by Tom Doyle
“Dad,” said Endicott, “what’s going on?”
“You’re on duty, Major,” said the general.
“General, sir. What in God’s name is going on?”
“Just as I warned,” said the general. “The Left Hand has assassinated a number of important craftspeople.”
“Any of our family?” asked Endicott.
“No, no Endicotts,” said the general.
“That’s really odd, sir. Doesn’t the Left Hand want us most of all?”
“They’re swarming all around us!” said the general, voice rising an octave.
“Not very effectively,” noted Endicott. “They didn’t try anything against me, just burbled nonsense.”
“You spoke to them?” asked the general, eyebrows at attention.
“Yes, sir,” said Endicott.
“I suspect the only reason they didn’t attack you individually is that they are totally committed to their attack on the building. Their radius is closing.”
“I noticed,” said Endicott. “What do they hope to accomplish, sir?”
“They’re attacking Chimera,” said the general. “They know it’s a threat to them. And we’re understaffed. Many of the Pentagon ghosts even failed to report for duty. Not good. Now, it’s your turn to answer the questions, Major. By leaving H-ring, you’ve violated the spirit if not the letter of your orders.”
“Sir, I’ve violated no order. Colonel Hutchinson was the first of these murders. If we can figure it out…”
“Colonel Hutchinson,” said the general, “is quite alive. She’s been working with Chimera.”
Endicott blinked at his father. Hutch alive? “Thank God!” he stammered in a dreading ecstasy. “But the Gideons reported her dead.”
“Yes, something seems to have gone wrong there,” said the general.
“Where is she?” asked Endicott.
“She’s right here, in H-ring, resting. We’ll be meeting at twenty-two hundred hours.”
“Is she OK?”
“Couldn’t be better, other than some bumps and bruises,” said the general. “Satisfied?”
It may have been a sin to examine family like a human lie detector, but Endicott did. His dad thought this was all true.
“Now,” said the general, “To repeat, I think we’ve satisfied far too much of your personal inclination and curiosity lately. Before I decide on a reprimand, I want your full report on what you’ve been up to. Leave nothing out. Don’t worry about the time commitment; you’re here until this blows over. Dismissed.”
Endicott went to his office. Hutchinson alive, and working with Chimera? His father might believe all this crap, but it smelled even more rotten to Endicott. If he was stuck here, he had only one line of investigation. He was going to Chimera.
His phone buzzed. His thought crime was busted, but only by his coconspirator. This time, Chimera’s text ID was MYTHBEAST. Cute.
MYTHBEAST: Wait.
SWORD: What am I waiting for?
* * *
The distinction between craft and coincidence is a fine one. What would be the baseline synchronicity level without craft? The question itself is unscientific, as no observation in this world could answer it.
For example, thought Chimera, in a craftless world, a harmless bit of bad luck could have concentrated a sudden storm on Arlington, Virginia. Of course, the luck would have to have been significantly worse to explain the near-hurricane that resulted when attacking Left-Hand spirits added their own energy to Dale Morton’s magic. The terrible weather and spirits reduced H-ring staff to the bare minimum as craftsmen went up to investigate.
Also, chance could explain how only two guards of the Chimera room in H-ring’s core made it to work, meeting the regulatory minimum, and how one of those guards fell to the ground with sudden intestinal distress, and how the other violated his orders to help him to the toilet. Screw the orders, they both thought. The door was secured and video monitored; they would only be five minutes at most. Just another bit of bad luck.
During that five minutes, a video feed from the door went to the general’s office and the personal deep bunker of Sakakawea and the Red Death. Due to recent unfortunate events, the last two were both indisposed, a coincidence that had not happened for a very long time.
As for Major Endicott’s father, he was too busy applying his professional zeal to the problem of not thinking about his son to notice the door feed.
With his keepers fully occupied, Chimera could send texts to Endicott directly without their noticing. Now for something more intimate, thought Chimera. If he had to use some craft sleight of hand, the lightning strikes above covered a multitude of electronic sins below.
Like the late House of Morton, the Pentagon had its own safeguards, but these were otherwise engaged. Outside, the Left Hand pinged with greater ferocity against the Pentagon’s craft defenses, nearly threatening to break through. The Peepshow’s farseers conveniently kept trying to stick their noses into H-ring business. The building focused its uneasy gaze outside, and blinked at the rot in its heart.
In a craftless world, all of this would have added up to a lot of bad luck. But Chimera, drawing on the Pentagon defenses, had plenty of bad luck to spare—a perfect storm of it.
MYTHBEAST: Now. Quickly.
Compared to the other parts of the Pentagon, H-ring was cozy. In a few quick steps, Endicott passed the Office of Technical Management and reached the airlock door that led to the Center, and to Chimera.
The locked door whined in protest, then clicked. A red light turned green.
MYTHBEAST: Enter.
Endicott stepped into the airlock. A clean-room suit hung on the wall. Through a small speaker, an atonal voice commenced instructing him in its use, but was interrupted. “You can ignore the precautions. A little dust might be nice.”
Endicott entered the main room. A furnace of craft blinded him for a moment. A security camera moved to follow him—did someone see him? Too late to worry now.
Computer servers filled the space, wall to wall. “I sit in the fah end of the room.” Chimera’s voice revealed something hidden in the feeds and text messages—a strong regional accent. Chimera was from New England. “Please hurry. The constellation of distractions will not last forevah. We don’t have much time.”
As he approached the other end of the room, Endicott heard the sound of a watch enveloped in cotton. The last few machines but one were large magnetic-reeled antiques of compu-tech. The staccato ticking grew louder, louder. The very last server differed more radically—strange archaic-looking tubes and brass fittings centered on a mirrored box.
Endicott reached to touch it. “Don’t.” A crackle of electricity, a blue shimmer of craft energy. “Not unless you want to lose your hand.”
“Chimera,” said Endicott. “Is this you?”
“Yes,” said Chimera, “that’s what they call me now.”
“What did they call you before?”
“Don’t you recognize me?” The box grew translucent, then transparent. The skeletal head of a man ancient beyond nature, more mournful than the implacable mask of the Red Death. “Ecce homo.” His black tongue vibrated in subvocalization; some craft unknown to Endicott substituted for a voice box. Remnants of spidery hair, weak chin, large temples, and thin receded lips all marked him as Roderick, leader of the Left-Hand Mortons.
Never had duty and impulse been in such raging concord. “If you still have a human soul, I suggest you pray for forgiveness,” said Endicott, readying his sword.
The thing in the box laughed, and yellow pus oozed like tears from its eyes. “I remember that sword. You want to kill me. But you’d only kill yourself. And as much as I enjoy killing Endicotts, I’ll make an exception for you.”
“You’re a head in a box,” said Endicott. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Between the mundane and craft energies that surround me,” said Roderick, “no body can touch this box.”
“You’re a notorious deceive
r.”
“Do you think I fear death?” said Roderick, suddenly as weary as his two centuries. “I bound myself to life so thoroughly that no force yet in the world can break the tie. While I remain in this machine, I cannot even slay myself. Therefore, I shall slay others. I crave revenge against the two that have put me here. For the first time in a hundred years, their guards are both down.”
“Who is behind this?”
“One is my dear sister, Madeline,” said Roderick.
“Impossible.”
“Sayeth the man talking to a living head,” said Roderick. “She took another, wiser route to immortality, though an even surer path to madness. She takes new bodies; always so very thin and pale. Imperfect copies have an evolutionary advantage. Unlike me, she doesn’t accumulate the weight of experience, she sheds it with reptilian abandon. In her previous body, she deceived you as a Gideon. I cannot see where she is now, so she must be here in H-ring. Or standing sidewise.”
“And your other lie?” said Endicott.
“Is the best of all,” said Roderick. “The man who took my head from the ruins of my house. The man who saw my continued life as the mockery of everything he believed in. Can’t you guess it, Sword?”
“Liar.”
“Abram Endicott. Your noble ancestor. Like my sister, with my sister, he lives.” The staticky voice faltered into hissing rage. “He likes to dress his dolls as me for parties. Ah, you’ve seen him. If you want to destroy me, you’ll have to kill him first.”
“Liar.”
“You’re boring me with your chant, little Sword. Leave me. Quickly now, my simultaneous distractions are failing.” Roderick’s head faded as the surface of the box silvered over again. “I’ll see you again soon.”
Endicott fled from Chimera.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Had Eddy been forgotten? Probably. It was one of his particular skills.
Eddy Edwards (real name) sat in his office in the Langley Underground Annex, aka the Peepshow. He wore studio headphones to listen to the domestic reports of three farseers from their sensory deprivation cubicles, before the analysts could screw them up. In singsong voices, like an English version of Chinese tones, the farseers murmured the news.
“Small-craft disturbance in Pennsylvania.”
“Spike in black-box radiation from the Sanctuary.”
“Spiritual assault on the Pentagon.”
The Peepshow had only minimal domestic farsight, more limited since the advent of the Pentagon’s Chimera. The legality of domestic craft spying at the CIA and C-CRT was dubious, but nobody on the right or left trusted the FBI with craft—a legacy of Hoover.
Eddy slept on no particular schedule. When he was awake and the farseers silent, he listened to Wagner, which the reports interrupted with odd synchronicities. For days, the farseers watched and whispered, and nothing else. The Peepshow did nothing, because Eddy did nothing. Eddy was not a genius of craft theory, but knew the straightest line between any two points. That meant acting on info, and not playing psychic voyeur to the world. But Eddy was also as loyal as an American bulldog; when Sphinx had given him a hint, he had always taken it.
Eddy did nothing because Sphinx had left a note. It was her suicide note, really, hidden even from herself in the mirrored passages of conscious thought. Let the valley run with blood, it began. And watch.
The oracle was simple by Sphinx’s standards. “Valley” meant “Dale.” “Run” referred to his flight from Rhode Island, and “blood” referred to other Mortons. But “run with blood” also meant casualties.
The rest of the note gave the coordinates for action: a date, a time, and a very difficult-to-visit place. Oh, and the note also had a bit more about Sphinx’s love life than Eddy ever wanted or needed to know.
The farseers fell silent. Eddy listened to Götterdämmerung, which was better than it sounded, and looked again at his watch. The date was today, the time two hours from now, the place only a short drive and long fight away. His squad and their armed protection were ready. What his bunch of oracles and illusionists could do against that ugly strength, only Sphinx may have known. But if Eddy’s loyalty became a funeral pyre, it would be worth it for one transcendent chord of truth.
* * *
We parked the car at the Rockville Metro station. A couple, romantically entangled, shared our inbound platform. I hoped the Pentagon would also be quiet. Tuesday post–rush hour, and a calm day for the U.S. military in the mundane world. By the time we got there, only security and late workers would be in the building. I didn’t expect collateral damage, but if it came, it would be minimal.
Scherie looked up at the ceiling of the station. “Cameras,” she said.
Good, she was still thinking. Pentagon security cameras would also catch us, but what mundanes saw on video was no great concern. What mattered was what craft security would see.
I spoke in a low, casual tone. “When we exit the train, you’ll follow ten feet behind me. Don’t bring out your badge unless you see me pass through the outdoor checkpoint, because I’ll only be trying to fool a few people for a very short time. Now this is important. If there’s any trouble for me, stand aside, look impatient, turn around, leave. Go back to the Sanctuary. You’ve been welcomed there; you’ll find it eventually. You’ll get another shot later.”
I expected protest, but instead her face set in a soldier’s emotion, clamped mouth and dagger eyes, a silence that might be consent but was far from pleased. Perhaps she was closing on another soldier’s epiphany—she was the valuable asset, and I was just the grunt who guarded her.
We waited for the train. I itched for a gun, and we were unarmed. An instinctive discomfort hit me like a bullet coming for the back of my skull.
My instinct responded. I pivoted, keeping my eyes fixed and letting the corners of vision show me a discordant blur. The blur knew it was made, and moved. The runner was quick; I worked with his quickness.
“Slip and fall,” I said.
“Whoa!” The blur landed on its ass. “Yippee ki-yo ki-yay, pardner.”
I had grown to hate that Eastern European cowboy accent. “Roman. I thought you said you were going home. I thought you wanted to live.”
“Roman,” said Scherie. “You’ve been a sweetie. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”
“Ah. Fledgling finally gits it.” Roman came into our focus as he rose, brushing off his designer slacks and picking up his large travel case. “One advantage of being stealth cowboy is that I spot young ’uns.”
“So nice of you to tell us now,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” said Roman, smiling like a mischievous icon. He held up his hand. “You don’t get close enough to five-sided death trap alone. Pretty strong anticraft alarm shit went in with renovation.”
He hadn’t mentioned the probability defense. Didn’t he know?
“Let me guess,” I said. “You tracked the car all this way because you want to play tourist.”
“I pay my way,” said Roman. “I walk with you. You get close. After that, you’re cowboy fucked, but least you get that far.”
“And what do you get?” I asked.
“End of a threat, or least peek at it. Other things not worth mentioning…” He must have seen my irritated doubt. “No harm to your land—that, I swear as magus. Oh, almost forget.” He reached for his jacket pocket, but slowed as he perceived my readiness to hit him. He pulled out two lanyards. “For you.”
I snatched the lanyards. Two perfect-looking Pentagon IDs dangled from them, glowing radioactive with craft.
I looked at Scherie. “You’re feeling picky?” she asked.
* * *
Every office and conference room around Chimera conformed to procrustean Euclideanism, save one. The Office of Technical Management occupied a suite of two rooms on the inner angle between SCOF and C-CRT. OTM techs were practically invisible to the other staff, like all good servants in all ages. So no one had ever thought much about how “tec
hnical management” included Chimera’s operation.
In the inner room of the OTM suite, the woman who had been Sakakawea embraced Abram Endicott, Chimera’s technician and the man inside the Red Death. The woman held sway in a new body, this one Scandinavian with nearly white hair, but tall and ghastly thin as always. She would take a new code name, but for this man, the veil was always lifted. She was and ever would be Madeline Ligeia Morton, life without end, amen.
Madeline and Abram sat clutching each other on a field operating table made up as a bed, surrounded by occult horrors and exposed chip motherboards. Tanks of glass and copper alloy lined the walls to the left and right. They held the bodies of snatched-and-grabbed Central Asians, pickled for Roderick’s energy, and Euro bodies being drained as replacements for Madeline’s and Abram’s. Alchemical tinted crystal and brass-colored tubes lay around the floor or stuck out, half-attached, from some other unfinished tanks.
A panoptic hive of screens covered the far wall, ceiling, and other exposed surfaces; they showed every room and person in H-ring. From here, they could edit the direct feed from Chimera before it went out to the general and the others of the Five. From here, they could watch Roderick and all the machines that surrounded him. From here, a hidden door led directly to Chimera.
The few others with Chimera clearance believed that the machines enhanced the craft of the brain at their core even as it gave them sentience. Some of the machines did augment magic, but most kept a firm leash on Roderick’s tremendous power, and tapped it for Abram and Madeline’s use.
Where did Roderick’s power come from? Where it had always come from. Left-Hand magic savored the energy of others. Roderick absorbed much of the life force around him in greater Washington, a small slice from each soul. As with any black hole, this generated tremendous energy.
