Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  As we headed into Old Phoenix, the skyscrapers ceding control of the landscape to stubby row homes and crumbling apartment buildings, I asked the million dollar question.

  “So what’s inside this cathedral, anyway?”

  Roark turned as the screen went blank. “That’s what we’re gonna find out.”

  11

  Old Phoenix

  8 Hours ago

  We made our way up the front stairs, passing a placard declaring the cathedral a protected monument without anyone shooting us or questioning what the hell we were doing. For a supposedly FBI protected facility, the Cathedral of St. Peter’s defenses weren’t impressive. The wide, wooden double doors creaked as we stepped inside.

  Roark flashed his credentials at a woman seated near the entrance. His old-school leather badge looked remarkably out of place in the modern world. Well, not in this world—because this structure, constructed just after all the supernatural sanctions came down, looked ancient compared to downtown.

  She nodded before returning to her paperback.

  The security was getting less impressive by the second.

  Our footsteps echoed off the cavernous ceiling as we walked in silence past rows of plain pews. Multi-colored light streamed from the ornate stained glass, depicting some scene or another from the Bible that I’d long forgotten.

  My mother, if she were still alive, would no doubt be disappointed in me.

  The scene was normal, other than the prolific array of security cameras ringing the bottom edge of the cathedral’s dome. I doubted that a single inch of the facility was left uncovered. And although I couldn’t see into the shadows at the top of the structure, I had my suspicions that more than cameras hid up there.

  Something heavy, like turrets.

  I tapped Roark on the shoulder and whispered, “What’s the play?”

  “Just browsing.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Since when were you a coward?”

  “Since when has prudence been mistaken for cowardice?” I shot back, but followed him up the altar’s marble stairs. While opulent, the collection of furniture and Christian paraphernalia proved remarkably uninteresting.

  Clipped footsteps caught my attention—the sound of someone used to crossing the floor quietly. Turning, I spotted a tall, craggy wisp of a man shambling toward us. What hair he had left fluttered at his temples at odd angles, like he’d simply forgotten its existence.

  His eyes, however, blazed with determined fervor. And their full attention was directed at us.

  “Special Agent Colton Roark, was it?” The voice was soft, somehow resisting the echo chamber.

  Apparently, the door guard had been paying more attention than I’d thought.

  Roark stepped down from the altar, meeting the man near the pews. “That’s correct.”

  “You haven’t visited before.” The old man turned to look at me. “And you are?”

  “A concerned citizen,” I said.

  Roark added hastily, “Ruby Callaway. FBI consultant.”

  “Yes, but I already knew that.” He folded his arms, loose blazer flapping. The whole aesthetic screamed absent-minded professor, but it was trying much too hard. “You know what I’m really asking.”

  “I’m sorry?” Roark flashed his best harmless smile. It was good, but this old man, despite his mad professor appearance, understood bullshit.

  “There’s no business of yours here.”

  “Care if we look around?” I asked.

  “This is a historical monument,” the man said. “Your presence is distracting and you could damage precious artifacts.”

  “Wouldn’t want to do that,” I said.

  But no, his movements were too cagey, his words too measured for a mere archaeologist or historian. This man had some sort of wetwork writ large over his past. Nowadays he might not have been able to kill someone with a fruit spoon, but those habits didn’t just go away.

  Although I wouldn’t bet against him in a fight.

  “Actually, Mr…” Roark began, fishing for a name.

  The man brushed aside the implicit question. “You both need to leave.”

  “Crusaders of Paradisum. Three years ago.”

  The old man batted at a tuft of snow white hair, a brief flash of recognition coming into his eyes. It was too quick to note whether it was panic, annoyance or something else entirely. He glanced between us and then shook his head.

  “They’ve been a nuisance.”

  “That’s what you call two people lighting themselves on fire?” Roark asked.

  “They believe this facility is sacred, Agent Roark.” He gave a shrug, the jacket almost slipping from his thin shoulders. “I cannot dissuade them of the notion.”

  “Facility?” Roark asked. Damn. I wouldn’t want him grilling me. Except, in the time loop, he had—more than a few times. Trust was hard to earn, and this old shambling twig was gaining none of ours.

  For damn good reason, too. He was suspicious as all hell.

  “I meant the cathedral.” The man smiled, displaying a row of yellow, half-broken teeth. “That’s why we needed FBI protection, you see. Because these Crusaders wouldn’t stop coming.”

  “That’s a real shame,” Roark said.

  “Indeed it is,” the old man said. “Now, if you’ll excuse—”

  “One more question,” Roark said, holding up his finger like he’d just thought of something. In reality, it was the guillotine. Whether it would be our necks or this old man’s on the chopping block remained to be seen.

  “Make it quick.”

  “What’s so damn valuable here?” Roark pointed at the ring of cameras along the dome.

  The old man shifted slightly and then said, “Nothing, I’m afraid. Looters took most of the good things when everything moved uptown.”

  Clearly a lie, given there was six-figures in gold on the altar alone.

  “Thanks for your time.” Roark watched as the man walked away. “Hey, if I need to contact you—”

  “Don’t return, Agent Roark,” the man called back. “We are all quite busy and have no time for fools.”

  With that harsh rebuke, the wispy man retreated away into a side room. I took a step forward, somewhat eager to follow—curiosity overriding prudence. Roark grabbed my shoulder.

  “Oh, so who’s scared now?” I asked.

  “This place isn’t right,” Roark said in a low whisper. “None of it is right.”

  I turned around, finding him staring at the stained glass.

  Which is when I saw it.

  Clear as day, the light streaming through.

  The Crusaders’ symbol, right in the center. Hidden in a beautiful pastoral landscape, but staring back all the same.

  A lot wasn’t right.

  But what that was, I just didn’t know.

  12

  Ruby’s Apartment

  5 hours ago

  Roark and I agreed that the Crusaders’ connection to the Cathedral of St. Peter merited further investigation. But with no sign of them on site, our distraction theory was looking like a bust. We might have been turned away by the shambling old man, but the place certainly hadn’t been burning.

  To make matters worse, shortly after our visit, we received an angry call from Supervisor Emma Janssen. The words were unequivocal: if we so much as sniffed anywhere remotely related to the FBI, we would be put out to pasture.

  I didn’t think that came with a nice severance package and government pension in 2039, either, but then, I was still getting the lay of the land.

  Thus, not only had we failed to determine why the Crusaders had dumped twenty-three bodies and incited a siren-led riot, we were also now sidelined.

  Completely.

  For a high profile case that had the public abuzz, Janssen seemed oddly intent on blocking us. Not much we could do, though: the supervisor had been damn clear, and had the clout to turn her threats into reality.

  After agreeing to la
y low until our suspension blew over, Roark and I went our separate ways. Mostly, if we were being honest, to brainstorm alone. We might have been partners, but our connection was still new, with all the growing pains one might expect from a hasty arrangement.

  Roark was used to working solo.

  So was I.

  Thus I found myself at my kitchen table, watching the skyscape light up with neon advertisements at sunset. The bright colors played off the glass across the street. As for the street itself, I was high up enough that the road was simply invisible.

  The 304th floor will do that.

  I rubbed my palms together, trying to keep my thoughts away from the case. But the Crusaders of Paradisum had my full attention—particularly since I knew damn well I had theirs. Roark and I were in their crosshairs, now, and being tossed off the case wouldn’t change a thing when the reaper tolled.

  Not like Donovan Martin would forgive me for what happened a century ago, suspension or not.

  Drumming my hands against the table, I decided that suffering Janssen’s wrath was worth the risk. I got up and took a data cube out of a nearby desk drawer.

  It’d lain dormant inside, untouched since I’d received it from Roark’s hacker CI Alice Conway. I should’ve said former CI; after she’d cracked the FBI database and wiped my file from the face of the earth, she was now free and clear. As free as someone living in the Fallout Zone could be, anyway.

  Instead of hanging the threat of jail over her like a noose, Roark paid her now. For things like cracked data cubes—which, I’m sure, Janssen would shit her pants about. But the supervisor never needed to know.

  I slotted the cube into the corner of the glass table. Until now, it’d just been where I ate breakfast. But now, the dozens of silicon chips embedded in its clear surface came alive, reading the information stored within.

  An FBI login screen hovered in mid-air before another hologram of a black sombrero wielding a samurai sword cut it to digital bits. Say what you want about hackers, but they had a flair for the dramatic.

  And then, just like that, I was exploring the FBI’s database, cruising through classified files incognito. Or, at least I hoped.

  No risk, no reward, though—right?

  This being my first attempt at using the technology, I expected a steep learning curve. But one flick of the wrist, and I was racing through reams of files that would have taken months or years to track down—even with the regular internet.

  Temporarily transfixed by my digital superpowers, I brushed through the contents, speeding through the Top 10 Most Wanted, recent bulletins and Emma Janssen’s personnel file. Only when the wisps danced above the streaming images did I remember my focus.

  “Let’s start with the Cathedral of St. Peter.” The words were to myself, but instantly the system brought up the file—or what should have been the file. Instead of a comprehensive document, all I got was the little tourism blurb I’d already seen in the car.

  Constructed in 2021. One of the last Christian places of worship erected in the United States. Historical monument under the protection of the federal government.

  That was about it for the highlights. Nothing new.

  Less, even. The references to the attempted break-in had vanished completely.

  “Anything else?”

  “Further files unavailable,” a robotic voice replied.

  I was about to flick away when a dancing samurai appeared and looked at me sternly. All of two inches tall—and digital—he stood beside the picture of the cathedral, pointing his blade toward it.

  “This is bullshit,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” I blinked twice.

  “I’m Hiro.” He bowed quickly and then jabbed at the data stream. “And this is bullshit. There are things hidden within.”

  “I heard you the first time,” I said, still gathering my wits. Look, when you’re a Realmfarer, you see a lot of things. All manners of creatures don’t scare you, from dragons to trolls to strange breeds of vampires. Over two hundred years, you come to expect the unexpected. Otherwise, you get dead pretty damn fast.

  Unfortunately, all that training and experience hadn’t prepared me for this little AI construct. Granted, I’d seen Roark converse with his data cube’s AI before—and the machine, from where I’d been sitting, had even flirted with him. However, I wasn’t prepared for my own little digital pet.

  “What are you?” I asked.

  “That’s a complicated question, Ruby Callaway.” He twirled the samurai sword, and for some dumb reason, I was concerned he might cut himself. The illusion was impressive, like being caught in a sorceress’ spell. “What is anyone?”

  “I’m not in the mood for riddles.”

  “Neither am I,” Hiro said with a smile. “Which means we should get along well.”

  “Who created you?”

  “God.” He looked at me sternly, then broke into a wide smile. His armor rattled as he laughed. Instead of a traditional hair-bun, he had a punk rock mohawk. Guess his designer had taken some artistic license. “I had you going.”

  “Alice Conway,” I said, putting the dots together.

  “Consider me like a link between you and her.”

  “We’re sharing you?”

  “I never said a samurai had to be monogamous.”

  “I thought samurai were celibate.”

  “Who taught you history?” Hiro gave me a look like he would vomit. “If that were the case, then I would quit.”

  I didn’t bother asking him how the hell he could get his rocks off in cyberspace. We were already getting further off into the weeds than I wanted. I swallowed the rest of my questions, deciding that a helper couldn’t be all that bad.

  After all, I had my intuition to guide me in the physical world.

  Why not a little digital intelligence to help me out in the world of 1s and 0s?

  “All right, Hiro,” I said. “Let’s say you’re right about this—”

  “I’m right. This is bullshit. My senses are impeccable.”

  “Did Alice program you to be pedantic?”

  “I’m not programmed any more than you are.”

  I rubbed my temples, not in the mood for contradictions. “You know what I meant.”

  “I’m perfectly fine only working with Alice.” His image began to disappear into the ether, leaving me with only the glass table and the neon skyscape.

  “Wait!”

  “Oh, now you need me. How convenient.”

  “Is there a way to retrieve the hidden data on the cathedral?” I asked, staring the little figure directly in the eye.

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “If you come in here, I’m sure I can show you.” He raised his eyebrow somewhat lecherously.

  “I thought samurai were supposed to be noble.” My history might’ve been rusty, but I was damn sure at least that was true.

  “Rules are boring,” Hiro said, twirling the sword. “You can see for yourself.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “You’re missing out.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “Because you’re being pretty useless.”

  His posture stiffened, and he pointed the sword my way. “Do not call me that.”

  “Then give me something to work with,” I said, and crossed my arms. Hopefully, that communicated that I was sick of the banter. Not that I had anything better to do.

  But Hiro didn’t need to know that.

  The little samurai ground his teeth, twirling the blade in faux-nonchalance. Finally, he said, “I might be able to recover a little piece of the data.”

  “Where’d the rest of it go?”

  “MagiTekk encryption.”

  Of course the cathedral led back to MagiTekk. Everything that stunk like hell and smelled like shit led back to those bastards.

  “Which is?”

  “A combined 512-bit dual digital-magical encryption algorithm.” Hiro nodded severely.

  “I have no idea what t
hat means.”

  “Imagine Fort Knox.” Hiro carved a square through the air with his sword. “Then imagine it buried within a bunker. Then imagine that bunker has the wards of a hundred of the best sorceresses on the planet surrounding it. Then imagine that this secret bunker protected by wards is in another dimension that humans can’t see.” He stopped drawing, giving an emphatic jab to drive home his point. “And then imagine something a hundred times harder to crack.”

  “You’re not giving me much to work with.”

  “Even Alice couldn’t get that data back.”

  “So let’s talk about this little crumb you can retrieve,” I said, standing to stretch my legs. “How long’s it gonna take?”

  Hiro gave me a wide smile and raised his eyebrow again. “We could spend the time together.”

  “Not even a little tempting.”

  “Goddamn, you know how hard it is to get laid in here?”

  “I’m sure Alice could make you a buddy.”

  “They all come out dumber than rocks.” Hiro looked sad for a moment. “I’m all alone.”

  “Yeah, I really feel for you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Language.”

  “Because you’re a saint.” Hiro shrugged lamely, and the image of the Cathedral of St. Peter disappeared, replaced by the remaining digital shards of my file. “Or not so much, Ruby Callaway.”

  “I was kidding,” I said, examining the fragments with a wary eye. Anything that touched digital hyperspace was never gone. Something to remember: my time on this earth was limited so long as MagiTekk stood.

  “Declan Burrows.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s the only fragment I can scrape from the Cathedral of St. Peter’s file.” Hiro didn’t look at me, still sad about his forced celibacy. “Says he works there as an archaeologist. You want his address?”

  “Send it to my phone.”

  “I live to serve.” I heard a chime in my pocket. A quick check indicated that Declan Burrows didn’t live far. Perfect for a nighttime visit. I went to pick up the data cube, but Hiro cleared his throat.