Fantasy & Science Fiction - JanFeb 2017

by Spilogale Inc.

Jack pointed at the card sharp. The eight of hearts flew out of his hand and began to loop around the heads of the older men. Soon other cards followed it. "What the fuck?" one of the marks said, and the two of them hurried down the steps, swatting at the cards, while the sharp stared after them and made strange noises.

  Come on , Jack thought, who do you have to screw to get some attention in this town ? He went back to the two women, gestured again, and a deep voice boomed out of the lion. "Riddle me this. What creature walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the—"

  That was as far as it got. Everything froze, the lion, the people, even the cards in the air. Jack closed his eyes. Finally , he thought.

  Behind him, a firm man's voice said, "John Shade!" He turned and there they were, a white man and woman in black suits and white shirts. An old Traveler joke went "Nothing is ever just black and white. Well, except for COLE, of course." Jack wasn't sure, but he thought they might be the same two who'd confronted him some months back, when he was fighting off his dream duplicate. Maybe he'd become their special assignment. Or maybe all COLE teams just looked alike. The man said, "John Shade, you have violated—" but the woman interrupted him.

  "Jesus, Jack," she said, "what the fuck are you doing?"

  "I needed help," Jack said, "and nobody was answering the phone at your headquarters."

  The man ordered "Move!" Jack had never heard so much fury in one syllable. It was just standard procedure, get the bad boy Traveler away from the scene before the weird memories could take hold in the witnesses' minds. As he began walking east, toward Grand Central Station, he saw that two more agents had arrived to glam the witnesses' minds. Jack thought how he'd often pitied Nons—non-Travelers. They knew so little of reality, and were so easily put asleep. Now he envied them.

  They didn't talk until they stopped at the main entrance to the train station, under the statue of Mercury in flight above the doors. Before the agents could accuse him, Jack told them what had happened. "Look, I need help. I ony staged that scene so I could talk to you. I've got to find that, that thing , and stop it, and I have just two days. Maybe just today, maybe tomorrow will already be too late. And I don't think I can do it alone."

  The woman looked from Jack to her partner. "What do you think? Maybe the satellite system?"

  "No," the man said.

  Startled, the woman let some color show in her face. "But you heard what Nliana Hand said. Haarlindam was almost a thousand years ago. We were in that seminar together, Paul. Think how much bigger the targets could be today."

  "Stop," the man said. "This is not our responsibility. It will only become so if Mr. Shade reveals things to the outside world. And then our task will be to remove Mr. Shade."

  The woman stared at her partner. "Don't you think mass slaughter will reveal things?"

  His shoulders moved in the slightest of shrugs. "Not necessarily. The outer population will no doubt cast its own interpretation. Disease or terrorism, most likely." He waved a finger and a white Lexus illegally parked in front of the Grand Hyatt Hotel next door to Grand Central glided forward. As the man got in the car, the woman said to Jack, "This isn't over. He's letting his dislike of you cloud—" And then, as if realizing she'd said too much, she ducked into the car.

  She would try, Jack thought, but her partner—whatever he thought about Jack—represented the agency's mission. Don't save the world, just keep it ignorant. He watched the Lexus get absorbed in traffic. So many people, he thought. In trains, on the street, in stores and offices. Tell Jack I'm just getting started , Carol Acker had said. Warming up. And two days, the Queen had said. And Jack Shade had no idea what to do.

  He stepped inside the train station to reduce the traffic noise, and called Carolien. "COLE's a wash-out," he said. "All they'll do is cover it up after it happens."

  She made some kind of Dutch noise, then said, "Maybe I should speak to Arthur alone."

  "Don't bother," Jack said.

  "What are you going to do? You cannot act alone this time. You must understand that."

  "I know. There's another possibility."

  "Possibility?"

  "An ally. Someone who owes me."

  "What? Do you mean your Dream Hunter friends?"

  "No. I'm talking about someone with real fire power."

  "Who—Oh no. No, Jack, you cannot— La Societé ?"

  "I told you, they owe me."

  "And what will you owe them if you do this? You know what they are! Jack, please."

  "I don't have a choice, Carolien."

  " Godverdamme , Jack. That's what you told yourself when you freed that— thing . You always have a choice."

  "Not this time."

  "Maybe we can petition the Powers."

  He made a noise. "Come on. Even an emergency request would take four or five days just to get a hearing."

  "Perhaps they could undo any damage done between the petition and their acceptance."

  "Maybe. But what if they can't? Or won't? And suppose they don't grant the petition? Without NYTAS behind me they could say I don't have standing. You know what they're like. Fucking divine bureaucrats."

  He could hear tears in her voice now. "Please, Jack, think of what you're doing. Think of who they are!"

  "I'm sorry, Carolien, I just can't worry about myself in all this."

  "I can't let you—"

  "I have to go, Carolien. I'm sorry." He ended the call, then switched off the phone. It was time to move.

  He hailed a taxi and had the driver take him to 67th and Lexington. The building on the northwest corner housed a high end Islamic couturier on the ground floor with long silk dresses and hijabs so elegant that Carolien had once said she might convert for the fashions. Above the shop rose faceless offices, whose entry door, gray and anonymous, bore only one logo, the initials "S.I." in gold letters, and to the left of it a keypad of numbers. There was no bell to ring, no intercom. Either you knew the number code or you didn't. The code was simple but impossible to guess. It was the birthday of King Solomon, according to the ancient Hebrew calendar.

  Suleiman International, originally headquartered in Baghdad but for the past ninety-two years in Geneva, had diversified in recent times, like all wise conglomerates. And SI was nothing if not wise. If you knew of their existence, and had the money, you could hire them for cross-world quantum encryption, nano-possession of troublesome clients, Akashic data protection (guaranteed for up to one hundred past lives), or emergency exorcisms of politicians in danger of foreclosure by their operational hosts. But if you knew they existed, you also knew their original and primary function—controlling, and selling, the services of the Djinn.

  Jack tapped in the king's dates. The door silently opened, then closed behind him the moment he entered. There was only one elevator in the narrow lobby and Jack rode it to the third floor, where a young white woman in a pale blue dress sat at a crescent-shaped cedar desk. Judging by her uncovered long blond hair she was not a believer. Nice to know, Jack thought, that S.I. didn't discriminate. Before Jack could say anything, the woman told him, "Welcome to S.I., Mr. Shade. How may we help you?"

  Jack had often noticed the proclivity of powerful organizations to flaunt their intelligence. He was not in the mood to play, however. "I need a flask," he said.

  "Ah," the woman said, "I'm afraid that service is restricted, and most likely—how shall I put this—beyond your financial resources."

  "Please tell Mr. ibn Hakeem that Nadia Nazeer's son-in-law is here."

  Jack thought he saw just a flicker of surprise before she smoothed her face and said, "A moment, please." She stood up and gestured toward a red leather chair and a small table with various newspapers scattered around it. "Please have a seat," she said, "this won't take long." Jack sat down and immediately felt like he'd returned to his favorite chair. It was so comfortable he had to remind himself it had not existed thirty seconds ago.

  The receptionist returned a minute later with a middle-aged Arab man dressed in t
he sort of suit whose price Jack could not even try to guess. Of course, he thought, if you control a Djinn tailor you might not have to pay anything. Jack knew of a prince who went through the Seven Trials just to acquire a Djinni who would craft the robe for the prince's coronation. "Jack!" Mr. ibn Hakeem said, and took Jack's right hand in both of his. "It's good to see you. Sandra tells me you've requested one of our higher end services. Come. We will discuss it over tea."

  Years ago, Abdullah ibn Hakeem had dated Nadia Nazeer, Jack's mother-in-law. They met at some Arab-American fund-raiser and went out for about a year, until Nadia had seen something, just a hint of something, that was not supposed to exist. Jack had stepped in to help ibn Hakeem cover it up and change Nadia's memories. Ibn Hakeem had ended the relationship, but he'd told Jack not to hesitate if he ever needed a favor.

  Jack said, "I'm sorry, sir, I would love tea, but my time is not my own right now."

  S. I.'s man in New York looked startled for a moment, though not as much as Sandra, who actually stared at Jack, mouth open, for a few seconds before she composed herself. "Ah," ibn Hakeem said, "everyone is so busy these days. Perhaps when your time returns to you."

  "I would like that very much. Thank you."

  To Sandra, Mr. ibn Hakeem said, "Please tell Mr. Hakami in Resources that Mr. Shade will be coming down, with my personal request for all assistance." He led Jack to the elevator, or rather elevators , for now a second door had appeared, narrower, with discreet glyphs in the corners. He held it open and Jack stepped into a varnished cedar chamber, with a gold plate that held only one button, marked with a tav , the final letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Jack wondered if the wood came from the Temple—the first one, of course, the real one, built by Solomon and a work crew of Djinn.

  He didn't feel the elevator descend but a moment later it opened to reveal a vast room of eight-foot-high metal cabinets that went back as far as Jack could see, perhaps even across borders between worlds. A small man in shirtsleeves stood before the elevator. He was bald, with a neat mustache. He didn't look Arabic, but not exactly European either. Of course, he might not have been human. He said softly, "Good afternoon, Mr. Shade. My name is Hakami. I am happy to assist you."

  "I need a flask."

  "Yes, of course." He turned and set off down the central corridor. "This way, please," he said. They rounded various corners, until Jack wasn't sure he could find his way back alone. Finally, they came to a stop before a cabinet that looked exactly the same as all the others, except that the gray metal appeared slightly newer, shinier. "This will do," Hakami said. He smiled at Jack. "You know, I presume, that they come in two sorts, those who accepted the Messenger and those who remained infidels. I am sure Mr. ibn Hakeem would prefer the former for you. Much easier to control. For a beginner, of course." He slid open one of the cabinet's ten or so metal drawers. Inside was what looked like a rectangular steel thermos with a black screw-on cap. He smiled as he lifted it out. "As I am sure you know, Mr. Shade, the smoky glass bottle with the ancient cork has gone out of fashion." He began walking back, and Jack followed.

  At the elevator, Hakami somehow produced a clipboard with a sheet of paper and attached pen. "Please," he said. Slight smile. "There are no hidden clauses, I assure you." Jack read the paper which acknowledged his receipt of "Container RS-42," and his acceptance that any unfortunate side effects of his "desired grantings" would be solely his responsibility. Jack took a breath and signed. Hakeem took the clipboard and handed over the container.

  It felt warm, and slightly heavier than Jack had expected, but otherwise unremarkable. "You might want to open it outdoors," Hakeem said as he pushed the elevator button. "This is not to imply any danger, or indeed issues of size, but only that clients sometimes misspeak—from the surprise, you understand—and their first grantings become, well, a bit untidy. Not that such a thing would happen to you, I'm sure."

  "Yeah, thanks," Jack said. He was getting a little tired of the guy.

  There was still only one button in the elevator, but now when Jack pushed it, it returned him to the lobby. Back in the street, he hailed a cab and took it to the garage where he kept his Altima. As he drove up the West Side Highway he found he kept looking at the clock, and then the flask. 1:45. Only two days, and the first was half over. Maybe he was making a mistake. He had gone to Suleiman International for quick transportation to where he needed to go, but maybe they were what he needed. He went over the meeting with ibn Hakeem again and again, and each time he decided he'd gotten all he could have expected. And who knows, maybe the flask would be enough? But he didn't think so. At least this way he could go get the help he really needed.

  Jack continued north as the West Side Highway became the Henry Hudson Parkway. Just past the city line he pulled onto a local road, then a dirt road marked "Private Property." It ended at the edge of a meadow. As Jack stepped onto the grass he felt the crackle of the NYTAS shield that protected the place from nosy hikers, dog walkers, and real estate developers. "Okay," he said to the flask as he set it down on the ground, "let's see what I've got here." He unscrewed the top.

  Jack had expected to see great swirls of smoke pour out, but instead he felt a twisting inside him, as if he himself were the one changed. His eyes stung, and he blinked, and when he opened them again, an Egyptian-looking businessman in a pinstripe suit and shiny black shoes, with slicked back hair and manicured hands, stood calmly before him. Slightly taller than Jack, the Djinni raised an eyebrow. "Nice place you have here. Do you know that Dr. Canton brings acolytes here for what he likes to pretend is sex magic?"

  Jack just stared at him.

  "What?" the Djinni said, "Did you expect a twenty-foot-tall fellow in a loin cloth with a booming laugh?"

  Jack said, "Nah, that's a great movie, but I'm no little Indian kid." They looked at each other a moment, then Jack said, "So what happens now? You say you're going to turn me inside out and set me on fire, and then I say I don't believe you could ever fit inside that tiny flask—"

  "No, no, we'll just skip to the wishes. I might add, though, that we were never actually that stupid. The routine used to be part of the standard contract—let the clients think they've gotten the better of us—but in recent years, I'm happy to say, Suleiman International has modernized."

  "Glad to hear it," Jack said. "Do you have a name?"

  "Of course I do. Do you wish to know it?"

  Jack laughed. "No thanks. I may not have done this before, but I know the rules. You'll know when I use up any of my wishes. Three of them, right?"

  The Djinni pressed his palms together before his heart and bowed his head. "Certainly, effendi."

  "How about I call you Archie?"

  The Djinni smiled. "An honorable name."

  Jack looked him up and down. Was it possible this creature could take on Carol Acker? Would he waste a wish if he tried it?

  The Djinni dropped his subservient post and said, "Mr. Shade—my contract indeed requires that I attempt to fulfill whatever you wish. However, even we must know our limits, and your—problem—is older even than the Djinn. I would greatly prefer it that you not waste your opportunity, and that I remain—intact."

  "So you know," Jack said.

  "Of course I know."

  "Do you know my plan?" Plan was stretching it.

  "No, only your dilemma."

  "All right, then. First wish. You ready?"

  "Always, effendi."

  "I want you to take me to the Old Man of the Woods."

  The Djinni smiled. "Ah. This will, of course, require flight. You had best step back."

  "Wait," Jack said, "why not just, I don't know, magically transport me?"

  "We say teleport these days."

  "Teleport. Fine."

  "But you did not wish that, effendi. Your wish is my command. As stated . If you prefer, we can consider your 'take me' wish as granted, and initiate a new—"

  "Forget it," Jack said. "Flight it is." He took a few steps back. "Do what you need to
do."

  The Djinn inclined his head once more, and then—grew larger. One moment he was a little taller than Jack, the next he was some thirty feet tall. Jack half expected the Djinni to boom at him like low-level thunder, but the same smooth voice as before said, "I apologize for the lack of a pigtail to cling to. I suggest you ride in my pocket, though again, I am sorry I did not think to bring along a Sequoia tree. If you like, you can wish for one—No? Then I suggest you hold onto the flap." He knelt down and held out his palm. Jack climbed on, and a moment later was gently deposited in the jacket's right-hand pocket. The silk lining felt oddly pleasant.

  Jack was one of those people who when asked what super-power they would most want, answered "Flying, of course." So when they lifted into the air he stuck his head out to look. But it all went by so fast, trees, houses, whole towns, and the air was so cold, that he quickly sank down again. He did see enough to know they were following the Hudson River north, but that was no surprise, for the one thing anyone knew about the Old Man's house was that he lived near the Canadian border.

  Jack wasn't sure how long the journey took, probably no more than fifteen minutes. When he felt the Djinni set down he was so grateful to be out of the cold that he forgot, just for an instant, why he was there. And then it was back, and all he could think about was how much time had passed, and whether he was even making the right choice. The Djinni said, "Effendi, I suggest you emerge before I resume my normal size." Jack lifted himself out of the pocket and jumped onto the giant hand which then set him on the ground.

  Jack realized he'd had no idea what he would see when he arrived at the home of l'Homme Ancien du Bois . If he'd expected anything, it might have been some grand Versailles mansion surrounded by elegant guards. Instead, he found a one-story wooden house with a plain porch and a dormered attic. It wasn't exactly a log cabin but it wasn't too far above it. He thought for a moment of the suburban house where the Queen of Eyes lived, and then of the cocktail party Carolien had taken him to at Arthur Canton's two-story apartment overlooking the Hudson, with its grand piano and marble statues.