Fix

by Ferrett Steinmetz

  Paul wondered how the Amish treated ’mancers in their reclusive communities, then decided a selfish devotion to a hobby didn’t go over well with a community that shunned computers because they felt possessions detracted from brotherly love.

  “Does his ’mancy have a name?” Aliyah asked.

  Some ’mancers were so into their passion they’d forgotten their names, let alone the names of their magic – but Aliyah needed to catalogue things, a trait she’d inherited from Paul. Her room is messy but her mind is tidy, he thought.

  Robert shrugged. “He’s a… rock… balancer… -’mancer. We spend enough time sweeping up rocks that we haven’t had time for better nomenclature.”

  “So what do they call his hobby? I mean, in scientific circles?”

  “They call it ‘rock balancing.’ It’s… a pretty weird hobby, even by hobby standards. And the guys who do it tend not to really get out much.”

  “You mean they don’t get in much,” Valentine interjected.

  He shot her twin fingerguns as payment for her zinger.

  Aliyah brightened – enough for Paul to feel they could get through this. “So I get to name it?”

  “Yoder, you care?”

  Yoder weighed two different rocks in his hands, having already rebuilt a stack of schist up to waist height. He chewed a piece of straw as he eased one of the two rocks onto the teetering pile, serene as a meditating monk.

  “…Yoder doesn’t care. It’s yours.”

  They headed towards the camp, leaving Yoder and his pile behind. Aliyah bounced along at Paul’s side, trying out various names and discarding them. Up ahead, there was the distant sound of men chopping lumber, an old woman rocking on a chair. The wind rustled through the trees, a rich chlorophyll scent – out here, he could pretend America wasn’t mobilizing to capture them.

  “So,” Paul said. “You told Aliyah this would be the last safehouse to fall.”

  “Yup.” Robert was sober, but confident.

  “Which implies others have fallen.”

  “Hammer’s fallen, mon capitaine. Five of our safehouses have gone dark in the last four hours.”

  Imani arched an eyebrow. “Out of how many…?”

  Robert chuckled. Though he’d discarded Tyler Durden’s swagger, he’d never quite lost the Fight Club black humor. “Now, Ms Dawson. You know you’re not allowed to know that. Not when you sleep in the same bed as Number One.”

  The Unimancers had forced them to adopt distributed tactics: once you were inducted into the Unimancy squadrons, everything you knew got absorbed into their collective hivemind. That was why the government had been so desperate to capture Paul; they thought if they got him, they’d have total access to Project Mayhem.

  But Paul had ensured no one person’s defection could bring down Project Mayhem. There were overlapping areas of expertise, so the removal of one person wouldn’t erase vital institutional memory – Paul had constructed a complex chain of responsibilities to ensure everyone had exactly what they needed to know to accomplish their mission, and no more.

  Yet Imani had always chafed at being left out. She was too used to being the CEO’s right hand.

  “I think,” she said politely, “that given how many of our safehouses are going dark, it might be time to reevaluate who knows what.”

  “We’ve planned for contingencies like this, Ms Dawson. Suffice it to say that it’s a significant percentage of our sheltering operations.”

  “In four hours?” Paul asked.

  Robert smacked his lips. “Yeah.”

  “SMASH can’t have gotten that efficient in the last four hours… Can they?”

  Robert made a comme ci, comme ça gesture. “Can’t say for sure, Paul. They’re dark. But if I had to guess… no, SMASH isn’t more efficient. It’s everything else that’s changed.”

  Valentine nudged him in the ribs. “Hey, not everyone needs to hear this.” Aliyah sucked air between her teeth.

  “I’m not a child, Valentine,” she hissed. “I’ve fought just as hard to protect us as you have. You know what happens if you try to cut me out of the loop, so don’t start that shit again.”

  “–language–” Imani chided absently. They remembered when Paul had tried to shield her from his operations – frustrated, she’d used her ’mancy to warp into his operations, with disastrous results.

  “You don’t always know what’s right for you,” Valentine shot back. Paul cringed. Valentine had let loose a high sniper’s shot that implied if Aliyah had avoided the soccer league, none of this would have happened.

  “Enough!” Imani snapped. “So why are our safehouses falling apart, Robert?”

  Robert shrugged. “Part of it’s the Morehead broach sending folks into a panic. Lotta people have tolerated their crazy neighbors for years. Now the President’s convinced everyone y’all are walkin’ nukes, they’re putting two and two together.”

  “And the other part?”

  “…Mr Olizewski mentioned something about the Contract going on the fritz?”

  Paul slumped against a tree, overwhelmed, feeling the pain from his grinding ribs.

  Of course the Contract’s destruction would affect more than him. The Contract had been a way for wayward ’mancers nationwide to disperse their flux.

  That was why SMASH was so good at hunting ’mancers. They didn’t have to be supernaturally efficient – though they were – all they had to do was force ’mancers to use enough magic to generate a tide of bad luck, and their prey would drown in their own backlash.

  And the ’mancers in the safehouses, mostly awkward asocials like Yoder – nobody would have told them the Contract had imploded. They would have done ’mancy same as always, then found their bad luck boomeranging back on them.

  Imani rubbed his back while Paul tried to get himself under control. He tried not to think of innocent ’mancers hauled off to the Refactor, men and women with quiet hobbies like cryptography or glassblowing or stamp collecting – tortured until they lost their minds, then reprogrammed into government-friendly drones.

  “We’re going to lose more, aren’t we?” he asked. “Before the day is over?”

  “Lots,” Robert said.

  Aliyah gasped; Imani buried her daughter’s face in her shoulder.

  “Aliyah Rebecca Tsabo-Dawson,” Paul said sternly, using the Parent Voice every dad used to command his child’s attention. “Look at me.”

  Aliyah turned, reluctantly.

  “I won’t lie, Aliyah. Your flux caused this broach. But your bravery stopped the broach from ripping Kentucky apart. If you hadn’t been clever and bold, Savannah and her father would be dead. We’d all be dead.”

  Her chest hitched. She’d always hated showing weakness. “I should have kept my flux under control.”

  “It would have been better, yes. And you’ll do better. And… we’ll adapt.”

  Robert cleared his throat. “Step one would be rebuilding the Contract.”

  Paul sighed. “That’ll take time. People have to sign it in person. And there’ll be a lot less people willing to sign up now that we’re officially terrorists…”

  “You’ve got thirteen Project Mayhem folks here who’ll take the hit. Start there.” He waved over at three college-aged kids troubleshooting a generator–

  – instead, an elderly black woman came running over towards them, flailing her arms. She stopped, hands on knees, catching her breath, then gasped: “The broach, sir – news says – it’s expanding – they’re evacuating Morehead–”

  “Have you got a desk ready?” Paul asked. “Five fresh Bic pens, a stack of legal pads?”

  “Sir,” Robert said proudly, “in the highly likely event that you are captured, I cannot divulge the number of American safehouses to you. But I can tell you each Project Mayhem safehouse comes prepared with a fresh set of bureaucromantic scrying tools.”

  * * *

  The crisp metal desk looked absurd in the rundown shack. A handful of the Project Mayhem acolytes
– there really was no better word for people who’d chosen to abandon their lives to tend to ’mancers in the Appalachian foothills – swept the dirt floor as Paul walked in.

  “This’ll do,” Paul said.

  They straightened with pride. Then they flattened themselves against the walls, silently requesting permission to watch him work.

  He still found that a pleasant change. When he’d started, the only mundanes who’d wanted to watch him work had been K-Dash and Quaysean. ’Mancy terrified most ordinary people, and they no sooner wanted to be in its presence than they wanted to hang around a toxic waste dump.

  Paul crossed himself: he wasn’t religious, but he missed K-Dash and Quaysean, and had no better way to mark their passing. And, on his more cynical days, he thought maybe their deaths had proved the ordinary people’s point: hanging around ’mancy had led them to a horrible end.

  After the Morehead broach, Paul wanted no distractions. He shook their hands and politely escorted them out.

  Paul sat down at the desk. It seemed ridiculous, to be so calm when broaches were tearing open – but a righteous bureaucrat gathered information first.

  He closed his eyes. Robert set up the desk just the way he liked it; his fingers closed around a box of Bic pens. He ripped the shrink wrap off the legal pad, feeling delightful blankness underneath his fingertips.

  He clicked the pen. And wrote the mantra every form began with:

  First name. Last name. Address. Address 2. City, Street, Zip…

  The key, Paul thought, was the Unimancers’ records of the Morehead broach. They’d need to commit the data somewhere, to compare the broach’s energy outputs to how it had looked an hour ago – and they’d need to send that data to other scientists, to make requests for comparisons to the European broach’s data, to compile summaries to send to their superiors.

  Someone had to have access to those records.

  Bureaucracy was about getting proper access.

  Paul could recreate a Freedom of Information Request without blinking, had committed to memory all the forms private investigators used to get information on recalcitrant clients, knew the FBI’s clearance levels by heart.

  This wasn’t hacking, oh no; hacking would have had Paul hunting for weaknesses in the system.

  Paul was attempting to convince the system he needed proper access. And who needed to know what was happening at the Morehead broach than a man who could seal broaches singlehandedly?

  Once he’d gotten the information, he’d demonstrate his expertise, then broker a peace long enough to band together to solve the problem. Because bureaucracy triumphed when petty politics failed.

  The legal pad expanded outwards, the edges sagging off the desk, Paul’s fussy handwriting condensing into neat Helvetica fonts as the legal pads folded themselves into stacks. He bootstrapped up the info, using the most arcane methods – reaching forward into the future to file Freedom of Information Acts from two decades from now, certifying himself as a scientist with the proper credentials, using layers of forged identities to ensure no one could track him back to this address in Kentucky.

  He chipped away the government’s record-keeping layers, skirting their alarm systems. The more secure facilities had opals that cracked in the presence of ’mancy – a precaution that couldn’t keep a ’mancer out, but would alert the authorities when someone had rifled through their files. Yet Paul’s ’mancy was no louder than a paper dropped into a file. Only the most expensive opals might track his presence, and those would have shattered near the Morehead broach.

  Most ’mancy was a vulgar assault on reality, like Valentine’s summoned guns: Paul’s ’mancy was what an insanely determined man with infinite time could have accomplished.

  Paul’s pen stopped writing in flowing lines, started hammering spots into the legal pad in even rows: the stuttering recreation of an old-fashioned dot-matrix printer, spooling off sheets of classified data.

  Paul held up the two accounts, comparing them: the Morehead broach’s readings when the SMASH emergency intercept team had set up their first equipment at 12:17 pm today, and the latest readings filed fifteen minutes ago.

  He squinted.

  Paul ran his thumb down the numbers. He was no scientist, but the readings didn’t appear to fluctuate wildly. He triggered a search, requesting comparisons: the broach’s size, its radiation emanations, snapshots.

  All identical except for minor variations.

  So why would they claim the broach was expanding? Yes, that would make Project Mayhem look even worse, but it would throw America into a panic. Yet America was already in a panic. The President was getting everything she’d wanted.

  What could the government accomplish by lying about an expanding broach that they couldn’t do with a stable one?

  – they’re evacuating Morehead –

  “Daddy says you can have our car.”

  Paul dropped his pen.

  There’d been at least two hundred people on those soccer fields, and SMASH would debrief every last one to see what they knew about Paul and Aliyah. SMASH must have known the broach precluded ’mancy – and thus, some mundane local had assisted their escape.

  This could be their way of spiriting away people for more brutal interrogations.

  Yet even black-ops agencies had to track their prisoners. Paul shifted gears – he had long ago passed the bar in every state he needed to, had a terrifyingly comprehensive understanding of how to pressure the legal system. Finding secret prisoners would be trickier, as he’d have to escalate up the chain, but–

  The data plopped obligingly into his hands, addressed to him.

  Paul hesitated, the paper greasy to the touch. He wondered if this was a magical trap. But no, the trade-off of turning a ’mancer’s unique passion into the gray slurry of Unimancy was they couldn’t do anything other than share data across the hivemind.

  Yet the names of the people allowed to access this file were clear: the President, her cabinet, some high-ranking United Nations members… and Mr Paulos Costa Tsabo, leader of Project Mayhem.

  He read it.

  After preliminary interviews where it was confirmed that Aliyah Tsabo-Dawson, also known as [PROJECT HOTPLATE], was attempting to befriend several of the girls on the field, our conclusion is that the Morehead broach was no accident. [PROJECT HOTPLATE] is the youngest known ’mancer to evince powers, and the generally accepted version of events is that she was accelerated into premature ’mancy by the terrorist acts of [PROJECT BLACKBURN].

  We believe this broach was not in fact intended to be a broach, but in fact was a clumsy attempt to accelerate the creation of ’mancers of [PROJECT HOTPLATE]’s age. Psychological profiles indicate that [PROJECT HOTPLATE] is undergoing adolescent trauma caused by a lack of age-appropriate socialization.

  “No,” Paul whispered. “That’s ridiculous, we never would have–”

  As such, we have been authorized to a) incarcerate the eighty-four potential ’mancers who were present on or near the field at the time of the broach, along with their custodians, b) remove them to a secure facility, and c) monitor them for an unspecified time period until such a time as we can ensure no one there will threaten American interests.

  Unfortunately, as it is well known that [PROJECT MONGOOSE], [PROJECT HOTPLATE]’s father, has the ability to access secure records of any sort, General Saagar Anil Kanakia has requested that no records be kept in any form as to who is being relocated, or as to where they are located, or as to the former residents of Morehead’s current conditions.

  The President has authorized this request.

  We acknowledge this regrettable lack of record-keeping means it is possible we may lose track of who was incarcerated, or when. Without access to medical records, we will not know which of them have conditions that may prove to be fatal in captivity. Furthermore, with no ability to delegate responsibility, we acknowledge this lack of institutional memory may lose sight of these poor souls, condemning them to a lifetime of im
prisonment for reasons no one guarding them can remember.

  The only way to ensure these people get the proper treatment they deserve is for the only man who can stop this security breach to turn himself in to SMASH forces immediately.

  Your move, Paul.

  Sincerely,

  General Saagar Anil Kanakia, Commander, United Nations Broach Suppressions Unit

  Nine

  Sturdy Bookshelves

  The green kite hung high in the blue sky, darting back and forth like a combatant. Birds flew nervously past it.

  Aliyah couldn’t see the kite’s owner yet, though a quivering taut string led down to what Uncle Robert explained was the glade where Hamir practiced. Uncle Robert kept up a steady stream of talk to distract her, telling her how difficult it’d been convincing Hamir to switch to a camouflaged kite so his ’mancy wouldn’t show up on aerial surveillance.

  Sadly, only Daddy could keep her memories at bay.

  She was vaguely curious to see this new ’mancer’s kite-magic. But without Daddy to hold her hand, she kept thinking back to poor Idena, who’d shyly folded paper until her creations unfurled into beautiful origamimancy blossoms. She remembered Mrs Vinere, the masqueromancer, who’d fitted ceramic masks to your face that let you roar like a lion. She remembered Wayne the plushiemancer and his hammock of pink kitten dolls.

  She remembered the comfort she’d felt back at the Institute, where Mrs Vinere and Wayne and Idena had lived. She remembered the triumph as she’d raised her sword and called out to the sixteen ’mancers who lived in Mr Payne’s luxury apartments: “My name is Aliyah! I am almost nine years old! Who wants to play with me?”

  She’d thought happiness would keep them safe.

  The birds squawked as they circled around the kite. A hawk high above darted down, sensing easy prey, a reddish-brown blur thrumming from above–

  The kite thrashed once, twice, three times.

  Its string trisected the hawk – first lopping off one wing, then mercifully slicing through the torso in a piñata of gore.

  Now that Aliyah looked closer, the string glinted in the sun, covered in ground glass.