by Cole, Myke
DO YOU BELIEVE HIM?
The video cut to Fareed, seated behind a cherrywood desk against a backdrop that unmistakably evoked the Oval Office.
‘I don’t believe a word of it, and neither do you.’ Fareed’s voice was honest, endearing. ‘It’s time for the Walsh administration to stop treating us like we’re fools. No technology can do what thousands of people saw on the White House lawn that day. If the military is using prohibited magic, then it’s time that Senator Whalen and her inner circle of spooks came clean and faced punishment for their actions. With the Selfer insurgency raging and spilling off the reservations, can we really afford more lies? Can we afford another four years of incompetency covered by secrets?’
The screen froze, Fareed’s winning smile against the backdrop of an American flag. ‘Senator Ahmad Fareed,’ an announcer said, ‘straight talk, clean government. Now that’s real magic. Paid for by Senator Ahmad Fareed for President.’
Britton smiled. I really did it. I gave Walsh a bloody nose. Hope surged in his chest. Maybe he really had a chance here. Maybe a weakened and defensive Walsh administration would negotiate with a dynamic and well-organized Latent-rights movement.
He logged onto Yippee.com, navigating to the search engine’s free email service. He wracked his brain for the email account and password he’d agreed on with Swift. He swore under his breath, digging into the depths of his mind and finding only fatigue. If he’d forgotten it, he’d never find the Aeromancer again. And who could blame him? He’d just barely escaped with his life from one of the nastiest Sorcerers in creation. If only Swift had been there. He could have used his lightning in that fight . . .
Lightning. His memory made a sudden leap and brought the account to the surface. Britton breathed a sigh of relief and typed !!!LightningBug123!!! into the LOGON ID field. The password came quickly once he remembered the user name, and he only had to hold his breath for a brief moment before the screen flashed and opened to his email account.
There were two messages waiting. The first was from Yippee.com, welcoming users to its free email service. The second from Bug, Lightning. The name associated with the account. Sent to itself.
Britton’s could feel his pulse pounding as he clicked on the message.
Better than expected. You’re a legend to these people, Oscar. Waiting for you.
Below that were instructions on how to find them.
Britton allowed himself a long sigh of relief, finally admitting to himself that, if he hadn’t gotten this email, he was out of ideas, had no clue where to go next.
But that was no longer a problem.
It would be good to keep the email account, just in case he needed to get in touch with Swift again. But the SOC was all over the Internet. Britton had to assume that any hint of their location would be found sooner or later. He couldn’t risk it.
He read the message until he had it memorized. Then, he deleted the email, then the entire account. He opened a gate back into the Source, took a long last look at the library’s soft darkness, the comforting, familiar sound of people at work, and stepped back through.
Chapter Eleven
Tunnels
Some have theorized that the American creative spirit and unrestrained imagination made them ‘early adopters’ of organized magic, which has given the US a decided advantage. There’s a kernel of truth to this, but it shouldn’t be overstated. The Taiwanese ‘Seven Sages of the Willow Grove’ have changed the cross-strait balance of power. India’s rapid development of the Sahir Corps effectively ended the Kashmir conflict overnight. Sudan is both reunited and purged of Islam because of the military applications of their animist magic users. It is the unique blend of military hardware and a defense budget greater than the next ten nations combined that makes US magical operations so unstoppable. But that is not the same as a pure magical edge, and policy makers need to keep this in mind when engaging with foreign partners on a contingency basis.
– Li Kuo
‘American Magical Dominance in the New Century’
Foreign Policy Magazine
Britton smashed the laptop to pieces against a rock, then ground the fragments under his bootheels until there was little left of it but powder. If the SOC was somehow able to locate the broken remains of that computer, they’d have a devil of a time getting anything out of it. Sorry, pal, he thought to the young man he’d stolen it from. I needed it more than you did.
He opened another gate and stepped back into the rose moss bowl in the Green Mountain National Forest, less than a three-hour drive from the library he’d just stood inside.
The fire was out, the blackened logs sending streamers of smoke up into the night sky. The tall trees blotted out the stars, and he paused until his eyes adjusted. He made out Truelove and Therese, crammed into the sleeping bag alongside Downer, huddled under a pile of every spare scrap of clothing they could find. Britton grunted, satisfied. They looked warm.
The sleeping bag rustled as Therese rolled over at the sound of his boots crunching toward them. ‘It’s me,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve got good news.’
Swift’s instructions were clear. The Canal Street subway station had a ‘chamber’ formed by a construction project that had never been completed. It was just off the platform edge on the Brooklyn-bound side. The Houston Street gang would take care of the security camera and send someone to check on the space every night around midnight for the next two weeks. They’d check less often after that. He must figure if we don’t make it by then, we’re not going to.
The problem was Downer. She emerged from the sleeping bag, pale and groggy. Therese’s magic had sealed the wound across her chest, but all was clearly not well. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, but her teeth were still chattering, even after he rubbed her wrists and felt that she was perfectly warm.
‘Did you try again to help?’ Britton asked. He winced at his tone; his voice sounded harder than he intended in his concern for Downer.
If Therese noticed, she didn’t react. ‘The Gahe . . . put something in her. Something from the Source, something foreign. I can heal her flesh, and I’ve boosted her immune system to fight it, but this is . . . different.’
‘What? How is it different?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘The Source is a new world. That means new bugs. You have to figure there are bacteria over there, maybe living on the Gahe’s claws, that we haven’t encountered before. Whatever it is, it’s powerful and resistant to magic. If I had a strong Terramancer to work with, that might help. Who knows? Maybe she’d respond to conventional antibiotics.’
‘Is she going to be okay?’
Therese smiled wanly. ‘I hope so, Oscar. Hanging out in the woods here sure isn’t helping.’
Britton nodded. ‘Okay, we know where we need to be, so let’s get moving.’
‘Let me fix your face, first. It’ll hurt again, but . . .’
‘Leave it, I’m the most recognizable of all of us. I can stand being ugly a little while longer until we know we’re in a safe place.
‘Or are you missing my pretty face?’ He smiled, aware of how horrid the sight must be from the sensation of his lips stretching tight across his altered features.
Therese’s smile was genuine this time. ‘Maybe just a little.’
Britton felt the smile expand, then a cough from Downer wiped it away. He was wasting time. ‘Do you know the New York City subway system?’
She shrugged. ‘A little. I can get around. We’re going to need money to buy a fare.’
Britton grimaced. ‘I had to steal some poor guy’s laptop just to check the email account. I don’t want to start robbing cash registers now. Let’s just get there, and I’ll figure it out. There’s got to be a way I can gate us in.’
Therese thought about it. ‘This is the great thing about New York. There’s so many people and so much craziness that we’re not going to stand out at all, even messed up as we are. We just need to get to a deserted platform late at night and jump the
turnstile. People do it all the time.’
‘Well, I only know one way in,’ Britton said. ‘So that’s where we’re going to have to start.’
He called to Truelove and Downer and opened a gate back into the Source. Downer stood quickly, swayed a moment, then shook her head and walked through straight backed.
‘Leave your packs. It’ll only draw attention,’ Britton said once they stood outside the palisade wall of Marty’s village.
‘Maybe we could spend the night there,’ Truelove said, pointing to the village. ‘Maybe Marty could help Sarah? Maybe they have someone there who knows how.’
‘No way,’ Britton said. ‘You two are persona non grata with those goblins. You almost started a riot the last time you were there. I don’t think a couple of days have made much of a difference. Marty had his hands full as it was dealing with the aftermath of that fight, and I don’t want to go making the trouble any worse. If we’re going to find help, it’s going to have to be with the Houston Street gang.’ Besides, Swift said that I’m a legend to them. If he’s telling the truth, we can expect a warmer welcome there.
Truelove started to say something, then stopped.
‘What?’ Britton asked.
‘It’s just . . . Oscar, it’s Swift.’
‘I know,’ Britton sighed.
‘He’s . . . he’s kind of nuts.’
‘No, he’s not nuts. He’s pissed and irrational and grief stricken. But I never thought he was crazy. I think we can trust him to act in his own self-interest.’
‘He’s not crazy,’ Therese agreed. ‘Just hurting.’
‘He’s just an asshole,’ Downer added.
Truelove smiled at her, then turned back to Briton. ‘Yeah, but what’s his self-interest in this case? All he wants is to kill Harlequin . . . and that’s just a start. Then he wants to bring the whole government down. Walsh, Whalen, all of them.’
‘Right. And he knows he’s got a better chance to do that if I’m in his corner.’
Truelove looked doubtful.
‘Anyway, what other options do we have?’ Britton asked. ‘We can’t sit out here freezing our asses off, and I’m not going after Scylla again right now. It was wrong of me to ask you to come along for that. That was my fight.’ He looked over Truelove’s shoulder at Downer.
‘I’ve got no regrets,’ Downer said, shivering. ‘That crazy bitch needs to be put down.’
Therese said nothing, only looked over at Downer, eyes wide with concern.
‘We’ve got to get shelter and proper food and rest,’ Britton said. ‘And if we’ve got a chance to really change things, Houston Street is as good a place to start as any. I’m open to ideas if you’ve got any.’
After Truelove was silent, Britton looked to Downer. ‘Any ideas, Sarah?’
Downer hugged herself. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
‘We need to get out of the cold, Oscar,’ Therese said.
Britton nodded and opened another gate.
They stepped into the subway maintenance locker where he’d run the mission against the Selfer and later dropped off Swift. The interior was pitch-black. Britton opened another gate to give them a little light and gently tried the handle. It opened on a well-lit platform entrance, just inside the turnstiles. There was an empty attendant’s booth on the other side, the bulletproof glass scratched with graffiti. Britton began to open the door and step out of the locker, then suddenly jerked back, raising a finger to his lips.
‘What?’ Therese whispered.
‘There’s a cop,’ Britton said. ‘Just standing guard. In . . . tactical gear. Looks like SWAT.’
Therese nodded. ‘They’ve got them at all the stations now. It’s a reaction to Houston Street. They know they’re in the tunnels and at least want to make a show of trying to do something about it. Is it just the one?’
Britton peeked back out the door. The cop leaned against the turnstile, helmet tucked under one elbow, using the edge of his body armor to prop up his double chin. He looked bored. Britton pulled back into the locker. He risked a glance in the other direction. The platform looked empty.
‘Just the one.’
‘I’ve got this,’ she said, pushing Britton aside and gently peeking out the door. She concentrated, and Britton could feel her magic gathering. A moment later the cop lit up a streak of curses, hand flying to the small of his back. ‘Goddamn it!’ he swore. He lurched around the turnstiles for a moment, trying to massage his lower back through the body armor before giving up and making for the staircase out of the station, calling into his radio.
‘Let’s go,’ Therese said. ‘I don’t know how long it’ll be before they replace him.’
‘I thought you swore to never . . .’
‘Relax, Oscar. I just tweaked some muscles around his sciatic nerve. Figured a guy that out of shape would have back problems already. It’ll hurt for a while, but they should be loosening up already. He’ll be okay. Let’s go.’
They walked quickly to the train platform’s far end, out of view of the booth and the staircase, clustered around a map on the wall. It turned out they were on Manhattan’s east side, a few stops away from the Canal Street station. Once they confirmed where they had to go, they spread out, sitting on the dirty bench or the dirtier tiled floor. Britton jerked his hood up and kept his head down. Therese and Truelove looked ordinary enough, sitting on the bench chatting softly. Downer didn’t have to work hard to look down on her luck. She hunched beside Britton, shivering and sweating, her clothing filthy. Britton put an arm around her, and she leaned against him. His heart leapt into his throat as other passengers arrived on the platform, but they were veteran New Yorkers, and didn’t spare the homeless couple or the commuters on the bench a second glance.
Britton looked up at the ceiling and spotted the steel housing with scratched plastic plate that held the security cameras. A tiny light flashed red at regular intervals. He bit down on the panic the sight raised. There was no reason to think that anyone watching camera footage would think any more of Britton and his group than the other passengers did.
They boarded the train and spread out, making occasional eye contact. None of the other passengers batted an eyelash all the way to Canal Street, and Britton breathed a sigh of relief as they exited the train and made their way to the platform Swift had indicated. This late at night, there were few people there, but Britton knew they’d have to wait for the platform to completely empty before they could make for the rendezvous location. If this station had a cop, he was out of sight, probably by the turnstiles and attendant booth upstairs.
The platform was broken up by a series of ceiling supports, wide steel I-beams broad enough to hide a person behind. He sidled up alongside Therese. ‘Keep spread out and on the platform, I’m going to find our entry point. Once I signal you, gather by me, but loosely. Let’s try not to give the impression that we’re together.’ Therese nodded silently, thrust her hands in her pockets, and made her way down the platform.
Britton began to run his eyes along the ceiling, looking for security cameras. He saw one immediately, on the edge of the platform, just before the darkness of the tunnel’s edge. He was about to move closer to it when something stuck to the tile walls caught his eye.
It was a small black sticker, about five inches across. Someone had made the effort to scrape it off and given up after rendering it mostly transparent. Dirty patches of dried adhesive around it showed him that this was the last of over a dozen stickers that had already been removed. The sticker’s center was a black-and-white mug shot that he had to squint at to make out. But after a moment, he was certain.
It was him. The photo was from his military Common Access Card, the same one the police had been using on his wanted posters.
Above it, Britton could make out the words: WHY IS THIS MAN RUNNING FOR HIS LIFE?
Below it, almost illegible, were the words FREE OSCAR BRITTON.
His breath caught in his throat, his heart raced.
He was looking for a movement, but he’d never thought that a movement might be looking for him.
Therese sidled alongside him, followed his gaze, then squinted. He was turning away when he heard her catch her breath. ‘Oh, wow. Is that what I think it is?’
Not now. Stay focused. ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘Don’t draw attention to it or to us.’
The sticker had kicked off a string of emotions. Excitement, fear, honor, worthlessness. None of them would help him examine that camera. He let it fill his attention, pushing the butterflies in his stomach away.
The camera had a good view of the entire platform, its view only obscured by the steel columns. It was precisely like the other cameras he’d seen at the last station. Except for one difference.
The red light was out.
Britton caught Therese’s eye, then moved behind one of the columns. Truelove came next, supporting Downer, who sloughed drunkenly against him. Therese was just behind. They stood in a small circle, making a show of tending to Downer, a friend who’d had one too many. Britton and Therese detailed opposite sides of the column, casting glances down the platform length, waiting to see if it cleared.
After nearly an hour of agonizing waiting, the train pulled up, the last passengers on the platform stepped on, and nobody got off.
Britton tapped Therese and raced off the platform’s edge, dropping into the darkness beyond. He fell about four feet, his boots crunching on packed gravel and wood fragments. Three separate thuds told him the rest of his group had joined him. The inky blackness covered them. Smells reached him, trash, rank water, creosote. He heard scrabbling, and squeaking as rats protested his intrusion into their domain.
‘Put Downer in the middle,’ he said. He opened a small gate, using its light to get his bearings. The gate’s uneven light glinted off the train rails to his right. He guessed that they had enough room to flatten themselves against the tunnel wall if a train were to pass, but he couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to find out. ‘We hug this wall. The chamber should be a couple of hundred feet in.’
