Dear Ms. Etiquette, if I think that an acquaintance might be a Mouth and using the power of suggestion on me, is it polite to speak up? Signed- Befuddled in Buffalo.
Dear Befuddled, it depends on the social situation. It is never polite to use mind control on anyone, but to suggest something aloud during a party however could be very offensive. He may simply be a real charmer. If he is an Active, that is why a proper young lady always is certain that there are chaperones present.
—Ms. Etiquette,
Newspaper Column, 1933
Washington D.C.
J. Edgar Hoover slid into the backseat of the waiting automobile with a grunt. “What an awful day.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Take me home.” The car pulled out of the garage and onto the busy avenue. “Damned bothersome reporters.” He made special note of remembering the names of each of the newsmen that had asked the difficult questions and put him on the spot. He’d be certain to make their lives as miserable as possible. “They’re like sharks when they smell blood.”
“I know. Dreadful business,” the driver said. Hoover was startled. He was not used to his driver talking back. The agents that rotated through the assignment all knew to just let him talk, and to only speak when asked a direct question. “Right?”
Hoover sat forward, glad to have someone to rip into. Berating underlings always made him feel better after a hard day at the office. “What’s your name, Agent?”
“Garrett, sir. Daniel Garrett.” He reached up and tipped the edge of his hat so that Hoover could see his face in the mirror. “I’m really pleased to meet you. This is such an honor. I can tell that we’re going to get along really well. I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
The unfamiliar agent had a soothing voice. Hoover relaxed. “Where’s my regular driver?”
“In the trunk.” The driver laughed. Hoover laughed as well. “No . . . Seriously. He’s in the trunk.”
Hoover laughed again. “Splendid!” This new agent had a marvelous sense of humor.
“Don’t worry. He’s alive, just gagged and tied up is all.” The automobile pulled over at the corner. “Well, here’s our other passenger. Isn’t this great? It’s like a party.”
“Indeed.” He was suddenly feeling very agreeable. His door opened and he had to scoot his bulk across the seat to make room for the new arrival, who was an extremely tall and thickset individual He slammed the door behind him and the automobile immediately roared away from the curb.
“Afternoon, Mr. Hoover,” Heavy Jake Sullivan said. “Long time, no see.”
Suddenly J. Edgar Hoover wasn’t feeling quite so agreeable anymore.
They’d picked a quiet spot, a condemned warehouse that probably dated back to the Civil War. It was a wide open space and quite a bit of light came in through the broken windows. Pigeons cooed in the rafters. Trash and bottles were strewn around, and from the old dirty blankets, it looked like quite a few hobos slept here. They’d found one busted up chair for their guest and Sullivan sat on an old cable spool.
Dan had gone to bring the truck around. Sullivan had figured it was for the best to remove the Mouth from the equation. He needed Hoover to deal on his own free will. He hadn’t bothered to tie him up either. That would’ve been insulting to them both. Sullivan had given his pitch. Now he sat, arms folded, and waited for the director’s response.
“You want me to help you clear your name?” Hoover was incredulous.
Sullivan nodded. “Yep. ‘Cause I’m innocent.”
“You kidnapped the Director of the Bureau of Investigation!”
“I didn’t think you’d return my calls.”
“You should be under arrest!”
Sullivan looked around the empty warehouse. “You and what army?”
Being alone and defenseless only made him slightly more humble than when he was surrounded by armed agents. “I used to own you!”
Sullivan did not respond to that.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”
“I didn’t think I could go much higher than Public Enemy Number One.”
“Yes, which is frankly an embarrassment.” Hoover rubbed his face with both hands. “They corrupted my own system and used it to embarrass me.”
“The Office of the Coordinator of Information, you mean?” Sullivan chuckled. “How’s the power struggle going?”
Hoover looked at him funny. “You’re well informed.”
“Very.” Actually, it had been a guess, but it looked like he was right. “OCI used my parole to hang you out to dry. Way I see it, you either messed up and let a dangerous homicidal Active loose on society to serve as your personal hit man, or the OCI’s got this all wrong, and me and my friends have nothing to do with this plot.”
“You’re rather clever for a Heavy, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Gravity Spiker, and you knew that when you sprung me from Rockville. We’re innocent by the way.”
“The evidence against your group is damning.”
“What evidence? A mad Boomer wearing a spell and a ring makes hundreds of people guilty? That wouldn’t hold up in any court. We’re scapegoats. Patsies. And you know it. That evidence came from the OCI, didn’t it?”
“Of course . . . Let me go, and I’ll be sure to bring that to light.”
Sullivan pointed. “Door’s that away. Your car is waiting.” He tossed the keys to Hoover, who, surprised, barely managed to flinch and catch them between his knees. “Don’t forget your man in the trunk. That can’t be comfy.”
Hoover took the keys. “Just like that?”
“I’m here to make you an offer, Hoover, not hold you for ransom. The OCI is a problem for both of us. I can help fix it.”
The Director stood and hurriedly fled across the space, shoes echoing on the hard floor. Pigeons scattered to get out of his way. Sullivan stayed in place, but he figured he wouldn’t have to wait long. He had known men like J. Edgar Hoover before. Though they weren’t nearly as powerful, they were of similar makeup. Everything was about them. Any twist of fate that didn’t go their way was a personal sleight. In a military officer, any positive report about a subordinate was felt as if they’d received a reprimand. In business, if the other guy made a buck, then they felt like they’d lost a buck, like there were only so many to go around. Everything was a competition, and no matter how successful they were, they were always bitter, petty men, that couldnstand being shamed.
Hoover came back a minute later, his curiosity having gotten the better of him. “What are you proposing?”
“You want to protect the institution you’ve built. I want to protect my people. Neither one of us likes seeing the innocent taking a fall while the guilty get away.”
“Of course not,” Hoover snapped. “I know you hate me, but everything I’ve done has been to defend this great nation from our enemies.”
Sullivan gave a sad little smile. Hoover was lecturing one of the most decorated veterans of the Great War about defending the country. “I believe you. Despite what I think of you, you sure do like putting the bad guys in jail. I respect that. Have a seat.” He waited for the pudgy man to return to the broken chair. “I’m assuming you know the truth about Mar Pacifica?”
“Anarchist Actives—”
“It was the Imperium.”
Hoover scowled. “That’s classified.”
“I was there. Don’t tell me about defending this nation, when I personally killed the man responsible for taking over the Peace Ray. I cut his head in half with a Jap sword. The Tokugawa? That was us too . . . We’re on the same side here, Hoover, and you know it. I know you’ve got your hooks in everything. I’d like to share information.”
“You have been busy. Very well. You go first.”
That was expected. “I just did. Now you’ve got a confirmation about who killed the Chairman and saved New York from being vaporized by a Tesla weapon.”
“And the Geo-Tel?”
Sullivan was impressed. Hoover was just as well informed as everyone said he was. “Destroyed.”
“Hmmm . . . I don’t know what to say about that . . .”
Thank you would be nice for once. “Tell me about the OCI.”
It was obvious Hoover didn’t like being maneuvered, but he was a man that liked to explore his options. “A very secret, very minor, unimportant agency started by President Wilson, specifically to study magic and gather intelligence on known Actives.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“As I said. Secret. They were authorized emergency police powers after Pacifica.”
“I thought monitoring Active criminals was the BI’s responsibility.”
It was obvious this part put Hoover in a sour mood. “It was. OCI was to monitor Actives in general. After the Peace Ray, some . . . confidence was lost in the Bureau’s abilities. OCI had already laid the groundwork and was prepared to step in. They’ve capitalized on recent events to increase their authority.”
When he put it that way, government infighting didn’t sound much different than the mobs jockeying to control different rackets. Another gang shows weakness, you make a move. “Why are they framing the Grimnoir?”
Hoover paused, as if thinking about how much precious information he was willing to part with. “Perhaps they think you really are responsible?”
“I was a detective, remember? They can’t be that stupid. They’re not trying to conduct an investigation. This is an extermination.”
The top G-man in the country gave him a bit of a smile. “Very good, Mr. Sullivan. A lone killer, no matter how dangerous, the country deals with them and moves on. It doesn’t require any great changes to the system. Now a conspiracy . . . That requires action to root out. That requires men, material, money, and management. Since things are changing so rapidly in these dark times, some parties may see this as their opportunity to insinuate themselves into the fabric of power. Your group is but the means to an end.”
“And from the way the BI’s been thrown under the train, too, I’m guessing you’re in the way of that end, and it’s probably not because you’re such a fan of civil liberties for Actives.”
“You might not think so, seeing as how you’re a convict, but compared to my opposite number in the OCI, I am a saint. This may come as a surprise, but I’ve been against their agenda the entire time. I think it goes entirely too far and the American people will not stand for it.”
“What’s the agenda?”
The Director was surprised. “You don’t know?” Sullivan cursed himself for the slip. “Perhaps you are not as well informed as I’d thought. Forget that I said anything. I’m not in the habit of divulging classified information.” Hoover had scored a point.
“So what are we going to do about it?”
“We? I’ll follow the will of the people through the instructions of their duly elected representatives.”
“Sure. And if I bring you proof that OCI is rotten?”
“Then I bury them,” Hoover answered maliciously. “If you are innocent as you claim, then my Bureau never made any mistakes at all, and that will simply have to be made public, that the OCI was barking up the wrong tree. I can see how an exchange of information could be mutually beneficial for both of us. I believe that we can come to an agreement . . . Though if questioned, this meeting never occurred.”
Sullivan extended one big hand. Hoover looked at it distastefully, then finally shook on it. Sullivan had to resist the urge to break all his fingers. “Welcome to the conspiracy, Mr. Hoover.”
Fairfax County, Virginia
All aspiring Iron Guards had to read Okubo Tokugawa’s personal history. He was their leader and their inspiration. An Iron Guard was to emulate the Chairman in all aspects of their life. Whether it was courage on the battlefield, artistry on the canvas, or cunning in the courts, Okubo Tokugawa was all that an Iron Guard should aspire to be.
He had also been a ronin, Toru reasoned.
The Chairman had been born into one of the greatest families in Nippon, but when the Power had chosen the young man to be the first Active, his sudden manifestation of magical abilities had been a great cause of confusion. This was before man understood anything about magic, and the young samurai’s miraculous skills were frightening to the unenlightened. There could only be one Child of Heaven. The Shogunate was shamed by this development, and political rivals used his uniqueness as an excuse for war.
Seppuku was not an option for someone who could not seem to die, so he had been exiled for the good of the empire. Thus he had become a wave man, a ronin, carried about by the dark ocean of fate. It was only through this wandering time that the man who would go on to become the Chairman would learn true wisdom.
Toru clung to that idea. He was following in the footsteps of his father.
He would not obey the false Chairman’s orders. The imposter deserved no loyalty. He did not speak for the Imperium. In fact, by disregarding Okubo Tokugawa’s final message from beyond the grave, the imposter was putting the entire Imperium in jeopardy.
If the imposter would not fill the Chairman’s final order, then Toru would. He did not yet know how, but once the Pathfinder was defeated, then Toru would turn his attention to the imposter. Until then, however, pursuit was inevitable. No Iron Guard had ever forsaken his place before. Hattori should have fled, but he had been old, tired, and afraid. Toru would atone for his mentor’s mistakes as well.
The marines were still unaware of what was coming. He had gathered his belongings, a bag of gold coins, a supply of American money, along with his favorite weapons, and then gone to the garden to meditate and to wait for the Iron Guards that were supposed to take his life. He could have just run, but then they would have given immediate chase. He would need time to plan his next move, and that would be difficult while being hounded by his tenacious brothers.
In winter the garden was as grey as his soul. The chill wind kept his mind sharp as he waited. He did not yet know how he would fulfill the real Chairman’s command. He was not strong enough by himself to destroy a Pathfinder. He prayed to his father’s spirit for guidance. He would need the wisdom the Chairman to accomplish this mission.
One of the men disturbed his mediation. “Iron Guard. I have news.” It was the Finder and he had a map in hand. The wind was whipping it about. He bowed deeply. “As you ordered, the spirits have followed the American woman. She has located the Grimnoir. They are hiding in a farmhouse not far from here.”
Toru stood and took the map. There was an X drawn on it to the south of them. “Was the large one there? Sullivan?”
“Yes, Iron Guard. It was the same two that came here. She arrived as they were leaving in a red pickup truck. The spirit was not strong enough to follow them because of their ring wards. But from the looks of it, I believe they will be returning shortly. The woman is hiding, watching the place now.”
The flash of inspiration was so clear that he had no doubt it was divine. The marine was not nearly as big as Toru, but he was rather tall. “Have you told any of the others?”
“No, Iron Guard.”
Toru carefully folded the map and put it inside his clothing. “What is your name?”
“Okada Hiroshi,” he answered proudly.
“You have done a great service to the Imperium today, Okada Hiroshi,” Toru said solemnly, and then he bowed. The marine was shocked at the display. It was rare to receive a compliment from one of the mighty Iron Guard. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Iron Guard,” Hiroshi stammered.
Toru drew his sword and struck so quickly that the marine never even saw death coming. It was completely painless. Toru had already cleaned the blood from his sword and put it back in the sheath before the body toppled. He gently carried the body into the garden and hid it. He then put on his most distinctive kimono and went back to the house. He made sure to greet a few of the staff, and then snuck to the basement to carry up a crate of explosives.
After returning to the garden, he dressed Hiroshi in his kimono and set the body next to the bomb. It was enough to make a mess, but would still leave plenty of big pieces. Toru bore eight kanji, Hiroshi only bore one. A careful inspection of the body parts would reveal what he’d done, but they probably wouldn’t even check until they realized Hiroshi was also missing. His brothers would not search for him if they thought he was dead, and by the time they realized the truth, his trail would be cold.
Fuse lit, Toru escaped over the back wall into the woods. His Brute speed had gotten him a quarter mile away by the time the explosives detonated and thunder rolled through the trees. He turned for one last look at what had been his home and watched the smoke rising from the garden. For the first time in his life, he was truly alone.
The life of an echo
Perfect sky and mountain firm
Fires of purity burn
On a dark ocean.
The Iron Guard understood it now. The meaning had become clear.
New York City, New York
“Buckminster Fuller. Heard of him?”
“Nope.” Francis looked up from his drink, and then suspiciously down the bar. None of the other customers seemed to be looking their way. It was a low-rent speakeasy and since technically nobody was supposed to be here, they really ought to be minding their own business. For whatever reason, Chandler seemed to be the expert on out of the way dives like this around the city. Francis kept his hat pulled low and his overcoat collar up so no one would recognize him. Luckily, it was cold out, and every time the door opened another blast of cold air would come shooting into the dark bar, so at least he wasn’t the only one dressed that way.
Chandler looked around the room, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m enjoying this detective thing. Much more interesting than accounting. Fuller’s a Cog. He’s got a little shop in Greenwich Village.”
That wasn’t particularly fancy for a Cog. “What’s his magical brilliance in? Musical theater?”
“For a rich guy, you sure do look down your nose at the arts.”
“Hey, I’ve donated piles of money to . . . stuff.” Francis wasn’t in the mood for witty banter. He’d told his secretary to hold his calls and then he’d slipped out through the UBF mail room and ran for his life. He’d gone from millionaire to fugitive in less than five minutes. Which was about as fast as he’d gone from nobody to millionaire in the first place. He sighed. “So what’s his deal, Ray?”
“Fuller’s a big idea man, but his thing is domes.”
“Domes?” UBF employed several Cogs who specialized in useful things like engines, electronics, or aerodynamics. “No wonder I’ve never heard of him. Who’d pay good money for a dome? Eskimos?”
Chandler finished his drink and then signaled the bartender for a refill. “The Office of the Coordinator of Information.”
“Fuller owns Dymaxion?”
“One and the same. Fuller’s come up with some sort of geometric design that chases away magic. Ten minutes after he announced it, OCI swooped in and told him to shut his trap. They have been buying everything he’s turned out since.”
Finally, some good news. “We need to buy him out.”
“Already done, chief. Congratulations. You own a company that makes domes and a funny shaped car.”
“Just what I needed. When can I talk to this guy?”
“I told him to meet us here at seven p.m.” Chandler looked at his watch. “So about three minutes.”
“Anybody ever tell you that you’re the best accountant ever?”
“My mom did once, but I think she was lying to make me feel good about myself.” A cold wind struck as the door opened. Chandler leaned around Francis to see. “I do believe that’s our Cog.”
He was a handsome fellow in his late thirties, wearing a brown wool suit and a dark vest. Chandler waved and he came over to greet them. Confident, he looked Francis over. “Good evening, Mr. Stuyvesant,” he said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Francis shook his hand, a little perturbed that Chandler had let slip his name.
Chandler caught the look. “I didn’t tell him.”
“I recognize you from the papers.” Fuller took the barstool next to him. Francis noted that he was wearing multiple wristwatches. Sheesh, Cogs and their odd habits . . . Francis was thankful that Browning was relatively normal compared to most of them, and he was a gun-monk-techno-wizard, so that was saying something.
Fuller continued. “The transference of such a massive sum of funds occurred so rapidly that I’m not entirely surprised to see that it was a company with as many resources and as omniwell-informed as United Blimp and Freight, that would be so interested in my spheroidal research.”
“What?”
Chandler interpreted. “We paid a lot of money, very quickly.”
“Indeed,” Fuller replied, happy as a calm. “A truly accommodative sum.”
“How much money, Ray?”
“More than I’ll ever make.” Chandler grinned. “Let me get you two a table.”
Francis head hurt. He’d dealt with many Cogs in his relatively short life. They were all geniuses, even before their brains were boosted by magic. He’d heard about a few people that the Power had come upon later in life, and they’d gone from relatively normal communicators to absolute incomprehensibility as a result. He was guessing Fuller was one of those. Cogs tended to be eccentric, but this man was either the smartest or the densest one of the bunch. “Wait . . . Wait, I need you to try to explain that again.”
Fuller was very proud of his Dymaxion nullifier. “Tensional integrity, or as I call it, tensegrity, is a structural relationship principle in which structural shape is guaranteed by the finitely closed, comprehensively continuous, tensional behaviors of the system and not by the discontinuous and exclusively local compressional member behaviors! The nullifier is based on tensegrity. The Power, itself existing ominsimultaneously as a geometric construction, is driven from the area of spheroidal influence upon operation of the nullifier.”
“Jesus . . .” Francis rubbed his temples. “Okay, let’s try this. If somebody had a nullifier, and an Active wanted to be able to use their Power around it, how would they beat it.”
“Beat it?”
“Say I’m telekinetic, and that guy over there,” Francis pointed at a random drunk, “was about to shoot me with a gun. He’s got a nullifier though, so my Power doesn’t work. So, how can I pick up this glass.” Francis lifted his scotch. “And hit him in the face with it?”
“Hmmm . . . You could throw it.”
Francis sighed. “I’d prefer to throw it with my brain.”
“Magic as weaponry? Mr. Stuyvesant, I’ll have you know my life’s work has been based in livingry, not killingry.”
“Are those even real words?”
Fuller seemed offended. “Absolutely. They are now.”
The Cog seemed like a decent enough sort, his brain was just running on a different track than Francis’. “Let me level with you, Mr. Fuller. You’ve already sold some of these to a group called the OCI, correct?”
“Why, yes. I’ve created and sold a total of seven of the devices.”
“Really?” Francis was surprised. “That’s it?”
“Each one takes months of effort. The interaccomadative housing is simple enough, but the geodesic device is rather complex in its manufacture. Currently, I am the only individual capable of crafting the nullifiers, though I have tried to train others, their crafting requires almost an individual artistic touch rather than a replicatable construction methodology.”
“It’s hard, so you’re the only one that can make them?”
“That is what I said.”
I’m getting better at this. “Okay. The OCI has been using your inventions to do some very bad things. Like depowering Actives so they can assault them.”
“Why would they do such a terrible thing?”
“I don’t know. Every time we’ve met they’re too busy trying to kill us to ask.”
Fuller was confused. “Us?”
“Us . . . Actives.” Francis concentrated on his glass. It rose off the table, hung there for a moment, and then floated gently back down. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to be able to use my God given magical Power to make this glass go up and down without asking the government’s permission first.”
Fuller corrected him. “Up and down are archaic terms, when in reality you mean in and out based upon the objects relation to the gravitational center of the Earth . . .”
“I bet you and my buddy Jake would get along swell.”
“But I can see what you mean. I did not know my inventions were being used to cause harm. I do not approve.”
“Well, first and foremost, now that you work for me, you’re not making any more of them for the OCI. Will the other ones break or wear out?”
“They are very resilient and as long as the interaccomadative housing is unharmed and the spheroidal nullifier is in motion, then it will retain magical cohesion, even with minor maintenance. The first one I created was large enough to be motorized for continual operation and had a greater range, while the later six were portable but had to be spun by hand, which gives them only a few minutes of usage at a time, and a limited range.”
“Gotcha. So smash it or stop it from moving. So getting back to my original question, how do I get around a nullifier?”
“As in the theoretical application of your glass of alcohol against that individual’s face?” Fuller pointed at the same man Francis had.
“What’cha looking at, asshole?” the drunken construction worker growled. “Got a problem?”
“Nothing, sir,” Francis answered happily. “Let me buy you a drink.” Chandler was sitting at the bar near the entrance and had caught the exchange. He signaled the bartender to send the big fellow another round. Good man. “Lower your voice. Are you trying to get us beat up?”
“Sorry, Mr. Stuyvesant. There is one hypothetical answer to your question. Fuller produced a pencil and a notepad from his coat. “The Power is made up of thousands of individual geometric constructs.” He quickly scribbled a complex design onto the paper. “This is what yours, as a Mover, looks like.”
Francis took the pad. It was the design for a spell, only much more complex than anything the Society had cobbled together in the Rune Arcanium. This was closer to some of the things that Sullivan was playing with. He had never seen what his own looked like before. It was strangely familiar, like a half remembered dream. “Where’d you learn this?”
“Learn it?”
“Who taught you this spell?”
“I’m looking at it right now,” Fuller explained. “I can see the Power. I can always see magic and its many complex connections. That was how I was able to design the spheroid’s repellent omnialternative correlation for the nullifier.”
That blew him away. “You can see the Power? All the time?”
“Why, yes. Of course.”
However much money Chandler had spent to pick this guy up was well worth it. Sullivan’s few minutes dead and hanging around the Power had given them several new spells, and Fuller could see everything right now! Francis was going to be rich . . . Well, richer. “Wow. I really wish I had more time. Back to the business of beating your nullifier . . .”
“In my travels I’ve come across two types of connections to the Power, those that are chosen by the Power directly, and those that man has created through his own experimentation. Their appearance is drastically different, as if the original was created by a master sculptor and the others are a copy done in chalk on a bumpy sidewalk by a fat fingered child. The nullifier will repel either. However . . .” Fuller took back the notepad and flipped to a new page. This drawing was much more complicated. It was shape on top of shape, using various points as starting areas for new lines and circles, until half the page was filled with a garbled mess. “This is the one Power related geometry that not only resists the repulsion of the nullifier, but will actually destroy the omnialternative correlation.”
“So if this spell comes close to a nullifier?”
“A catastrophic release of energy,” Fuller answered. “Far greater than the interaccomadative housing can—”
“Boom?”
Fuller sighed like he was talking to a particularly idiotic subject. “Yes. Boom.”
“Big or little? We talking hand grenade or Peace Ray?”
“Well . . . Maybe grenade. Probably smaller than that, I would assume more like a very large fire cracker . . . Except for perhaps for Dymaxion Nullifier Number One, which would be roughly equivalent to a ten pounds of TNT.”
That could ruin someone’s day. Francis took the notepad. “Can I have this?”
“You have paid me a sum of money sufficient to guarantee the financial freedom necessary to pursue my life’s work.”
“So . . . Yeah?”
“Yes, Mr. Stuyvesant. You may have my notepad.”
The spell would be remarkably hard to get right. “Where did you see this one?”
“Only once. Several years ago I was taking the train to Chicago. A young man boarded and rode for a time. This particular geometry was bonded to him. I have not seen its like since, and I have seen many Actives.”
Francis put the sheet representing his Mover abilities next to the mystery Power. The new one had ten times the lines. He had no idea how that translated into real world use, but he sure hoped that guy was on their side. “What does it do?”
“I have no idea. Are you familiar with the principles relating to the creation of a geometry on a solid plane of—”
“Yeah, I can spellbind.”
“Spellbind . . . Spellbound . . .” Fuller smiled. “An interesting portmanteau. Would you mind terribly if I were to use that?”
“Why not? You seem to like sticking words together. So if I create this near a nullifier, it’ll blow it up?”
“It is the one geometry that I am aware of which in theory would do so. However, I have never attempted to activate this particular geometry myself in order to see what would happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Mr. Stuyvesant. That spell frightens me. I can extrapolate no possible explanation of what it may do. It is beyond my comprehension and has troubled my sleep at night.” The was a sudden chill wind as the door opened. “I would urge the utmost caution in its creation.”
There was a sudden shout from the bar. “Hey, watch it, jerk!” It was Chandler.
Francis looked up to see what the commotion was. His accountant had gotten up and shoved the construction worker. The big man was getting up with a look on his face that suggested Chandler was about to get pasted. “What in the world is he doing?” And then Francis realized that there were two men standing in the doorway, hands in their coat pockets, with a look that just screamed G-men.
“What’s your deal?”
“That’s right! I said your wife’s fat and ugly!” Chandler raised his fists in an exaggeratedly drunken manner, then blundered backwards into the new arrivals, distracting them. One G-man shoved Chandler, who then slugged the construction worker in the mouth. The big man hit a table and took down a pair of dockworkers. Several other toughs took the opportunity to jump in. The UBF vice president of finance began shouting, “Raid! Raid!” Which caused everyone else in the place to stand up to see what was going on. The construction worker got up, charged Chandler, missed and took one of the feds to the ground.
Most of the patrons who were sober enough to not want to get arrested ran for it. Francis stashed the notebook. “Come on, Fuller.” He got up, grabbed the Cog by the arm, and dragged him straight for the back. These places always had multiple exits in case of a police raid. The whole front of the bar had descended into a free for all. Francis looked back just long enough to make eye contact with Chandler, who winked, and then hit a sailor with a chair.
The speakeasy was in a basement. There was a brick hallway that went past the toilets, up some old metal stairs, and ended at a wooden door. Francis pushed hard and hit somebody with the door. The alley was even darker than the bar. Before his eyes could adjust, the man he’d struck took hold of Francis’ sleeve. “Stop in the name of the law!”
Francis threw out a wild surge of Power. The G-man was slammed back off of his feet, and from the racket, into a bunch of trash cans. Still pulling Fuller along, Francis ran toward the light of the street. More bar patrons were coming out behind them and there was enough noise now that the downed G-man wouldn’t be able to pick them out of the crowd. Francis turned right on the busy sidewalk and slowed to a walk.
Fuller seemed really excited. “That was interesting.”
“You’ve never seen me. You’ve never met me. You weren’t here. They’re after me, got it? And they can’t know we’ve talked. It’s for your own safety. Go home. Understand?” Fuller nodded. “Good. Keep on walking like everything is normal. I’ll be in touch.” Francis veered to the side, saw a break in traffic, and ran across two lanes of traffic. It was an obvious move, but he couldn’t let the OCI know that he’d met the man building their Dymaxions.
Sure enough, he was spotted. There was a shout as someone gave chase, then the squeal of brakes and the honking of a horn. An OCI man went sliding across the hood of a cab. Reaching the other side, Francis picked out a nearby restaurant and ran for the door. He collided with some customers that were leaving and knocked a well dressed lady on her ass. “Sorry!” Then he was through the doors, past the surprised hostess, and running between the tables of startled diners.
There was more shouting as the OCI men followed. “There he is!”
Francis spotted the swinging doors of the kitchen and barged through. Food was sizzling and fire leapt from around a pan. Several members of the staff looked at him. “Hey, you can’t be in here,” a man in a white apron shouted.
“Where’s the back door?” Francis asked.
The cook picked up a meat cleaver and pointed it at him. “Beat it!”
Francis concentrated his Power and jerked the meat cleaver from the cook’s hand. It stuck hard into the ceiling. “Exit?” The frightened cook pointed to the left. “Thanks.” Francis could see the OCI men heading his way through a porthole in the door. He ran for it, but on the way noticed several big bottles of olive oil on a shelf. He focused his Power and hurled the bottles hard against the floor. The jugs exploded into a slick mess. Francis made it to the back door just as the OCI came into the kitchen, slipping, and crashing. Suckers.
He found himself in the second alley of the night. The door closed behind him, and luckily it was metal. Francis threw a bunch of Power against the frame. It was a strain, but he twisted the metal until it creaked and bent. They wouldn’t be following him out that way.
Francis paused to catch his breath. Pershing had taught him how to keep a cool head in situations like this. How many of them were there? Which way would they be coming from? They’d be watching the streets. They’d have cars and radios. He had to give them the slip somehow. He had to maximize his advantages. There.
There was a sliding fire escape ladder leading to the apartments above. It was well out of reach . . . for those poor saps that weren’t born Movers. Francis reached out with his Power, grasped the bottom rung and pulled hard. It came sliding down. He quickly scrambled up the ladder as the OCI began beating on the kitchen door. The metal rungs were rusty and cold, and he was panting by the time he made it to the second story landing. He could almost hear Faye’s voice chiding him. Too much drinking and not enough healthy exercise.
He tried to use his Power to yank up the ladder behind him, but nothing happened. Nullifier! “Shit.” He pulled up the ladder by hand and then hit the stairs as fast as he could. He needed to get out of sight fast.
The OCI in the kitchen started shooting holes in the door trying to break the lock. It wouldn’t work, but it told him these guys were not messing around. A bullet ricocheted off the wall below and made a terrible whine as it zinged off into the night.
The building was eight stories tall. He’d never make it over the top before the OCI got to the alley. Luckily the apartment window on the fourth floor was open a tiny crack. He pushed it open, climbed through and fell onto the carpet just as headlights illuminated the alley below. He risked a peek over the edge to see several men with guns fanning out across the alley, kicking over trash cans and poking through the dumpsters. One looked up, but Francis pulled back in what he hoped was the nick of time. There were all sorts of clotheslines leading from this fire escape to the building on the other side of the alley. With any luck the fed would just think the movement he saw was some of the lines swaying in the breeze.
He was in a plain bedroom. The lights were out, nobody was inside, and the door was closed. The sound of a radio could be heard coming from the other side of the wall. He breathed and listened to the crashing and shouting below. They wouldn’t give up that easy. They’d canvas the neighborhood. Normally his Power would make a real mess of his enemies in a fight, but if they found him, that damnable nullifier would give them the advantage. He pulled out the notepad, craned it enough so that he could see the pencil lines from the reflected light, and tried to figure it out. He was fairly decent at drawing spells. He could make this work . . .
The doorknob turned. Francis hurried and crawled behind the bed. He tried to duck down as low as possible, but it wasn’t a very tall bed. The door opened and a hand reached for the light switch. Francis reached out with his Power to pop the light bulb, but forgot that it wasn’t going to work. The light came on. Shit.
“What’s going on down there?” It was a girl’s voice. Footsteps on the carpet. Francis had to shut her up and fast. She went to the window and looked down at the OCI. She was young, probably his age, but short and built thick like a fire hydrant. Francis prepared to grab her. He’d have to cover her mouth so she couldn’t scream, and then try to calm her down. “Who left this open?” and then she looked over and saw Francis coming her way.
Like a good New Yorker, she did two things without even thinking about it. First, she screamed, and second she kicked him right between the legs. Francis cried out and stumbled to the side as the girl kept on screaming. He fell over the edge of the bed and hit the floor.
“Up there!” one of the OCI shouted.
That really hurt. He just wanted to puke and die, maybe even in that order, but he got up and lurched for the door. The girl hit him with a vase and threw a shoe after him, all while screaming for help. Francis made it through the living room, found the door, and spilled out into the hall.
That was rather embarrassing. He’d fought a dojo full of Imperial Iron Guards once, and now he’d just been bested by a swift kick from a portly girl. The hall stretched in both directions. He limped toward the elevator. No, they’d expect that. “Stairs,” he gasped. Now is not a good time for stairs.
He found the stairwell and clambered down a floor. The girl had been barefoot but he felt like she’d been wearing steel-toed boots. There was a noise below as the door to the stairwell banged open. It was too late. Francis turned and went up, or as Buckminster Fuller had suggested, out from the center of gravity. Damned Cogs.
Francis could hear the heavy footfalls below. He yanked open the fifth floor door as loudly as possible and then tried to move quietly toward the sixth, hopefully they’d veer off to check that. He had to think fast. He could either hide, run, or fight. His magic wasn’t working, but he had a .45 auto and two mags inside his coat. However there were at least eight of them, maybe more. If he hid, they’d find him eventually. That left running. The buildings in this part of town were packed right on top of each other. Maybe if he made it to the roof he could jump to the next one. It was his best bet, so Francis ignored the pain and kept on running.
He was sweating profusely by the time he got to the roof. Luckily, the door was unlocked. There was a pigeon coup, some antennas, and a dried out roof garden. Francis ran over to the edge. Too far. A Brute couldn’t have leapt to the next building. Francis scrambled to the other side, but it was even worse over there. There was only a twelve foot gap between walls, but he hadn’t realized that he’d climbed up the shortest building on the block. Francis found one spot where there was a fire escape on the opposite building. It was far, but using his downward momentum he could . . . what? Rip his arms off on impact? He wasn’t Jake Sullivan.
Francis pulled the Colt .45 from his shoulder holster and thumbed off the safety. He was going to have to fight his way back to the street. He’d probably get plugged in the process. He should’ve gotten one of those vitality spells bound to him when Heinrich had, but he’d been too scared. It was one thing to risk your life on the fly, it was another thing to do it by going under a slow knife and hoping to come back out of a magical coma. If he lived through this, though, he promised himself that he’d get one for sure.
He checked his Power. Still nothing. Whoever had a Dymaxion had to be in the building below. If he had his magic, he could easily blast past these bozos . . . Francis pulled out the notepad and studied the design as he moved over and hid behind the pigeon coop. Fuller’s spell was his only hope.
Trying to burn the lines into his memory, Francis almost didn’t even hear the deep rustle of wings over the cooing of the pigeons. He looked up just as a black shape passed overhead. What now? The shape landed softly on the other side of the coop.
“Come on out, Francis. It’s over.”
It was Crow.
Whisper had said he was some sort of demon. Which meant without his magic he wouldn’t have a chance, and if Crow was using a greater Summoned, he was toast no matter what. Francis took one last desperate look at Fuller’s design. He might have it memorized enough to produce it later, but he didn’t have time to draw it now and he couldn’t let it fall into Crow’s hands. Tearing the little page out, he stuffed it in his mouth and chewed. He almost choked on the dry paper but he managed to swallow it.
Crow’s footsteps could be heard coming around the pigeon coop. His presence was scaring the hell out of the birds. “I thought about just killing you. You have no idea how tempting it is to just toss you off this building and say that you got scared and jumped . . . “
Francis circled, keeping the little structure between them. He got glimpses of Crow’s black coat through the wire. “Who said I’m scared?”
“Guilt then. Maybe a rich kid got in over his head in an Active plot and was afraid of doing hard time. I don’t know. Whatever plays better in the press. You’re scared though, Francis. I can smell your fear. Your sweet little girlfriend was braver than you are. Pert little thing, that. When this is over, maybe I’ll keep her for myself. Show her what a real man can do.”
“You’re no man.” Francis took two steps back from the coop, raised his gun and fired repeatedly. The flashes obscured his vision, but as Crow moved to the side, Francis tracked him and kept on shooting. He knew that he’d hit Crow several times. Pistol empty, Francis took another magazine from the pouch on the off side of his shoulder holster. Feathers were floating in the air. He got the mag into the well just as two massive hands landed on his shoulders.
“True, ” Crow hissed. Francis looked up into four glowing red eyes. “I’m no man. I’m better than that. You should get to know the real me.” The great black head dipped hard, and a curled ram’s horn, hard as rock, slammed into Francis’ face.
Head swimming, Francis found himself on his back, staring at grey clouds stained pink by the city lights. Blood was running into his eyes. The demon stood over him, smoke leaking from several bullet holes. He seemed to ripple, like a pebble tossed in a puddle. Francis tried to blink away the blood, and when he opened his eyes, Crow appeared human again.
Crow’s voice seemed to come from very far away as other feet crunched on the gravel around him. “Put this dirt bag in the hole with the other. We’re not done with him yet.” A black leather shoe rose over his head, descended fast, and everything went black.
