Del had explained to the young Bruja that she would need to be both technical and concise…but not too technical, and not too concise. Modesty didn’t understand what Del meant, but pretended to. After ten minutes, Modesty’s presentation wound down.
“…although it’s not pleasant in the slightest for the Transform, it’s possible to take a Transform to the edge of Monster and then guide the effects into various channels,” Modesty said. “We knew from the Crow Masters that the set of possible changes associated with Monster transitions is bounded, the same way that the set of possible shapes a Chimera can assume is also bounded. The Crow Master I talked to about this was attempting to enlarge the set of potential changes, but I’ve used the limitation as a lever, and I believe this is a very powerful lever. As it is, there are only a finite and, in the edge of Monster condition, small and finite set of possible alterations. A small enough set such that one can try every potential alteration one at a time, to see the effects produced. From this set, the pre-stress changes were very easy to find and implement. Any questions?”
The audience not only included Haggerty’s command crew, but all the Major Transforms who weren’t on patrol, and the large cadre of identity-fuzzed Crows from Thomas the Dreamer’s original entourage and those he had called in to help him cast out Athabasca. They packed sardine-like in the small living room, both puzzled and engrossed by Bruja Modesty’s presentation.
“I don’t understand this ‘pre-stressing’,” Amy said. “How does this help?”
“We were trying to find a second way for a Focus to transfer juice to an Arm, ma’am, in this case, using a male Transform as a medium. The sticking point was that we needed a way for the male Transform to survive the process,” Bruja Modesty said. Under the stress of Amy’s muted predatory gaze, sweat beaded at her hairline. “The reason the male Transform dies, normally, is that the Arm takes both fundamental and supplemental juice. But what do we mean by fundamental juice, ma’am? What we mean is that the Transform’s juice structure destabilizes under the stress of the Arm juice draw, and the structure itself gets taken up with the supplemental juice. A Focus or Bruja, like myself, can see what in the juice structure gets stressed and breaks. The pre-stress procedure stresses, then strengthens the vulnerable parts of the juice structure, but does so in a controlled setting rather than an actual juice draw, so it’s relatively safe for the Transform. The analogy is to tempering glass, ma’am.”
“What are the limitations to this, Bruja Modesty?” Thomas the Dreamer asked. Del carefully didn’t look at him. She had enough problems in her life. “Can any Focus learn this? Can any Transform do this?”
“Unfortunately, no, sir,” Bruja Modesty said. “The pre-stressing operation requires the capabilities of a Bruja. I cannot claim its originality, as I learned the technique from Bruja Torres. They use this to prepare their household women for élan draws by the Duendes. As for whether any Transform can do this, according to the Duendes, the older the Transform, the less vulnerable their juice structure. My volunteer, Bob Hilton, is a ten year Transform. The Brujas state that any woman Transform of over three years will work, but I decided to err on the side of safety.”
“Why a male Transform?” Duke Hoskins said, from over by the broken front window. He had stopped dozing about half way through Bruja Modesty’s presentation, and looked about ready to climb out of his skin. Or shell. With some insight or other.
“A guess, sir, nothing more than a guess on my part,” Bruja Modesty said. “Chimeras can do repeated draws from female Transforms, so I thought that Arms would be more likely to be able to do repeated draws from male Transforms. Of course, the Bruja involved must feed the male Transform juice during the process, but that’s to be expected.” Bruja Modesty realized what she had said was redundant, and shot Del an apologetic glance. Del nodded the apology, and indicated Modesty could sit. The questions were over.
“Has Bruja Modesty proved herself?” Del said, to Hoskins and Haggerty.
“Proved herself?” Hoskins said. “Hell, she deserves to be sanctified for this!” Amy winced, and Del realized that in some obscure Noble-society fashion, this wasn’t just a bit of Hoskins hyperbole. “Do you know what you’ve just done?”
Bruja Modesty shook her head.
“You’ve just solved one of the biggest problems plaguing Noble households, how to stop the decay when a male Transform takes juice during a Noble juice draw. The juice structure stress involved here in the juice draw you just showed us is exactly the same parts of their juice structure that degrades when we give them juice!” Hoskins said, and smiled.
Well, hot damn, Del thought to herself. Hot damn.
The hubbub and ancillary discussions took fifteen minutes to quiet down. Amy brought the room to order with a pounding of the hilt of her knife on the table and a quick dose of predator effect. “Sit down and shut up, people. We’re not done yet. Guru Thomas, you ready with the next topic?”
Once the room quieted, Thomas the Dreamer stood. “Athabasca has been cast out. He is no longer a Crow. We have called his followers in for a set of significant discussions, as their perceptual reality needs some adjustment. Several of us will be residing here until all his faction is accounted for.”
“Sinclair recovered. Will Athabasca?” Amy said.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Thomas said. “We aren’t killers, Arm Haggerty. We have given Athabasca into the care of one of his local Focus blackmail victims. She promised to treat the former Crow with the kindness and care he deserves – and to make sure he gets ample exercise, she’s tagged him and put him to work in the potato garden.” The Crow Guru’s comment brought snickers from around the room.
“We’re not finished yet,” Arpeggio, the other Mentor present and visible, said. He was a darkly tanned man, with short sun whitened blonde hair and deep facial wrinkles, almost incongruous on one so otherwise youthful in appearance. Whip lean. He had reintroduced himself to Del two days ago, and he still carried wounds suffered in the Chicago battles. Crows healed slowly, and when wounded they became even more paranoid. Still, he remained curious about her growth as an Arm, though, luckily, they discovered no Thomas-like attraction between them. “We’ve decided all the Crows owe Sinclair for Athabasca’s shenanigans. If you want us, we or our representatives will aid you in his rescue.”
Who could predict Crows? Mentor Arpeggio was one of the Crows who had cast Sinclair out of Crowdom not that many months ago. He repaid the Commander, long ago, by keeping Bass from capturing Del and several other young Arms. Later, he repaid the Transform community by helping preserve the Director’s life. Now, he volunteered to go rescue Sinclair, or at least to send his representative out to help. Del wondered what Sinclair would make of this.
“I’ll go, to represent Thomas,” a short Crow with a ponytail said, exiting the fuzz to become visible. “I’m Merlin, of Atlanta, and I’ve dealt with Arm Haggerty on many occasions. She’s an Arm worthy of great trust.”
A second Crow exited the fuzz. “I’ll go, to represent Arpeggio,” a Crow with nearly Arm or Chimera musculature said. “I’m Hephaestus, of Dallas, and I for one am damn sick and tired of the depredations of the Hunters.” Hephaestus was one of the Commander’s Crows, according to Ma’am Keaton’s teachings.
A third Crow exited the masking fuzz. “I’ll go…” he said, and as Del looked at this Crow for the first time she felt her knees give way. He was beautiful, engrossing, and magnificent. The most perfect Crow who had ever existed, and she loved him dearly. “…and represent Chevalier, who owes Sinclair more than he can ever repay. I’m Arête, of Phoenix, the junior-most Guru invited here, and the Crow whose actions most need atoning for.”
Del loved him exactly the same way she loved Thomas the Dreamer, she realized. Completely, overwhelmingly, and juice derived.
Not again! She couldn’t take two of these. One had been bad enough, and the eternal loss of Thomas the Dreamer still tore at her soul. Two such losses would be beyond her. Her sanity w
ould never recover. She cast her emotions into her quiet pools, and let the old unhealthy robot reflexes come over her again. Being a robot was better than the terrible pain.
“I would greatly appreciate your help, because you’re correct,” Amy said. “It’s time for us to rescue Sinclair. I’ve received word from those who Dream that Sinclair is still alive, and being held in Enkidu’s Montana stronghold. That’s the same one where another two victims of Hunter depredations are being held, Focus Cathy Elspeth and Crow Newton. The lair is a trap, but we know far more than we knew before about the Hunter’s numbers, their strengths and their weaknesses. With your help, and the help of the Tlacolula Familia, I believe we’ll be able to succeed.” Amy paused, but Del ignored her. She could only watch Arête and wait for the blow to fall. “I’ve received some news, as well, some good and some bad. The bad news is that the Hunters attacked and destroyed Diamond Barony. Ten days ago, but the news just got to us. The Hunters had been harassing several Focuses in the Memphis and Little Rock area, but they suddenly peeled off and attacked the Diamond Barony. The good news is that the Commander’s back. She isn’t saying where she is or what she’s doing, since she doesn’t want to tip off the opposition – but she’s left the Yukon and she’s back, her quest successful.”
The room erupted in shouts of glee. Del didn’t move. Gradually, she realized Arête stared at her the same way she stared at him. He hadn’t cut off the link between them. He hadn’t rejected her. Whatever juice effect gripped Del gripped him, too.
He wasn’t breathing, Del realized. Tentatively, she came out of her quiet pools enough to offer him a small smile. His entire juice structure glowed in response.
He loved her back! He hadn’t rejected her! Del felt like her second death sentence had just been revoked. Let out from prison after years behind bars. She let her emotions escape her quiet pools, and felt herself shudder with the intensity of them.
The rest of the room ignored the two. Del and Arête let the room pass them by. The world, well, it would have to go on turning without them.
“It takes two.”
Henry Zielinski (3/12/73-3/15/73)
“You think you’re going back to her, then?” Ann asked.
Dahlia shook her head. She sat with them in the warm March sun in the courtyard between the Oak Valley residential buildings. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground as Ann interrogated her. “Then why are you so reluctant to explain how Focus Fingleman’s household got their superorganism access?”
“Because it’s dangerous,” Dahlia said. “Ann, the ones who died even called themselves the ‘heirs of the Predecessors’. We were so confused by Focus Patterson’s teachings that we thought we were communing with God and God’s angels! The way you and Inferno are doing things is much better, saner and, thankfully, non-magical.”
“Did you call yourselves the ‘heirs of the Progenitors’?” Hank asked.
“No.”
“What did you name yourselves, then?”
“We didn’t,” Dahlia said. “They named us.” Her head turned farther away from Hank and Ann, and her fists balled.
Hank looked at Ann, who hand-signaled to him to go slow. He nodded. They waited.
“They called us ‘the sheep’,” Dahlia said. “Fools who needed shepherds. Donna didn’t encourage the name, but only a few of us ‘sheep’ ever got any of the heavy responsibility household jobs. Despite the fact we were just as initiated as they were.”
Initiated? Hank shivered. Inferno used a juice-laden initiation to bring people into the household. Although the juice used differed, depending on whether you were a normal or a Transform, the ceremony was the same – a funeral.
The Inferno initiation did help quiet the nerves regarding the many risks the household took.
“Initiated into what?” Ann asked.
Dahlia shook her head, and no matter how much Ann twisted Dahlia’s arm, she refused to give any more details. Then Hank remembered something he read in the Patterson files. He signaled to Ann, and they let go.
“Here,” he said, dropping the file from cabinet three onto Ann’s desk. Ann’s office was not only larger than his, it held more decorations. In Ann’s case, she covered her office walls with pictures of handguns and long guns. All the ones she had used in battle. A metal cup on her desk held nine bullets, representing each of her battle wounds. Five of those had been pulled from her body, two of them by Hank.
Ann read, then flipped back two pages in the file, and started reading from there. “So you think this is connected?”
“Factor the Patterson-speak out of the description,” he said. “‘the angels’ holy lights’ refer to the aurora, Canada is the ‘kingdom of the damned’, Donna is ‘the fallen angel’, etc. That leaves two terms to parse out, the ‘holy party of high communion’ and the ‘knights of the just’.”
“I’ve seen both ‘holy party’ and ‘high communion’ referenced before, but only in reference to Dream activities,” Ann said. “This appears to refer to something far more real world.”
“Which is why I feel this is connected. What do you think this translates to?” Hank opened one of his small spiral bound notebooks and wrote down his interpretation.
“Donna initiated people into her household by taking them into Canada and exposing them to both the real aurora and the summoned aurora of the Progenitors. Or, in her case, the faction of dead ancients we’ve named the ‘Predecessors’.” Ann turned to him with a sudden movement. “You’re thinking the Fingleman household’s superorganism tricks were instinctive, coming from the Predecessors?”
“Yes.”
“And the normals?”
“The ceremony was juice use on them. That, I believe, is the way we could enable Inferno’s normals to be able to use juice, by charging them up like a battery.” He paused. “Only, if we don’t go the instinctive route, then we’re going to need to do it experimentally. Which I would recommend against,” Hank said. “It’s far too hazardous.”
“We’ve done things like this, before.”
Hank shook his head at Ann’s sudden fierceness. “And you’ve killed far too many people before because of it.” He sighed. “I still think the Inferno initiation leaves us far too open to death by experimentation. We go for directly inviting the juice to kill us, or leave us more willing to volunteer for risky experimentation than is wise.”
“In any event, we need to take this to Connie, Tim and Sadie, now,” Ann said. Hank nodded in agreement.
“No,” Connie said. She sighed and twirled a pencil in her fingers the same way an Arm would twirl a knife. “I want it, too, Tim.”
“But it’s too dangerous to play with while we’re stuck in a war,” Tim said. Hank nodded, but Ann and Sadie didn’t. “You think approaching the Progenitors about this is the right way to go, though? I would think…”
Connie interrupted him. “We approach the Progenitors first, and do the experimentation second, and only if we have to.”
Hank sighed, relieved. He had at least convinced Connie that Inferno’s initiation ceremony increased the dangers of household experimentation to all of them.
---
“Focus Pitre,” Hank said, and nodded. He had been lost in meditation when she called, attempting again to better integrate himself into the Inferno household superorganism. The other Inferno household leaders all remembered how pathetic they had been as three month old Transforms. His success at his borrowed healing capabilities didn’t sit well with them. Or his ability to borrow household charisma.
It would have been better if he didn’t regularly lose himself in thought and wonder about what he suspected he would be able to do with borrowed healing once he achieved his goal of being tagged by a dozen or more Major Transforms. Or how much healing he would be able to do with an unlimited juice supply. In his heart, he remained a surgeon.
Focus Pitre nodded and motioned for him to sit. He sat and studied the Focus for several minutes as she worked on household paperwork. Denise lo
oked different today, taut, intense, and edgy. Beautiful, of all things, with rich, dark hair, and an exquisitely chiseled face. The unlucky thirteenth Focus was no longer the haggard, hollow eyed and old-looking wreck she had been when they arrived and she was no longer on a suicide watch, but until recently she remained careworn and aggressively plain looking. Her sudden resumption of normal Focus beauty unnerved him, her charisma returning to its power in a stepwise manner. Her charismatic presence remained underwhelming, and she showed no advanced juice-moving talents at all. Only two things detracted from her low end Focus façade: first, the fact it took the Commander and Keaton together, with all of Keaton’s Arms, to break her, and, second, he knew from Mimi that Focus Pitre was a powerful Dreamer.
“Dr. Zielinski. So glad you could join me this afternoon,” Focus Pitre said, minutes later, after looking up from her contracts review. “Sorry for the abruptness, but I’m running short on time. What can you tell me about the Director?” Focus Pitre had opened the curtains, Hank noticed. The room was sunny for the first time since she moved into it. Perhaps her association with Crow Chevalier had given her a new positive outlook on life.
“Focus Rickenbach?” Hank said. Focus Pitre nodded. Why would she want information about Gail, and why now? He hoped the Hunters hadn’t moved on Chicago again. His reactions to Vera Bracken’s injuries in the Chicago battles weren’t something he wanted to revisit.
“Yes.”
“Well,” Hank said, marshalling his thoughts, “She’s five years out, medium height, dark brown hair, athletic, an accomplished witch and the Focus who perfected the juice music method of moving juice from a Focus to an Arm. She’s…”
Focus Pitre blinked and tilted her head to the side, almost unnoticeably. This wasn’t what she was interested in.
An Age Without A Name Page 16
