“A hamster?” the Legionnaire asked, nonplussed.
“Hiya!” Eperr greeted them both with a little wave.
“A . . . talking hamster?”
“Hey!” protested Eperr as Kyri chuckled.
“A NLYX,” Kyri offered, “Neurologic Linkage Experiment. An engineered symbiote and the secret of the Coven’s power. We are never a single person, but always two. And more. The linkage, along with the ability to cast illusion and plumb memories, means the Coven can act as one. More than enough for the Senate to sentence us to death.”
“It’s not a hamster?”
Kyri smiled and shook her head. “No. But that is neither here nor there. You wanted an alliance and you shall have it.”
He stared in disbelief. “You had to torture us to do that?”
“Not torture . . . test,” Kyri said flatly. “A trip through a mental gauntlet to gauge your true self. Although we may seem young to you, we are not so silly as to trust even an enemy of an enemy by their word alone. We wanted to take your measure, and now we have it. Your actions speak louder than all the rhetoric of the Senate.”
She reached out and took the commander’s right arm, clasping his wrist.
“You have made your pact with the shadows and gained friends and spies across the human sphere, as well as instantaneous ship-to-ship communication once you add a Coven member to each ship’s company. The Senate has called us outlaws and pirates, but mankind has never seen corsairs such as we shall be. Together we’ll turn their treachery back on them and take back the inner worlds.”
“Pirates?” exclaimed Eperr as he scampered up onto their rapidly warming clasp. “I can do pirates! I saw a vid once.” He stood up on his haunches and brandished a tiny fist. “Arr!”
Author, heavy truck engineer, and model airplane designer Darwin A. Garrison lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana, with his wife, three children, and various pets. Notable among the nonhuman inhabitants is a hamster, Butter Cup, who steadfastly refuses to utter a single word. She does, however, twitch her nose in a most knowing manner.
Darwin began writing during high school after he started receiving books from the Science Fiction Book Club. He published one story in a college journal before giving up writing in favor of completing his engineering education.
After many years in industry, Darwin again took up the word processor in 2002 out of desperation to do something that made sense. Although originally started as a creative outlet, the response from local friends encouraged him to show his stories to a wider venue via the web. The responses from a variety of readers there encouraged him to focus on learning the tools of the SF/F trade in earnest.
Any success he experiences is entirely due to the patient efforts and support of his friends and mentors in the writing community. As for those worthies, you know who you are, so consider yourselves hugged.
FALLING LIKE THE GENTLE RAIN
Nick Pollotta
UST AS THE OLD church clock started to chime midnight, the moon was suddenly blanketed by thick clouds and there came the sound of heavy footsteps outside my office. Oh, no, they had finally found me!
Moving fast, I silently opened the top drawer to my desk and pulled out a Glock .357 Magnum. The checkered grip filled my palm like the handshake of an old friend, firm and reassuring. Dropping the clip, I quickly checked the load inside. Lead dumdum, silver bullets, and US Army armor-piercing rounds. Not much, but it was the best I had. But then, in spite of what the movies show, private investigators rarely use a gun. Especially ones that specialize in corporate espionage. No damn dirty divorce work for me. Love betrayed, weeping and screaming, widows and orphans . . . no way. I was trying to keep my soul clean, ever since I took possession of the Key.
Easing the clip back into the grip, I gently worked the slide to chamber a round and leaned back in my chair. This didn’t have to be demons from hell. Might be pure coincidence that a visitor came exactly at midnight and fog blanketed the city. Hey, anything was possible. I tightened my grip on the Glock, disengaging the safety. Then again . . .
The footsteps thumping along the hallway stopped right outside my door. There was a short pause, and then somebody politely knocked twice.
“Excuse me, I saw the light under your door,” a soft feminine voice said. “May I use your bathroom?” She sounded sweet and southern. Pure corn pone and hom iny grits. A delicate flower of the South. “The one in the lobby is broken, and I really have to pee something fierce. Please?”
“Just a sec,” I answered cheerfully, aiming at chest level where the heart would be on a human being. Yeah, she was from the South, all right. Straight down south. Near the core of the planet.
Two thousand years ago, King Solomon himself had built a temple to keep the Key safe from the wrong hands. Inhuman hands. The Crusades in the Middle Ages—just a cover story for the Knights Templar to get it back after being stolen by a traitor in our ranks. William Shakespeare wore it around his neck in a leather pouch for safekeeping, which is why all of his hair fell out so young. Mozart died from touching it with a bare finger, and Beethoven went stone deaf from doing the exact same thing, trying to prove it wasn’t really dangerous. George Washington wanted to use it to help his troops in the American Revolution, but Ben Franklin gave it to Paul Revere to hide somewhere safe until the fighting was over. The key he tied to that famous kite was merely a decoy to throw pursuers off the trail.
Finally, Jules Verne devised a way to keep it safe—wrap it in soft lead foil—and Oscar Wilde pretended to be a homosexual and went to jail rather than divulge that secret. Nikola Tesla tried to destroy the Key and was driven insane. Jack Benny was badly scared just from looking at it in the moonlight, while Louie Arm-strong and Colonel Sanders flatly refused to believe it could possibly exist. John Glenn wanted to cast it into space, but Wally Schirra talked him out of it. Presidents, congressman, and generals kept it hidden in Fort Knox for decades, but when that location became known to the others, the Key was given to me.
For over two millennia, my brother Freemasons had fought, lied, cheated, stolen, and died, to keep the Key from the unholy hands of our enemies. Some of them even took the blame for crimes they had not committed and been sent to jail for life, or executed, just to keep any official investigations from going further and discovering the possible existence of the Key. And, more importantly, what it unlocked.
Now, I have the bedamned thing sown into my leather belt, and somehow, They had found me, were knocking on my office door, coming to get me, kill me, and take away the Key of Solomon to unlock That Which Should Never Be Opened.
“Come in,” I said smoothly, taking the Glock in a two-handed grip and holding my breath. Steady now, easy does it, don’t want to shoot a civilian. . . .
In a thundering explosion, the door was blown off the hinges, a maelstrom of smoke and splinters buffeting me hard. Blindly, I triggered the Glock, blasting the big Magnum rounds at the shadowy figures gliding through the burning remains of the door.
One was hit and fell, flashing into ash. Another staggered backward, clutching a withering arm that pumped yellow blood. But the rest pulled out sawed-off shotguns and discharged a volley of steel flechettes, the fiery barrage tearing my desk apart until only the Lexan military plastic shell underneath remained. That caught them by surprise, and I used the confusion to kill two more of the demons. To achieve success, plan for failure. And, brother, did I ever plan.
Firing twice more at their misshapen heads, I rose and kicked aside my chair, then dove through the closed window. The shattering glass sounded like the end of the world, and searing pain slashed along my back and legs as I fell five stories toward the misty waters of the Chicago River.
Holding my breath, and praying that I didn’t smack into a boat, I hit the water hard, losing a shoe as I just scraped past a concrete pylon, missing a grisly death by a scant inch. Hand grenades and horseshoes. Dark things rushed at my face from the murky depths—old cars, shopping carts, union officials—but I stayed
calm and tried to holster my gun before flailing my arms and swimming for the surface. Follow the bubbles, hot shot. Always follow the bubbles!
But even as I started heading upward, big things with too many arms dropped into the water alongside me. Fueled by adrenaline, I tried to swim faster, but clawed hands reached out to rip at my clothing and flesh, pulling me down, away from the light, down to the muddy bottom and a slow death by suffocation.
Glowing eyes filled the darkness, and blood began to cloud the water. Red blood. My blood.
Reaching desperately into my jacket, I fumbled for the cigar tube I had carried since the day I became the Guardian. My predecessor had carried it for fifty years without ever using it, as had the man before him. The ancient steel was oily beneath my fingers, but I managed to pop the top and a tiny vial floated upward. Gnarled hands snatched for it, but I was there first and crushed it in my fist.
The contents of Christian Holy Oil, blessed kosher salt, and Moslem Holy Water mixed freely and then dissolved into the Chicago River to spread outward like a healing balm, clearing the dirty water to crystal clarity. Choking and burning, the things slithered away from me, seeking refuge in the Stygian mud below, bottom feeders seeking their natural habitat.
Now free, I moved for the surface, concentrating on the task, not the goal. My lungs were nearly bursting. I was burning for air, tiny bubbles squeezing out from my clenched lips, sips of life leaving me behind. But I had to ignore that. Get past the pain. There was only swimming, nothing else in the world mattered but the movement of my arms and legs. Keep swimming, keep going. Move with a purpose, Freemason!
Erupting from the expanding pool of clean water like a dolphin on steroids, I splashed about, pulling in a ragged lungful of fresh sweet air, almost reeling from the rush of oxygen.
As my head cleared, I swam out of sight beneath a wooden pier, and clawed my back onto the brick-lined shore. I was exhausted, but could not stop. Had to keep moving. Get away from here and find someplace to hide. Steal a car and drive out of town.
Glancing across the river, I saw Them standing in the smashed window frame of the office building. Human shapes with nightmare eyes that watched me hatefully, desperate to follow, but knowing to do so would burn them to the bone, or whatever demons had. Chitin? Could be. Lord knows, they always bugged me.
A swirling cloud covered the moon for a single heartbeat, and when it returned, they were gone. Instinctively, I went for my gun and found only empty leather. Damn! Must have lost my Glock in the river. Time to boogie.
Dripping wet, I stumbled for the street and headed downtown. I needed help, and fast. There was a Freemason lodge only a few blocks away. One of the main reasons I had chosen an office overlooking the smelly Chicago River.
The night was warm in spite of the unnatural fog and my clothing was almost dry by the time I found a police car parked at the curb, the two police officers inside sipping steaming cups of coffee. Smoothing back my damp hair and straightening my ragged clothing, I tried to look more like the loser in a bar fight, than the winner in a battle against demons.
“Excuse me, officers?” I asked hesitantly, stopping a few feet away. Never rush toward the police.
“Well, well, and what do we have here?” the younger cop drawled in a voice heavy with contempt.
The older cop watched me closely, then dismissed me as harmless. “Been drinking and fell in the river, buddy?” he demanded, defying me to question his authority.
“Actually, no,” I started, but was interrupted by the sound of the car door opening.
“Keep your hands in sight, asshole,” the young cop demanded, placing his Styrofoam cup on the hood and pulling a set of stainless steel handcuffs into sight. “The locals don’t like drunks wandering the streets and bothering the tourists. A night in the tank will do you the world of good.”
And get me killed. With no choice, I spoke a Word of Power.
The younger cop wrinkled his face in confusion, but the older cop did an abrupt change of attitude.
“Hold it, rookie,” he commanded, climbing from the vehicle. “I know this man.”
“You do?” the policeman asked sounding confused.
“Sure.” Reaching out, he took my hand and we shook, exchanging grips and signs. The grips were familiar, but different. Not a Freemason, but FOP, Fraternal Order of Police. Our secret division of law enforcement agencies. Good enough.
“What do you need, Brother?” the older cop asked softly. The fog flowed along the city street making the few pedestrians shadowy figures.
“A weapon,” I said, pressing the signet ring on my hand into his palm one last time.
“Done,” the man replied, sliding the Heckler Koch 9mm automatic from his holster and passing it over. Along with two spare clips from his equipment belt.
“Many thanks,” I sighed, tucking the mortal weapon into my clothing and out of sight.
The younger cop was flabbergasted. “You . . . you gave him your gun?” he gasped, a hand instinctively going for his own weapon. “Just what the fuck is going on here?”
“Ask the desk sergeant,” the older cop said. Then he glanced over a shoulder and barked. “I said ask the sarge, kid!”
“Yes, sir,” the rookie replied sullenly, shuffling back to the car and reaching for the hand mike clipped to the dashboard.
“New guy,” the older cop said in apology.
“No problem,” I replied, checking the clip, and working the slide. Even from a Brother, I always check a new weapon. We’ve had traitors before in the Freemasons, sad to say.
“Got a BTK?” he asked, pulling a small volume from his shirt pocket.
I shook my head, uncaring if it was a Christian Bible, Torah, or the Koran. There were many rooms in His mansion. The Freemasons accepted good men and women of any faith. “I’m not fighting a vampire,” I laughed, exhaustion giving my words a slightly hysterical tone. “Although it sure would be nice.”
“Oh, demons again,” the officer said, not posing it as a question. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a butane lighter and shoved it into my hand.
Now that I gladly accepted. A crucifix was the symbol of the Redeemer, the forgiver of our sins. That didn’t do a lot of damage to hellspawn, in spite of what the movies say. On the other hand, monsters always ran from fire. That was the symbol of the Creator. “Let there be light.” “And a hand of fire moved across the mountain . . .” “A column of fire led the Israelites out of Egypt . . .” “Reverently, Moses approached the burning bush . . .” Fire was the sign of the One, The Creator, Great Architect of the Universe, She Who Must be Obeyed, the Big Cheese. Monsters were unable to stand the pain of His light. Back in my office had been a sealed ziplock bag containing a BTK soaked in gasoline. Nothing made hellspawn run like the fiery light of a burning holy book! But I never had a chance to use it, more’s the pity. And there was no going back now.
Thanking the Brother of my sister organization in the name of the Father, I moved off into the fog, keeping a close watch on the shadows, making sure they weren’t keeping a close watch on me. Somebody moved in a dark alleyway, and I pulled the HK 9 mm. As they moved away, I holstered the gun, and went to hitch up my belt—there was only the empty cloth loops of the damp pants. Frantically, I checked again, but my belt was gone. But who . . . how . . . ? Inhuman hands clawing at fabric and flesh . . .
Spitting out a forbidden Word, the sidewalk under my feet cracked. They had it! The demons had the Key! If Satan knew where the Lock-Of-All-Locks was located, then Armageddon may have already started. A cold sweat broke over my body, and I started running along the foggy sidewalk, checking the cars parked at the curb. No time to waste. I had to get to the nearest Freemason lodge and spread the word fast.
Passing an endless array of luxury cars: Hummers, Beamers, and a shockingly pimped-out Caddy, I sighed in relief at the sight of a Chrysler sedan. Touching the door handle with my signet ring, there came a hard click, and the door unlocked. Although long dead, Walter P. C
hrysler had been a Freemason and made sure all of his vehicles were accessible to a Brother in an emergency. Henry Ford had done the same thing, and if I ever found a Model A flivver, with just a few special Words, any thirty-second-degree Mason could make it fly. Although not a Freemason, Walt Disney was a member of a friendly organization, the DeMolays, and had made a training film about how to fly a car, and then liked the footage so much he recut it into a family comedy starring Fred MacMurray. Also not one of Us, but a tremendous actor. Although, not quite of the same caliber as: Al Jolson, Harold Lloyd, Jack Benny, Laurel and Hardy, Abbot and Costello, or John Wayne, of course. But not bad for a civilian.
Slipping inside, I spoke a Word of Power at the ignition, and the engine started with a soft purr. Pulling away from the curb, I raced across town toward my one chance, the last hope of the world.
Breaking a hundred traffic laws, I made it to the lodge in record time, my brakes squealing as I parked illegally alongside a fire hydrant directly in front of the Chicago Freemason Lodge.
At this ungodly hour, the door to the building was locked. Pulling a dollar bill from my wallet, I carefully rolled my thumb across the All Seeing Eye on the back of the American currency, then slid it into a crack along the jamb. There came a low hum, a series of clicks, and then a hydraulic sigh as the armored portal swung aside.
Rushing across the foyer and dining hall, I heard the front door close and lock as I burst into the temple. Dodging around the BTK in the center of the room, I dashed up the stairs to the chair of the lodge president, plopped down, and shoved my ring into a small recess. With an electric hum, the chair rotated around, and moved through the curtained alcove, the brick wall sliding back into place behind. The chair was still moving when I hopped off and dove for the alarm button on the Master Mason communications panel. Instantly, fifteen million Freemasons across the world suddenly got an electric jolt from their signet rings and rushed to their computers. We owned the Internet, as well as most other forms of mass communications. As the good book says, Know Thy Enemy. Or was that Sun Tzu?
Under Cover of Darkness Page 6
