Like A Comet: The Indestructibles Book 4

by Matthew Phillion

  "This is what I'm here for," Jane said.

  "No, it isn't," Kate said. "But thank you anyway."

  * * *

  Titus sat down next to Bedlam and allowed her to ignore him for a few minutes. She smelled like burnt electronics, his superhuman senses able to pick out the specific parts of the machine she'd torn apart, copper wiring and steel plates, circuit boards and solder.

  "You want to talk about what happened?" he asked.

  Bedlam refused to answer at first.

  Titus didn't press. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

  "I don't know why I lived," Bedlam said finally.

  Titus kept his eyes closed, listening to the strange and no longer completely human beating of her heart.

  "After the accident. I was like them, I think. I should've been dead." She hesitated, took a deep breath and exhaled anxiously. "One of the scientists in the lab where they put me back together, I remember him talking to one of the others, and he said, he was amazed at the trauma the human body can endure," Bedlam said. "In some ways we're these fragile little flowers, yet in others, the trials and tribulations we can withstand… it's not fair. Not fair at all. Sometimes surviving is suffering."

  "But you're alive, and you are extraordinary," Titus said.

  "And I can't go out in public," Bedlam said. "But that's not what's bothering me. It's that… those people in the jars down there, those bodies. They got to leave. To die. And they left fair and square. Their turn on the ride is over."

  Titus nodded and watched as Bedlam's face screwed up into a heartbreaking mask of sadness.

  "They died. That's okay. That's how it works. And they weren't going to suffer anymore. They were able to rest. Because it was over."

  "And those people wanted to bring them back," Titus said.

  "Yes," Bedlam answered. "How dare they. How dare they drag those poor people back. What if they remembered how they died? What if they were trapped in there somehow, just, hurting and remembering?"

  "It sounded like they were just corpses," Titus said. "Whatever it was inside them, whoever they were had long since gone. It is horrible, that they were being desecrated in that way, but I don't think they were still present."

  "How do we know?" Bedlam said. "I was dead too for a few minutes. I came back. And I didn't want to."

  "You didn't?"

  Bedlam looked at her feet again, not answering. Finally she returned her gaze to Titus.

  "You know what my last thought was? As the accident was happening? I was just happy to get off the ride. I was okay with what was taking place."

  "And then you came back," Titus said.

  "And I was angry. I've been so angry. I make the best of it, but…"

  "You hide it well," Titus said.

  "That's what people like me do, Titus," Bedlam said, a tiny smile flickering across her lips. "We cover it up really well."

  "It won't help if I tell you we're glad you're here with us, will it?" he said.

  Bedlam shook her head.

  "It doesn't hurt to hear it," Bedlam said. "But you understand? Why it doesn't help?"

  "I do," Titus said.

  Bedlam studied his face.

  "You've been there too, haven't you," Bedlam said. "Sad little werewolf."

  "Sad little boy, but yeah," Titus said. "I've been there."

  They both looked away, sitting in companionable quiet for a while. Titus broke the silence.

  "I don't know if it's ever going to offer real consolation or not, but they were dead, Bedlam. Those bodies. They were really and truly gone," he said.

  "You know that?"

  Titus tapped his nose with his finger.

  "The downside to being a freak," he said. "I would have known if they were alive."

  "That doesn't fix everything but… it makes it a little easier to take, I guess."

  "Little victories, Bedlam," Titus said.

  "I guess so," she said.

  Chapter 42:

  Magicians and their books

  Doc walked up the path to the Lady's current home, a modernized castle she'd settled into on the Spanish coast. He was surprised she hadn't moved on already. She rarely stayed in one place long, flitting about this world and others as if on permanent vacation.

  He knocked on the door, pleasantly surprised when, for the second time, Natasha answered it herself.

  "Look who darkens my doorstep," she said. "Good morning, my little Doctor."

  "You're still here."

  "I like it," Natasha said. "And it's been a long time since I've liked it anywhere. I'd prefer to enjoy the feeling for a bit."

  Leading him through the foyer into a sitting room, she gestured for him to take up a spot on one of the burgundy couches. Natasha sat across from him and folded her legs. She appeared to be a wealthy woman on vacation, linen pants, a soft white shirt, her hair slicked back as if she'd just been swimming. The apparent normalcy of it boggled Doc's mind.

  "I can't get over this," he said.

  "What's this?"

  "You. Not trying to take over the world."

  "I never wanted to take over the world, you know that," Natasha said. "I just prefer things my way."

  "Well, it's nice to see you relaxed. Which makes my visit even worse."

  "That sounds ominous," she said.

  Natasha gestured with one hand and a tray with a teapot and two cups floated into the room. Despite all her outward affectations of normalcy, the Lady Natasha Grey was still one of the most powerful magicians on Earth. Of course she'd continue to use air elementals to do her cooking and cleaning for her. She'd have it no other way.

  "What brings you to my humble hideaway?" the Lady said. "Since you've already warned me I won't like the reason, you might as well spill it."

  "Ever have one of those moments when you realize just how strange your life has been?" Doc said, sipping his tea. Ginger lemon. Of course. "You get used to it after a while, the strangeness. We're magicians. We've seen just about all of the weird things we could possibly imagine. And then you travel to your friend's home and say: there's an alien invasion happening and I need your help."

  Natasha raised both eyebrows and held the cup in front of her mouth without taking a sip.

  "Part of me is genuinely surprised that it hasn't happened before now," she said. "I'm caught off-guard."

  "I wondered if you already knew," Doc said.

  "I'm retired, darling. I don't even watch the evening news let alone gaze to the stars for approaching enemies," she said. "You and yours are, I assume, preparing to stop it."

  "Trying," Doc said. "It's a lot. I'm worried."

  "You're always worried. That's what you've always done," she said. "Doc Silence, magician and professional worrier."

  "You really knew nothing about this?"

  "You're thinking I had something to do with it?" Natasha asked.

  "No, you've always steered clear of aliens," Doc said.

  Natasha laughed.

  "Speaking of surreal phrases," she said. "So why come to me?"

  Doc rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, and squinted.

  "I need something to cast at their fleet. A spell. Anything. I could use a hammer, Natasha," Doc said.

  "All the knowledge at your disposal and you don't have what you're looking for?"

  "I have a lot," Doc said. "I can do a great deal. But I just…"

  "You've never really gone to war," Natasha said.

  "No. No I haven't," Doc said.

  Natasha set her cup aside, stood up, and motioned for Doc to follow her. They walked down one of the ancient stone corridors of the castle until the space opened up into a library, bookshelves rose two stories high, natural light spilled in through tall, stained glass windows.

  "So this is where all the books in the world went," Doc said.

  He approached the nearest stack and ran a finger along the spines of the books. They were in all languages, mortal and not, bound in fanciful skins. Some felt wa
rm to the touch, as if alive, others ice cold. Some hummed with strange energy and still others called out to him, begging to be opened, malignant intelligence hiding inside.

  "The most dangerous library in the world," Natasha said. "Or I like to think so. I've bargained for centuries to build this library."

  "It's not really here, is it," Doc said.

  Natasha spread her arms out.

  "This room? It's here. But it's not only here," she said. "You know that old trick."

  "I have a similar set up with my own library," he said.

  Natasha reached up toward the ceiling and motioned with her hand. A single book slid from the top shelf and floated down to her gently. She caught it in both hands.

  "Magicians and our books," she said, thumbing through the tome she'd pulled from the shelf. She let go and it drifted back up to its previous home. She reached for another and a second floated down. This time, she nodded as she opened it. Bound in gray leather, like an elephant's skin, its pages were dotted with red ink or blood.

  Natasha handed the book to Doc. He flipped through it and saw fire spells and schematic designs for siege engines that could not possibly be built in this dimension.

  "I took that from a battle mage in another plane where life is eternal war," she said. "I was there bartering other goods, because a place made of perpetual destruction rarely learns how to make things not related to warfare, so I marked up the price of my magic astronomically. I never had much use for a book like this, but I thought, it never hurts to know more about anything. So I took it."

  "Just a book of hellmagic sitting on your shelf for a few decades," Doc said.

  "Pretty much. I never turn down a book of magic, Doc. Somewhere on these shelves there's a book of cooking magic written by gnomes. I've never lifted a finger in the kitchen my entire long life but why not learn how to make cupcakes that help you travel between realities?"

  "Must be delightful cupcakes," Doc said.

  "I can't say. Never made them," she said.

  Doc closed the book and turned it over in his hands.

  "There's some dark things in there, Doctor Silence," Natasha said.

  "You and I both realize I'm no stranger to dark magic," he said.

  "Yes, but I know you've become averse to it," the Lady said. "I don't need to warn you that what you do with the contents of that book cannot be undone."

  "Thanks for the warning," he said, tucking the book inside his coat.

  "So you haven't asked me," Natasha said.

  "What?" Doc said.

  "If I'll help you."

  Doc smiled at his own nemesis, oldest friend, and teacher, the one who brought out the best and worst in all that he did. At the end of the world, it always came down to the two of them. There was a unique kind of magic in that.

  "I think you like this world," Doc said.

  "Maybe I do," Natasha said, smiling.

  "I suspect I don't have to ask you to help. I think if things get dark enough, you'd rather fight to save it than pack up your library and move to another world."

  "I do have that option," Natasha said.

  "I know."

  "So do you," Natasha said. "Could come with me. We've done it before."

  "In theory, yeah," Doc said. "But in practice…"

  "In practice this is our home," Natasha said. "I may be ruthless, Doctor, but I do understand."

  "So do I have to ask?" Doc said.

  Natasha straightened his coat for him and touched his face.

  "I make no promises," she said. "But I do have to admit… I like it here."

  Chapter 43:

  The interview

  Jane asked Broadstreet to find a place where they could talk without pedestrians walking by. They'd done okay in the past, quiet coffee shops or paths in the City's parks, but this time, she wanted to make sure no one could overhear them. Broadstreet seemed put off at first—not upset, just confused.

  "Well the newsroom is out. It's a building layered in gossips," he said. "Best location I can think of is the rooftop of my apartment building."

  "Your neighbors don't use it?" Jane asked.

  "Not if I lock the door while I'm up there," Broadstreet said, giving her the address.

  Jane sometimes wondered if she was the only person in the City who could find her way around from above. She knew all the streets, despite never having to walk them, but that came from perspective—she'd been staring down at the roadways and alleys for years, a literal bird's eye view of the metropolis. Even still, she had to look up where the reporter lived to be sure. Apparently, with his journalist's salary, he couldn't afford very nice accommodations. She found his apartment building in a rundown part of the City, a place no one had gentrified yet, filled with too many people per apartment, all living paycheck to paycheck.

  Dressed in jeans and a college sweatshirt, Broadstreet waited on the roof. She'd called him on his day off, but as always, he made time to see her. He was reliable that way.

  "So how much lower has your opinion of me drpped now that you know where I live?" he asked.

  "Why would I think less of you because of where you live in town?" she asked.

  Broadstreet chuckled.

  "You don't spend a lot of time around regular people, do you?" he said.

  "The answer to that question is 'no time,' " Jane said.

  Broadstreet gestured out over the City like a celebrity showing off his penthouse.

  "But look at this view! You can almost see downtown if it weren't for the deteriorating billboards over there," he said. "But why the secrecy? Bad news, I assume."

  "I need a favor," Jane said.

  Broadstreet cocked his head.

  "Well that's new," he said.

  "If I gave you something, could you sit on it until the right time to release the information?" Jane asked. She paced, anxiety giving her the jitters, making her unable to sit still.

  "This is that thing you were hinting at the other day," he said.

  "Yeah," Jane said.

  "How bad could it be? Are we being invaded by aliens or something?" Broadstreet said, smiling.

  Jane stared at him.

  The smile faded slowly from Broadstreet's face.

  "We are?"

  "Ayup," Jane said.

  He sat down on the lip of the building, suddenly looking very green.

  "That's upsetting," he said.

  "Ayup," Jane said.

  "Okay," Broadstreet said. "So what are you doing? Giving me the story? You want me to write something and then have it ready for when you need to start an evacuation or something? I mean, my bosses would absolutely murder me if they knew I sat on something like this for a few days but you can trust me to…"

  "I need you to record something," Jane said, interrupting. "You told me last time we talked, that we should control the message, and that it should come from me," Jane said.

  "That's right," Broadstreet said.

  "Well, I'm giving you that message. All I'm asking is that you hold off on broadcasting it until the right moment," Jane said.

  "Why not do it yourself? That Tower of yours has to have transmitter capabilities," Broadstreet said.

  "It does," Jane said. "But there's a pretty good chance I won't be here when the word needs to go out."

  "That sounds ominous," Broadstreet said. "So if you're not here and I'm sitting on your announcement, how am I going to know when to release it?"

  Jane grimaced and looked out over the City. It wasn't difficult, she thought, to picture it under attack. Her imagination started to kick up and she wondered where the aliens would strike first, where they'd cause the most destruction. How they'd tear the City apart. It didn't help that she'd seen the City in ruins during their trip to the future not long ago. She had witnessed firsthand what sort of damage could be done. This world is remarkably fragile.

  "You'll know," Jane said softly. "Trust me."

  "This is when it dawns on me that I'm a terrible reporter," Broadstreet said. "My
peers would be chomping at the bit for this. They'd lie and promise you they'd embargo your information and then leak it the first second they could."

  "That doesn't make you a bad reporter, it makes you a good person . . . . A friend," she said.

  "They always warn you not to become friends with your sources," Broadstreet said.

  "There's probably a rule about constantly asking them out, too," Jane said.

  "Yeah," Broadstreet said. "I feel pretty bad about that now."

  "Don't," Jane said, smiling. "It's okay."

  Broadstreet laughed at himself, shaking his head.

  "See? A crackerjack journalist would have figured out how to get you to spill everything about this invasion and already would be running back to the newsroom to scoop the competition, and I'm standing here worrying about whether or not you'll be okay," Broadstreet said. "You'll be alright. You're always okay."

  Jane shrugged. She hadn't thought much about it, really, whether they'd succeed in fending off the invasion. These things are easier if you don't think much about it. Easier to face certain death if you don't put a lot of reflection into it.

  "Again, with the ominous," Broadsteet said.

  "Sorry," Jane said.

  "So what do we do? Should I take notes? Is this a formal interview?"

  "Do you have a video camera?" Jane said.

  "Wait—you're letting me record you?" Broadstreet said.

  "You told me the message should come from me," Jane said. "I'm taking your advice."

  Broadstreet gave her another worried look but picked up his messenger bag and pulled out a first generation digital camera. He showed it to her apologetically.

  "Cheap execs won't let us upgrade our equipment," he said.

  "Will it work?" Jane said.

  "It'll get the job done," he said. "You'll make your statement and I just… publish it when the time is right?"

  "Yes," Jane said. "In every format possible. You're going to want the world to hear this."

  "The other papers and networks will pick it up the second I release it," Broadstreet said.

  "That's okay. We want to maximize reach," Jane said.

  He adjusted the settings on the camera without ever really taking his attention off Jane.