The Destroyer of Worlds (14 page)

Chapter 9 - I Am Become Death

Anno Domini 2012

Wycliffe watched the images flickering on the monitor.

A slender blonde reporter raised her hand, and President-Elect Jones nodded from behind the microphone-studded podium. “Yes, your question?” 

“Concerning certain Cabinet appointments,” said the reporter, making notes on her iPad. “Is it true that the Gracchan Party’s largest donors are receiving Cabinet posts?”

Wycliffe tapped the microphone on his collar. “Laugh,” he commanded, putting a touch of the Voice into his words. “Politely. And for God’s sake don’t touch your earpiece.”

Jones chuckled and shook his silver-haired head. “Madam, I can assure you…” He paused for thought, looking both presidential and magisterial. 

“Those rumors are false,” said Wycliffe. “The Gracchan Party has received substantial donations in recent months, yes. However, the presidential campaign was funded entirely out of my pockets and Vice President Wycliffe’s pockets.” Jones repeated the statement word for word. “While the Democrats and the Republicans may give Cabinet posts to the highest bidders…or should I say donors,” Jones’s delivery got a laugh, “that will not be the practice of the Gracchan Party. Instead, we shall find the ablest man or woman for the particular post.” Wycliffe waited until Jones had finished. “A search that may still take some time. No further questions today. Thank you all for your time, and God bless America.”

The reporters applauded, and Wycliffe rolled his eyes. Jones walked away from the podium and disappeared from the camera’s eye. Wycliffe turned his gaze to a different screen, one that displayed the hallway through the office building. “Now, come back to the control room in 13A and find me. At once, I might add. Don’t dither.” The Voice added force to the last command. Jones jerked and hurried forward, vanishing from the monitor. 

Wycliffe chuckled and leaned back in his chair. The press conference had gone better than he had hoped. Now that Jones was President-Elect, the public could not see Wycliffe taking a dominant role. So he needed Jones for another year or two yet. Let Jones get some programs going, start pushing legislation through Congress. Let Jones fight the political battles, sully his hands with the dirty business of governance. 

And let Jones take the assassin’s bullet at the opportune time. 

Then Wycliffe would take over and ride the wave of popular sympathy for poor martyred Jones. 

Assuming Marugon did not ruin everything, of course.

Wycliffe bit his lip and got to his feet. Krastiny and Goth-Mar-Dan had been gone for four days, as had Kurkov. Wycliffe paced to the warehouse’s main floor, looking over the stacked crates and containers. What was Wycliffe going to do with all this weaponry?

What if Goth failed? The worst of the investigation into Marugon’s rampage had passed, but what if Goth brought more trouble on Wycliffe’s head? But it did seem unlikely that Goth would fail. He had been stalking victims in Chicago for years. The police had never come close to the truth. Wycliffe doubted that they ever would. 

“But how long,” muttered Wycliffe, pacing in a slow circle, “does it take to kill one girl?”

He looked at the rows of meat freezers lined up against the wall. Still, if things went sour, he still had the changelings at his command, over five hundred of them. Any government agent or police officer would receive an unwelcome surprise, should they try to inspect Wycliffe’s compound. And the winged demons remained in residence here. Though Wycliffe did not trust them, they would give any undesirable visitors a warm welcome. 

Wycliffe sighed, staring at the meat freezers. He wondered if he could unleash all the changelings on Marugon at once. Perhaps they could surprise and overwhelm him before he loosed his powers. Wycliffe dismissed the idea with a snort. Even if it worked, the winged demons would kill him. 

The scuff of a shoe against concrete interrupted his musings. Senator Jones staggered out of the security room, his face gaunt and haggard.

Wycliffe frowned. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the control room?”

“You weren’t there,” said Jones, his voice almost a whine, “and you told me to find you.” 

“Oh.” Wycliffe frowned. “God, you look terrible. We’ve got to get you some better makeup. We can’t have you looking half dead.”

“I feel half-dead,” said Jones. “Thomas, I’m not a young man. I can’t keep this pace. Two press conferences already today. And then I’m supposed to give a speech and a dinner address.” He stepped forward and tried to grip Wycliffe’s arm, but Wycliffe’s glare sent him a step back. “I need to rest. You’ll wear me out with work. I’ll suffer a heart attack.”

Perhaps that was the better approach. Wycliffe had risked so much already. Maybe he should take the prudent course and let Jones die of enforced overwork? No one could trace that back to him. 

Jones went even paler. “You’re…you’re considering it. Oh my God. You’re…you’re planning to let me die.”

Wycliffe scoffed. “You’re being ridiculous, Mr. President.” Besides, if Jones died of a heart attack, the stigma of ill health would fall over his successor. No, better to let an assassin’s bullet take Jones. Perhaps during a State of the Union address…

“You’re going to kill me.” Jones began to shake, his voice small and reedy. “You’re going to kill me.” 

“Don’t be absurd. Haven’t I spent the last year getting you elected?” Wycliffe’s lip curled in disgust. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to see a man your age weep?” He summoned the Voice and poured the black magic into his words. “Go back to your rooms and sleep. I’ll send someone to rouse you when it’s time for your speech.” Wycliffe had found it expedient to keep Jones here. He did not want the broken old man out of his reach for an instant. “Go, already! I have better things to do besides watching you whine.”

Jones stalked away, his hunched shoulders shaking. 

Wycliffe sighed and returned to the security room. He dropped into the chair, watched the monitors, and made sure Jones returned to his room. Wycliffe considered returning to his office and dismissed the idea. Warehouse 13A was secure, and Wycliffe could keep an eye on the compound through the security cameras. And the Internet, television, and telephone would allow him to monitor the political situation. He could rule the nation from here like a spider in a web of telecommunications, with Jones and the Gracchan Party as his mouthpiece. 

And most of all, the bunker would provide a needed refuge should the situation turn dangerous. 

He sat back and considered Cabinet appointments. Despite Jones’s speech, most of the posts would go to Gracchan loyalists, men and women Wycliffe had conditioned with the Voice. Some appointments would have to go to token Republicans and Democrats, but a few sessions with the Voice would transform them into loyal Gracchans.

A shiver of excitement went through him as he considered the possibilities. No one in American politics, or on Earth, had anything to match the potential of the Voice of the black magic. Wycliffe could do anything he wanted. He could become a shadow king, ruling the United States and the world from behind the scenes, keeping the fiction of a republican government in place. Or he could become a beloved magnate, a political titan, ruling through the system, manipulating it to his will. In either case, he would have as many women and as much money as he wanted. 

Now if only Marugon didn’t ruin everything…

The beeping of the control board’s phone jerked into his musings. Wycliffe scowled and picked it up. “What?” 

“Sir,” said the gate guard, “there’s a…gentleman here who demands to see you.” 

Wycliffe pecked at the control board, and the central monitor shifted to show the front gate. The guard sat at his booth, looking irritated. A small U-Haul truck idled before the gate, the driver leaning out the window. Wycliffe zoomed the camera on the driver. 

Vasily Kurkov gave the camera the finger. 

Wycliffe sighed. “Let him in. Tell him to come directly to the warehouse 13A. Third truck dock. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said the gate guard, sounding confused. “But…”

“Less talking, more sending,” said Wycliffe. The U-Haul truck rumbled through the opening gate. Wycliffe got up and strode into the warehouse floor as the U-Haul truck drove inside and parked besides a stack of crates. 

Vasily Kurkov opened the door and slid out. 

Wycliffe burst out laughing. 

Kurkov scowled and lit a cigarette. “Is something funny?”

Wycliffe shook his head. “Not at all.” Kurkov wore battered blue jeans, a flannel jacket, and scuffed cowboy boots. “That’s a splendid trucker disguise, that’s all.” 

“Wiseass,” said Kurkov, puffing on the cigarette. “All my pains on your behalf, and you still mock me.”

“My apologizes,” said Wycliffe. He hesitated. “So…do you have it?”

Kurkov grinned. “What do you think?”

Wycliffe stepped back. “Is it dangerous? Is it leaking radiation?”

Kurkov scoffed. “It’s a nuclear bomb. Of course it is dangerous. But leaking radiation? That is silly. I’ve been driving with the thing for the last two days.” He tugged at his greasy hair. “Does it look like my hair has fallen out?”

Wycliffe shook his head. “Though it could use a bath.”

“Funny,” said Kurkov. He walked around to the back of the truck and pushed the door up. “Come here and look at this.”

Wycliffe peered into the back of the truck. A mixture of old furniture, dusty clothes, and cardboard boxes littered the truck. He frowned with impatient, his eyes wandering over dust and mothballs…

His heart skipped a beat. 

In the corner, under a battered table, sat a large black metal box. It was the size of a large steamer trunk, or perhaps a child’s coffin. 

“Is that it?” said Wycliffe. Kurkov nodded. “It’s…smaller than I thought.” 

Kurkov grinned, ground out his cigarette, and clambered into the truck. “That mad Pakistani was a pain in the ass, but he knew his business.” He grunted and pushed the trunk to the edge. “Help me with this.” Wycliffe looked at him askance. Kurkov snorted. “Or do you want to call the baggage handlers, explain to this to them?”

Wycliffe grunted. “No, no. You’re right.” He grabbed the end of the box.

“Careful,” said Kurkov, climbing down and lifting the other end. “It’s heavy. Wouldn’t want to drop it, would we?” 

“Oh, funny,” said Wycliffe. They strained, lifted, and deposited the bomb onto a nearby flatbed cart. Wycliffe wheezed and wiped sweat from his brow. He had gotten out of shape during the campaign. “That is heavy.” 

Kurkov smirked. “Yes. So very heavy. Now, shall we go tell Lord Marugon, so I can receive payment?” 

“Come along,” said Wycliffe, waving Kurkov to the elevator. They rode it down to the bunker and entered the library. Marugon still sat hunched over the table, muttering spells of the black magic, his fingers tracing sigils in the air. The metal disk hovered a foot over the table, intricate circles of tightly wound black runes marking its surface. The thing looked both beautiful and hideous. 

Wycliffe stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Lord Marugon.” 

Marugon looked up, his eyes dark and deep. “Yes?”

Wycliffe gestured at Kurkov. “He has returned with the bomb.”

A strange expression of mixed fear and elation and weariness crossed Marugon’s face, and disappeared once more behind his iron mask. “Has he? Has he, indeed?”

Kurkov nodded. “I have.”

Marugon stood. “So. After so long. It comes to the end.” His lips quirked, as if at a bitter joke. “Show me.” He waved a hand. The disk floated up and followed him.

“This way,” said Wycliffe. “It’s on the main floor.” They returned to the warehouse, the disk floating behind Marugon, and Wycliffe led the Warlock to the bomb. 

“Yes,” said Marugon, gazing down at the black box. “Yes, this is it.”

Kurkov grinned. “Obtained at great expense, effort, and difficulty, but now standing here at your disposal.” He smirked. “Just give us some warning before you use it, yes?”

No one laughed. 

Marugon made a quick gesture. The disk began to circle around him, sweeping in broad arcs. Something like black light flickered around its runes. “How does it work? How is it detonated? Tell me?”

Kurkov flipped open the case’s lid. Four switches stood in a row, besides a slot for a key and a digital timer. “This is how it works. First, you take this key,” he handed the key to Marugon, “stick it into the slot, and turn. The display will light up, and lights will go on over each of the switches. Then you must flip each of these switches in sequence, one after another. After you flip each switch, you’ll hear a chime. Once all four switches have been flipped, the display will flash. After they do, remove the key,” Kurkov mimed the motion, “and the detonation timer is locked on. The only way to stop it is to turn the key again. The timer runs for twenty-five minutes, and then…boom. Big boom.”

Marugon scowled. “A timer? Is there no way to make the bomb explode immediately?”

Kurkov blinked. “Um, no. The Pakistani scientist was used to building bombs for wealthy terrorist groups, the sorts that don’t blow themselves up with their bombs. The timer’s wired into the bomb.” He laughed. “Why wouldn’t you want a timer with your bomb, Lord Marugon? Surely you do not wish to blow yourself up with your own bomb, yes?”

Marugon said nothing. 

“Ah…you aren’t going to blow yourself up with this, are you?” said Wycliffe. The thought did not distress Wycliffe a great deal. But he wanted to make certain he was many miles away, preferably worlds away, when Marugon set off the bomb.

Marugon ignored him, staring at the bomb. The disk whipped faster and faster around him. “Years of labor and toil. At now, at last, it is at hand. After so long.” He shuddered, and a half-mad smile spread over his lips. “Yes, very long, indeed.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Wycliffe. 

Marugon leveled his hand and muttered a spell. “Of course you don’t. You don’t have the capacity to understand.” The disk jerked to a halt, hovering above the bomb. Marugon reached down and closed the lid. “Robert Oppenheimer.”