Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 1 March 2013
Page 10
The portal spat me out in a parking lot. The five druids were just getting their bearings when I arrived. Graeme helped me up.
“Thank you,” he said as I brushed dust off my coat. “It seems you’ve chosen a side after all.”
“Couldn’t just walk out on you lot. Would’ve been bad for my reputation.”
We watched the portal flicker and finally collapse. No one else would be coming through.
“They got Alice,” said one of the druids, tears rolling down his cheeks. “This can’t be left unanswered.”
“We must gather everyone,” said another. “Sound the call. We will march to the Holcomb Tower and bring it down on the treacherous bastard’s head.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Holcomb isn’t gifted. He told me that, until a week ago, he didn’t even know that our kind existed. I don’t buy him as a member of the Cabal.”
“You only have his word for that,” said Graeme.
“I’ve watched this guy on TV,” I said. “He isn’t that good a liar. I bet O’Leary set up the trap by herself and never even told him about you.”
“We will rip the truth out of him,” growled another druid. Everyone began to speak at once. The druids were primed to take some sort of action, anything to avenge Alice and lash out at their persecutors. Then my phone rang, and O’Leary’s number displayed on the caller ID.
“Yeah,” I grunted, taking a few steps away from the druids. Bent on their revenge plans, they barely noticed.
“That was very impressive,” O’Leary said with that hint of cheerful amusement in her voice I would find endearing had she not just betrayed and then tried to kill me. “I suppose I should have expected no less.”
“What do you want?” For once, I wasn’t in a mood for banter.
“I assume you’re still with the druids,” said O’Leary. “I want you to pass along a message. We’ll be waiting for them at the tomb of their precious founder. If they don’t show by sunset, we’ll burn down the trees, demolish the stones, then dig up her grave and spend a fun evening coming up with ways to desecrate the remains.”
“That’s a big mistake,” I told her. “You and your people should leave town, before the Watch stomps on you, hard.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “Mose will never get the Watch involved. After all, the druids were the ones picking on the ungifted. I’m merely trying to set things right on behalf of Mr. Holcomb. Whatever other disagreements my organization may have with the druids falls well outside of the Watch’s purview.”
I said nothing, hating the fact that she was right.
“I suspect,” she went on, “that Mose won’t be too pleased with you for siding with them just now. So why don’t you be a good boy and give the tree huggers my message. They won’t be able to resist trying to protect their sacred swamp and we’ll mop ’em up. Everybody wins. Mose doesn’t even have to know about your error in judgment. What do you say?”
“I’ll pass the message along,” I conceded. “This isn’t over.”
She started to say something snide, but I ended the call.
I relayed the message to the druids and contemplated my next move. There were less than four hours of daylight remaining.
O’Leary’s plan was working perfectly. Compelled to defend what they believed in, the druids showed up in force, like so many lambs to slaughter. Nearly thirty men and women joined their leaders in an effort to protect their sacred ground. They were all gifted—but they were no warriors, and no match for the hardened Cabal mercenaries.
I walked with them, prodding along a prisoner. By my side, disheveled and dragging his Italian loafers through the brown mud, was Bradley Holcomb.
Moira O’Leary and her people waited for us at Siobhan Keane’s gravesite. There were nearly three dozen Cabal fighters this time, weapons and magic at the ready. They parted to let our procession approach.
“I’ve got your boss,” I told O’Leary once we reached the clearing. I shoved Holcomb back into the arms of several druids. “If any fighting takes place here, I’ll make sure he’s among the first to die. So, why don’t we talk things out instead?”
“You’re a fool,” said O’Leary. “And a desperate fool, at that. I heard that you abducted Holcomb from his office in broad daylight. Talk about abusing the ungifted! And for what? Did you really think that saving his skin would get me to back off? Now that we’ve lured out the druids, Holcomb is useless to me.”
Bradley Holcomb straightened up, stepped forward and looked down his nose at O’Leary.
“You were right, Mr. Brent,” he said. “It appears my arcane security consultant never had my best interests at heart after all.”
“Moira,” Holcomb said with as much aplomb and dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. “You’re fired!”
That was all we needed to hear. Holcomb stepped back into the relative safety of the cluster of druids and four of my fellow members of the Watch dropped their concealment spell. I would take any two of them against all the Cabal goons present. Together they were an overwhelming force that should make any sensible gifted think twice.
Cabal agent Moira O’Leary wasn’t the sensible type.
O’Leary signaled her men to attack. The tranquil burial site turned into a war zone. Fireballs, curses and bullets flew as both sides unleashed everything they had at each other.
Terrie Winter of Queens wielded an enchanted staff so powerful you could physically feel the presence of its magic. She moved gracefully, jabbing at enemies and dodging their attacks in fluid, ballet-like motion.
Father Mancini from Staten Island held a large silver cross with sharpened edges in one hand and a .44 Magnum revolver in another. He had no trouble reconciling his arcane ability with his faith, and Lord help any gifted sinner who got in his way. The good priest stood his ground, striking down any Cabal fighters within reach while quoting scripture.
Gord from the Bronx stood seven feet tall, courtesy of the giant blood somewhere deep in his family’s Romany past. He carried a sawed-off shotgun that could blast through any obstacle, physical or magic. Gord fired off a few shots, and then took several large strides that placed him in the midst of the enemy. He used his shotgun as a club, tossing men around like rag dolls.
Manhattan’s John Smith stood empty-handed and smiled nastily at his enemies, his own magic far more powerful than any mere weapon. Elegant in a three-piece Armani suit and a white silk scarf tied around his neck which contrasted smartly against his ebony skin, John cast spell after spell, conjuring ephemeral horrors. They materialized in the air, swooping from above to maul the Cabal mages with their ghostly fangs and claws.
I used whatever protective charms and devices I had to keep Holcomb and myself out of harm’s way, but my supplies were running out fast, and Cabal mages were about to corner us. Suddenly, a ten-foot monster appeared before them, gnashing its teeth and growling loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the fighting. Cabal goons took a good look at it and decided that they were needed elsewhere on the battlefield.
I would have to recapture the Sumatran changeling after this was over.
Unable to defend against the far superior talents of the Watch, those Cabal fighters who could still move broke ranks and fled. I watched O’Leary and a handful of her people escape through a portal similar to the one I used earlier. After being routed so thoroughly, I didn’t expect to be seeing her again anytime soon.
“Guess this means you owe each of us one, for a change,” said Father Mancini afterward.
“That,” added Terrie Winter, “and you’re the one who has to explain this mess to Mose. He won’t be pleased about being kept out of the loop. I think I’ll go ahead and skip that meeting entirely.”
Reporting to Mose wasn’t something I looked forward to. This was definitely one of those scenarios where asking forgiveness was easier than asking permission. The big man wouldn’t have approved—and my theory about Moira becoming fair game for the Watch once Holcomb severed his connection
with her was tenuous at best. Still, everything worked out, and Mose wasn’t the type to punish success.
I walked over to Graeme and the rest of the council. Holcomb was talking at them faster than a used car salesman.
“It’s gonna be great,” he said. “Just picture it: Holcomb’s Stonehenge! We’ll build a replica of those standing stones instead of the Coliseum. Make the hotel druid-themed. We’ll leave this shrine alone, and fence it off from the tourists. Your people can come and go whenever they please, and no one will be the wiser.”
Holcomb was actually making sense. The druids must’ve thought so too; they were listening intently to what the real estate mogul had to say. After all, who would suspect one of Holcomb’s resorts to be anything more than it appeared? Besides, Holcomb’s legal ownership of the site would help secure the Watch’s protection in case the Cabal ever decided to take another run at the druids.
I left them to talk business. Holcomb might not have been gifted, but he was sure good at his job. The man was about to convince an ancient order to let him build a theme resort around their sacred site. And if that sort of salesmanship doesn’t take a bit of magic, I don’t know what does.
Original (First) Publication
Copyright © 2013 by Alex Shvartsman
**********
Steven Leigh, who also writes under the pen name of S. L. Farrell, is the author of more than 25 novels published by such major houses as Ace, Avon, DAW, Harper Voyager, Bantam, and Roc.
THE BRIGHT SEAS OF VENUS
by Stephen Leigh
I hate you.
Mine is a hatred that is complete and without any reservation. That’s all you really need to know. Yes, I know, “hate” is an overused word that is too generic to have much meaning, and no real writer would use it, but I could dump out the thesaurus and find other, more specific words that you may substitute, if you wish: abhor, loathe, detest, despise, execrate, abominate, am repulsed by, feel revulsion for…Choose one if you prefer, but the bottom line’s the same.
I hate you.
You know it, too, because you feel the same way toward me. We’re locked in mutual antipathy, mutual enmity (there’s that thesaurus again; I know how much you love word games). If I were standing right in front of you right now, you’d be nodding your head, thinking “Oh, it’s you. Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, you asshole.”
But right now I imagine you’re actually blinking a bit in confusion. You’re looking back at the title and the byline and wondering what the hell’s going on. Where’s the promised “Bright Seas of Venus”? Did the magazine get screwed up somehow?
You stupid idiot. I know you. I know you don’t buy print magazines anymore. Everything you read is online. E-text. Downloaded. You read on your laptop, on your phone, on your tablet. You prefer phosphor dots on a screen, not ink on actual paper. And the e-world, well, as you know (or you will recall once you figure out who’s actually writing this, because it’s sure not that “Stephen Leigh” hack), the online world is my area of expertise. It wasn’t particularly easy, mind you, but it also wasn’t impossible. All I had to do was watch you—no, don’t bother looking over your shoulder; I’m not there now—and figure out when you were going to download this particular magazine, and run my little program. Poof! There goes “The Bright Seas of Venus”—which, by the way, is an incredibly mediocre story without any redeeming literary value; I have to believe that the editor bought it only because this Leigh guy is a friend of his—and that eminently forgettable but sadly much longer story is replaced with this one. My story. Which, incidentally, you’re the only one reading, as everyone else who is looking at this issue gets to read the tedious “The Bright Seas of Venus.” At least that’s what happened assuming the program worked as planned. I can’t imagine any of the readers who are stuck with the original story are enjoying themselves as much as I am. For a single good reason.
I fucking hate you.
Oh, you’re having a few thoughts now, aren’t you? You’re going over all the people you know who might just have the technical expertise to do what I just mentioned. You’re running down the list of names, and you’re frowning because you don’t think any of them actually hate you. They might not like you, but hate…?
C’mon, give me some credit. I’m much more subtle than that. You remember the time when we were all together at the holiday party, and you made that nasty crack about me and the way I look? Everyone’s eyes widened a little, because the comment went way over the line into intentional cruelty (not that you noticed; you thought you were being extraordinarily witty), but did I allow myself to show my anger? Did I snarl and tell you just what a goddamn jerk you were being? Did I tell you how you have no goddamn clue what I am and what someone like me is capable of?
No, I didn’t. Instead, I swallowed all the bile. I waved my hand in your direction and laughed it off, which allowed everyone else to laugh also. Then you proceeded to further reveal your bigotry, close-mindedness, and general assholery for the rest of the night. Remember how, one by one, everyone drifted away from you and stopped making eye contact while you were walking around the room trying to force your way into conversations? Here’s why:
It seems most everyone who gets close enough to you ends up with a universal dislike of you as a human being. But me…I straight-out hate you.
I suppose the final straw was the time you saw me with that fantasy and horror anthology. You pointed at the book and laughed your hideous laugh so that everyone else turned to see what was so funny. “What a bunch of stupid crap,” you said. “Science fiction, fantasy…Shit like that is made for readers who aren’t intellectually capable of processing or appreciating genuine literature. It’s cotton candy; pure empty calories and when you try to find substance in it, it just melts away. The entire genre’s nothing but escapist garbage for those who are stuck in their adolescence. How can anyone with any intelligence believe any of that stuff? Vampires, zombies, and, monsters—oh my!” You nearly sing the words. “None of it’s real.”
“Maybe not, but I still enjoy reading it,” I answered, lifting up the book as I gave you a last opportunity to step back from your comments, to realize how insulting and pretentious you were acting. Giving you the opportunity to apologize.
You laughed again. “Well, I’d expect you would,” you answered.
Once more, you demonstrated that despite your judgments and mockery, you don’t know me. Not at all.
Oh, I shrugged and went on without another remark, but I smiled inside. You see, by then I already knew the truth about you. I’d already hacked into your accounts. I knew the type of reading you preferred yourself—after all, you’d ordered the same book I was then holding (though in e-book form) just a week before. I knew that as much as you protested how wonderful “real” literature was, it also wasn’t what you chose to read yourself.
I knew that everything about you was a useless, pretentious, arrogant lie.
I hate you…but you know that already at this point. I suppose there’s no reason to keep repeating it.
By now, you’re undoubtedly wondering why I keep going on about how I feel about you and where I’m going with this. Fine. Let’s end the tale. In fact, I think you already have a premonition of how things turn out.
You’re already starting to feel it, aren’t you? It’s subtle at first, almost unnoticeable: the feeling that someone’s staring at you from shadows behind you, their gaze burrowing into your shoulder blades. Then the sense intensifies. You hear a creaking—what was that? A stealthy footstep? Your mouth has gone dry and you can’t gather enough spit to swallow. You want to laugh your horrible, mocking laugh again, but you can’t quite manage it.
Now comes a quick prickling rush along your spine that makes you want to shiver, a feeling so intense that you’re afraid to even turn around to dispel the notion. You can nearly imagine hands reaching out for you: terrible, clawed, deformed things ready to rend and tear, to lay you open to the white bones as your blood sprays. You’
ve read those stories, right? Then the smell hits you: a whiff of sulphur and rot and decay that slides past you like a cold, dead breath. But you keep reading these words, because now you’re shaking and afraid that if you stop, you’ll find out that your growing unease isn’t entirely caused by the words you’re reading.
You hear the beginnings of my sinister, amused chuckle, and you know…
Fantasy—at least the dark, horrific, and nasty kind—is all too real.
And it hates you.
Original (First) Publication
Copyright © 2013 by Stephen Leigh
**********
Robert T. Jeschonek is a prolific author of short stories and articles, and has four novels to his credit, including the recent National Literature Award winner My Favorite Band Does Not Exist.
THE SPINACH CAN’S SON
by Robert T. Jeschonek
I am the can of spinach in a sailor man’s hand. He squeezes, expecting me to burst open and launch a blob of green power into his gaping maw.
But I do not burst. He gets no mouthful of spinach, no surge of energy pumping up his arms to three times their size. That’s not how it works on this side of the tracks, my friend.
You’re not in the funny pages anymore.
Potpie the Sailor tries again with both hands, straining for all he’s worth. “C’mon, ya ratfinsk!” He squints up at the threat looming before him, the whole reason he needs his spinach. “We’ve gotsk to drive this she-hag off me boat!”
What threat could be awful enough to strike fear in the sailor man’s heart? Is it Bobo the comic-strip bully, back for another knock-down, drag-out?
Not even close.
The figure standing before Potpie and me isn’t a drawing at all. There’s nothing pen-and-ink about her. “Sir!” She’s a three-dimensional woman in what looks like a spacesuit out of a 1950s movie—silver metallic tights and a bubble helmet. Her black hair is arranged in tight waves beneath the glass. “Please, calm down! I just want to ask you some questions.” She pulls a photo out of a pouch on the belt slung diagonally over her hips. “Have you seen this man?”