The Ebony Finches: A Transition Magic Thriller

by J. E. Hopkins

  He looked inside the cage. The two finches were still roosting on the bottom perch.

  They look okay.

  He staggered as a wave of dizziness threatened to knock him back to the floor. He turned, lurched to his bed, and sprawled across the covers. He was asleep within seconds.

  “Wake up, Shin.” His dad was patting him on the shoulder. “It’s after nine, time to rise and shine.”

  Shin rolled over in the bed and sat up. His eyes felt like they’d been glued shut and he was tired, but not as wiped out as he’d been the night before. “I’d rather sleep than shine.”

  “Maybe later. We just got a call from Dr. Johansen. He’s been in touch with another pediatrician who may know a little more about what’s going on with your eyes. The new doc wants us to bring you to his office for an examination.”

  Shin flopped back into the bed and closed his eyes. “When?”

  “That would be now, sport. Why’d you sleep in your clothes?”

  The image of the finches popped into Shin’s mind. He forced himself not to look toward their cage.

  “Just fell asleep in them, that’s all.”

  “Well, go wash up and change. We need to be at Doc PJ’s in forty-five minutes and you need to eat something first.”

  “A doctor named pajamas?” Shin asked.

  “Funny kid. See you downstairs in fifteen minutes.” His dad turned and left the room, leaving the door open.

  Shin half-jumped, half-fell out of bed and stumbled over the bird cage. “Hey, Rogers; Hey Hammerstein. How you guys doing?”

  The two birds were sitting on the top perch in the cage, nestled next to each other. Goosebumps crawled up Shin’s arms when Hammerstein tilted her head to the side and stared up at him. Her unblinking eye glowed like a bloody gemstone.

  “Creepy.”

  9

  Washington, DC

  “Go right in, Director Lewis. The president is ready for you.” Alice Ford was the president’s executive secretary. Her desk sat just outside one of the four doors that led into the oval office. Ms. Ford looked to be in her sixties, with an easy smile that belied the challenges of being the president’s timekeeper.

  John and Martin Lewis, the Director of National Intelligence, stood and walked toward the closed door. Before they reached it, the door swung open and the president strode out, hand extended. “Martin, good to see you, as always.” He turned to face John. “It’s been some time since we’ve spoken, Agent Benoit. Welcome back.”

  “John, please, Mr. President,” Benoit said. He was startled at how much older the president appeared since their last meeting two years prior. Even so, the man’s obvious intensity seemed undiminished.

  The president led them to the two facing sofas between the fireplace and his desk. He took a seat on one side, John and Lewis on the other.

  These cushions are too firm to be comfortable. Clever way to keep meetings short.

  It was the end of August. John had waited three weeks for Lewis to call him back to DC for a fifteen minute meeting with the president. John’s aversion to accepting the nomination for the DTS Director’s role had grown in the intervening time.

  “As I understand it,” the president said, “you and the Director met a few weeks ago to discuss the DTS position, which you refused. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president smiled. “John, you’ve served your country with distinction for more than forty years, under seven different administrations. Before I say anything else, I want to thank you for that service.”

  “No thanks necessary, Mr. President. It has been a privilege to serve.”

  Now comes the other shoe.

  “My pitch is simple. Your country needs you in this role. I need you. I’m asking you to accept it, even though I understand it isn’t your first choice and that the position will involve considerable personal sacrifice.”

  John squirmed against the back of the sofa.

  Damned uncomfortable.

  He wasn’t thinking about the sofa. The president had stripped the issue to the bare essentials. Something that, in his experience, presidents were good at.

  “We’ve kicked this issue around for too long already,” the president said. “I want your answer before the end of this meeting.” Again the full-wattage smile. “Say in the next couple of minutes. But before you respond, I want to reassure you on one score.”

  “Sir?”

  “If you turn me down, you can continue as a senior agent for as long as you can physically handle the job. I’m not trying to trap you. We clear on that?” The president looked at Martin and back to John.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Martin nod at the president’s comment.

  Have to admire a nice piece of choreography when I see it.

  “This is about duty. Nothing more.”

  The only sound in the imposing office was the ticking of a glass-domed clock that sat on the fireplace mantel.

  “Mr. President, I—”

  The door to the office swung open and Alice Ford stepped in. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, but Dr. Karpov insists.”

  The president stood, walked behind his desk, lifted the phone, and covered the receiver with his palm. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  John and Lewis left and closed the door behind them.

  “Karpov, as in the head of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention?” John asked.

  “Only one I know,” Lewis said.

  Upon taking office three years earlier, Karpov had moved to bring John’s agency under the control of the CDC. Marva Bentley, the Department of Transition Security’s former Director, had trumped the power play by arguing that Transition was a normal human rite of passage, not a disease, and that magic was the greatest existential threat faced by the US. If changes were to be made, she’d contended, the DTS should be an independent cabinet-level agency. The issue had died because Washington was a zero-sum game town—one person’s gain in power was another’s loss.

  The secretary’s phone buzzed. She picked it up, listened for a moment, and looked at John and Lewis. “The president would like you to join him on Dr. Karpov’s call.”

  The two men returned to the oval and found the president standing behind his desk. As they entered, he punched a button on his desk console. “Agent Benoit and DNI Martin Lewis are here. Start over.”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Karpov’s high, scratchy voice sounded like chalk squeaking against a blackboard. “Earlier this week we received a report from a pediatrician in Ticonderoga, New York, about two children who’ve been experiencing something the doctor believes may be an unusual form of Transition. Both woke about three weeks ago with an eye color change. However, their irises are black with red flecks, not lavender.”

  What the hell?

  “Have they been tested for the presence of the t-hormone?” John asked.

  The only visible manifestation of Transition was the change in eye color. In the last couple of years, scientists had identified a gene that switched on during Transition, then shut down thirty days later. That discovery led to the identification of the t-hormone, which was present in both boys and girls during Transition. The genetic and epigenetic mechanisms involved were complex and poorly understood, but researchers hoped these early discoveries would one day lead to a scientific basis for magic.

  “Yes, with similar results. The t-hormone is present, but at very low levels. Fifty-two femtograms in the girl, fifty-seven in the boy. Usual levels are twenty to twenty-five picograms.”

  The president glanced at his watch. “Femtograms? Picograms?”

  “Don’t worry about definitions,” John said. “The key is that the t-hormone levels were about a thousand times lower than usual for a child in Transition.”

  “Exactly,” Karpov said. “And that, along with the eye color, makes us skeptical that they are in Transition. Perhaps the presence of the hormone at such low levels simply means the
y are about to start. We don’t know.”

  The president glanced at his watch again. A look of annoyance flashed across his face.

  This must be making a mess of his schedule.

  “There’s one other complicating factor.” Karpov’s voice had softened as he talked. He sounded weary. “They both are experiencing congestive heart failure, approximately coincident with the change in eye color.”

  “I don’t understand,” the president said. “Are you saying this is some sort of Transition gone horribly wrong?”

  “I don’t think so,” Karpov said. “I called because I’m not certain. The notification protocols on anomalous Transition events are quite specific. But, at this point, I don’t believe these cases have anything to do with Transition.”

  “If not some unknown form of Transition, then what?” John asked.

  “I think we’re dealing with two diseases that coincide. The eye color could be some form of acquired heterochromia iridium,” Karpov said. “All that means is unusually dark or or light irises. Iridium can be caused by inflammation, tumors, injury or certain eyedrops. We don’t have any of those agents indicated in this case, but we can’t rule them out until we dig deeper.”

  “And the heart problems?” John asked.

  “The incidence of heart failure increases with age, but it can and does occur in children. There are a number of causative agents, some of them quite subtle. It’s most likely the heart problems are viral.”

  “Any similar cases reported outside the US?” the president asked.

  “Nothing on the tracking reports,” Karpov said.

  The DNI cleared his throat. “I assume you’re sending someone to New York.”

  “Yes. They’ll be onsite either Monday or Tuesday, midday.”

  It was Friday. “Why the delay?” John asked.

  Karpov sounded annoyed. “The reports we receive on a daily basis about heretofore unknown illnesses would curl your hair. The vast majority turn out to be nothing. We have no evidence of widespread risk with these cases and will deal with them as part of our usual routine.”

  “Black eyes, elevated t-hormone levels, and heart failure are not routine,” John said.

  Karpov hesitated for a moment. “I believe I’ve made myself clear. Given our recent budget reductions, our field agents are fully booked. We need time to shuffle staffing and adjust priorities.”

  So these cases give you a reason to call the president and ring the bell for more budget.

  “I assume you’ve notified the DTS director and forwarded the case files,” John said. “I’ll discuss the situation with her, but I’m uncomfortable treating this as a coincidence. Feels to me like you’re forcing square pegs into round holes. My partner and I will leave for New York this evening. We’ll see your field person whenever he or she gets there.”

  Karpov’s heavy sigh filled the oval office. “Mr. President, do you wish for the CDC to make this a priority?”

  The president flicked another glance at his watch. “No. I’ll expect full reports from the CDC and the DTS once you’ve completed your respective field visits.”

  He punched a button on the phone console and ended the call. He shook his head. “I’m out of time. I have a security briefing about a flare up between Pakistan and India. Both their ambassadors are cooling their heels waiting to talk to me.”

  He walked to the front of his desk, hand extended, a wry smile on his face. “You’re not off the hook, John. We’ll meet again as soon as you’re back from New York, and this time the meeting will start with your acceptance of the DTS director’s role.”

  1946

  10

  Near Prague, Czechoslovakia

  Karina Vesley—freakishly tall for thirteen, according to her mother—pulled the apron full of mushrooms close to her chest and bent low to scoot under a tree branch. She stumbled on the uneven ground in the brush-filled forest and crashed to the ground. Twisting to avoid crushing the mushrooms, she landed heavily on her side and confronted two rotting corpses.

  A mother clutched her infant daughter no more than two meters from where Karina had landed. Animals and weather had destroyed their flesh, but the obscene bullet hole in the woman’s forehead was still apparent. The war had ended almost a year ago and the forest was still giving up her secrets.

  She didn’t see a bullet wound on the infant.

  The poor thing lay here starving and alone, beside her mama, until she died.

  Karina sat up and sighed. She gazed at the bodies, absent-mindedly pulling leaves from her hair and snagging the few mushrooms that had been scattered by her fall. She’d seen many dead people and more than one dead child. Some killed by the Nazis, some by the Russians who’d fought them for the Czechoslovakian homeland.

  The war has stolen my tears.

  A half-meter from the baby lay a doll with short, curly brown hair and faded blue eyes almost the lavender of Transition, like Karina’s.

  I’ll take her with me to Australia. So that I never forget.

  Karina stepped over and picked up the stained porcelain figure, then turned for home.

  “What took you so long?” Karina’s mother asked. She stood at a battered table, cutting rotten spots from year-old potatoes and dropping the good pieces into a pot of boiling water that sat on the wood-fired cooking stove.

  “Mushrooms are about gone,” Karina said. “It took more time to find them.”

  In ’39, the year before Hitler’s armies invaded, her father had purchased their home and the surrounding 3-hectare farm from Jews who were fleeing to America. It was the first land he’d ever owned and he’d been proud of how little he paid for it. He was murdered by the Nazis four years later.

  Karina laid the mushrooms on the kitchen table, strode across the warped floor, and placed the doll on the floor next to her pallet. She and her mother slept on the kitchen floor during the cold months. When the weather warmed, her mother moved back into the only bedroom and Karina slept on the raised porch that stretched across the front of the house.

  “Where did you find the doll?”

  “In the woods, about half-way to the Berndt’s farm.”

  No point worrying her about the bodies.

  Her mother nodded, but seemed distracted.

  Karina filled a bowl with water from a pitcher on the table, slid into a chair, and began washing the mushrooms.

  “I have some news,” her mother said. She turned from the stove and faced Karina.

  “Someone came to visit?”

  “Not a visitor, a letter. From the Interior Ministry.”

  The announcement triggered a memory of a cold fall day eight months earlier, when two neighboring families had paid Karina and her mother a surprise visit.

  They brought with them a handbill that featured a picture of families walking down the gangplank of a massive steamship. Karina later memorized the quote that was centered under the picture.

  Australia wants, and will welcome, new healthy citizens

  who are determined to become good Australians.

  --Arthur Caldwell, Australian Minister for Immigration

  The Australian government would pay for steamer transport from Hamburg, West Germany, to Sydney. In return, the new arrivals would work for two years at whatever jobs the Australian government gave them.

  Their friends had decided to emigrate and came to ask Karina’s mother to join them. The decision wasn’t easy. Her mother feared leaving the safety of their home for the unknown. But even more, she hated and feared the Russians who were slowly seizing control of Czechoslovakia.

  The idea of living in Australia, far from hunger and danger, immediately captured Karina’s imagination. She’d pressed hard to join the small band. After a long day of discussion and debate, her mother consented. She also consented to be the group’s scribe and, following the instructions in the handbill, had written a letter to the Czech Ministry of Interior requesting permission to emigrate.

  Many days over the long months Kari
na had wondered if they would ever receive a response.

  “Fantastic!” she squealed. She jumped up and started to throw her arms around her mother when she saw the tears. Karina froze, stunned. She’d never seen her mother cry, not even when her dad had been killed. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want to leave?”

  Her mother shuffled over to the table like an old woman and sat down. “Sit, child, and calm yourself.” She waited for Karina to return to her chair. “We’re not going anywhere. The ministry won’t give us papers.”

  “None of the families?”

  Her mother sighed and shook her head. “Not to Australia. But the Berndts must still go to Germany.”

  Maria Berndt was her best friend and one of Pan Berndt’s two children. Their family had been part of the delegation that visited the prior fall. Even though they’d owned land in Czechoslovakia for generations, they were German and all Germans had been ordered out of the country as soon as the war ended. Pan Berndt had hoped to escape the devastation in Germany by emigrating to Australia.

  “NO! They can’t do that. It’s not fair!”

  Karina was devastated. Escaping from their gray world of desperate people to a sun-drenched land had filled her dreams ever since the letter had been posted.

  “Hush. Fairness has little to do with anything in this wretched country.”

  “Did the letter explain why?”

  “We’re needed to contribute to the reborn Czechoslovakia.” Her mother’s voice was sharp with sarcasm. “What does it matter? Without documents, we can’t go anywhere.”

  “Is there someone else you can write to?”

  “The letter came from the office of the Czech Interior Minister. There is no one else.”

  “Could we pay a bribe?”

  Her mother laughed. “Ministers are very expensive. Especially communist ministers.” She paused for a moment. “I’m sorry Karina. There is nothing I can do. Now finish with the mushrooms so we can eat.”