Alexander's Army

by Chris D'Lacey

  She slashed a hole in my sleeve. “Get real, Michael. You don’t cure the dead. I was playing them until I could get out.” She threw away the glass and tore at the fabric, calling the crows to help. The heat pressed in like a slow-moving wall, but at last the sleeve ripped and I was able to wriggle free.

  But as the crows scattered and Freya helped me up, a belt of flame jumped through the hatch, preventing any means of reaching the fire escape.

  I looked at the skylight. It was small and high, but our only chance. “The desk,” I said. “We need to pull it over so I can stand on it.”

  She shook her head. “No time.”

  She was right. The flames had caught hold of some insulating material and were spreading fast, running along the eaves and licking up between the rafters. I’d be toast before I found my balance. “Okay,” I panted, closing my eyes. “I’m going to try and —”

  “No!” She grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “No reality shifts. You’re dazed. You don’t know what might happen. And I don’t want it all changed again. I could lose you this time. I couldn’t bear that, Michael.”

  Her eyes were filming.

  “But I’ll be dead if —”

  “No. I know a way out. It will work, but you have to trust me.”

  With a snap, the frame of the hatch disappeared. Whatever she was planning, it had better be good. Frightened, I nodded.

  “It takes a little sacrifice, that’s all,” she said. “Look at me. Remember me as I was. Dark hair, kinda scratchy. Pixie ears. Cute when you saw me from my best side. Don’t ever forget I was Freya, not Devon.”

  “Freya, I don’t understand what —?”

  But by then she’d pulled aside my collar and sunk her teeth into the wound on my neck. I screamed in agony. For a second or two, my blood ran hotter than the attic. Then she gasped and stood away, wiping her mouth. “That’s gonna look messy in the morning. Might take some explaining to your mom.”

  “What have you done?” I felt for my neck. It was raw with pain. My fingers were smeared with red-black blood.

  She tottered backward and dropped to her knees.

  “Freya, what have you done?” I screamed. I ran forward and caught her as she fell. The crows were flapping, cawing like crazy. All the while, the heat pressed in.

  “Only way to set me free,” she whispered. Her eyes glazed over, turning black.

  “No!” I cried. “No, you can’t die.”

  “Not dying,” she croaked. “Changing. For good.” She raised a hand and stroked my chest. Feathers were forming again on her skin.

  “You mean —?”

  “Fly,” she breathed. “Believe and it will happen. Fly, Michael. I’ll be waiting for you.” She jerked and gave a shuddering caw. And right there in my arms, she turned into a crow and fluttered away, leading the others out through the roof.

  Shaking, I brought my hand to my face. Glossy black feathers were growing out of my skin. “What have you done?” I whispered again. I stared at the open sky. Come to me, it seemed to be saying.

  Come to me, Michael.

  King of the crows.

  When I was young, we had all done it — “flown” off the peak of Begworth Tor. It needed a group of eight to make it safe. One to fly, the rest to do the catching. In turns we would run up the ramp of earth that made a shallow wave at the top of the hill, then dive off, arms wide, surfing the air, into the canopy of palms below. It was a short but exhilarating drop. In that second it took to be caught, if you were brave enough to raise your head, the horizon disappeared and, momentarily, until everyone collapsed in a heap of laughing bodies (and in Ryan’s case, once, a broken wrist), you knew what it felt like to fly.

  But it was nothing compared to what happened to me that morning in the burning remains of The Fourth Enchantment.

  I felt the change in my upper body first. A sudden compression of the chest cavity, followed by a shift of strength to my shoulders. My legs retracted and my face reshaped. My fingers fused together in lines. And out of the natural tip they formed grew the fanlike feathers that marked a crow’s wings. The rest just happened by instinct. I snapped my wings open, beat down, and flew.

  Takeoff was the hardest part. Even though I had no weight to speak of, the strength required to generate thrust made my wing joints ache. The fire was helpful in that respect. The air was swirling but always going up. By the third beat, I had raised myself high enough to make use of the mounting thermals. Near the skylight, I flapped again and caught a stray feather on a shard of glass still stuck in the frame. I cawed in pain. But the impetus was with me then and I powered through a shower of rising embers and up, up, up into the open sky.

  Two crows immediately circled me, echoing their calls across my air space. They used no words, only rasps of noise. It was a language all the same. Mom had once told me I was a master of the early-morning grunt. She had never known anyone who could use the sound umm to mean so many different things, she said. I had the same experience now with the crows. The human ear only heard caw! or cark! (a sound frequently clipped to ark! by the crows). But there was more, much more, to their calls than that. I was able to detect subtle changes in tone, vibrancy, attack, duration and instinctively translate them into single words or simple phrases. Me! You! Turn! Higher! She waits!

  “She” being Freya.

  I called back: I look!

  At least that’s what I tried to say. One of the crows returned a doubtful Ark?!

  I beveled my wings and circled lower. It was effortless. Wonderful. The heat from the fire continued to support me, but now I could stretch and glide with the currents, flicking my wing tips only for momentum or tilting them to alter course.

  I swiveled one eye and looked down. The fire was in the middle of the run of buildings but not yet spreading to either side. The central part of the roof had collapsed and the air above the hole was choked with smoke and floating cinders, parted here and there by spikes of flame. A crowd had gathered in the service road. Were any of them UNICORNE agents, I wondered? Where had they been when Freya and I needed them? Where, indeed, were Mulrooney and Klimt?

  She waits! the crows called again.

  Ark! I cried. A terse but seemingly appropriate acknowledgment. Every sound they made was like a battle cry. There was nothing gentle about these birds.

  I wheeled upward and let the air carry me back, following my escorts to a series of intersecting rooftops peppered with chimneys of differing heights. The entire flock was there, arranged along a row of ancient ridge tiles dabbed with parched and dying moss. They were in resting mode, necks short, breasts puffed, eyes blinking, bored. One of them was Charlie, taken prisoner, flanked by a pair of much larger crows, the type of bruisers who wouldn’t think twice about pecking out an eye or tearing off a leg. Charlie did not look like a happy bird.

  On a cowl on the tallest chimney sat Freya. It was difficult to say how I knew it was her. At first glance, every crow looked the same (though their sizes varied and some shone brighter in their feathers than others). It was her bearing, perhaps. Or the shape of her neck. Or the angle of her beak. Or simply the fact that no other crow was perched higher.

  I landed awkwardly and was met by a ripple of derisory carks as I scrabbled onto a mortar flashing a foot below Freya’s perch.

  “Not there,” she cawed, snapping out a warning to a pair of other males who were vying to join her on her throne.

  My privilege, I guessed.

  With a show of feathers that annoyed the bird next to me (Ark!) I fluttered up beside Freya and folded my wings.

  “Be bold,” she said, moving sideways to give me space. “They will drive you away if you show any sign of fear or weakness.”

  Rrrrk! I grated, unable to twist the sentence I wanted out of my throat.

  “Be patient. Speech will come,” she said. “The words of the crow are harsh and direct. If you think I sound cold or blunt, that’s simply a sign that your humanity is still intact. Listen well, Michael.” She sh
ook her neck as a gust of wind buffeted the chimney tops. Externally, I felt no cold. Inside, every hollow bone was rattling. “I gave you the crow curse to save your life. But I lost my grip on the old world with it. I can’t turn back. I can never be the girl you knew. You can turn, but you must be wary. The curse is strong. It will claw at your soul. It will try to claim you. Sleep will be difficult. The only way to be rid of the spell is to do as I did to you. And if you should bite, Michael, bite hard. Anything less will kill you. Look down at the road now. What do you see?”

  The white van. Alexander’s van. Parked on a small gash of wasteland near the bus station. He was leaning against the hood, using binoculars to watch what was happening at the store. Two fire engines had just hosed up, all horns and flashing lights. Firefighters spilled from both the trucks and started herding the crowd away. Alexander, I noticed, was scanning the faces.

  “He is looking for you,” Freya said.

  I dipped my head. “He is — ark!” No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get my tongue around “He’s the Bulldog’s son.” But none of that mystery mattered to her now.

  “My crows are yours to command,” she said. “They will kill him if you wish. Even with his powers, he could not stop us all.”

  “No,” I croaked. “He has … words” — information was too hard to form — “I need. He must be tak-en.”

  “What do you want us to do?” she asked.

  I looked at Charlie and had an idea. “Would A-lex know a-noth-er crow?”

  She moved her head from side to side. Somewhat spitefully she said, “You want his ‘pet’ to return?”

  “No, not …” — I couldn’t find the shapes to say Charlie — “I will go. I will … fffol-low him. He will not know it is me.”

  Ark! she cried. A sound of approval. A war cry almost. She liked the idea. Most of the others echoed it back.

  A bird on lookout gave a sharp call.

  Alexander’s van was moving.

  Freya’s dark eyes locked onto mine. “Go. Take what you need from him. But know this, Michael. He tried to kill me. He is our enemy. When you are done, you will give him to us.”

  Not a request, a no-nonsense order.

  Ark! Ark! Ark! she called savagely. And she took off, rousting the others to flight.

  I tried to jump with them. But in the clatter of wings and cross movements of air, I lost my bearings and slipped off the cowl, righting myself with a lumbering flap that made me smack one wing against the ridge. Painful. But not nearly as painful as what I saw in the gutter at the edge of the roof. A dying crow lay there, staring at the sky, a hole in its bleeding throat. It was Charlie, cruelly punished for his innocent allegiance to a crazy human. Silently, I said a prayer for him, then raced after the van, following it out of the town limits. As I chased Alexander down the roads, I wondered how much mercy Freya and her crows would show to him. The answer came back as cold as the spots of rain on my wings.

  None. He was a dead man walking.

  Not far out of town, well inland from the sea, the van turned into an industrial park. I watched it weave through the maze of buildings, right to the end, where it stopped out of sight beside a disused factory displaying a damaged sign: CORKETTE’S CA PETS. Every window on the ground floor was boarded up, but as I circled overhead, I watched Alexander lift a loose panel, then climb inside and put the board back. I dropped down and landed on a higher sill where the windows were glazed but mostly broken. Taking care this time to protect my wings, I hopped through a hole in the glass.

  Despite the fact that I’d entered at a higher level, the factory turned out to be just one floor high. A huge, empty sack of a place, big enough to hold a couple of small aircraft. There were large bleached spaces on the concrete floor — the ghosts of heavy machinery, long gone. Between the spaces were oily patches, bits of tarpaulin, and other junk. Cables hung loose from a framework of steel joists in the ceiling that supported a system of venting fans. Fixed to the wall in various places were access ladders that led to the roof. In one corner was a run-down office with a window that looked onto the factory floor. I could see a desk and a filing cabinet. An old calendar clung lopsided to the wall. There was a mattress on the floor and a camping stove, plus a few basic provisions. Next to the desk was a tall gray locker, stripped of its door. Hanging in the locker were two or three lab coats.

  Alexander was sitting on an upturned crate with his back to the door. I watched him take my phone from his pocket. He weighed it in his hand for several moments, then tapped the screen and put it to his ear. I swooped down and landed silently on an oil drum, close enough to hear what he was saying.

  “No, it’s not Michael. Michael is … unavailable. Permanently unavailable. A nasty accident in The Fourth Enchantment. To whom do I have the displeasure of speaking? I’m afraid he’s simply listed you as AK.”

  Ark! The cry just spilled right out of me — the shock of knowing he was talking to Klimt.

  He looked sharply over his shoulder. He was surprised to see me, but I could tell from his reaction that he thought I was Charlie. So far, so good.

  He stood up and headed out of the office. “What do I want? How about my father’s head on a pole?” As he approached, he ran a knuckle down the side of my neck. I tried not to back away, but some lean was inevitable. Twenty minutes ago, this man had left me for dead in a fire. “Don’t play games. You know who I am. I want the Bulldog here within the hour. You’ll be tracing this call, so you’ll know where to find me.” He crooked a finger, inviting me onto his hand. For a moment, he raised me up and squinted at me, then put me onto his shoulder. Convenient. Now I could hear Klimt’s voice.

  The android said, “That is not possible.”

  “Of course it’s possible,” Alexander said, leaving some specks of spit on the phone. “This is UNICORNE. Anything is possible.”

  “And if we refuse?”

  He gave a threatening laugh. “Then I’ll be making an appointment to see my doctor. Strictly off hours, of course.”

  There was a pause. Klimt said, “Dr. Nolan played no part in your misfortune.”

  Dr. Nolan? What did he have to do with this? My claws curled tightly, finding muscle. Stop that, Alexander mouthed. He turned back to Klimt. “Is that what my father calls it? Misfortune?” His hand squeezed around the phone. “Mother would still be alive if it wasn’t for Nolan.”

  “My version of events would not agree with that,” said Klimt, in his usual precise and unflustered voice. “The evidence points to your acting alone. Your father had nothing to do with it.”

  Alexander began to pace. I was so close to his neck I could hear his teeth grinding. “He had everything to do with it. Everything! He brainwashed me from the age of four, long before I was part of your setup. He gave me the Tommies. He created the army. He … billeted the men here. Here, in my head.” He tapped his temple. “My father taught me command was everything. Stand down, Hodges! I’m dealing with this! I wasn’t a son; I was a weapon to be trained. Another UNICORNE experiment. As for Nolan, he let Mother slip. He could have saved her. Should have saved her.”

  “I am led to understand she was dead when the doctor arrived,” said Klimt.

  “Liar! Who are you?”

  There was a pause, and then Klimt said chillingly, “We have photographs of what you did.”

  “What the army did! The army!” Alexander ranted. “It was what the men wanted. Payback for the Tommies. She shouldn’t have put the dolls in the trash. I warned her NEVER to touch my things. Get back in line, Grimper! I said, get back! Or you’ll face a court-martial in the morning!”

  “Listen to me,” Klimt said calmly. “Your army is out of control. It will soon become destructive and destroy your mind.”

  Alexander kicked an oil drum, sending a hollow boom around the walls.

  “Give yourself up,” said Klimt. “We can help you. Use what mental strength you possess to stand the army down and —”

  “I want him here,” Alexander snarled
. “One hour, or I go after Nolan. And then I start talking — and you know what I mean. All about the DNA program. Trust me, I’ve got plenty to say to the world about you and your weird little alien fish. I assume the boy was your latest recruit? Stupid, sending him after me.”

  I turned full circle on Alexander’s shoulder. My head was doing cartwheels. Twice now he’d mentioned a DNA program. I still had no idea what it meant, but I was sure it was linked to Dad somehow.

  “Michael is extremely gifted,” said Klimt. “I advise you not to underestimate him.”

  “Weren’t you listening? The boy is dead. One hour. And don’t try anything smart. If you send the Marine or the cute French girl, make sure you say your good-byes to them first.”

  And he ended the call by hurling the phone at a wall, dislodging me from his shoulder in the process.

  “Charlie!” he barked after a moment’s calm.

  I was perched on a strut in the ceiling void, trying to decide what to do — if anything.

  “Charlie!” he roared again. “Come on, boy. It’s just you and me now. Come down. I’ve got some … treats for you.”

  He made a perch of his arm.

  What could I do? If I changed into a boy again, he’d surely kill me. If I attacked him, the result might be the same. If I flew away, I would learn nothing.

  He clicked his fingers.

  So I spread my wings and glided down, scrabbling slightly for a hold on his arm.

  “Steady, boy,” he said, stroking my back. “Smoke got into your landing gear?” He walked me to the office desk and jerked open a drawer. Inside were some sticks of gum and a bag of peanuts. The bag was split and the nuts looked dried and old. He scooped up a handful and held them to my beak. “There you go, boy. Have a peanut.”

  I hadn’t seen anything more unappetizing since Josie had tried to bake cereal cakes. I picked up a nut. Eating, I swiftly discovered, was as much a challenge as flying. I’d seen birds catch insects and work them backward into their mouths, but in practice it was hard to get the action right.