American Craftsmen (34 page)

So Roman had bought some time for us, but at too high a tactical cost. We were now exposed to craft and mundane sight.

And very mundane hearing. An alarm sirened. Scherie screamed, “Motherfucker!” Did she mean Roman?

“Ignore him,” I said, holding the elevator door open. “Can you feel Chimera?”

“Motherfuckers,” she hissed. “Trying to possess me.” She staggered out the elevator in a crouch, head darting up, down, left, right. “It’s one big fucking rape.”

Shit. Someone was wigging her out. I should have seen that their best defense was this offense. “What can you see?”

“Can’t see a fucking thing. Too fucking much.”

I looked out at the craft-colored world. I couldn’t see anything clearly, but I wasn’t blinded. Chimera’s tick-tock pulse of red magic assaulted me from all directions, its origin lost in a kaleidoscopic maze of power that burned beyond all reasonable need except deception. Scherie might be able to follow the maze, but she was staring into high beams.

So they wanted me to fail down here, out of sight, out of mind. OK. Time to send Scherie back up.

“This way,” I said. With as much gentleness as my urgency could allow, I tugged her back into the elevator. I hit the ground-floor button, and the “Close Doors” button, and said “
close
” for good measure. Then I jumped outside the door.

“What are you doing?” asked Scherie, small voiced, reaching sightless for my absence.

Another alarm went off, but the elevator stayed put. I touched the opening, and tried to feel what was wrong. Door frozen, elevator frozen, locked with metal and craft that wouldn’t be cut today, no sir.

Meanwhile, in the orgy of craft power confusing our sight, fractal magics were growing out from the walls, floor, and ceiling to contain our intruding infectious potential.
An amontillado defense
. We couldn’t stay here.

I pulled Scherie out of the elevator, breaking through the half-formed building defenses with my skill from maintaining the House. Still no other guards, but that was seconds from changing. We’d have to go for the stairwell, assuming it was near.

“What are you doing?” repeated Scherie.

“This mission is scrubbed. We’re out of here, up the stairs.”

“No.” She tugged me back. “Duty. Got to do something.”

Yes, we did, if only to cover our escape, if not free up Scherie’s sight. And, for the long shot, to kill Chimera. Why waste a good storm? I didn’t have time to calculate the EMP versus probable hardening of Chimera against it. I needed to touch a conductive wall, or even the right part of the floor, or …

There, a bulge in the granite wall plane, a telltale of an electrical panel. I expected little human resistance. The Pentagon’s sad-sack contingent of weathermen was up top, fighting against Morton craft with pissant breezes. H-ring would not stop me; though hermetically sealed against exterior craft, its interior mundane utilities were probably neglected.

I stepped away from Scherie. “I’ll need some room for this.” And she’d be fried if she touched me. I reached one hand back toward the elevator shaft, in case the bolts tried to strike down to me through it. I placed my other hand on the panel, to give the bolts a place to go. I didn’t think about my feet; proper grounding wasn’t going to help much.

Unlike much of American craft, “pulling a Franklin” required formal words, because the focus was that much more intense. The words weren’t originally American, but they were the mantra of those who wished to incarnate Prometheus. Or to become a suicidal human lightning rod.

I shut my eyes. In the skies far above, my storm chased its own tail, waiting to be whistled to heel. I called: “
Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds!
”

The total power of a bolt of lightning runs in the terawatts, the force in the gigavolts. In nature, that power is never concentrated.

I drew down three bolts at once, focused to a point.
Trinity.

I had stood near explosions before. I had never stood within one. Brightness burned inside me. The sound took time to come back, to squeeze me from all sides. I fell into darkness …

“Get up!”

… and arose to flickering emergency lights. Assisting her command, Scherie pulled me up by the arm. Her vision seemed to be better. She yelled above our shared deafness. “Goddamn it! Did you just try to kill yourself again?”

I shook my head.

“Then what’s that smell?”

I gagged on the mix of ozone, burning insulation, and burnt hair (mine). “Electrical failure.”

True enough—the regular power grid must have failed. Cameras and mundane security might be out. I felt the air, hoping for a stillness that would mean an enemy’s death. No such luck. The tick-tock pulse still permeated everything. “Let’s go.”

“Wait. For a moment, everything was clear.” She reached out her hands toward the center of H-ring. “If I can just…”

Two pairs of feet were sprinting down the dark corridor. Another pair of feet was closing from the other direction. My training was quicker than thought. I hockey-checked the distracted Scherie toward the other wall, just in time to meet the impact.

With little craft left in me, it came down to simple physics. The two men tackled me to the ground.

“Stay down, Major,” said the larger guard. “Don’t make this worse than it is.”

The smaller guard flashed a pocket light in my face. “This isn’t Endicott. Who the fuck are you?”

*   *   *

Endicott dodged down the PRECOG spoke of H-ring, then walked purposely across the cut-off corridor. He planned to come at the stairwell from the other side. A breach alarm meant something going down in the entrance area, and he’d rather fight with someone who wasn’t his father.

The usually eerie noise of the PRECOG area was eerily absent—no mumbling farseers, no restless analysts. Had something they’d seen driven them AWOL? That scary thought had come far too late to help.

He loped toward the stairwell. It took a moment in the dim uncertain light to make sure the area was clear. Then he heard a woman yell. “Fucking blind again!” The thud-smacks of physical combat sharply echoed from the elevator’s direction.

Endicott approached. Shadows danced in the strobing world up ahead. A silhouette twirled two partners: first one, then the other, then both in unison before tossing them Endicott’s way. To look on the fight from outside was outstanding, beautiful even, so joyful it must be a sin of deadliness.

Then the winning fighter moved toward Endicott. Endicott felt the ambiguous grace of the moment. “Morton. I knew it was you. Thank God you’re here!”

*   *   *

I recognized Endicott well before I heard him. I had no time for personal matters, but no rules-of-engagement hesitation. I’d have to at least knock out Endicott; more probably I’d kill him. The mission took priority; Endicott was collateral damage.

Yes, kill him!
From high above the tons of sodden earth that pressed down on this stone crypt, the Left-Hand spirits offered their usual advice.
Even a broken clock is right twice a day
, I thought. The red tick-tock magic of Chimera wasn’t helping my sanguinary mood. I’d have to do it eventually—why not now?

An arm’s length away from Endicott, I assumed a combat stance. Endicott just stood there, looking at me as if I were a confusing foreign film.

From behind me, Scherie called. “Where are you? You’re going the wrong way.”

Shit, another fucking oracle. With preternatural speed, I grabbed Endicott’s uniform. “You have one chance. Where is Chimera?”

The asshole smiled. “Back that way, like she said, just down the hall. But you may have to kill some other people first.”

“Are you one of them?”

“Hope not. Let’s move, I’ll explain as we go.”

And just like that we were stepping off the line to our doom in crisp military cadence, like when Hutch called me in for special discipline back at the academy. I hooked an arm around Scherie, who tried to keep pace without stumbling. Her head jerked as if dodging paparazzi flashbulbs, but her blindness seemed less complete.

“This guy with us?” asked Scherie.

“Seems so,” said Endicott.

“Here’s a stupid question,” I said.

“Why should you trust me?” said Endicott.

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t try to kill you. Rogue Gideons.”

“They said ‘Endicott’s orders.’”

“Yep. That’s probably right. But not me.”

“What happened to Family responsibility?”

Endicott patted his side where his sword should have hung. “I’m working on it. Oh, the head hound was Madeline Morton.”

I remembered with satisfaction where I had left Sakakawea. “Great Auntie Madeline is resting in peace.”

“Nope.”

“I killed her. Extremely dead.”

“Not according to Chimera. Tall and thin and young and here in H-ring.”

“How the hell does it know?”

“Because it’s Roderick. Or what’s left of him.”

I felt sick horror, but little surprise. “More bad Mortons as usual suspects. Sorry.”

“That’s OK. Abram, who should have slain them, is also wandering around here in another skin. You might remember him as the Red Death.”

“Hooah. Anyone else we have to kill?”

“Hope not.” Endicott looked worried about someone though. Then he lowered his voice. “What’s the mundane GF doing here?”

“Take another look.”

“Shit, she’s high craft.”

“You got a problem with that?”

Endicott extended his hand to her. “Welcome to the American Families.”

But the half-blind Scherie left him dangling. I shifted her over to between Endicott and me. “Major, stop shaming me for two seconds and lend a shoulder. She’s not seeing so well.”

Endicott got under Scherie’s other arm, and she hung between us as we marched forward. “Careful with this cross we’re bearing,” I said. I remembered Endicott’s repressed smile regarding biblical epics. “Where’s your messiah now?”

“Not ready for jokes, Mr. DeMille,” said Endicott. In the weird light, scattered forms of H-ring staffers passed. We did not look out of place in the chaos.

“So, ma’am, what can you do?” asked Endicott.

“Drive out spirits,” she said, “possessing or dead.”

Endicott whistled. “Outstanding. Sounds like a talent made for our bad guys.”

“Have to see them first,” she said.

“Right,” said Endicott. “Wondered why they were running up the craft utility bill down here. I’ll get you to Chimera, close enough to spit. We’ll hit Roderick, and hope that’ll draw the others out. Just a little farther.”

But ahead, the backlit forms of four men formed a line blocking our advance. With silent coordination, we turned. Three Enhanced Combat soldiers and a woman were lined up, blocking our retreat.

Even in the poor light, I recognized the woman. My pride at graduation, the thrill of my first mission, didn’t compare to this. “Hutch! You’re alive!”

I stepped forward, but Endicott’s arm leapt out to restrain me, leaving Scherie to stumble and feel about. Endicott whispered, “She said you tried to kill her.”

Had Hutch been playing me? Like snooping around my parents’ bedroom, but I had to do it:
Show me her sins.
Instantly, I felt the vertigo of trying to read a newspaper, only to find out that it’s in another language. I didn’t know Hutch’s sins; I had never looked. But this woman had a strange constellation of alien-looking characters that refused to resolve to plain letters. Hutch’s spirit had been seriously fucked with.

“Goddamnit,” said Scherie. “Losing it again. Not good, not good.”

Hutch nodded at us. “Captain Morton. Major Endicott. Ms. Rezvani. My orders have changed. I’m escorting you to Chimera.”

Endicott glanced at me. “Been ‘escorted’ lately?”

“We’ve got to go with her,” I said.

“We, Kemo Sabe?” asked Endicott.

“We’ve been out of
touch
,” I said, punctuating the key words as if they were parts of spells. “I’d like her to meet
Scherie
.”

“When we get the
time
,” said Endicott, picking up on the code.

“I’ll let you know.”

Hutch smiled, but showed no other emotion at seeing me again, not even a handshake with her slingless arm. Instead, she and her three ENCOMs made a diamond around us, and shepherded us through the line of four barring the way to Chimera. With Hutch leaning on her cane, we didn’t move at her usual brisk pace. Hutch’s injuries had a familiar pattern, if I could only remember where …

“Shit shit shit! Blind blind blind!” In counterpoint to the H-ring alarm, Scherie sounded off like a schizo Tourette’s siren; our escorts didn’t seem to care.

“The airlock is about thirty meters ahead,” said Endicott. We turned the corner between the countercraft and black ops facets. A door sign said “Office of Technical Management.” In front of the OTM door stood two technicians.

Endicott pulled Scherie’s weight away from me. “Seen any interesting immorality lately?”

I couldn’t see what had set off Endicott, but instantly followed the order. Again I thought,
Show me their sins.

It only took a second of burning neon letters. I saw those nearest to me first. Endicott had a shitload of Pride, but it didn’t appear that attempted murder was on his soul. Our guards had some nice but conventional transgressions. Hutch I already knew about; what the hell could Endicott be getting at?

“Tall and thin,” Endicott had said. And here in H-ring.

Then, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the technicians. They seemed to avoid my attention like Roman avoided sight. The male tech was a Times Square of exotic transgressions, variations on soul torture and mental rape, much like Sakakawea had been.

But the woman tech had the exact same sins as Sakakawea. A fingerprint of the soul, and a dead match for Auntie Madeline.

Hutch gestured at the techs with her less injured arm. “These two will guide you to Chimera’s interface. No, Major, not where you had your previous discussion. Please hurry. We don’t have much time.”

“Hypothetically…” I started.

“I’ve got no fucking idea,” said Endicott, reading everything he needed to know in my face. “You had something in mind before?”