Hohenberger had to think that the government believed the general populace to be raging idiots. On the other hand, it was an open secret that the government was a joke. They were nothing more than elected paper pushers, embracing red tape, while the Mages were the ones who truly ran things. All major decisions went through the Mages, and they were the ones who decided the direction of humanity, pulling the strings of the government and typically content to be the puppeteers. Hohenberger, however, saw the strings.
But he had no intention of doing anything about it. He was a scientist, a researcher, not a string-cutter. String cutting was a young man’s game, and although he was only what some might call “middle-aged”, Hohenberger had been very much feeling the weight of his years upon him lately.
Naturally when he thought of “young man,” his thoughts turned back to Joseph. Before he could let them wander down that path to its natural conclusion and thus prompt more worries about his son’s well-being, he was startled out of his free-association reverie by a howl of what sounded like triumph, although it might have been agony. It was never easy to tell with Pearl.
The howl was followed by a series of demented cackles. Hohenberger got up from the table and headed to the green house. At least that was what he called it. Pearl had a far more involved and convoluted name for it that incorporated all manner of technical terms involving the studying of the insect life that she was cultivating there. Hohenberger had little patience for it; he tended to believe in calling things by simple terms so everyone would know what everyone else was talking about. Lack of communication was directly responsible for most of Man’s ills. Why make it harder to understand the everyday things?
He nervously strolled into the green house and was immediately hit by the overwhelming moisture and humidity. It made his nostril hairs curl, as it typically did. He couldn’t see Pearl because of the overgrowth of leaves and brush. It had been her desire to try and replicate, as much as humanly possible, a jungle environment, and in that she had succeeded. There was the distant cawing of birds, but they were there exclusively for mood. Pearl would have had a fit if even a single actual bird were present in her little corner of the world, since the birds would by nature feast upon the things that truly mattered to her.
The cackling had subsided to a few mild chortles. “Pearl?” he called cautiously. “Is everything okay, honey?”
“Mask and gloves!” her voice came back to him from some damned place within.
“But I don’t—”
“Mask and gloves!”
He knew better than to argue with her. A large, screened helmet and a thick pair of gloves were hanging on one of two hooks next to the door. The other was vacant, indicating that Pearl was wearing its contents. With a sigh he pulled on the helmet and gloves and made his way in the general direction of where her voice was coming from. It took a bit of rummaging around because voices tended to echo and so it wasn’t always easy to locate a speaker. But he was aided with Pearl’s helpful comment of, “Turn right, dummy!”
He did so at his first opportunity and found Pearl halfway down the aisle. She was wearing the same encompassing helmet and gloves that he was. A few auburn strands of her hastily pulled together bun had come loose and fallen down under the glass of the helmet to frame her angular face. It made him smile because he remembered when he had first acquired them after she’d been stung by an insect she’d been studying. He had teased her about it. In response, that evening she’d strolled into the living room wearing the mask, the gloves, and nothing else. As his gaze had caressed every porcelain white curve of her shapely body, she had purred, “How do you like them now?” Since then he’d never made another snide comment about her ensemble, although he still did ask her to wear it under “special circumstances,” as he called it.
Now she had her gloved index finger extended and there was some manner of insect balanced delicately upon it. Pearl was wearing the same type of protective helmet that her husband was, but even behind the obscuring mesh, he could see the look on her face practically dancing with triumph. He noticed that there was a cocoon hanging nearby that had been broken open. Something inside had crawled out into the world, and he came to the reasonable conclusion that whatever had been residing within the cocoon was now adorning Pearl’s finger.
“I did it,” she said triumphantly.
Pearl was the polar opposite of her husband when it came to discussing projects on which she was working. Hohenberger tended to provide her constant updates, passing thoughts, failures and successes, all of it as it happened, the good, bad and ugly. Pearl preferred to wait until she had genuine results—positive, typically, since she despised dwelling on failure—and then share them with Leonard. He knew that she had been up to something new with her insects, but she had refused to go into specifics.
Now, though, she was far less reticent.
He leaned forward, studying it closely. It was eerily beautiful, its green wings fluttering and catching the light in such a way that it seemed iridescent.
“Some sort of…dragonfly?” he said tentatively.
“I call it a ‘syringa.’”
“Do you. And why, precisely, would you call it that?”
“Because,” she said, and she held it up so that he could see it more clearly, “it has a stinger. See?”
“A stinger.” He studied it. “And that is…unusual?”
“For this type of insect? Absolutely, considering that I genetically constructed it while it was still in the chrysalis stage.”
“Really. You grafted a stinger on it while it was still in the cocoon?”
“Yes sir!”
“And…” He hesitated. “Why? I mean, what’s the purpose?”
“The purpose?”
“Of the stinger. Why give it a stinger?”
“To see if I could. And to see what properties it would generate.”
“Don’t stingers generally have the same properties? Self-defense mechanisms that inflict toxins upon those who attack it?”
“When nature generates it, yes. When a human creates it, on the other hand,” and the smile on her face spread even wider, which he would not have thought possible, “the result could be…well…anything. Plus, naturally, I’ll want to see if it breeds true.”
“You mean pass the mutation on to offspring?”
“Exactly. And you were my inspiration.” She patted the side of his helmet. “All your talk of gene tinkering inspired me.”
“Yes, but mine’s been mostly talk,” he said, studying the dragonfly. “The progress you’ve made…”
“Is with insects. You have ambitions for human beings. That’s a little more complicated. Still,” and she turned the syringa this way and that to study it more closely, “I can’t wait to show this to Joseph. Is he awake yet?”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“Leonard,” and her voice dropped, all the joy and enthusiasm ebbing from it. “Where’s Joseph?
“Listen—“
“He didn’t.”
“Pearl, you need to listen to…”
“He did not go out of this house to that rally, and you are not going to tell me that you allowed it.” All of the joy, all of the ebullience that she had displayed before, had dissipated. “You are not going to tell me that.”
“Pearl, the boy presented a solid argument over—”
“Oh my God, Leonard!” She shook the beloved syringa off her hand as if it were a germ. The startled insect flittered to get its bearings for a moment and then darted off. She didn’t appear to be giving it the slightest further thought. Instead she was heading for the door, yanking off her protective mask. She didn’t even bother with the hook; she just dropped it, pulling the gloves off as well and allowing them to fall to the floor.
Leonard hurried after her as quickly as he could go. It was amazing how much ground Pearl could cover when she was upset about something. “Pearl!” he called after her. She paid him no mind.
She emerged from the gre
en house, Hohenberger right after her. He was in such a hurry that he had neglected to remove the protective covering. “Pearl, you have to listen to me…”
“Like you listened to me? Like you let Joseph listen to me? I told you…and take that helmet off!”
He did as she ordered, feeling a bit foolish. He pulled it off and tried to speak. Pearl didn’t allow him to the opportunity.
“You know how dangerous the situation is, Leonard. You, of all people, know how things can escalate out of control incredibly quickly. Do you really want our son in the middle of that?”
“Obviously not. But he’s almost a grown man, Pearl. We have to allow him to make some decisions about his life, especially when there are greater issues to be considered…”
“I want my son to live to become an actual grown man instead of ‘almost.’ He could be killed, Leonard! Do you want that?”
He tried to meet her gaze and couldn’t. Instead he stared down at the floor. “No, of course not.”
“Fine. Then let’s go to that rally and get our son out of there.”
The prospect of facing crowds was no more alluring to Hohenberger than it had been when Joseph had mentioned it. The prospect of telling his wife that she was on her own, however, was not an option.
* * *
Mom is going to kill me…the shirt’s ruined…
It was odd that, despite the chaos that was ensuing around him, that was the thought that kept going through Joseph’s mind.
There was a scream nearby, and it had to be a damned loud one to stand out for Joseph, considering the surrounding racket. The air was alive with explosions, of pulser fire ripping through the air, and the sound of it hitting people. That was the surprising thing to Joseph; that distinctive sound, that splutch noise as the pulse blasts cut through skin and muscle and bone and just ripped people apart with such ferocity that—when enough blasts hit home—they were scarcely recognizable as people anymore. Instead they were just sacks of meat that had once had hopes and dreams and aspirations, but now were useless for anything except as food for the packs of stray dogs that occasionally wandered the streets.
The blasts made totally different sounds when they ricocheted off the armor of the soldiers as they fired away at each other without the slightest regard for who was in between them.
That’s what this was all about, for fuck’s sake. This was all about protecting people from exactly this. This is just ironic, is what this is. Ironic. Or maybe just crap luck.
Something or someone hit the ground a few feet away from him. He recognized her immediately. It was Elizabeth Parks. “Lizzie,” he tried to say, but he couldn’t get anything resembling a voice to emerge from between his lips. Lizzie stared at him lifelessly. Blood was pouring out from her nose and through her mouth. Joseph couldn’t help but think about all the times he had fantasized kissing that mouth.
There was a huge gaping wound in the side of her head and there was something thick and grey and gelatinous seeping through. The remnants of a sign that had the words, End the Mage Wars emblazoned across it was lying next to her. Only the word “End” was now visible. The air was thick with the stench of blood and death and bodies lying in the heat of the Keywork. And there was more than enough death to go around, that much was certain.
Someone ran past him, accidentally kicking him as they went. They didn’t slow or offer apology. They probably thought that he was dead. Suddenly the person who had kicked him was lifted off his feet, a pulser blast ramming through him, driving through his back and blasting his intestines out through his front. He went down in a heap. Serves him right, thought Joseph, who on some level couldn’t quite believe how detached from the insanity he had become.
The town square had been packed with people, with protestors waving their signs and chanting and acting as if it were some big damned holiday rather than an attempt to make a serious point. And now they were scattering, like cockroaches moving in all directions when a darkened room was abruptly illuminated.
We were protesting in the abstract. That’s what this is really all about. It was all abstract and suddenly it got real…
“This way! This way! Tighten formation! Seward, on point!” a voice bellowed. Joseph couldn’t tell who was doing the shouting, nor did he particularly care. One of the murdering bastards was pretty much like another. He didn’t know if it was Ryan’s men who had Marth’s men on the run, or vice versa.
Mustering his strength, Joseph said, “You weren’t supposed to be here,” except there was a viscous, red-tinged liquid bubbling up from his lungs and the words came out mumbled and slurred and incomprehensible to everyone except Joseph himself. He tried to stand, but Elizabeth’s dead eyes remained upon him as everything below the neck ignored the commands being sent from above.
Booted feet pounded past him, and pulser blasts superheated the air, leaving the smell of burning flesh wafting up his nostrils.
It seemed entirely too coincidental that the forces of Ryan and Marth had shown up at exactly this point in time. Ryan would have wanted this stopped. He wouldn’t have wanted us making our voices heard.
Except that made no sense. Ryan was what he was, the man who had demented dreams of dubbing himself the Supreme Tri-Mage. Why would someone as self-aggrandizing as that give a damn what Joseph and his companions had to say? It seemed just as likely to have simply been malign fate that had betrayed them, sending their simple peace rally spiraling into an actual armed conflict. A conflict that Joseph and the others were ill-suited to engage in.
More screams, more pulser blasts flying. A helmet crashed to the ground near Joseph and bounced away, blood trailing from it, and Joseph had just enough time to see the stump of a neck and realize that the helmet still had a head contained within. Then there was another heavy thud. It was a soldier, clutching at a wound in his upper right leg. He sported the colors of Wilhelm Ryan. The helmet obscured most of his face, although his chin twitched slightly when he saw that Joseph was staring at him. “Stupid bastards. You had no business being here,” the soldier said with a grunt before hauling himself to his feet.
No! You had no business being here! We had every right! We have every right not to live like this! We have a right not to have our lives be lost at the whim of power-crazed Mages! We have…
Oh God…it hurts…
His mind had disconnected from the agony, but now it was beginning to creep back. He dreaded the return of that pain, because he wasn’t sure just how much—if any—he would be able to withstand.
And then, suddenly, just like that, the pain that had been encroaching upon him was gone.
He felt a swell of relief that was followed by the exact same thought he’d had moments earlier: that his mother was going to kill him. His father wasn’t going to be thrilled either. Worse: They were right.
Then he heard a horrified shriek, practically in his ear. With all the insanity unfolding around him, it would have to be that close to be audible. The voice was screaming “Joseph! Joseph!” which was a remarkable coincidence because not only was his name Joseph, but it sounded remarkably like his mother…
And then his mother’s anguished face occupied his entire field of vision. Her face was a portrait of agonized misery, tears rolling down her cheeks. She was gesturing wildly to someone, perhaps his father, and she was shouting something at him. He could no longer hear her, though, because there was a pounding in his ears that was shutting out everything else, reducing it to a distant, steady buzz.
He could guess, though, what she was saying.
He licked his lips, his tongue the only muscle in his body that he was still capable of manipulating. He tried to speak, but again nothing comprehensible would emerge. And so, even though he was reasonably sure he was not telepathic, he did everything he could to fire his thoughts directly into his mother’s brain:
I’m sorry…I think I ruined this nice shirt you bought me for my birthday…please don’t kill me…
And then a haze of white settled over
him, and everything—his mother, and Elizabeth’s eyes, and the blood and stench and gore—was gone. His final thought was that he had never been happier than he was at this moment.
Chapter 4
The Worst These Worlds Will See
Covent Marth knew what had to be done. The problem was that he was not entirely certain that he was going to be able to do it.
He strode across what was left of the great Mage gathering place on Sinosure known as the Hub. Once there had been twelve walkways in the Hub’s vast mosaic, one for each of the Mages, representing his power and prestige and his life of service to the great circle.
Ten of the twelve walkways had been demolished. It was possible to see where they had been, but there was nothing remaining of them other than shattered stones and a general outline of each of them.
“Down to you, Ryan,” he said softly, “and down to me. That is as it should be. It was inevitable.”
The Mage Wars had spread over a legion of worlds in which countless lives had been lost in the ensuing strife. Each of the Mages had raised up their own armies. Alliances had been made and forged and broken, promises kept and then reneged upon. Ryan had poisoned them all; Marth knew it now. Manipulated them so they couldn’t trust each other, because none of them ever knew who was working with him and against them. By the time Marth had realized it was just Ryan against the rest of them, it was too damned late. Still, Marth felt confident he could right Ryan’s wrongs and bring sanity back to these worlds. If only they had listened in the beginning.
There was more he needed to say. Much more.
Fortunately, he was going to have the opportunity to say it in person.
The sounds of marching feet moving in perfect formation converged around Marth. The commander of his loyal troops, Vielar Crom, was at the head of a squad of one hundred and fifty men, and he came in quickly behind Marth, speaking in his customary metallic, almost inflectionless voice. Face forever hidden behind a steel mask, Crom was the sort of man who inspired confidence in you, even if you did not have the slightest familiarity with any aspect of his distinguished record. “We have his sanctum surrounded, my lord,” he said. There was no hint of pride in his voice, nor hint of anything, really. He could have been reporting a triumphant victory or a stunning defeat and he would have sounded much the same. Marth found it steadying that he had to pay close attention to what Crom was saying, rather than rely on vocal cues to discern the urgency of a situation. “It appears our intelligence on the subject was correct; Ryan has gone to ground. Perhaps he thought that by hiding in plain sight, he would elude detection.”
Year of the Black Rainbow Page 6
