by DD Barant
“You mean we do,” says Azura. “Because two of us are human, and none of you are. You’ve noticed the lems are treating human beings differently from pires or thropes.”
“True. But we’ve got numbers and weapons. It’s a fair trade.”
“Really?” I say. “A six-pack of thropes, a few bows and blades, and a pire who specializes in poisons that don’t work against lems? Why do I think our end of this proposed alliance is going to involve the phrase human shield?”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Azura. “Escaping from the city won’t do you any good.”
“What? Why not?” Mbunte demands.
“Because the fourth spell site was about the birth of the golem race. Creation, Sacrifice, Immortality, Birth—or if you prefer, Chaos, Death, Order, and Life. The four prime elements of the Universe. If Asher’s initial myth had invoked the destructive side of Chaos, he would have been weaving an Apocalypse spell—but he didn’t do that. He told a Creation myth.”
“That’s good, right?” I say. “The opposite of Apocalypse is good.”
“Creation and Destruction are always entwined, Jace. Creating something inevitably involves destroying something else.”
“What’s he trying to create?” Mbunte asks.
“A new world,” says Azura. “Vegas is just the launching point.”
I have a sudden, horrible feeling. I stop watching Mbunte and her pet soldiers and start looking around frantically. “Remote, remote, where’s the remote,” I mutter. I spot it lying at the base of the flatscreen TV, scoop it up, and hit the POWER button.
“—reports are now coming from other parts of the state,” the newscaster says. She’s more composed than the last one, but her eyes are a little glassy; I think she might be on the equivalent of thrope tranquilizers. “Fighting continues to rage in the streets of Reno, while Carson City is now reported to have fallen to the insurgents. The golem manufacturing facility in Sparks is under golem control, and management has been taken hostage. Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas has been occupied, and there are unconfirmed reports of experimental aircraft out of Area Fifty-one in the Nevada desert now being used by the golem revolutionary forces. The group claiming responsibility for this insurrection is the radical golem rights organization known as the Mantle, which is calling for golems across the globe to join them. We have this statement from their leader, Tom Omicron.”
They cut away to a shot of a gray-skinned lem sitting behind a desk. He looks solemn, but that’s sort of the default expression on most lem faces. He’s not wearing a shirt, but he’s got a jagged black circle painted on his chest—the logo of the Mantle. “I wish to assure the members of every supernatural race that we will make this transition as painless as possible. My people were created as guardians and helpmates to the human race, and we have failed terribly in our duty. Human beings are nearly extinct; current projections show they will not survive into the next century. We cannot let this happen.
“Not all of us have forgotten our heritage. We still remember who made us, and why. And if the hemovores and lycanthropes will not safeguard their lives, then we will. I urge all humans listening to this broadcast to contact the nearest lem authority; we will protect you from the tragic but unavoidable dangers of this war. And when it is over, we will return this planet to its rightful owners—you.”
The camera cuts back to the anchor. “We’re being joined now by Crispus Damian, senior analyst for the White House and deputy chairman of the Domestic Golem Affairs Bureau. Mr. Damian, what exactly is going on? Why this insurrection, why now, and why the sudden shift in policy from golem rights to human fealty?”
Crispus Damian is an imposing, dark-skinned pire with a shaved head and a square jaw. “We’re still investigating, Kelly, but at this point we think it’s one of two things: either a preemptive attempt to shift blame, because they know this terrorist action has no chance of succeeding; or an ill-fated partnership with a faction of human terrorists, who are demanding certain conditions in return for their cooperation. Either way, there’s no chance of this revo—excuse me, of this insurrection surviving.”
“Are human beings really that valuable as an ally?” Kelly asks. “I mean, there are less than a million alive, most of them widely scattered or in seclusion. The kind of language Tom Omicron was using was—well, almost subservient. Is this a political alliance, or is something else going on?”
“If you’re trying to imply there may be some sort of sorcery at work, I can assure you we have our best government shamans working on that. If there is some kind of spell being cast, there’s no danger of it getting past the confines of Nevada. We have wards already in place, and there’s absolutely no risk to the people in the neighboring states—”
“We’re screwed,” says Azura.
“So this going to spread?” Mbunte asks. “No. No way. They’ll use HPLC—”
“High Power Level Craft won’t stop this,” says Azura. “Not unless they want to tear the entire planet apart. It might come to that, but I doubt it; there are too many lems in important military positions, and they won’t let that happen.” There’s a bleak certainty in her voice. “This world will fall.”
* * *
In the end we accept the mercs’ offer of an alliance. It seems like the prudent choice.
Mbunte doesn’t try to take over, for which I’m grateful; I have enough on my plate without worrying about fighting a battle-hardened mercenary for dominance. I get the impression that she’s a career soldier, one more comfortable with following orders than giving them—though I can’t let myself forget that I was the one who killed Koltz, her last commanding officer. If she has a problem with that, she doesn’t let it show.
The Dobermans take over two of the bedrooms to stash their gear and claim floor space; they seem to think we’re going to be holed up here awhile. Azura goes to work setting up some perimeter spells, while Tair studies the news and ignores everyone. I grab some lunch in the kitchen—peanut butter on white bread—and try to figure out what our next move should be.
I can’t stop thinking about what Omicron said on his telecast: that humans were the rightful owners of the planet, and the lems were planning on giving it back to them.
Was that such a bad idea?
Of course, being one of said human beings, I wasn’t exactly a disinterested observer. I was a member of an endangered species that had just been handed a winning lottery ticket and told to get aboard the space shuttle for the next flight to Shangri-la. Okay, maybe my metaphors needed a little less time in the blender, but overall things looked a lot better for the human race in this reality than they had for a long, long time.
Sure. All that’s needed is a bloody revolution that will cost countless lives. And in the end, what do we wind up with? An aristocracy of a million or so human beings, ruling over a police state? A big stone jackboot on the neck of every pire and thrope alive? Golems all magically brainwashed into our faithful servants, making us a culture of slavers?
That wasn’t a better world. That was just a world where I was one of the oppressors instead of the oppressed.
I wish Cassius were here. He’s got a lot more experience with this kind of big-picture political dilemma; I try to focus on the immediate and specific, like catching a killer before he puts another body in the ground. There are too many variables at work here, too many consequences to any given action. Just keeping an eye on Tair and Azura is using up most of my concentration.
I come to a decision, and call everyone to the living room for a war council. Azura seems to be done with whatever spell she was putting in place, and Tair switches off the TV.
“We need to find my boss, David Cassius,” I say. “He’s got the resources and the knowledge to turn this around, and he’s already here in the city.”
“If he’s here,” says Mbunte, “where is he?”
“Probably trapped in the repeating cycle of a myth.” I give Mbunte a brief description of what Azura, Tair, and I have experience
d at the spell sites.
“If Tair was able to break free, why wasn’t he?” Mbunte asks. She gives Tair a flat, evaluating glance.
“Good question,” says Azura. “After all, Tair claims to have done it with sheer willpower. Is Cassius the weak-willed sort?”
“Not hardly,” I say. Now we’re all giving Tair the hairy eyeball. “But if he is in there, we should go get him out. And if he isn’t—well, maybe we should have a little chat with the last person to see him. Right?”
Tair doesn’t seem fazed by this at all. He smiles. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. Even if he isn’t in there, how do we know what happened? He could have escaped and then been captured or killed by lem forces. Asher could have zapped him into another dimension. Just because I made it out and he didn’t doesn’t automatically make me the bad guy.”
“That’s true,” I say. “You’re a bad guy all on your own.”
“In any case,” he says, “what good is it going to do to rescue him, anyway? He’s trapped here, same as us.”
“Don’t underestimate him. Cassius always has a plan.”
“Yeah, look how well things have gone for your mission so far.”
“That’s not his fault—”
A ringtone starts playing; it takes me a second to recognize it as the theme song from Gilligan’s Island. Part of my brain notes that for future reference—I collect music that’s the same here as in my original reality, regardless of genre—while the rest of me scans the room for the cell phone that’s making it. I find it on a bookshelf and pick it up.
The incoming call is from a number I recognize. I thumb the answer button. “Hello, Charlie.”
“Hi. This a bad time?”
“Depends on your point of view. Your side seems to be doing okay.”
“It’s not my side, Jace. It’s our side.”
Everyone in the room is staring at me. They’re all probably wondering if I’m about to betray them.
“Right, right. Me as a member of the master race and you as one of my loyal subjects. That how you see this?”
“It’s not like that. We’re just trying to do right by the people that made us.”
“Listen to yourself, Charlie. This isn’t you, this is magic. Your judgment is being warped by a spell.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah? Who’s better at pool, you or me?”
“What?”
“Answer the damn question.”
“… that would be me. You always scratch on the eight.”
“Who’s a better dresser?”
“Are you kidding? You buy your clothes in bulk.”
“Who’s a better dancer?”
“I am. You keep trying to lead, which I wouldn’t mind if you knew how—”
“Who’s your master?”
There’s no answer. I let the silence drag out for a few seconds, then say, “Well, congratulations. You actually managed not to say it. You sure wanted to, though, right? How’s that make you feel?”
“I’m sorry, Jace.”
“Sorry? Sorry? I don’t want you sorry, you walking bag of cement mix, I want you angry! What the hell good is a partner who won’t even stand up for his own rights when he’s being turned into a windup toy for a lunatic?”
“You want me angry?” His voice is cold. “Okay, Jace. You got it. Just try to remember I’m doing this for your own good.”
The line goes dead.
“Uh-oh,” I say.
“What?” Mbunte says. “What did he say?”
“I think I finally pissed him off. But not in a good way…”
“Get down!” Azura yells.
I have the bizarre urge to yell back, Get funky! but fortunately that part of my brain isn’t in charge of my reflexes. I drop to the floor.
Glass shatters. Mbunte’s head explodes.
This world doesn’t have bullets, but it does have golems that can pitch iron-cored silver ball bearings around three times as fast as Nolan Ryan. Mbunte must have accumulated quite a time-debt as a pire, because her body hits the ground as mostly dust.
The Dobermans dive for their weapons—either compound bows, axes, or machetes—transforming into were form on the way. At least one is carrying a broadsword. Azura is scrambling on hands and knees for the kitchen, and Tair—Tair is just gone, nowhere in sight.
Me, I’ve got the Ruger out and ready, trained at the front door. Guess I should have asked Charlie where he was calling from.
“I thought you had alarm spells set up!” I hiss at Azura.
“I do! They went off! That’s what the yelling was about!”
A grenade sails through the broken window, lands on the floor, and starts spouting white vapor. I recognize the smell: CNS agent laced with silver, designed to target thropes. The Dobermans are already slipping gas masks over their muzzles, though—they’re professional soldiers, after all.
But they’re not Charlie.
He comes in through the front door, just smashes right through it like it was made of cardboard. He’s dressed in sand-colored desert fatigues and a combat helmet instead of his usual suit and fedora, which somehow I find more shocking than anything else. He’s got a battle shield strapped to either arm, basically a razor-edged disk the size of a manhole cover with a steel viewing mesh near the rim. I’ve read about them, but never seen one in action before.
The Dobermans with bows let fly. Charlie blocks with the shields, holding one high and one low, a posture a human fighter could never maintain. The arrows bounce off.
Then it’s Charlie’s turn.
He cuts one of the thropes almost in half with a single swipe. He doesn’t have a lot of reach, but he doesn’t need it; he advances relentlessly, using a combination of brute force and nearly ten feet of cutting edge to make every battle up close and personal. He kicks one thrope through a wall, slams another into the TV with the flat of a shield, and opens a third from groin to gullet with an upward slash. The look on his face is one of intense, savage satisfaction.
For the first time, I really see the tyrannosaur buried in the black sand of Charlie’s heart. It’s terrifying.
The gas is getting thicker, turning the battle into vague blurs in fog. The thropes don’t stand a chance, and all I can think of is that when he’s done with them, I’m next.
I know that shield can turn away arrows, and maybe even one of the javelins that lems pitch—but I doubt if it can stop a silver-tipped .454 round.
Charlie won’t kill me, I tell myself, trying to aim through the white fog. Charlie won’t kill me.
Maybe not. But can I kill him?
TWELVE
He kills them all.
Six heavily armed mercenaries, veterans of wars and police actions from Africa to Afghanistan. Thropes the size of linebackers, each one a mass of muscle, claw, and fang capable of recovering from almost any wound short of decapitation.
It takes him under a minute.
When he’s done he leans down and picks up the gas grenade, still hissing out white smoke, and tosses it casually out the window it came in. Then he turns to me. I can’t see his face clearly through the fog.
I shoot him.
* * *
I remember the first time Charlie and I went out dancing.
It was in the middle of a case—my first case on this world—and I was basically being paraded around a small town as bait. That didn’t stop me from getting in a little entertainment when I found out this town had a thing for swing bands—especially when I found out my new partner liked to dance. Yeah, I gave him a hard time about it, but not so hard he wouldn’t hit the floor with me.
Did I find the idea of a dancing golem strange? Well, at the time I was so overwhelmed by strangeness that it was just one more thing to add to the recipe. When I had some time to think about it later, though, it seemed perfectly natural, like just a little sugar in really strong coffee. Not so much that it becomes sweet; just enough to cut the bitterness.
He was a wonderful dance
r.
* * *
The bullet takes him at the base of the throat. He gets the shield up in time, but not high enough; it smashes through the wire mesh that rings the circumference about six inches from the killing edge.
In a way, that makes it worse. The slug, tipped with silver but carved from teak, shatters, turning what could have been a through-and-through into a blizzard of shrapnel. It does about as much damage as a load of buckshot would if fired into a plastic jug filled with sand.
* * *
“Charlie isn’t there to spy on you or keep you in line,” Cassius told me the first time I met my new partner. “He’s there to protect you, and inflict serious damage on anyone that gets in your way. He’s your enforcer, not your babysitter.”
That turned out to be only half true. Charlie was certainly capable of destroying just about anything that might pose a threat to me, from neo-Nazi thropes to ninja pires, but he did his fair share of babysitting, too. He was the one who hung out with me when I was feeling blue, the one who’d show up with a Bogey movie and a pizza on a lonely Friday night—even though he didn’t eat. I didn’t think of him as a friend, because on this planet he was the closest thing I had to family. I trusted him with my life.
* * *
Black sand sprays the air like fossilized blood. A golem’s life force is embedded in the substance that composes them; you can patch or even replace the thick plastic skin that gives them their shape, but if they lose enough dirt, clay, or sand, the spell that animates them is broken. They die, just like any other living thing.
Charlie staggers backward a step. The mist clears just enough for me to see the look on his face, and nothing has ever made me hate myself more. I think I could have stood it if he looked angry, or surprised, or even if he looked sad—but he doesn’t wear any of those expressions. He wears no expression at all; his face is a blank, a Halloween mask with no one wearing it. I’ve turned him into an object, a thing. My friend isn’t in there any more.
