Hard Magic (29 page)

Their plan was almost complete.

Mar Pacifica, California

Arrangements had been made
to take the General’s body into the city for transport to Arlington for burial. By the next day, word would spread over the wires, and the entire nation would mourn the loss of one of their greatest heroes.

And they only knew the half of it,
Sullivan thought bitterly. He wasn’t sure if it was the recent shock of Pershing’s memories that caused him to be so angry at the powers that be and their isolationist blindness, or if it was his own memories. Either way, he had a job to do, and with a rock breaker’s dedication, he knew it was going to get done.

The American Grimnoir were taking their leader’s loss hard. Command fell to John Moses Browning until the Society’s elders appointed someone else. Sullivan could tell that Browning didn’t want the responsibility. He was very old, but he’d fulfill his duty. Sullivan could respect that.

They had called a meeting, and the group had gathered around a long rectangular table. Browning stood at the head, exhausted and drained. At his right hand was the stocky Lance Talon, on his left was the bespectacled Dan Garrett. Of the others, he knew Heinrich well, but he only knew the kid, Francis, from when he’d kneecapped him. Delilah had come down and sat directly across from him, but she’d only greeted him with the slightest of nods. Jane was the most distraught by the previous day’s events, but had still joined them. She sat next to Dan, who was discreetly holding her hand under the table. The last person to join them was the young girl who had shot him in the back then saved his life.

She was an odd one. Thin, gawky, with hair like wet straw, and the strangest grey eyes he’d ever seen. She held out one little hand to him in greeting. He took it, surprised that she had calluses that would make anyone running a pickax at Rockville proud. “You look just like your brother, only not evil. Sorry about murdering you.”

“Attempted murder,” he corrected her.

“Oh, no, you were totally dead when I found you under the magic jellyfish,” she smiled. “Good thing you followed me back. I’m Sally Faye Vierra. You can call me Faye.” She took her seat.

Browning got right down to business. “I have received a message from the Grimnoir elders. We are to take no action until we receive further orders.”

“We’ve been sitting on our asses for too long,” Lance complained.

Browning frowned, obviously not liking foul language, but used to working with Lance. “What would you have us do?”

“We need to get out there, find Bob Southunder, and get the last piece of the Tesla device.”

Sullivan paid careful attention. The General had been certain that one of these people had betrayed them to the Chairman.

“Only nobody, not even the General, knows where Southunder went,” Garrett pointed out. “We have no idea how to reach him, or even if he’s alive or dead. How are we supposed to find him?”

I can . . .
Sullivan thought, realizing that he knew exactly how to find the man. Pershing had kept that secret as his ace. He kept his mouth shut.

“If the Chairman already had the last piece, then we’d know as soon as he fired it,” Browning said. “We have to assume Southunder is still alive.”

Faye raised her hand. “What about my Grandpa’s piece?”

Browning shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, the part that was taken by Madi was the complex piece. What you have is not that important, and the Chairman’s Cogs should have no problem replacing it.”

“Oh . . .” Faye stared at the table. “Shoot.”

“Who let her out?” Heinrich asked.

“I did,” Browning said. “The General Read her. She’s no Shadow Guard.”

“I only shot Mr. Sullivan because he looks just like his big brother, Mr. Madi.”

There was a rustle as most of the Grimnoir turned to Sullivan in surprise. He stared back at them coolly. “Yeah . . . Got a problem?”

“Jake, is this true?” Delilah asked.

Madi is the one that killed her dad.
“He is, but I didn’t know he’d fallen in with the Imperium till yesterday. He disappeared on AEF Siberia. I hoped he’d either died or settled down somewhere. Can’t say I’m surprised though. It suits him.” Delilah looked away, seemingly stunned by that revelation, and his stomach lurched.

“Your brother . . . is
the
Madi?” the kid, Francis, asked. “He’s the most powerful of the Iron Guards!”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “You can’t choose your relatives, kid.”

Francis turned red with embarrassment. “Yes . . . of course . . . sorry.”

Browning continued. “It’s fine, Francis. Despite the General’s issues with your family, we’ve been able to make good use of this estate. We needed a place where we could keep the General safe during his illness. Now, I imagine we’ll need to be on the move again for our own safety. I have received word that the elders will be sending a new commander. I will step down as soon as he arrives.”

“That ain’t right,” Lance said.

“Those are the orders. In the meantime, we are to do nothing, not even give the oath to any new members . . .” he dipped his bald head toward the end of the table that held Sullivan, Delilah, and Faye. “My apologies. If you wish to join the Society, you will need to be interviewed by the new commander. Otherwise, you will be asked to leave our protection. It is out of my hands.”

***

Faye did not know what to make of this news. She had barely known Mr. Pershing, but he’d immediately accepted her like Grandpa had. He’d even taken the time to Read her mind and share some of his own memories with her. It had been especially fun to see Grandpa as a brave younger man. Some of the other memories had been strange, and she was still trying to figure out why he’d shared some of those with her.

Browning continued talking, answering the others’ questions. They weren’t happy. Faye could tell that they were like her. They wanted to take action, not wait around for someone else to tell them what to do.

She looked over at Mr. Sullivan. He seemed nice. He reminded her of a mature bull, big and strong, but not with a lot of snorting and kicking up dirt. Quiet, like he didn’t need to show off. You could tell he was powerful just by looking at him. She still felt bad for shooting him. Delilah would watch him quietly every time Mr. Sullivan turned away, playing it shy, which didn’t seem like Delilah at all, but Faye didn’t pretend to understand such things.

She didn’t like that part about not being allowed to be a Grimnoir, but that didn’t matter to her. It was just a name. She had some promises to keep, and that included avenging her Grandpa, and killing Mr. Madi and his boss. The servants brought in food, and she dreamed absently about how she was going to shoot the correct Sullivan next time as she ate. She could get used to having servants.

When the meeting was over and everyone was dispersing and that scary German who had shot her in the heart was watching her suspiciously, she caught Lance by the arm and followed him outside. “Will you still keep teaching me how to fight?”

He stopped, thinking hard. “You didn’t keep your promise.”

“No murdering without good reasons . . .” Faye sighed. “I’ll try harder this time.”

Lance grinned through his bushy beard. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

***

Browning had sent a servant to have Sullivan meet him alone in his workshop. It had only taken a moment of looking into the butler’s vacant expression to realize he was a Summoned, easily the most human-appearing one that he’d ever seen, but a Summoned nonetheless. It made perfect sense considering the Grimnoir’s apparent fixation on secrecy.

The butler-creature led him to a room filled with machinery and left him at the entrance. Sullivan paused to admire the racks of beautiful weapons. He ran his finger down a perfectly engraved Auto-5, then a polished over-under, then he stopped to gawk at what must have been an early prototype of the deadly Browning Automatic Rifle. He whistled.

“So, you are an enthusiast?” Browning said, hunched over a workbench, a tiny part in one hand as he worked it over carefully with a round file.

“I grew up with one of your Winchester rifles, used it to put food on the table, an 1895 that my daddy brought back from Cuba. It even had the bayonet, but he never did let me use that on any deer,” he chuckled. “You could say that I’m a fair hand with a gun. Got mighty handy with a Lewis during the war.”

Browning did not look up from his work. “Colonel Lewis designed a fine weapon.”

Sullivan wandered around the end of the rack to another filled with guns that he did not recognize. “May I?”

“Of course.” Browning held up the part to the light and nodded in satisfaction.

Sullivan picked up a short weapon, and was surprised at its weight. At first he thought it was a BAR missing its stock, but rather the action was where the stock should be, enclosed in a housing so he could mount it to his shoulder like a proper stock. There was a pistol grip forward of the magazine. He realized that his face would rest on the leather pad on top of the receiver for a cheek-weld. “Interesting . . .” It made the overall weapon about a foot shorter, but still with a barrel length sufficient to generate good velocity. “No wasted space, but dang if you don’t want to shoot that one left-handed . . . You’d eat brass.”

“The English requested that. They called it a bullpup. Overall length is significantly shorter, plus it has improvements to the gas system and bolt. It is the BAR model of 1929, but it was never submitted since I suffered a
fatal
heart attack . . .”

He hefted the stubby weapon. Lighter, no bipod, it would have been much nicer in the close confines of a trench than his massive Lewis gun, though not nearly as good for laying down sustained fire. It even fired the same powerful cartridge. “It’s weird, but I like it.”

“This one has been personally worked over, including the addition of minor spells of durability and accuracy. Five hundred rounds a minute, feeding from twenty-or thirty-round box magazines. There is a case for it behind the counter. It has a Maxim silencer that can be attached to the muzzle, much quieter, though it does get rather hot . . . I would like for you to have it.”

Sullivan paused. “Really?”

Browning nodded as he took the metal part and slid it into a pistol frame followed by a pin to lock it in place. “I know that you will be leaving us shortly. I’ve known Black Jack for many years, and he wasn’t quite the cipher that he thought he was. I know that he had a special assignment for you, something so important that he did not dare tell any of his longtime associates . . . The least I can do is make sure you are as well equipped as possible.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He watched as Browning’s hands flew about in a blur, quickly assembling a pistol. Browning may have been old, but he’d done this millions of times. He continued working as he spoke, “I hail from a persecuted people, Mr. Sullivan. My family was driven from place to place. We would build a home, only to be forced out by mobs and murderers. I’ve seen persecution firsthand. That is why I joined the Society. I became a knight of the Grimnoir because no one should have to bear such cruel treatment.” He worked the slide several times and checked the trigger, nodding in satisfaction. “Excellent.”

Sullivan did not recognize the pistol. It looked like the old favored 1911 that he’d broken, only fatter, and with a concealed hammer. Dozens of tiny designs had been hand carved into the metal grips.

“I have lived a very long time. The last few years have been on borrowed time thanks to magical Healing. Yet, even in my old age, I’ve yet to see the end of violence against the innocent . . . I provide the weapons to prevent such things. Whatever task Black Jack gave you, Mr. Sullivan, please do not let him down.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered as Browning passed the pistol over. He took it tenderly. It even felt like his old 1911, just thicker, which was more comfortable in his big hand. The sights were bigger and easier to see than he was used to. It felt like it had been made for him.

“The M1921, designed for Army Brutes, except the contract was cancelled. Based on my 1908, only with fourteen rounds of .45 automatic in a staggered column magazine. It is the only one of its kind, so please do not lose it. There are twenty magazines in the box on that top shelf. I will provide ammunition, as well as any supplies you need, including money. J. Edgar Hoover has been sent a telegram stating that the Army has requested your services at the American Battle Monuments Commission. Unfortunately, the Army will require you to be out of the country and unable to communicate for the foreseeable future. If anyone asks, you are detailed to the staff of one Colonel Eisenhower. Hoover will not like it, but the General had many friends. Do you still have his ring?”

He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “I do.”

“I believe he would want you to keep it. You will need it as a full member of the Grimnoir Society. Should you accept, I will administer the oath to you before you leave. It will provide a small measure of magical protection.”

“I thought that your bosses said no new members?”

“Bureaucrats are the same in every endeavor, even Magical ones. I do not know what your assignment is, but I will not have Black Jack’s dying wish denied because of me. When will you be departing?”

Sullivan thought about it for a moment as he inspected the pistol. He needed to get to Southunder as fast as possible, but he’d started on this quest for personal reasons, and he wasn’t the type of man who left things unfinished. “I’ve got one last thing to do.”

Lick Hill, California

Madi folded his arms
and rested them across the roof of the automobile. The summer sun beat down on him. Across the fields of waving yellow grass and small hills sat the power plant; beyond the smoking stacks was a ravine, and then the largest hill in the area. The narrow steel-strut tower that rose from the plant seemed somehow too tall. In a way, it was every bit as unnatural as he, an aberration in the laws of physics, created from wild Cog imaginings.