The Flux

by Ferrett Steinmetz

  But the buzzsects paid him no attention, as they burrowed under his flesh and gobbled the time from his heart, wolfing down the laws that kept cause and effect linked, trapping Payne to relive endless horrors in a micro-universe without closure….

  Within minutes, Payne was a seething miasma of conflicting dimensions, his coherency devoured.

  The thing that had been Payne bulged, ready to birth new swarms…

  “None of that.” Paul squeezed his ever-bleeding wound to draw their attention.

  The buzzsects champed serrated jaws. They launched themselves at Paul, gobbling down the laws of gravity as they went, eating the concept of numbers, gulping the notion of subatomic bonds until atoms warped into new and unearthly shapes.

  That’s not the way things work, Paul thought. The universe he knew was a set of bureaucratic laws, followed precisely – when a single electron circled a single nucleus, it acted according to standards. On Earth, gravity pulled things down at the rate of 9.81 meters a second. Numbers went one, two, three….

  Paul knew the laws of physics. He cherished them – rigid order, making a home safe for people. He believed in them strongly enough that his magic didn’t weaken the world’s rules – it enforced them.

  And who administered petty laws better than a bureaucrat?

  The buzzsects hissed, retreating as Paul sewed up the broach. He’d done this once before, back when Valentine and a weakened SMASH team had fought each other to a standstill – but he’d been timid back then. Paul had told himself he couldn’t risk the broach spiraling out of control.

  And it was a valid fear: even the best SMASH teams feared a broach. Triggering one on purpose was insane, gave a hostile dimension a toehold–

  But that fear, he now realized, was the failure state of bureaucracy: a hidebound organization that suppressed change. He should have trusted Imani, trusted he’d find another way if Imani had turned Aliyah in, trusted his own instincts about Payne. But he’d confused stability for safety, and as much as he hated Tyler, Paul had to admit Project Mayhem had a point:

  Stop trying to control everything and just let go.

  Filled with confidence, Paul closed the gap, walled off the buzzsects, forcing them back home.

  But just before he sealed the broach on this alien dimension, he heard the droning coalesce into a chilling voice that burrowed into the moistest parts of his brain:

  We remember you.

  Paul leaned against the desk. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep tonight, knowing whatever was on the other side of our universe had marked him. That was assuming, of course, he could evade the SMASH teams – but they wouldn’t be using their Unimancy to track anyone down. Because after Valentine and Tyler got done, there would be enough magical strain in New York that nobody sane would cast a spell for weeks.

  But there were still two things to do:

  First, Paul thumbed the “Emergency” button underneath Payne’s desk, signaling to anyone left to evacuate the building. Just in case they hadn’t gotten the message from the file cabinets exploding and the building quaking.

  Then he kissed the Xbox controller, swept Payne’s papers off the blotter. He reached into the briefcase and laid mementoes upon Payne’s desk: a charred origami unicorn, a cracked mask taken from Mrs Vinere’s apartment, a sheaf of number-scrawled pages from Juan the bookiemancer.

  Then he placed the controller carefully in the center. He touched one side – K-Dash – and the other – Quaysean.

  It seemed fitting.

  “Thanks, guys,” Paul said, and limped out of the building.

  Fifty-Three

  Where Is My Mind?

  Tyler and Valentine had taken their places high in an office building across from Samaritan Mutual. They stood before a large glass window, in an unfinished floor, affording them a perfect view of Samaritan Mutual’s towering high-rise. They had turned off the lights, so the only illumination came from the burning skyscrapers.

  Tyler chewed his nails, excited.

  “Are you sure we should do this, baby?” Valentine asked, her broken shoulder still in a sling. “With so much ’mancy boiling around us, we might cause another broach…”

  “Please, Valentine,” Tyler said. He didn’t look like Brad Pitt any more, not since they’d started dating – but Valentine had fallen in love with the man, not the face. “I need this.”

  “Of course you do,” she sighed, lovestruck. “Say when.”

  Tyler leaned over to press the “play” button on a cassette player. The Pixies poured out of the speakers, a slow-driving slurry of pounding drums and ghostly vocals, playing “Where Is My Mind?”

  He grabbed a gun and eased it into his mouth. He had practiced this shot for months, Valentine knew. Still, that made pulling the trigger no easier.

  His mouth filled with the acrid taste of cordite. His teeth shattered.

  But the bullet blew a hole through his cheek, just like the narrator had done at the finale of Fight Club.

  “Nnnh!” Tyler cried, shuddering. He clasped his palm to his face, letting the pain flow through him – and then bright-eyed, turned to take Valentine’s hand.

  Tyler looked out the window at the Samaritan Mutual office building, holding his breath as though he’d been waiting for something all his life.

  He squeezed her hand. Valentine snapped her fingers – and explosions burst out of Samaritan Mutual’s windows, the building lurching to one side, crumbling, falling, the entire thing collapsing just like the credit card companies tumbling in the final shot of the movie.

  Tyler turned to Valentine.

  “You met me at a very strange time in my life,” he told her.

  Valentine smiled.

  Fifty-Four

  Three Weeks Later

  The church basement had the comfortable feel of an old leather boot: well-worn, a little antiquated, suited to its clientele. The pastor had set out a battered steel coffee pot on a wide folding table, complete with stacks of pink saccharine packets and powdered coffee creamer. It burbled as it heated up, almost ready for the 7:00 meeting.

  Paul had brought a big tray of Dunkin’ Donuts. Which was a little sad; he’d hoped Kit would bring the donuts, but Kit’s flight had been delayed. Which was a shame, since Kit selling his home to go on the road with them seemed like the final step in this crazy scheme, but…

  He’d have to give his talk tonight without his oldest friend to back him up.

  Former Project Mayhem members set up folding chairs on the scuffed linoleum tiles. They all wore guns underneath their jackets, but thankfully this town was in a hunting region, and nobody thought much of a concealed carry. Paul hoped they wouldn’t need to use them.

  He examined the posterboard, which was covered with local events – grief support groups every Tuesday, addiction clinics Thursday, cancer survivors Saturdays, the space rented from the church to pretty much anyone who needed a space to chat. The pastor had assured them anonymity was guaranteed, except he always kept the confessional booths open upstairs in case anyone wanted to talk – and so nobody thought much of the “Friends of Paul” meeting slotted in for Friday.

  Paul looked out over the empty chairs: he hoped people would show up tonight.

  Check that: he hoped people who didn’t want to kill him showed up tonight.

  “Don’t worry,” the man who once had been Tyler Durden said. “I’ve been to lots of these meetings. Nobody shows up early. They’ll come.”

  “Thanks, uh….” Paul couldn’t remember Tyler’s new name. But Tyler’s cockiness was gone, his spiked hair replaced by a trucker’s cap, his angular face softer. The men still came to him for advice, and Tyler was surprisingly competent, though he often deferred to Paul. He whistled contentedly, then kissed Valentine on the cheek before he went off to set up the lectern.

  “So he’s… not magical anymore?” Paul asked.

  “Three weeks, and I haven’t felt a glimmer,” Valentine said.

  “I didn’t think you coul
d, you know, stop being a ’mancer.”

  Valentine adjusted the sling on her broken shoulder, not wincing; instead, she watched who-once-had-been-Tyler set up the lectern, smiling dreamily. “It’s like you said, Paul: he was a cinemancer. People who love movies seek endings. And once he got what he wanted, his need to do ’mancy… evaporated.”

  “I thought he’d want to, I don’t know, take over the city or something.”

  “That’s one interpretation of Fight Club. The other is that it’s about a very sad boy who found his girl. He just needed to be important to somebody, and, well….” Valentine blew a heart-shaped bubble of pink bubblegum. “He’s my world.”

  “But why isn’t he Tyler Durden anymore?”

  “That name doesn’t fit,” Valentine shrugged, then tugged at her sling; she hated being restrained. “And he didn’t want to go back to being a schlubby insurance agent again, so he chose a new one.”

  “What’s his new name again? I can never remember.”

  Valentine gave Paul the rueful grin of a woman who adored her lover’s silliest quirks. “His name is Robert Paulson.”

  “Valentine!” Imani said. “I need to double-check something with you.”

  Imani was dressed far too nicely for the church, wearing a ruffled fur coat that made her look like a model slumming on location, but she was so spectacular Paul couldn’t help but admire her. She didn’t glance up from Aliyah’s Nintendo DS, waving both Valentine and Paul peremptorily over to one of the couches.

  Aliyah squatted on the couch, concentrating on the double screens.

  Valentine rolled her eye. “Don’t say ‘please’ or anything, Mrs Tsabo,” she muttered. “Juuuust order us around like peons…” But by the time she got over to Aliyah, Valentine said, perhaps a bit too brightly, “Yes, Mrs Tsabo?”

  Imani was so caught up in deciphering the icons spread across the radar map on the Nintendo that she didn’t register the slight. She pointed to a vector graphic that looked like two stars joined at the hip. “What’s that?”

  Valentine peered in. “…two policemen on patrol. In a… yeah, a squad car.”

  Imani got out a small legal pad, drew the tip of her manicured nail down a line of hand-drawn charts. “Icons with angles indicate an outside authority we need to be aware of.” Imani peered up at Valentine for confirmation. “Circled icons indicate people travelling in a ground vehicle.”

  Valentine raised her eyebrows. “Very good for a woman who doesn’t play videogames.”

  “Didn’t.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I didn’t play videogames. Now I have reasons.” Imani turned to Aliyah. “Now, Aliyah, you told me those policemen were walking.”

  “I thought they were!” Aliyah protested. “They were going slow!”

  “If they’re police in cars, they could be driving slowly to case the area.” She waved a former Project Mayhem participant away from setting up the chairs. “It’s probably nothing, but can you check upstairs?”

  The Project Mayhem man nodded. Imani hadn’t been able to go back to her job as a corporate lawyer, now they were on the lam, but she’d taken to running operations here with a crisp efficiency. “Sure thing, Mrs Tsabo.”

  She frowned. “I’m not Mrs Tsabo. I’m Ms Dawson.” She blew a brief kiss in Paul’s direction. “No offense, love.”

  The man jogged upstairs, passing the guards tasked with patting down everyone to ensure nobody had their cell phone during the discussion. Paul felt grateful that many of Project Mayhem’s members had stayed on with him; having gotten a taste of ’mancy, they thought the government’s laws were cruel, and had agreed to help out. It felt weird, having unpaid volunteers working for him in their spare time, but also somehow correct.

  Imani planted her finger on Aliyah’s screen. “Now, sweetie, if you’re going to warn us when SMASH troops are inbound, you have to know the game better than Aunt Valentine. I’m going to point at each of these icons, and you’re going to tell me what they are.”

  “But Mooommmm….”

  “If ifs and buts were candy and nuts…” Imani recited.

  “…we’d all have a merry Christmas.” Despite her mock outrage, Aliyah snuggled up to her mother, relishing the group activity. Imani poked at the crowd of incoming icons trickling into the church, quizzing Aliyah on what each one represented, rewarding correct answers with a squeeze and kiss.

  * * *

  Aliyah had turned nine last week. She still had nightmares – after everything she’d been through at the Institute, that would be too much to ask for – but despite living in a stolen van, despite constantly watching for incoming SMASH teams, despite the endless disguises and Kit not arriving yet, Aliyah had what she wanted:

  A loving family.

  And that, Paul thought, would have to be enough.

  “Come on, chief,” Valentine said, eyeing the new members on the screen. “Looks like you got a full house for your talk. Let’s pull you into the back before you get swarmed with well-wishers.”

  She pushed him into an old-fashioned bathroom with a vending machine that sold combs and hair gel. Paul flipped through his notecards, debating for the thousandth time whether he’d arranged his speech in the right order, then put them away. His suit was damp with flopsweat; if he looked out at the people who came before it was time to talk, he’d break down.

  Valentine peered out the bathroom door, eyeing Imani’s teaching. “She’s no better at videogames than you are,” she groused. “But she’s devoted.”

  “You really don’t like her, do you?” Paul asked, worried.

  “She’s not my favorite person, Paul. She’s bossy and uncreative. But I don’t have to get your attraction, any more than you have to get what Robert is to me; I just have to respect it.” She smacked her lips, debating whether to continue. “And she’s teaching Aliyah to be precise, Paul. Imani’s upped that kid’s ’mancy game. Soon she’ll reskin herself to pass as some other kid and stay that way all day.”

  “Then we can send her to school,” Paul said. “The kid deserves a third-grade class and a good game of dodgeball.”

  “Yup.” Valentine wiped sweat off her forehead. “So have you and Imani, uh…” She poked her finger though the circle of thumb and middle finger.

  Paul’s weary look stopped her. “Is that all you ever think about?”

  “No, but I’d like to confirm you think about that ever.”

  Paul took a moment to peer out at his ex-wife again, feeling the keenness of a crush that had never ever abated. “We were hoping to get her divorced first,” he admitted. “But I don’t know if that’ll happen.”

  “She won’t fuck you until she’s divorced?”

  “She said she made a big mistake, cheating on her last husband,” Paul said ruefully. “She’s never functioned well without closure.”

  “You two are made for each other.”

  “She’s been sleeping in the bed next to me at night. I’m pretty sure we’re gonna get together in… that way… soon.”

  “Are you blushing, Paul?”

  He turned away. “No!”

  “Paul and Imani, sittin’ in a tree – K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”

  “Shut. Up.” He punched her, lightly, on her good arm. Then: “Thanks for asking, though.”

  He hugged her, taking care to avoid her broken shoulder. She squeezed back, then whispered in his ear. “You’re gonna do great, Paul. I know you’re nervous, but… they came because they didn’t believe the headlines. You tell ’em the truth, and...”

  “…and?”

  “Well, I don’t know what’ll happen.” Valentine straightened Paul’s tie inexpertly. “But whatever falls out, it’s not the same old bullshit. So it’s worth a shot.”

  “You and Imani never bullshit me,” Paul said. “That’s what you have in common.”

  “Never compare two women, Paul. This is the surest way to bring disharmony into a stupid man’s lifestyle. Anyway, get your rear into gear. It’s time.” And she s
hoved him out into the room before he could argue.

  The murmur of people talking cut off as Paul entered the room. Paul recognized a few faces: Lenny Pirrazzini, arms crossed as though this had better be good, sitting with a couple of other Task Force staffers. Paul knew exactly how many regulations they’d broken to be here. A couple of K-Dash and Quaysean’s tattooed buddies, looking around as though the cops might swoop in on them. A few ex-clients from Samaritan Mutual. And Paul noticed reporters, asking for permission before they broke out the microphones.

  But mostly, the crowd was strangers – people who’d heard through whispered channels that the ’mancer who’d terrorized New York would be speaking here tonight. They’d snuck here, thinking the truth was worth the risk.

  Paul walked through the punishing silence, feeling the weight of their attention settle upon him. He reached into his vest to finger the notecards – he’d read every book on speechmaking he could find–

  And as he spread his talking points out across the lectern’s tilted surface, they slid to the floor.

  “Go Daddy!” Aliyah yelled, pumping her fist, and the room laughed.

  They all knew Aliyah, Paul realized. Everyone here had read a thousand profiles on the grade-school ’mancer – news articles compiled through interviews with her old teachers, from Payne’s former employees, from her physical therapists and even her old schoolmates.

  But they didn’t know Aliyah like he knew her.

  That was what was important.

  Paul swept the remaining notecards off the lectern.

  “So,” Paul said. “You want to hear about ’mancy.”

  The crowd murmured assent.

  “My magic is bureaucracy. The good kind of bureaucracy. The kind that keeps the government accountable to the people. Except… I wasn’t accountable. I was so worried about protecting my daughter, that when the time came, I hid who I was, just like any tyrant.

  “But that’s not who I am. And that – that let things fester.

  “So I’m going to tell you a story tonight. I’ll tell you what happens when the government forces ’mancers to choose between state-mandated brainwashing or a criminal career. I’ll tell you about Mr Lawrence Payne, a man who thrived in the absence of government supervision, and the things that happen when you allow ’mancers to prey upon each other. And at the end, I’ll ask you to reconsider the current laws, and urge you to get your government to change it.”