by Drew Hayes
“If they were going to do anything I wouldn’t approve of, I doubt they would have let me bring everyone else with us,” Krystal said. I blinked in surprise. It hadn’t even occurred to me that she’d dragged us along purely as some sort of litmus test. Sometimes I let myself forget that, despite her generally flippant attitude, Krystal was immensely skilled and experienced. And, obviously, dangerous.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Neil reassured him.
“We’re all here for you,” I added, feeling some sense of responsibility. I tried to keep my promise a bit vaguer than Neil’s though. The simple truth of it was that, if the Agency decided to do something to Albert, I highly doubted we would be able to stop them in any way. All we could do was trust Krystal, hope for the best, and try to keep Albert calm.
“Let’s hear them out before we start planning a counterattack,” Krystal said. She leaned back over me and punched the white button, activating the intercom to the pilot. “Hey! Who am I meeting on the ground, anyway? By now, they should have told you the receiving agent.”
“Ma’am, that information really shouldn’t be shared with others able to overhear—”
“Just give me the damn name, Skippy. I’m the agent, and I’ll decide what is and isn’t classified.” She lifted her finger for just a moment and glanced up at me. “These fucking guys. They all want to act like we’re in a damned spy movie all the time. Honestly, if they ever actually made it to field work, they’d spend seventy percent of their time weeping from boredom.”
I pointedly avoided asking what they would spend the other thirty percent doing. Seeing only a small bit of Krystal’s work-life had told me the answer far too clearly.
“I’m told that the agent goes by the name Arch.” The pilot was clearly miffed about being ordered around, but luckily, he was smart enough not to try and push back against Krystal. I was sure the door armoring him off from the rest of the plane was well-built and nigh impregnable. I was equally sure that Krystal would find a way to tear it to shreds, and then give the pilot a similar treatment.
“Arch? You’re sure about that?”
“Yes, ma’am. Very sure.”
Krystal let go of the intercom and slid back into her seat before addressing the rest of us. “That’s perfect. Arch is an old friend and one hell of an agent. If he’s meeting us, we’re in good hands.”
As the rest of cabin fell back into card games and conversation, Krystal’s hand wormed its way down from armrest and found my own. Our fingers interlocked, and she gave my hand a firm squeeze. Despite her efforts to keep everyone calm, I suspected that whoever Arch was, it might not be such a great sign that he was waiting for us.
I squeezed her hand back, then chanced a quick glance to Albert. For his sake, I hoped I was reading Krystal’s body language incorrectly.
2.
Arch smoked like most men (excluding those such as myself) paid their taxes: it was a begrudging action done without evident pleasure and observed purely from necessity. By the time we’d been taken out of the van—emerging in a vast corridor that seemed to be carved entirely from stone and lit by haphazardly strung lights—and walked over to greet him, Arch had already burned through one cigarette and stuck another in the mouth of his perpetually scowling face. An expression that was all the more striking given his youthful appearance; he’d have been lucky to pass for over twenty-one. It might have been confusing, were I not already all too familiar with how deceptive parahuman appearances could be. The sole exception to his apparent youth were his eyes; one glance told me they’d seen far more than I could imagine.
We walked together as a tightly packed group, save for Krystal, who was several steps ahead of us. If she was at all worried about the location we’d arrived at or the man greeting us, she kept it well hidden. She strolled eagerly ahead, grabbing her fellow agent’s hand and pulling him close in a bastardized mixture of a hug and a handshake.
“Arch, you sack of shit, I haven’t seen you since Quebec. How’ve you been?”
“Busy. Too damn busy,” Arch replied, as he returned her embrace. For a moment, I was afraid that his cigarette would catch her hair on fire, but when they parted, there were no wisps of smoke curling from Krystal’s blonde locks. It made me wonder if she could even be burned. Given her supernatural heritage, there was bound to be some inherent resistance to fire.
“You brought the kid with you, I assume?” Arch’s voice matched his eyes well. Despite its youthful nature, the tones were harsh and weathered. His gaze ran across us, clearly searching for Albert. It wasn’t a very difficult task, since my assistant was the only one holding a large, ornate sword in his hands.
“My friend, Albert, was more than happy to come along,” Krystal replied. She didn’t quite make it a correction, but she put it forward with enough force to get the meaning across.
“Yeah? How nice for you.” Arch walked over to us, and I realized that I couldn’t hear his footsteps. Generally, I tried to block out the excess information from my vampire senses; however, this situation had me so on edge that I could have practically heard a cockroach let out a weary sigh. I increased my focus on him and was able to pick up the sound of his steps, but only barely. Whatever Arch was, I couldn’t place it. From his looks and scent, he seemed completely human. Then again, the same could be said for Krystal . . . most of the time.
“Your name is Albert, right?” Arch said, eyes on the only zombie in our midst. “Before we go any further with this, would you mind knocking out the prerequisite demonstration?”
“Wh . . . what?” Albert tilted his head like a cat watching dust fall through a sunbeam.
“He wants you to draw the sword,” Neil explained. “Whatever we’re here for is based on you being the one it chose, so he wants you to prove that first.” His own voice was calm and, for once, generally polite. Usually, that was a tone Neil reserved solely for Amy, who was his teacher (and who he had a not-so-secret crush on).
“Oh. Sure thing.” Albert gave a small grin and, with no visible effort, pulled out The Blade of the Unlikely Champion. It slid free of the sheath and all but glowed in the pale yellow light of the cheap bulbs dotting the ceiling. “Ta-Da!”
“Damnation,” Arch said, eyes widening a bit as he stared at the previously concealed blade. “I can’t believe that thing finally picked someone else.” He looked away from the sword then, and seemed to really take Albert in for the first time. My assistant appeared sixteen, and always would. He was wearing the same thing he’d had on when working: a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and old sneakers. Arch said nothing, but his sour expression made his feelings a little too clear for my tastes.
“All right then,” Arch said at last. “We’ve got a zombie wielding a weapon of destiny. I’m assuming one of you is the contract holder, but for the life of me, I’m not sure why Agent Jenkins brought the rest.”
“I brought them because they’re Albert’s friends too, and I thought he could use some support during whatever lies ahead,” Krystal shot back. “But yes, I brought the contract holder. It’s my boyfriend, Freddy.” She jabbed an index finger in my direction.
“Wait, I’m a what now?”
“A contract holder.” Neil sighed, all traces of his good-boy voice vanished. “Zombies need to work to keep their focus and not cause trouble. The contract holder is the person they’re serving. You get the labor, and in return, you have to provide the zombie with lodging and care.”
“That . . . that sounds a lot more like slavery than employment,” I said, suddenly very uncomfortable with the implied arrangement I had with my friend.
“It was, originally,” Krystal said. “But in modern times, it’s not much different than any other job. You’re allowed to fire Albert, and he’s allowed to leave you for a better gig. Neither of you owns the other. That’s why you’re called the contract holder, instead of the zombie holder. All you’re holding is the agreed upon work arrangement, for now.”
“How exactly
is he the contract holder, if he doesn’t know any of this?” Arch asked, eyeing Krystal suspiciously.
“Freddy didn’t create Albert. He just stepped in when Neil was deemed unfit to hold Albert’s contract anymore. I took care of the paperwork for them to ease the transition.”
“Uh huh.” Arch glared at her for a few seconds longer, and then let it go. Clearly, he knew Krystal well enough to realize that critiquing her adherence to protocol was as productive as demanding stones dance the cha-cha. “Well then, Freddy, was it?”
“Fredrick Frankford Fletcher,” I corrected. “Though most people do refer to me as Fred.”
“Fred, then,” Arch said, clearly a touch relieved not to have to use Krystal’s ridiculous nickname for me. “Fred, as current contract holder, I must inform you that your asset is going to be put at risk by order of the Agency. Should any harm come to him, you will be within your rights to demand compensation or suitable replacement. You may not, however, stall or stop the coming events on grounds of your contract. I can cite precedent, if you require it.”
For many people, that quickly spoken mangle of terms and releases would have been incomprehensible; however, those people had never sat through the mind-numbing processes required to become a Certified Public Parahuman Accountant. I took Arch’s meaning quite well, and I didn’t like it one bit.
“My ‘asset,’ as you called him, is an independent and fully-cognizant Undead American, obliged to the duties and taxes required, and protected under all parahuman laws. I may only know things from the fiscal side, but I’d be willing to bet heavily that there are laws stopping you from compelling Albert to put himself in harm’s way.”
Arch tilted his head back in surprise; evidently, he hadn’t been expecting that response. “Of course I can’t make him get hurt. Didn’t Krystal explain this on the plane ride? We’re going to put Albert through the paces to make sure nothing bad or dangerous happens when you mix a zombie with one of these crazy weapons. But since I don’t know what will happen—which is the whole fucking point, after all—I’m legally required to tell you that he might get hurt. For all we know, just swinging the thing could make him explode.”
Albert’s eyes grew wide, and he quickly stuffed the sword back in its sheath, while I took a moment to be thankful for the fact that vampires were ill-suited to blushing. Arch was right, that was more or less exactly what Krystal had already explained to us.
“Right. Right, she did mention something along those lines. I apologize. I just heard what you were saying . . . it was a mistake on my part.”
“It’s fine. Honestly, I prefer you being pissy about it to being apathetic. Some contract holders seem to forget that the guy who washes their dishes is powered by a human soul.” Arch turned from me and looked at Neil. “Since you’re the only person here wearing a trainee collar, I take it you must be Neil, the one who raised Albert.”
It was my turn to be surprised. Just from Krystal’s off-handed statement, Arch had deduced that the mage who brought Albert back would be among us, and that he’d been put into apprenticeship. The obsidian black collar around Neil’s neck matched the bracelet on Amy’s left wrist. Unless he was within a certain proximity to her, all of his magic was completely sealed. Given that Neil had tried to kill around a dozen people, myself included, I’d felt the punishment to be a bit light, but the parahuman world has its own rules and repercussions.
“Neil is my apprentice,” Amy said, speaking for the first time since we left the van. Her eyes were clear and her expression was purposely neutral, which terrified me. Amy was a prodigious alchemist and tended to use her products liberally, meaning she was almost always in some state of altered mind. When she wasn’t, however, the full weight of her tremendous intellect shone through. I was good with numbers and generally smart, but Amy was a no-holds-barred genius. And she’d come to this meeting with a completely clear head.
“But he wasn’t when he raised the zombie,” Arch countered. “So I’m just talking to him. Neil, as the creator, I am obligated to tell you that your creation will be put at risk by order of the Agency. Since you do not hold his contract, you are not entitled to any compensation, however, you do retain the right to mend or reacquire his remains should the worst happen.”
Neil nodded solemnly, his eyes flickering between Albert and Arch.
“Finally, Albert, as a bearer of the sword,” —Arch took a breath as he glanced at the re-sheathed sword in Albert’s hand— “you have been chosen by a weapon of destiny, The Blade of the Unknown Champion. You are to be tested at dawn, to determine if you can safely fulfill the role of Weapon Bearer without putting others at risk. If you are able to surrender the sword by that time, you may be excused from this trial.”
“What do you mean, ‘if I can surrender it’?”
“When weapons of destiny choose their wielders, it’s not a thing they let go of easily,” Arch explained. “If they did, I’d be asking if you even wanted to do any of this. No, once they’ve got you, it’s almost impossible to break free. Still, it has happened on occasion, so it’s only fair that we give you the chance.”
“Why do they get to test him at all?” Neil snapped, his composure finally beginning to crack. “Just because he’s a zombie, what gives you the right to put him in harm’s way?”
“I’d have expected a mage to understand.” Arch’s words were directed at Neil, but his eyes were looking at Amy. “Untested magical combinations can be incredibly dangerous, and those swords don’t choose owners haphazardly. If it’s in Albert’s hands, then it’s a question of when he’ll use it, not if. Now, the Agency doesn’t have the right to tell him how to wield that blade, so long as he doesn’t use it to break laws, but we’re damned sure going to make sure that there aren’t any unexpected side effects that put innocent people at risk.”
“It’s okay,” Albert said, putting his free hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, so I’m fine with checking things out here first.”
“You could give up the sword,” Neil suggested. “Between Amy and I, we’re sure to find a spell that lets you abandon it.”
“If you’re going that route, you’ve got three hours to do it in,” Arch informed them. He finished his cigarette, tossed the butt into a pocket in his jacket, and then pulled out a fresh one. “Come with me. We’ve got some rooms set up so you can relax until it’s go time. Do whatever you want until then, but be ready by sunrise. The whole place is underground, so those of you with light-aversion will be fine.”
Arch began walking down the dry, stone corridor, and, with no other options before us, we followed.
3.
We were split into pairs for our rooms: Neil and Albert, Amy and Bubba, and Krystal with me. The rooms themselves were like the rest of the facility—fashioned from stone and lit with hanging bulbs that seemed precariously close to flickering out at any time. At least they came with beds. Well . . . perhaps “cots” is a more apt descriptor for the flimsy, twin-sized mattresses and faded sheets. The whole affair struck me as surprisingly low-end. I’d always imagined Krystal’s organization to have near unlimited funds and all sorts of posh, high-tech accommodations. It was only when I paused for a moment and considered the situation that I realized why everything here was so cheap; it was all meant to be disposable. After all, it wouldn’t make sense to have a facility for testing unstable magic filled with all sorts of pricey accoutrements.
All the same, I was thankful that the moon was still overhead, as I had no compunction to sleep on such an unsanitary affair. Vampires are able to sleep during the day, but we’re not especially compelled to; although, going too many days without rest can lead to a bit of loopy lightheadedness that’s somewhat inconvenient. Still, I credited that more to a psychological need than a physiological one. Undead or alive, everyone needs the cobwebs swept out on occasion.
“I’m going to grab a quick nap,” Krystal announced, once we were through the roughly attached wooden barrier that served as a door.<
br />
“Is this really the time for it?”
“Hell no, but I’m running on almost two days with no sleep thanks to all the convention work, and sooner or later, my body will start showing symptoms of fatigue.” She pulled off the thin red jacket she’d been wearing, revealing a black tank-top and gun holster. The holster came off next, then her boots. Usually, when we were out, she pared down the ass-kicking gunslinger look, but the convention had been all about repping her agency, so she was in full gear. For a moment, I thought she would throw modesty to the wind and lose her blue jeans as well; however, she merely pulled back the white sheet and laid down. Whatever trepidation I’d felt about such sleeping accommodations, Krystal clearly didn’t share them.
“You going to just stand there, or you going to come lay with me?”
In another context, I’d have feared she meant that in the biblical way, but as soon as she’d hit the bed, exhaustion had already crept into her voice. She was so strong, so indomitable, that I often genuinely forgot that even Agent Krystal Jenkins had limits.
I laid down next to her, staying on top of the sheets and trying not to think about how thoroughly my clothes would need to be dry-cleaned when I got home. My arm found its way around her body, and I pulled her close.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?”
“Albert is wielding a weapon of destiny, something no zombie has ever done before, and we’re here to make sure that doing it won’t turn him and those around him into pudding or something. If I wasn’t worried, I’d either be an idiot or a sociopath.” She put her hand on mine—the one currently resting against her stomach.
“It isn’t just that. You’ve been more on edge since you found out Arch was overseeing things. Is he dangerous?”
“Holy shit yes,” Krystal said. “Arch is one of the most deadly people in the Agency. If I ever go off the deep-end and start murdering innocent people, he’s the one they’ll probably send to kill me.”
