimics may have been forced into the populated village as the surrounding forest was consumed by a massive fire. Additional research confirms a fire that burned nearly eighty-thousand acres of trees.

  The attack on [redacted] shares many similarities with the previous two reports listed herein. Not only do the survivors claim that the Mimics appeared suddenly and attacked as an organized unit. More startling are the statements that they were utilizing what appeared to be a smattering of weapons (see attached list). Based on interviews conducted at the time, the team agrees that the attack was likely the result of a failed summoning. A thorough investigation of the area was conducted, however no evidence of a portal nor any traces of a Summoner were uncovered. Sadly, most of the bodies of all the Mimics were burned before Council personnel arrived, limiting this team’s ability to collect further evidence.

  I read the report two more times before sitting back and chewing on the information. Devon, it appeared, knew more about Mimics than he’d let on during our one-on-one. He’d obviously seen a similar attack once before, but hadn’t mentioned it. He might have been screwing with me, but the more I thought about our meeting, the more it seemed like he was fishing for information.

  I moved back to the old computer in the hopes that I could find additional information. Sadly, there seemed to be no trail to follow with Devon’s report.

  That, more than anything, made the hair on my arms tingle.

  The red tape created by the Council’s processes was annoying, but it existed specifically to ensure all possible data was recorded.

  So why hadn’t the Council followed up on the matter? Even closing out a case required someone to follow procedures, yet there was nothing to suggest that happened. It was as if the thing had been dropped from the Skilled radar entirely. Or removed.

  I blinked. Unless that was the point.

  My heart hammered in my chest as I punched search requirements into the computer. The first few attempts came up with nothing, but eventually I found an article from a defunct paper in Baltimore from the same year as the report.

  The headline read: “Small Town Attacked by Monsters.” The location stirred up a memory from something I’d read earlier, so I compared the article to my notes. The more I evaluated the items, the more convinced I was that the town was the same.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much else to the story and no mention of a secret government research team asking questions. Disappointed, but not surprised, I pulled my old phone out of my pocket. I smiled, grateful that I’d thought to pick it up from my house. I was additionally thankful I’d shut off all data to it, so it wouldn’t keep buzzing with phone calls or messages.

  But the camera would work.

  I snapped a picture of Devon’s report and the newspaper article. Satisfied, I returned the microfiche to its folder, then spent another few minutes gathering as much information as I could about the make-up of the Council during that time.

  I glanced at my watch, annoyed by how much time had slipped by. The Mimics were only half of the information pie I needed to eat. Setting them aside, I reactivated the Council’s internal search engine, and began digging into the past once again, this time to find anything related to Simeon Fawkes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Home Is Where the Hunt Is

  Hours later, I was completely surrounded by bees. They filled the air, racing around in long, lazy arcs. I stood motionless, absorbing the peace and tranquility their buzzing always had on me.

  Having ground to a halt with my research, I’d finally agreed to let Arbent drive me to the folks’ place.

  Built during a time when Great Falls was nothing more than a bunch of farms, the Homestead had slowly grown from a small, easily defended shack into an enormous mansion with a full security detail. Comprised of two massive wings and central node, the house contained everything the modern Skilled family needed for survival. In addition to the ballrooms, museum-quality antiquities, and countless bedrooms, it also housed both an armory and a personal medical ward. The former helped the Shifters keep up with their training while the latter was used when that training wasn’t enough.

  Despite its gargantuan size, the mansion was still the place I considered home.

  Sure, the North Wing was sterile and imposing—especially the ballroom where I’d summoned a Hellcat as a teen—but the South Wing still held the memories of a happy childhood.

  Instead of priceless portraits and dusty suits of armor, the walls and alcoves of the South Wing had been reserved for finger paintings and poorly constructed model airplanes. It was where I ran amok as a kid, exploring the various passageways and stairwells like Indiana Jones. Even years later, the wing always made me feel like it was waiting to envelop me in the loving embrace of generations of Shifter love.

  The Homestead was where I’d been born and, ironically, where I’d nearly died.

  Twice.

  Dad wasn’t home, no doubt off doing something critical for the Council, so I’d paid a visit to Healer Jenkins, our on-site doctor. He’d lived and worked at the Homestead for decades before I was born, growing the medical level in the sub-basement from a small, private clinic to a full-blown mini-hospital. Having patched me up my entire life, something small like the cuts and bruises from my accident were a cinch. We’d chatted while the Healing Spell worked its magic. Once finished, I’d decided to wait for my old man by spending some quality time with my favorite hobby.

  Standing in the middle of thousands of buzzing insects, the annoyance that I’d barely gotten a
nything from my research slowly faded.

  Cracking open the top of the last hive, I let the rich honey smell from inside wash over me. Releasing a long breath, I flushed the anger and frustration from my system before finishing my inspection. I checked the hive for mites or signs of sickness, then filled their feeders with sugar syrup to help supplement their food supply for the coming winter months. Once I finished, I simply watched as the little bugs went about their daily activities.

  Occasionally one would whisper “Keeper” as she passed, but for the most part, they were focused on the food.

  I’d never told the folks about my ability to communicate with the bees. I’d taken up the hobby during my time away from the Skilled, so it was a shock the first time I’d “heard” them. The conversations were muffled and hurried, much like listening to a party through a wall, but if contacted directly, we could share words. Nothing too complex since their world was all about their hive, pollen and nectar, but the bond was something special. Something unique.

  And after so many years of being under the microscope of the Council, I liked having one or two secrets that were mine and mine alone.

  Well, and Quinn’s. She’d been present when I’d communicated with my bees during the attack at the Homestead, but she hadn’t told a soul. Maybe it was because I’d kept equally mum about her Shadow Dancing ability or perhaps she knew how protective I was of the secret. Either way, it made me trust her deeper than anyone else.

  Man, I couldn’t wait to see her again.

  Someone whistled. I turned, half hoping it was Quinn. My heart sank a little when Dad waved from the house. I waved back, then closed up the hive as he went back inside. Once everything was buttoned up, I ditched my gear in the small, stone hut I’d named the Honey House, then trotted indoors.

  Dad was waiting for me in his study. Packed with more books than some libraries, it was a sanctuary of knowledge for my old man. In the winter he kept the fireplace going all day long. That afternoon, however, the fireplace was cold, but the coffee he’d poured me hot.

  “Everything okay?” he asked as I sat across from him in the large leather chair.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’ve been with your bees over an hour. Normally you only do that when something is really bothering you. Anything you need to talk about?”

  I always knew I was lucky. Many of my peers came from broken or unsupportive homes, yet for some inexplicable reason, I’d won the family lottery. For as long as I could remember, my folks had been there to encourage me. Even when I screwed up.

  Which was why I still carried so much guilt. Not only for the lives lost because of my arrogant mistake, but also for walking away from my training. Mom and Dad had never questioned my demand to switch to a Normal school nor my desire to train with “conventional” weapons instead of spells. They’d simply moved me into the public school system and converted a part of the armory into a gun range. All while dealing with the condescending whispers from the Skilled community for the “shame” I’d brought to the Shifter name. Yet not once did they hold that against me and when I’d announced I was ready to begin training again, they’d welcomed me with open arms.

  Still many of the gray hairs in Dad’s salt-and-pepper hair belonged to me.

  As long as I lived, I’d do everything I could to make up for it. So if he wanted to talk, I’d always play it straight.

  “It’s been a rough couple of days,” I admitted, sinking into the chair as I unloaded everything, beginning with the attack at HQ. When I got to the part about my second run-in with the Mimics, Dad stopped me.

  “I’m so relieved you’re okay. Benjamin called to say you were in an accident, but didn’t share the details. He just said you were fine. I took him at his word.” His jaw tensed. “Apparently I should have followed up.”

  I fought a grin. Dad was one of the few Councilmembers who could get away with calling the Elders by their first name.

  “It’s okay.” That part was true. Devon hadn’t lied. I was, in fact, fine.

  And the last thing I wanted was to worry my folks.

  “Your mother is going to lose her mind when she hears of this,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “She doesn’t know?”

  Dad shook his head. “She’s conducting field tests with some Hunter candidates. They finish Saturday morning.”

  I was stunned. Mom had been one of the Council’s top Huntresses in her day, whacking creepy crawlies with a success rate that had never been achieved by a single person and was still unbeaten. She’d taken a sabbatical when she found out she was pregnant, then had decided to fully retire after I was born. The Council had begged her to reconsider, but she’d shrugged them off, opting instead to be a full-time mother. In the years since, she hadn’t so much as stepped foot in HQ, so for her to suddenly agree to train some of the new kids was earth-shatteringly surprising.

  “What made her agree to help?” I asked.

  Dad shrugged. “She swears it’s because she’s bored, but I think Treble McCain’s betrayal really hit her.”

  Months later, the name of the guy who’d stabbed Jethrow still caused me to burn with fury. McCain was one of the best, having helped Jethrow use me to track down Simeon. But at the last second, he’d handed us over to the Agents of Quaos, then vanished from the Skilled radar.

  “Was he one of Mom’s students?”

  “No, but that’s the point. She hasn’t said as much, but I suspect she wants to prevent it from happening by being personally involved in the selection and training of the next generation.”

  Heaven help the poor fools.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I apologize for interrupting. You were going to tell me about what you found on Simeon Fawkes.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. All information is gone.”

  The fact that I’d hit another dead end was maddening.

  “What do you mean it’s ‘gone’?”

  “I mean there is no trace. It’s as if it never existed.” I couldn’t keep the aggravation at hitting a wall out of my voice.

  My father frowned. “That’s impossible.”

  “Improbable, maybe, but obviously not impossible.”

  Dad’s expression grew more serious. “Are you sure you checked everything? The Council keeps a lot of old information on microfiche, but they haven’t even scratched the surface of what’s locked in the air-tight vaults. There are literally thousands of manuscripts, tomes and scraps of parchment slowly decaying in that library.”

  I inhaled slowly, calming the frustration that threatened to return. “Dad, I swear to you that I dug through everything I could get my hands on. Old tomes, microfiche, the secured database, you name it. If Simeon Fawkes really was conducting Council-approved research into the dead, the proof doesn’t exist. At least as far as the Research Library is concerned. There are no notes and no communiqués. Moreover, every Council member who is still serving from back then has a clean record. If there were any ties between Fawkes’s research, Quaos and a sitting Councilmember, then they’ve all been snipped.”

  My old man sighed, then gazed out the window of his study. Rain trickled down the pane weaving intricate trails along the glass.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said, turning back to me. “Whoever has been pulling the strings was smart enough to outmaneuver the Council twenty years ago. It stands to reason that they’d be clever enough to cover their tracks to today.”

  “Yeah, but to be able to completely erase information from a database without leaving a trail? That’s nuts.”

  “It just goes to show you how good this person is.” He sounded worried. It was something I wasn’t used to.

  “Assuming it is just one person,” I said, echoing with my own heightened feelings of concern.

  Dad nodded. “Good point.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I’m not gonna lie, it’s exhausting. The lack of information is maddening. Not that I’m giving up, mind you,” I added. “Somewher
e out there is tangible proof that Simeon Fawkes was the scapegoat. The lack of information in the Research Library is just a speed bump in the road to finding out who’s been screwing with us.”

  “That’s my boy.” Deep down, I felt that warming sensation that can only be achieved through parental approval. “So, aside from rooting out a traitor, what else is going on?”

  I shrugged. “A whole lot, actually, including figuring out what is going on with the Mimics. Those freaks of nature tried to kill me. Kinda’ makes it personal now.”

  “What have you found?” Dad asked.

  I grimaced. “More than I did with Simeon. The most interesting item was a report from seventy years ago about a similar attack in Maryland. And get this, it was authored by our very own Elder Devon.”

  Dad perked up. “Really? Do tell.”

  “The report was light on hard facts,” I admitted. “But it sounded like this has happened a couple times in the past. You can read for yourself if you want.” I pulled the picture of the report up on my old phone, zoomed in on the important text, and showed it to Dad.

  “Devon seemed to think it was mostly environmental factors,” I continued.

  “But you don’t agree.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m honestly not sure,” I said, trying to sort the clues out in my own mind. “Maybe something happened all those decades ago, but that doesn’t explain the incident at HQ. Outside of this heat wave, the weather has been fine. No forest fires, earthquakes, or other such calamities. Nothing that I can put a finger on as to what drove the Mimics to lash out.

  “What really bothers me is that Devon seems to know more than he’s letting on.”

  “Just Devon?”

  “Him for sure. I don’t know about the rest. I pulled a bunch of records from that time period. Of the sitting members of the Council, a fair number were either alive or on the Council back then. Any one of them might have been involved.”