by VK Fox
Everest shook his head slightly and his eyebrows drew together. Did he mean with his ex? He’d registered that. It would be hard to forget the mortifying experience of seeing his anorexic file pulled off the shelf and laid adjacent to the three-inch-thick monstrosity of his once-a-week, mostly silent partner. A piece of paper had been slipped into both while he was given the routine speech about protection, the human relations officer casting multiple significant glances at him and the XL file. What was his pity partner getting out of this? Clearly, options were not limited, but as Adam would say, you shouldn’t look a gift whore in the mouth.
Brent was still patiently expectant.
“I’m sorry, are you implying I need to register my relationship with Dahl? We’re friends. Not only are we just friends, we are only friends because S.A. dictated it should be so. They probably have more information on our relationship than either of us do.”
“Okay, Judy left a note about something from the therapy branch. Just trying to save you some time. My mistake.”
The familiar jitters of discussing treason sent a tremor through Everest’s hands, spilling drips of warm sake over his fingers. Mordred sat across from him and Steinbeck was to his left, crammed around a small table in the toasty, bustling restaurant. Meeting with both of them at the same time was a rare occurrence. These were the sole surviving members of the resistance he knew. Everest was sure there were others, but compartmentalizing was elementary, and he suspected they would never meet. Except for those addicts who visited years ago. They weren’t agents, though, and Everest knew what was good for him and never asked questions, doing his best to forget their faces.
His part started on the fringe, not in the trusted inner circle. Treason was Adam’s vocation, and he’d approached it as he did so many other decisions he made: as the only reasonable path forward. They were going to die young. Someday the odds would stack against them in an insurmountable manner. Why not find a way to not die instead? They could knock over the anthill and disappear. Mordred was the true revolutionary to stay behind and take over.
When they were very young, Everest had told himself Adam was seeing conspiracies where none existed: of course many agents were killed in action. It was a dangerous job. They’d known the risks when they’d taken the oath. Adam had called him “Boxer” after the naive horse in Orwell’s Animal Farm with mildly condescending affection, and Everest had laughed over it.
Then at twenty, Everest was promoted. His skill set was a far better match for command than fieldwork. Not long after, suggested stratagems crossed his desk for sending Swift, a thirty-four-year-old bruiser who had been previously deemed unfit for a command or diplomacy, into what amounted to suicide. Everest had peered through his second sight for hours, trying to find a way to make it work. He estimated a less than five percent chance of Swift coming out alive. Upper command had coached him that every officer had to make these hard decisions sometimes—Swift was the best man for the job. He was the most experienced, the most likely to hit a narrow chance of success. Surely Everest was exaggerating, being too cautious. Everest had flatly refused, managed to pull in help from a friendly partner organization, and resolved the situation without fatality. Six months later, less than a year before Swift was slated for retirement—putting his link in a non-value-positive state for potentially forty years or more—he’d been transferred to another unit and killed in action on his first mission. Everest hadn’t teased Adam about being paranoid anymore.
The same year, Omar Prachett, the latest in a string of short-lived King Arthur agents, had died of a drug overdose at the age of sixteen. August Dahl had replaced him. Adam was close to Omar in a big brother sort of way, and when he’d tried to buddy up to Dahl it seemed like he was attempting to recapture something of the lost relationship. Slowly, over months, more and more had gone wrong with Dahl. He barely spoke to anyone. He developed seizures. Rumor had it he was anorexic. Then he’d tried to kill himself half a year after the link. Mordred being in the equation wasn’t something Everest had caught all at once, but looking back, he could guess what was happening inside Dahl’s head.
Mordred was speaking to him. Everest forced himself back to the moment, “...back to work Monday, but I heard Dahl’s being transferred.” Mordred stared pointedly at Everest. Steinbeck was eating drunken noodles, her almond eyes darting back and forth between the two men. Lovecraft wasn’t sure what response was expected, so he waited in silence. Mordred prompted, his voice silky, “Do you know why?”
“I requested the transfer. Given the amount of time we spend together, I can’t possibly function as his commander.” Awkward personal topic time.
At least Mordred wasn’t talking about his mother again.
“Pity, having you officially in charge was convenient. And Lovecraft, he requested the transfer before you did.” Mordred was wearing his little “I know something you don’t know,” smirk and blowing cigarette smoke over the table. Everest put down his drink and folded his hands, steadying himself and forcing down questions.
“So it was a done deal either way. What’s the next move?”
“The two of you,” Mordred nodded to Steinbeck and Everest, “will be working on fabricating a replacement copy for Cú Chulainn and traveling to Las Vegas when the linking ceremony date is announced. It should be any time now: I think the delay is narrowing the candidate list for replacing Adam Shelley. The Cú Chulainn link can be held by almost anyone.” He raised an eyebrow in Everest’s direction and plied his tone with a little extra superiority, “Tanks are generally easy. They just line up any moron of the right age with enough muscle.”
Everest closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Adam. His name was Adam, and he was clever and devoted and could never be replaced.
Steinbeck sniffed through her tiny nose, “I’ve already pulled the related documents. You’re not mistaken—it’s the smallest file I’ve seen.” She glanced apologetically at Everest, as if this particular truth would keep him awake at night. “There aren’t a lot of markers or predisposition requirements to consider in Cú Chulainn’s link. In my opinion, it’s hardly worth the risk of a blind drop for the information. I’ll wait for your message about how to proceed.”
Snow was coming down in earnest, swirling through the dark air, turning the night into a mesmerizing spectacle. Mordred was gone, and Dahl resurfaced immediately after Steinbeck left. The close timing was a jolt: Dahl was within a minute of seeing Steinbeck, and if he saw her face Everest could guess what would happen next. It would look like an accident, maybe a car crash or a drug overdose, but it would be swift and fatal. Mordred was so careful about keeping information from Dahl. How could he cut the time so close?
“I requested a transfer.” Hearing Dahl’s voice was a relief. They were keeping a brisk, warming pace, hands in pockets. The near-complete silence since the restaurant weighed on Everest. The atmosphere was charged.
“I did too. It seemed appropriate.”
“S.A.’s completing the order, so Monday we are free men.”
Everest nodded. He hadn’t seen the paperwork, but he’d assumed. He would be working again and pulling two hours a day on a social side assignment was beyond even Social Architecture’s level of demanding. Nerves were building. Everest plowed forward before he could talk himself out of it, “Did you want to keep seeing each other?”
Dahl trudged in silence for a hundred feet, slowing past the huge Christmas trees decorated to represent various international holiday traditions. He stopped in front of the massive center display, snowflakes settling on his shoulders and melting in his hair. His face hardened slightly, muscles tense, “What, exactly, is the nature of your relationship with—”
His voice choked off, but Everest got it. He couldn’t say Mordred’s name, so the silence was as clear as the word would have been. Everest tilted his head to the side slightly.
“What do you mean?”
“How would you describe it?”
“Why?” Small goosebumps pric
ked on Everest’s neck. Discussing Mordred with Dahl was eerie and off-putting. Dahl turned to face Everest. White breath puffed into the cold night air, “What was I doing in your bedroom?”
“What?” Everest fidgeted under Dahl’s glare. People were noticing, loitering with their heads angled to catch awkward words. He couldn’t open his second sight on the crowded street after dark. The glow from his eye when he burned power was painfully inconvenient, like a beacon saying Look at me, I’m doing something noteworthy! “Mordred said you came in of your own accord. I was asleep! You don’t think I was—”
“I. don’t. remember.” Dahl’s eyebrows rose as he enunciated each word, “When I woke up, I was naked and you were half-dressed.” People were really watching now. All those eyes were climbing over them. Dahl continued, his tone a knife, “A few minutes ago you were having dinner. I remember catching the end of other ‘meetings’ like that, too. Given what I know about...” Dahl’s voice dwindled. A breeze caught the snow and shifted everything sideways.
“What are you implying?”
“Are you involved with—?”
Everest was so angry he stopped caring that people were watching. He got right into Dahl’s space, less than an inch from his face. Without his second sight tipping him off to every move in a fistfight Dahl could beat him bloody with his hands in his pockets, but he didn’t have to win a physical confrontation, just a standoff. Everest glowered down at Dahl—exaggerating his height, angling his body—and tapped him in the chest. Not hard; just enough to show he could. He opened his second eye the smallest amount because it looked more intimidating. Everest hissed like a lit fuse, “How dare you accuse me of being sexually involved with Mordred. Do you think I find pleasure in what has to be done? Sana Baba is a slaughterhouse, robbing people of any kind of life outside of their work, using them as long as they add value and then sending them to the guillotine when the equation doesn’t equal net positive anymore. Do you think your life would be better if you weren’t a part of this? You still wouldn’t have a choice. You would be a slave to the system. Your life would be thrown away in a few years for nothing other than opening your link for someone younger, fitter, and stupider so the whole body-burning cycle could begin again. At least this way you’re a force for change.”
Dahl’s hand was out of his pocket in the blink of an eye, closing around Everest’s like a vise. Everest was hit with a staggering surge of fear and desperation. He stumbled back, snowflakes swirling between them, but Dahl kept hold of his hand. “The ends justifying the means is a noble idea when you are sitting neatly at the ends and the means have finally stopped screaming.” Dahl’s nose was bleeding and his teeth were tinted red, “I wonder who will be there with you, after it’s all over. Not Adam. Not me. So who are you saving? And it still doesn’t answer my first question: why was I in your bedroom? You’re saying there’s nothing to it, but I was there. If not to fuck, then why?” Dahl let go, shoving him away. “Better start sleeping in your office again.”
Chapter Eleven
Sister Mary Benelli arrived at Blue’s house with Sister Isadora, Father Gentle, and the cold, sharp truth. Sana Baba’s The Once and Future King that contained the King Arthur link had been hijacked by Mordred: an extra-natural being who should have remained fictional but instead was trying to be a real person. He was setting up shop in this reality, beginning by taking over Dahl’s body.
The Sisters of Perpetual Help did not stand for such shenanigans, and their plan was simple, straightforward, and ballsy—break into the vault at Sana Baba, Steal The Once and Future King, and get it to Father Gentle. Then have Ian bring Dahl over and perform an exorcism on him and then an additional exorcism on the book. Exorcisms all round—everyone leaves happy.
“But why not go to his commander?” Jane’s voice was goody-goody, wanting to tell the teacher. She glanced around at plump, smiling Isadora and slight, unassuming Father Gentle. If she was the least rebellious in this group, Jane might need to take stock of her life. “Sana Baba must have resources to deal with this kind of thing. It can’t be the first time it’s happened.”
Sister Mary was watching her, strong arms folded across her black-clad torso. She was her own special mix of kind and intimidating: brown eyes framed by sun-kissed crow’s feet and buzzed silver hair peeking around the edges of her combat habit bandanna. Fierce and soft—like Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia: not a tame lion. When she responded her voice was gentle and blunt, “Jane, they’d execute him. There wouldn’t even be a discussion. They’d burn the book, bury his body, and be done with it. I think we can get him out alive.”
“Why not help Dahl first? We could deal with the book afterwards?”
Sister Mary looked like she was fresh out of patience for questions by this point in the briefing, but she paused momentarily to respond, “Can’t do the exorcism without the book.”
Jane had the dubious honor of being on the Ocean’s 11 team because Sister Mary and Father Gentle needed her to handle the offending volume. When Jane had asked for an explanation, she was informed that prayer and meditation had resulted in this conclusion. Additionally, she’d handled a sinister, extra-natural artifact last fall and come away with a clean bill of spiritual health. Past performance was a good indicator of future success. They did mention the risk involved—multiple times and in a variety of ways—but they were cautioning her about the risk of bodily harm. Her spiritual and mental safety were a foregone conclusion.
It was flattering to be asked along. Jane must have handled herself well enough in their scuffle with the Jersey Devil last fall, since she’d risen in Sister Mary’s esteem from “liability” to “asset.” She and Sister Mary were still standing in part because of her quick thinking and dope skills involving a fifty-gallon water trough and a bolt of lightning. But the most important contribution she made at the briefing was accidentally mentioning Olive Baum was in town AWOL and might be interested in saving her boyfriend’s sanity. Sister Mary scribbled a few notes about her condition and said she was confident Olive would want to join the team. The help of a seasoned Sana Baba agent was no small thing. Then everyone broke for lunch, and Jane wandered outside to feed her worry nicotine so it would shut up.
In hindsight, the fact that Dahl was possessed was stupidly obvious. Even in the few days he and Jane traveled together, he’d been screaming the fact at her as best he could. Dahl, who needled them to question his “suicide” attempt. Dahl, who soaped the mirrors so he didn’t have to see whatever was staring back. An agent with two side effects—different channels of power—that he’d tried to prompt Jane to puzzle through. The boy who played songs about multiple personality disorder on an endless loop, who lied about his birthday—May 1st was Mordred’s birthday—and then urged Jane to figure out his obvious falsehood. Jane took another drag on her cigarette and blew smoke into the dry Las Vegas air. She picked at her chipping black nail polish and tried not to kick herself too hard in the pride.
Putting the clues together wouldn’t have resulted in quicker help. He’d gotten the message to Sister Mary at almost the same time he’d failed at alerting Jane. She wouldn’t have known what to do. She might have made the horrible mistake of looping Ian in which, she now knew from the nun’s briefing, would have been a death sentence.
If Dahl had wanted his father to know, he would have had time to lay out a zillion clues. As hard as Dahl had worked to tell her and the sisters, he must have been working just as hard to obscure the truth at home. It made sense. From what Sister Mary said, Mordred would be a crafty adversary, relying on manipulation and subversion. He must have ways of silencing anyone who puzzled him out.
The shittiest end of the stick was Dahl didn’t know they knew. He couldn’t be allowed the relieving realization of anyone trying to help him, because it meant Mordred would also know and would take steps to garrote their efforts. Sister Mary had played oblivious. Would Jane have been so composed and strategic? She really did need to buckle down and work on training—p
repping for weird shit like this could greatly improve her life expectancy.
Ian couldn’t know even now. A concrete reason for so many of Dahl’s self-destructive tendencies and his friends coming together to put things right would be a huge weight off Ian’s shoulders. But more people in the loop meant a positive outcome was less likely. It made sense, but it still sucked.
Jane’s massive new watch trumpeted an eardrum-puncturing notification, indicating she should secure some fish to eat. When the cacophony of noise died away, the taxi horn blowing from the street became audible. Stubbing out her cigarette on the bottom of her boot, Jane waved goodbye to Blue through the glass door and marched to the curb.
When Jane entered the tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant Ian’s face lit with pure, undiluted joy. He rose gracefully to pull Jane’s chair and then seated himself to resume staring at her like she was the only point of his entire visual experience. Was he always going to be happy to see her? Personal history informed Jane that this kind of attention was unsustainable, and she should savor the moments when they happened, but Ian’s inner light burned so brightly it might perpetually spill over. He still had a special look for Dahl after eleven years—the kind of look you would give a piece of your heart if it became its own person leading its own life. It framed his eyes with smile lines and his voice with paternal fondness. Their bond was obviously different, but maybe he was finding the look and voice only for Jane. The comfortable silence stretched on, Jane unwilling to fracture the moment with words.
Their waitress had no such concerns, as she cheerfully dropped off water and menus. Jane dutifully scanned the list for fish and tried to call to mind what she was and wasn’t supposed to divulge in their conversation. Keeping secrets from Ian didn’t feel good, but it couldn’t be helped. Better preempt his questions before she had to pull out her poker face and start casually changing the subject.
