And then she’s out the room in a storm of black lace and tears.
There is silence in her wake. Absolute and utter. Kayla stares after her, still holding Clyde’s wrist. He starts to writhe and twist. His hand turns an ugly shade of purple. Then she releases him, and his gasp of relief is still the only sound. Devon is looking back and forth from Kayla to the doorway. And I really should have taken the time to explain what was going on to her. But I didn’t say a word. And now, no one is.
And in that silence, from nowhere, it suddenly comes to me: what’s been bothering me about the plan to cut power to London.
Not Clyde’s mortality.
Not the horrifying impracticality of the plan.
Not the potential chaos of blacking out the nation’s capital.
Big Ben. The Chronometer—protected by its anti-magic field. The field that prevents the Russians from bypassing the mundane security and teleporting in. The field that is completely and utterly dependent on electricity.
The Russians wanted us to see them. Wanted us to see them pull electricity from thin air. They wanted us to extrapolate. This is everything they’ve been planning for. We’re giving them exactly what they want.
And no one will believe me. If I tell them, no one in this room will trust a single word I say.
And so I stand here, and I don’t say a word.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Is everyone quite done?” Coleman’s booming voice echoes in the room. He has his eyebrows raised, is fiddling with one end of his mustache.
Still not a peep from anyone. Devon is staring at Kayla. Kayla is still looking anywhere but at Devon.
“Hello?” Coleman says to us all in general. “Anybody home?”
I think I might kill him. Right here and right now.
Felicity snaps into life before I do. “Clyde,” she says. “Clearly you and Tabitha need to talk about this.” Clyde leaps towards the door, but Felicity interposes herself. “But give her time to calm down,” she insists. “Nothing good will be achieved now.”
For a moment I think Clyde’s going to ignore her, going to move to push around her. But then he buckles, collapses in on himself.
“Killing Ruskies before chasing skirt.” Coleman nods as if this is pronouncement worthy of Confucius.
Felicity massages her brow. “George is right,” she says.
God, I hate the way she uses his first name.
“The most possible good that can be done now,” she says, “is catching the Russians before their deadline. Before the seventeenth. And we still know very little.” She pushes her hair back behind her ears. “I need you all to take deep breaths and go back into the field. Back to Trafalgar Square. Why did they pick that place? What did they do there before we arrived? We need as many answers as possible.”
Coleman is nodding now. I look back and forth between them. Both of them working so well together. Everything in sync.
And maybe I should be proud of Felicity for handling this all so well. Maybe I should tell her that I’m impressed by her ability to still do her job so well in the face of adversity.
But she didn’t back me up. She hasn’t backed me up once in the office. Not since this all began.
Jesus. I mean… how long have we even been dating? Life in MI37 seems to be on some absurdly accelerated timeline. It’s not even been a week. With her, what am I fighting for exactly?
Except that thought brings an unexpected sting. My… connection with Felicity has been brief but… God, I don’t know. I’m no good at putting this into words. But if things keep going the way they are it won’t matter how hard I fight for a relationship.
Something has to give.
Someone has to.
“We’ll do it,” I say.
For now I let it be me.
Trafalgar Square
After some silent but fraught negotiations, I end up sharing the back seat of the car with Devon on the drive to Trafalgar Square. Clyde drives. Kayla sits dissatisfied in the passenger seat beside him. She keeps peering over her shoulder at both of us. Whether she holds her tongue because of my presence, or because Devon is staring resolutely out the window I can’t tell.
We arrive, flash IDs at policemen, and stand in the morning drizzle regarding what’s left of the square. The plinths—where the lions stood before they decided to enter the business of shortening my lifespan—are covered with heavy green tarpaulins dragged over hastily constructed faux-lions of wood and chicken wire.
We stand, silent and awkward for a minute. Clyde clears his throat. “So,” he says, “should probably, you know, discuss some sort of plan of action—”
“Shut up, Clyde.” Devon’s voice is unusually quiet.
“Ah.” And that is apparently all Clyde has to add. But Kayla picks this as the moment to finally bite the bullet.
“Devon,” she says.
“No.” Devon is as definitive as Tabitha. “You’re a very nice person, one of the few people to be nice to me since this whole nightmare began, and I appreciate it, I really do. And I am terribly sorry about whatever it is that happened to your daughters. It must be awful. But not now. Thank you but I need a little time.”
She steps away, walks towards Nelson’s Column. She stands at the base, facing the way the Russians did, looking up at the National Gallery. We follow loosely in her wake. Nobody says anything. I’ve stopped knowing what to say.
Wasn’t I good at this at some point? Back when the world was a known quantity.
I shove my hands back in my pockets. And there’s Aiko’s phone number, still there. And I had the words last night. It all seemed so clear. There was a plan then. When did it slip away?
And then, fingering that slip of paper, I find the right words.
“Right now,” I say, pushing damp hair from my eyes, “there is evidently a lot of shit going on. More personal stuff than even this square can hold.” No one looks at me. I plow on and hope there are points for honesty. “But there’s a bigger problem too. Russians are threatening to wipe this city from the face of the earth. And if that happens then we’re all going to feel pretty bloody stupid that we let it happen because we couldn’t get past our own personal crap.” Rain runs down the back of my collar. “That is assuming we’re in enough parts to still regret things.”
Devon and Clyde shuffle their feet, and there’s a chance I’ve got their attentions at least. Kayla’s looking up at Nelson’s Column. I think I’d have to pull out a gun and start shooting to get her to notice.
I sweep my hand around the square. “So why here? Why in such a public place? Why show their hand so completely?”
“A public show of strength.” Clyde has thought this all through. The answer comes out quick and concise. Not like Clyde at all, really. Par for the course these days, though. Beads of water stand out clear on his mask, not entirely hidden in his hood. “To get us to agree to their demands.”
I wait for the “I think,” or the “perhaps,” or the “maybe,” but it doesn’t come.
Maybe he’s read books on interpersonal communication and has taken those lessons to heart.
Maybe.
“But,” I say, pushing those concerns away, “the demands are bullshit. Even Coleman and I agree on that point.” I pause. I have to control this carefully if I’m going to make headway. “Why show us how powerful they are and then ask us to do something so bogus. It’s misdirection. It has to be. It’s smoke and mirrors. Either they want us confused or they’re trying to provoke a specific response out of us.”
Silence. Either they’re chewing it over, or working out the most tactful way to dismiss everything I’m saying.
And then, finally, Clyde nods. “I,” he starts, “I mean, yes, that makes a certain degree of sense.” He looks for confirmation, first from Kayla, who’s still staring up at the column, then to Devon, but only for about a nanosecond.
“And, on top of that,” I say—carefully, carefully, now, Arthur—“whether they teleported or not, I was beaten
up by Russians hiding away from the main fight.”
Clyde examines his hands first. “Well,” he starts.
“Yes.” Devon cuts him off. “That’s true.”
Another awkward silence. It’s broken by Kayla.
“That pigeon is funny,” she says to nobody in particular, still staring upwards.
“Right then,” I say to that, because I’m not sure what else to say, “well, if we have Russians trying to confuse us, and Russians hiding down side streets, shouldn’t we at least check out the place where I was attacked?”
“That one.” Kayla points at a distant flock of pigeons milling about the top of the column. “It’s no’ right.”
I take a deep breath.
Clyde gives me a second nod. “We should check the square too,” he says.
“Of course.” I nod quickly, play nice. I know Clyde’s smart enough to know I’m maneuvering him. But still, he’s conceded. The first small victory. Now I just need to build on it.
A really handy follow-up would be finding some critical evidence, but fifteen minutes of searching the square kills that hope. My biggest discovery is that England really needs to take better care of its national monuments. One corner of the base of Nelson’s Column is in a shocking state, almost crumbling away to dust at my touch.
The others come up similarly empty-handed. Aside from the fact that the square, arguably the most public place in London, there seems to be little else to have drawn the Russians.
“Side street?” I say.
“Erm,” Clyde says.
Again I feel the resistance when I push him on this, but then Devon says, “Yes,” in a voice that echoes off the edges of the square. She starts marching off towards the edge of the square. I follow promptly because, basically, I am not above trading on Clyde’s guilt. Kayla dawdles along in our wake, eyes still on the pigeons.
It’s not too hard to find the spot where seven shades of shit were beaten out of me. Some of the parked cars are the same. The facades haven’t changed. And yet…
I look up and down the road.
“Is something wrong?” Clyde asks.
I can’t read his voice, can’t work out if he’s looking for a way to validate my arguments or an excuse to get out of here.
“The road…” I say, kneeling down. Most of it resembles any other London street. Dirty pitted blacktop, dotted with gum. But in places the surface is almost crumbling—pot holes like craters. And then, right next to them are areas where the road is almost perfectly smooth, as if newly laid. And I’ve seen workmen do bad patch-up jobs before but this is absurd.
“It wasn’t like this yesterday,” I say. “It was just…” I pull a Clyde and shrug, “typical road.”
“Have you considered that, well, that you might not remember it clearly?” Clyde asks. “Blows to the head and all that.”
“Or Arthur might be right.” Devon inserts herself between Clyde and myself.
Clyde gives way faster than a wet tissue before a semi-truck. He bobs his head, backing away quickly, examining the nearby cars.
As for Kayla—she orbits us like a lazy moon. The spat between her and Devon has clearly not been good for morale.
I stay staring at the odd road surface. Because maybe there’s a kernel of proof here. I remember the crumbling, aged corner of the column’s base. Could there be a link?
“Is there any way we can find out when these roadworks were done?” I say. Because if I’m going to keep Clyde’s trust I need to play this like a cynic. And because if roadworks weren’t done… Yes, maybe that might be something.
“There’s some wireless connections here,” Clyde says. “Shouldn’t be overly difficult to find out.” His arm starts to shake.
“There’s that feckin’ pigeon again.” Kayla’s staring at a tight flock of birds above us.
And it’s a testament to how far she has fallen that I find I have the nerve to say, “Seriously? Seriously with the pigeons? Which one are you even talking about? It’s impossible to tell any of them apart. They’re bloody pigeons.”
“No.” Kayla shakes her head, emphatic. “That’s just one feckin’ pigeon.”
I look closely at her, on the off-chance that madness has a visual manifestation.
“That flock of pigeons?” I say. “Up there?” I even point. “That’s one pigeon?”
Reality testing I believe the professionals call it. Endurance testing delusions against what’s plain as day. Of course they probably do it with a slightly less derisory attitude.
“Why the feck do you think I’m concerned about the feckin’ pigeon?” Kayla looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Devon,” she says without missing a beat, “head back to the car.”
“Look.” Devon places her hands on her hips. The drizzle has set her coiffure slightly askew, giving her a mildly comical appearance. “I know you mean well, but I am an adult woman and have been for several years now, more than I’d prefer to admit truth be told, and I am beyond the point that I simply do as I’m told. I’m happy to do as I’m asked. More than happy. Please and thank you go a long way. But I am not a child. I am a woman and—”
“Get movin’ to the feckin’ car!” Kayla unleashes the words on Devon.
There is a moment of stunned silence. Even Clyde seems to emerge from his twitching revery long enough to stare.
And then Kayla leaps, actually physically leaps at Devon. As if she means to drag her back to the car. And I think I should stop her, that madness has taken over. And I think how screwed I am, going up against Kayla.
Then a scream. At first I think it’s Devon. But the sound is more raw, more wild. The sound is from above.
A shadow falls over the street.
I turn, see it coming down, falling, screeching. A clot of feathers. A tumor of beaks. A storm of wings. Down it comes. The flock of pigeons that is not a flock, that is something massive and wrong. A writhing, shrieking mass of bird. And suddenly, yes Kayla, yes, I agree, there is something profoundly fucked up about that pigeon.
THIRTY-NINE
The once-pigeon blasts through, and around, and over Clyde. He is bowled to the floor, collapses in a tangled heap. One hand flaps spastically, drums against the ground.
Then the bird-beast is on me. A moment of beating thunderous darkness. Its stench engulfs me. It batters at me, tiny feet scraping, beaks gouging. And the sound—above the flutter and twitch—the screeching of its calls. A horrifying chorus. One shriek, echoed, changed, repeated, but undeniably one sound, one utterance.
And then it’s off me and over me. It barrels towards Devon and Kayla. Devon stares, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, horrified. Kayla steps in front, sword drawn. And then they are lost to me, swallowed by the thing.
It swirls around them, pulsing, distorting. Wing after wing after wing unfolds in a great swath. A limb made of limbs. Each individual component flaps madly. Each one in desperate need of a body. Feathers and bone unfold then dissipate, fold back into the mass. Something like a head rises up. A hundred heads. A hundred pairs of black eyes twisted in pain and fear. A hundred gray beaks. The thing writhes and twists. I hear a woman screaming at the heart of it.
Then it rises. It swarms upwards, elongating, fluttering. Kayla and Devon lie in a heap, streaked with blood and guano. Devon is clutching her arm to her stomach, face twisted in pain.
Kayla’s sword is still drawn. But the gleaming blade is free of blood. Not a single avian body part lies upon the ground. And surely, even on an off day, Kayla could filet that bird and serve it up for barbeque in under eight seconds.
And when exactly was the last time I saw her actually stab something?
Above us the pigeon wheels, screeches, circles back for more.
I can’t rely on Kayla. “Clyde!” I yell. “Clyde get something between us and it. That wall spell. Go, go, go!” He lies there on the ground.
“Clyde!”
His arm spasms.
“Clyde! Offline now! I need you here!”
The pigeo
n is almost on us.
“Clyde!”
Then it’s too late. The mass of bird hits me in the gut, drives me back and down. I roll, face mashed against smooth and fresh asphalt. The stink of tar fills my nostrils. I feel my jacket tear, feel the shirt beneath giving way. I’m dragged by the momentum of the bird, tumbling, grazing down the street, barreled over and over.
I come up on my knees, haul my pistol bodily out of its holster. I point it at the thing as it swarms over Kayla and Devon. Lift you bastard. Lift up so I can fill you full of holes.
“Clyde!” I scream. “Clyde get out of cyberspace now, you bastard!”
“Sonics.” Clyde’s voice is barely audible as the pigeon-thing shrieks and lifts to the sky. “High-fr—” And then the roar of my pistol cuts him off.
The gun kicks in my hands. Blood and feathers explode out of the mass of pigeon. I bring the gun to bear again. It’s easy to hit something this damn big. I fire. Again. Again. The pigeon twists through the air. Up and away behind a building.
I’m sweating, breathing hard. My hands are shaking. I turn, sitting back on my heels. I stare at Clyde, still lying on the street.
“Sonics?” I ask him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Not our usual near-death-experience banter, I admit, but I’m a little on edge right now.
“High-frequency sonics,” Clyde repeats. “Should drive it off.”
“Should? Should?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You know what would drive it off? Spearing the fucking thing on a spell. Now—”
But it’s too late for more chastisement.
It’s down at ground level, streaking down the street towards us. I drop onto my stomach, sight past Clyde, pray that I can aim at least that well.
Yesterday's Hero Page 17
