by B. V. Larson
I spotted Robert then, and my mind thawed. I realized with a shock that the rip behind me had faded and the way ahead was full of obstacles. If he vanished again, I might be stuck here until one of the hot little slugs swimming about found me and turned me to ash.
I ran for him as I’d never run in my life. My footing was uneven, and I stumbled over loose stones. I went down at one point, sinking my knees into a black ridge of ash between two smoldering pools. I howled as my knees and hands burned.
I was close enough now for Robert to hear me. He whirled and lifted a gun. The muzzle flashed orange. I threw myself down on the painfully hot ground and fired back with scorched fingers. At a range of around a hundred feet, our pistols were not terribly accurate. I had the advantage of hugging the ground. My arms were steadied by the ridge of hot ash. Unfortunately, I was also in pain, and the ash made my eyes blur.
Two of his rounds came uncomfortably close. He fired a spray of bullets, emptying his pistol fast. Stones jumped behind me and then a block of obsidian sparked and split apart in front of my face. I returned fire. We both missed. I heard him dry-click then drop the gun with a curse. He turned back to his growing rip, but it wasn’t ready yet. He couldn’t step out.
I stood up and charged after him, reloading and holding my fire until I got closer. I’d made it halfway when he tried to enter the rip again. It was ready now, brighter and stronger. His fingers pushed against the surface of it like a giant bubble. Soon, I knew the bubble would pop and allow him through.
I fired. I couldn’t take the chance he would get away and leave me here. I snapped off round after round. This time, as I got closer, I hit him.
He went down on one knee. He crawled into the rip, but before he could make it all the way inside, I grabbed him and pulled him back. I threw him down on the ground and stood over him.
He was a mess. Two rounds in the chest, one in the leg. His breath whistled in his lungs. Blood was already frothing in his mouth. I lowered my pistol to my side.
“You shouldn’t have ambushed us,” I said.
“You should have left well enough alone. Why couldn’t you be happy winning at the slots with my wife?”
I felt a sting of guilt, even though I knew I shouldn’t. This guy had abandoned Jenna. He’d been part of a number of murders. But it was still hard to watch him die at my feet.
“I’m hurting,” he said. “Take me out of here before the slugs come. You can fix me up.”
I shook my head. “Give me some quick answers first.”
“OK, just heal me enough to breathe.”
I blinked at him. “Heal you?”
“Yeah, you idiot. Use the picture.”
I stared, then rummaged in my pockets. I pulled out the photo I’d been carrying since awakening in the sanatorium.
“This?” I asked.
Nodding and coughing, Robert reached for it. Reluctantly, I let him take it. I figured if it was a trick, if he could use it as a weapon against me, my talisman should stop the attack.
He grabbed it and held it to his chest in relief. He rubbed it on the bloody holes in his shirt. The blood didn’t stick to the photo. It was impossible to stain it. The sight was an odd one.
“Better,” he said, breathing less shallowly.
I shook my head. “The photo has the power of healing? Does it dissolve bullets or what?”
“No,” he said. “Don’t you know what your own stuff does? God, what a number Meng did on your head. That’s your trademark object, Draith. Fast healing. Remember now?”
I did, in a way. I recalled being known for fast healing. I’d been sure I could leave the hospital despite all my injuries. I’d confidently removed my cast. I nodded.
“It doesn’t exactly heal you, it’s more that it stabilizes you—moving you to what you once were,” Robert explained. He sounded hurt and tired, but no longer on death’s door.
“What if I shoot you in the head?” I asked. “Will it heal that?”
Robert looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “I’d rather not find out,” he said.
“Then tell me who you work for.”
“Already did. Rostok—the Community.”
“Maybe we should go have a chat with him then,” I said.
Robert laughed, but the laughter quickly shifted into a nasty coughing fit. “You’re as crazy as ever,” he said. “Help me up and into the rip. It goes back to the Lucky Seven.”
I didn’t move. “What is this place, exactly?”
“I don’t know that. I’m not sure anyone does. But it is an existence that connects others. You can go through it to other places, if you live. Some worlds are like that. Small, but tightly interconnected. Our world is bigger.”
“And the world of the Gray Men?”
“Big, like ours.”
I nodded, believing what he said. It added up with what McKesson had told me days ago. He’d talked about getting lost in a place full of bright light and radiation. He’d talked about getting into and out of that world of white glare. Maybe this place was similar.
I helped Robert get to his feet, not knowing what else to ask. I figured that even with my photo, he wasn’t immortal. He was still bleeding and turning paler as the seconds ticked by.
More importantly, the rip looked like it was going to fade soon. I didn’t want to be left here hoping I could figure out how to create a new one. I took my photo back from his rubbery fingers, and we stepped into the rip.
We appeared on rich carpets of burgundy framed with green. It had to be the Lucky Seven. I looked around and recognized the lobby area outside Rostok’s office. Apparently not everything Robert had told me was a lie. I let him flop in a chair, barely conscious.
I tapped on Rostok’s door. The door swung quietly open, just as it had before. The interior was dark, as always. A dim light ran along the bottom of every piece of furniture, limning it with a ghostly nimbus. I entered, leaving Robert in the chair outside. The door swung shut behind me.
“Your boy Robert is in pretty bad shape.”
“He’ll be…taken care of,” Rostok said.
I glanced toward the shadow I knew was Rostok. He sat like a hulking cave bear in his overstuffed, leather-upholstered chair. I got up and poured myself a drink at his bar, dropping in three cubes of ice.
“Such impudence,” Rostok said behind me.
“Sorry. I’m hot and thirsty. It’s been a long day.”
Rostok laughed. “Apparently! I’m more than impressed, Draith. You bring me back my chief agent, unarmed and barely alive. Not only have you defeated my best, but you have the balls to come here and flaunt it. I’m beginning to like you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” I said, swigging my drink. “Do you want one?”
“I’ll get my own, if you don’t mind.”
“Suit yourself,” I said, taking a chair and sighing as I sat back and took another big swallow. The best part of these visits was the smooth alcohol. This man spared no expense when it came to booze.
“You must tell me why you’ve come here…yet again.”
I told him then of my adventures in the desert and my struggles with Robert and the Gray Men. I finished by describing my plans to take out whatever means the enemy used to step through into our territory with such impunity.
“And if I don’t approve of your plans?”
“I don’t know why you wouldn’t. We are on the same side, here. Humanity must unite, if only to fight off an inhuman invader.”
“Quaint thoughts.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I do, to some extent. Always, it has been postulated that all men would stand together given the need. Unfortunately, this has not been my experience.”
I sipped my drink in the dark. I didn’t like the way that sounded. “So, the Community is divided on what to do about the Gray Men?”
“Absolutely. They are also divided concerning your fate.”
I swirled the ice cubes around my glass. It was disappointingly em
pty. “Mind if I freshen this?”
“Be my guest.”
I hauled myself up and reloaded. The second glass tasted even smoother than the first.
“I’m going to offer you something, Mr. Draith, but I want you to understand the stakes first.”
“I’m listening.”
“You have bested more than one of my people. I do not tolerate such failures in field agents. I find I’m in need of talented help. What you have to understand is that taking a position with me is permanent and irreversible. There are many perks, however.”
My mind was slightly hazy, in a good way. I realized he was offering me a job. I also realized he was threatening my life.
“You had Bernie killed, didn’t you?” I asked.
“He failed me.”
I nodded. “Are you firing Robert Townsend also?”
“He’s been taken care of.”
I felt a tiny chill, despite the alcohol in my blood. “I need some answers before I commit,” I said. “How are these objects made?”
Rostok didn’t answer right away. He heaved himself up, hulked past me, and began to assemble a drink for himself. When he was back in his chair, he sighed. “You ask too much.”
“I’ve got a guess,” I said.
He chuckled. “Tell me this guess.”
I’d done a lot of thinking about the Gray Man’s finger I kept against my chest even now. The blood was still fresh, unwilling to flow out of the flesh. I knew that was impossible—but there it was. It had to have become an object in the cellar beneath the mansion, and the only strange processes that had occurred there were a number of rips.
“One way the objects are made is when vortexes are formed,” I said, voicing my theory. “If they are stuck in between two places for a long time, a normal item might transform somehow into an object.”
Rostok didn’t answer right away. “Who told you this theory?” he asked finally.
His response indicated to me I was on the right track. I shifted in my chair, throwing one leg over the arm of it.
“Meng,” I lied.
“She is not usually so loose with information.”
“So, she lives?” I asked, trying to sound unconcerned. Whether Rostok meant to do so or not, he’d confirmed my suspicions about the creation of these objects. They were forged by being caught between two existences.
Rostok huffed. “You believed you had slaughtered one of the Community so easily?”
“Of course not, I just wanted to make sure she was all right. Send her my apologies for the misunderstanding.”
“Audacity and lies,” Rostok chuckled. “You are full of both, Draith! But as you guessed, objects can be made in this fashion. The process is random, however. They are like diamonds, you see. Rare and valuable. We usually find them buried somewhere, identifiable only by their pristine state. But occasionally a new one is made.”
“Why don’t you manufacture a thousand objects by creating rips in space over and over until you get one?”
“The process is far from certain. We’ve tried to do it deliberately, but it never seems to work that way.”
“So any rip can create one by accident?” I asked.
“Actually, when the Gray Men create a vortex they do it differently. The odds an object is made seem far greater.”
I thought about his words, and a dark suspicion began to take root in my mind. The idea grew there like an evil fungus. Finally, I had to voice what I was thinking.
“I get it now,” I said. “Your motivations have suddenly become clear. All along, I’ve wondered why the Community hadn’t formed a coherent defense against the Gray Men. Why let these attacks go unchallenged? The only effort I’ve seen is from one guy, Detective McKesson, running around picking up the pieces. He covers up the messes, but doesn’t seek to stop them from happening.”
“Does this list of complaints have a point, Mr. Draith?”
“Yes. Rogues such as I, people you despise, we are doing more to battle the Gray Men than the entire Community. That’s because you aren’t interested in stopping them at all, are you? No, the Community sees this as some kind of gold rush. Objects are popping up at a much greater rate. You, Meng, and the rest don’t care what the Gray Men do as long as they keep finding more objects. If they come here and perform an anal probe or two, what does it matter? You’re like fishermen with a big net. All you have to do is let the Gray Men keep coming. If they want to kill rogues, so be it. Just let us run around and die, and then collect the fresh objects, tossing them in your vault afterward.”
Rostok cleared his throat and shifted his bulk in his chair. “It is nowhere near as cold a process as you describe. We’ve gained a few items here and there, yes. But it seems you have gained more than I. You, a clueless rogue, have gathered a powerful set of objects. Enough to defeat Meng and give me pause. I don’t like that development. Perhaps we’ve looked at this the wrong way. Perhaps a scarcity of objects is what we want, in order to retain our relative positions.”
“What do you do with all these objects? Just lock them away?”
“No,” he rumbled. “We use them. Let rogues check them out for missions—even trade with them. Once you are involved in this game, smaller matters such as money have little value. Barter is everything among the members of the Community. And there is only one currency that we all value.”
I sipped my drink as we paused for several long seconds. I thought of all the people who’d died. The Community had the strength and the knowledge to face the Gray Men, but they’d seen fit to sit back and collect scraps. From their perspective, they were becoming rich even as lesser people died. I wouldn’t soon forget that.
“What do you know about me, Mr. Rostok?” I asked, breaking the silence. “Do you know my past? Do you know if Quentin Draith is even my real name?”
“Worthless information. I don’t trouble myself with what people did before they gained an object. It does not matter. What matters is how a man plays the game once he has begun.”
I was disappointed. My history was still a blank to me, an empty void I’d like to fill some day.
“One more thing—” I began.
“No. You have milked me like a cow, and I must put a stop to it. Now you will answer my question. I have only one. Will you join my house or not?”
I looked at his bulky outline in the darkness. “I will not, at this time. I would prefer to remain like McKesson. Helpful, but independent.”
Rostok generated a rumbling laugh. “Independent? There’s no such thing. You’ve been working for Meng all this time, whether you knew it or not. You’ve been bird-dogging fellow rogues for her for years.”
For years. I let that thought sink in, and I didn’t like the feel of it.
“McKesson isn’t independent,” the old man continued. “He works for all of us collectively.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll take that route. Just as long as we are all on the same side.”
Rostok hawked and spat. “You can’t play me like this, Draith. You must be more careful when you are in my domain.”
I stood up, setting my glass on the coffee table. It gleamed a soft, eldritch blue, lit by some source of light that wasn’t immediately obvious to the eye. I calmly walked to the door.
“I’m sorry if I disappointed you, but I really must be going now.”
I felt something then, as my back was turned to him. A gush of force. It was an odd sensation, but one that I was familiar with. The wall in front of me shook, as if someone had thrown an invisible couch at it. Perhaps that was exactly what had happened. The force didn’t hit me, however. I was immune.
“Some kind of shield, is that it?” Rostok fumed behind me. “I can’t be stopped so easily. I have a dozen objects in my vault, Draith. You can’t insult me like this—”
“Rostok,” I said, turning around with my pistol in my hand. It was at my side, aimed down at the carpet. But it was there, and my finger was on the trigger. “Let’s not have any unpleasant
ness. Please accept my apologies, but I don’t trust you. Don’t forget, you just sent Robert Townsend to the desert to meddle in my affairs, and he killed a man named Souza, one of my friends.”
“Friends? Are you talking about those crazy cultist rogues? Is that what this is about? You might as well call things crawling under rocks in the desert your friends, Draith. They have many similar qualities.”
I slipped on my shades and forced the office door open. It had been locked, of course. I gave it an extra hard twist so the tumblers would never go back together properly. They would have to replace the entire mechanism.
“We’ll meet again,” I said, intending to step out of his office.
Rostok didn’t shout, nor did he send any of his minions after me. Instead, he spoke calmly.
“All right, Draith,” Rostok said behind me in the gloom. “I respect a man who can turn his back on me and live. What do you want to come work for me?”
“To work for the entire Community, you mean?” I asked. I glanced back, but I could no longer see him. I wondered what he must look like with the lights on.
“If you want it that way. But you’ll take your missions from me.”
I turned toward him. Standing in the office doorway, I was silhouetted by the relative glare coming in from the lobby area.
“I want peace between the rogues and the Community. Stop kicking us around. And I want war between the Community and the Gray Men.”
“Is that all?” Rostok asked incredulously.
“Well, that might be overstating it. What I want is to strike the Gray Men and take out the machine that allows them to come to our version of this universe. I want your help and your blessing to perform this mission. That’s my price.”
Rostok questioned me about the Gray Men and I explained what I’d seen and where I’d been. It was his turn to get valuable information from me. I only held back the nature of the objects I had and what they could do. Those were secrets I’d decided to keep.
Rostok thought it over when I’d finished laying out my case. “What you are proposing is indeed a declaration of war.”
