Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone (32 page)

A chunk of something hard grazed Harlequin’s head. He raced toward her, felt Crucible’s hand grab his collar, yank him backward. The room shook. There was a sudden shattering of glass, and Harlequin caught something giant bounce off the building’s exterior and plummet earthward. He shook off Crucible’s grip, started toward Grace again, but suddenly the room had gone dark, his eyes stinging and his nose and mouth clogged with dust so thick he could hardly draw breath. He coughed violently, and at last Crucible threw himself over him as the rest of the ceiling came down, burying them all.

Chapter Seventeen

Old Friends

Laws, both civil and religious, are a veneer. They exist to impose a position on that majority of a population who has no hand in making them. Magic is haram in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. And yet a strange storm disperses a major protest no less than five times in a period of three months. Let’s apply Occam’s razor here. Is almighty God intervening on behalf of the king? Or is there an Aeromancer tucked away in the Mabahith building, telling himself he bears a heavy burden to keep his country safe? What do leaders do when their own laws bar them from greater heights of power? They break them.

—Walid al Ghamdi (alias)
Arab Youth Blog

Harlequin flew north again, this time up Hudson Street on the city’s west side. The ruin below him was oddly quiet, but Harlequin knew that the majority of the enemy was drawn off and pressing the barricade hard to the north, confident that the Whispering had done its work.

Cormack’s voice came across the commlink. ‘Sir, you left without an escort again. That didn’t work out so well last time.’

‘You got a bird to spare?’

Cormack’s silence was answer enough.

‘We’re getting calls from Barricade One. They’re getting hit hard, sir.’

‘Downer will have to hold it for now. One more Aeromancer isn’t going to make a difference.’

‘Are you headed back to the
Limpiado
enclave, sir? They’re not going to . . .’

‘The other clear zone. Hoping they might be more amenable.’

‘Sir, they’re not likely to be members of your fan club.’

‘I’m not seeing a lot of other options right now. If I’m not back in an hour . . . well . . . tell Gatanas and work with General Bookbinder. Win this thing.’

A pause, then, ‘Good luck, sir. Godspeed.’

‘Thanks, Harlequin out.’

Harlequin felt the currents long before the cleared zone came into view. There were goblin corpses littered about the Terramantic barricades, the result of some failed push since the last time he’d been there. Otherwise, the streets looked the same – clean, peaceful, and empty.

Harlequin flew directly over the first barricade, then sped down as fast as he could. If they were going to Suppress him, let them do it on the ground. He hit the pavement and jogged a few steps, cupping his hands to his mouth. ‘Come out! Come out, damn it! I need your help!’

Silence. Wind blew garbage across the scarred leather of his boots. A door slammed somewhere.

‘Come out!’ he shouted. ‘It’s just me! What can I do?’

The question hit home. ‘What can I do?’ he asked again, softly.

He could feel the eyes on him, at least half a dozen magical currents reaching out, touching his own, pulling back. They knew he was here.

‘Come out,’ he whispered.

Whispering in the shadows, some hushed argument, then a voice said, ‘Well, well. Looks like Christmas came early.’

Harlequin recognized the voice.

A man stepped into the street. He was tall, thin. Ropy muscle bunched beneath a black leather vest. His mop of black hair had been long since shaved, but Harlequin recognized the scarred mess of a tattoo on his chest. It had once shown a swallow in flight.

Swift.

The Aeromancer looked exhausted. Swift had been a pot of simmering rage, leading a band of committed anti-SOC recalcitrants, refusing all attempts to retrain them. They’d called themselves the No-No Crew after their firm answer to the two pledges of allegiance the SOC required all SASS inmates to make before being released. Now his eyes were heavy with grief, his shoulders slumped. He leaned against the brick façade of a building and folded his arms across his chest. Harlequin’s heart sank. There might be a Selfer in this world less likely to help him, but he couldn’t think of one.

‘Figured you’d show up sooner or later,’ Swift said.

‘You did?’ He shouldn’t have been surprised to find him here. The Houston Street Gang had been splintered, but they hadn’t caught every single one.

‘Who else would they put in charge of this shit show?’

‘I thought you were still in the Source with Oscar Britton.’

‘What’s for me there? Scratching a living out of the earth with the goblins? No thanks. This is my home. This plane.’ His eyes flashed.

‘Scylla feels the same way.’

‘She’s not wrong. This was always your basic problem, Harlequin, you never understood that you’re not the only person willing to die for something. We’re not going to let the SOC run our lives.’

‘So you’ll let Scylla do it?’

‘You’re the company man. You always saw the world that way. Good guys or bad guys. With us or against us. Doesn’t work that way. We’re not for Scylla, and we’re not for the SOC.’

‘What are you for, then?’

‘What you claim to be for: freedom. Real liberty. Not the bullshit you talk about in campaign speeches. Self-determination. Never understood why that was so complicated for you.’

Harlequin felt the magical currents around him growing closer. Faces began to appear in the alleyways and windows. He recognized more than a few. Flicker, his head shaved as bald as Britton’s, stylized red-and-orange flames sweeping across the surface. Spur, so tall that Harlequin had to tilt his head to see the former basketball player’s face. Guinevere, still in her smart business suit, though it was covered in dust and smeared with blood.

He recognized each face from a targeting dossier, Selfers he’d spent his career hunting. He could feel the intensity of their currents, boosted by the anger kindled at the sight of their old enemy.

‘You gotta be out of your mind coming here,’ Flicker said. ‘You got a death wish?’

Swift waved a hand, looking more tired than ever. ‘I had my chance to kill him. It won’t bring Shai and Kadija back.’

Harlequin could still remember lying on his back, Swift’s twitching face behind the gun, ready to pull the trigger.
I am going to kill you,
Swift had repeated over and over again.
I am going to kill you.
That man, that fury, was long gone. ‘I didn’t kill your girlfriend, Swift, I . . .’

‘You were just doing your job.’ Swift sighed. ‘Collateral damage. It’s always collateral damage, isn’t it? Nobody is ever responsible.’ He waved in the direction of the ruins of the Trump Tower, spire smoking in the street, God knew how many corpses buried beneath.

Those eight Marines were just doing their job, too. Getting in the way of something important. Now they’re dead just like Swift’s girlfriend and baby. And you’re alive. Funny how it always works out that way.

Harlequin’s throat swelled. His shoulders slumped to match Swift’s.
It’s on you even when you’re doing it for the greater good. You make the call, you own the consequences
. Harlequin tried to fight against the realization, to repeat his mantra:
Eight lives against thirty thousand.
But those numbers didn’t add up to every Selfer he’d brought down, every innocent caught in the blast. He’d taken those lives. No one else.

‘I’m sorry.’ Harlequin’s voice was thick.

‘That doesn’t bring them back either,’ Swift said. ‘What do you want, Harlequin?’

Harlequin knew he should turn on his TV personality. Now was the time to deliver an oratory that would convince Swift of his need, of the need of everyone who would suffer if Scylla won the day. But he looked into Swift’s eyes, saw deep grief instead of the fury that had once burned there. He’d hated the old Swift, but this new man was his making. Just like those Marines. Just like Scylla herself. His throat closed, his mind seized.

‘What do you want?’ Swift repeated.

‘Don’t you know?’

‘We’re not helping you.’

‘Damn right we’re not,’ Flicker said.

‘Shut up,’ Swift said to him, some of the old fire returning. Flicker tensed, but held his peace.

‘You run the show now,’ Harlequin said. ‘Since Big Bear . . .’ Another murder. The former leader of the Houston Street Gang had been captured, interrogated, and replaced with a Physiomancer talented enough to impersonate him.

‘Don’t try to flatter me,’ Swift said. ‘I’m not going to kill you, Harlequin, but I’ll be damned if I’ll save your bacon.’

‘It’s Scylla out there, Swift. You know her. You know her game. What are you going to do if we lose? You want to live in a city ruled by
Gahe
and goblins? That’s so much better than the way things are now?’

‘Can’t be worse.’

‘Yes, Swift. It can. Much worse.’

‘We’re not the SOC; we can work out a deal with her.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘You don’t know her.’

Grace, curled beneath his arm, gently kissing his chest. ‘I know her better than you think.’

‘She used to talk about you. Back at Channel,’ Guinevere said. She’d worked with Grace, back before Scylla. A different time. A different life.

Harlequin shook his head. ‘Grace is dead. This is someone else.’

Guinevere sighed. ‘Whatever gets you through the day. Is there no way to talk to her?’

‘What can be said now? The death toll’s even higher than it was when she ran. Half the city is laid waste. She owes for that.’

‘You owe for that,’ Swift said.

‘I know,’ Harlequin said. ‘You think I don’t know? Why do you think I’m trying to save this fucking city? For the landmarks?

‘I tried with Grace . . . I . . . didn’t know. I didn’t know what she was.’

‘What is she?’ Swift asked. ‘Is it really so crazy for her to try to overthrow the regime that’s locked us down? The woman has a point, Harlequin. I’m not saying I like her style, but her message rings true.’

‘Whatever I’ve done,’ Harlequin said, ‘there are eight million people in this city. Help us. I’ll work for a pardon. Downer’s already helping. If you meet us halfway . . .’

‘Sarah Downer’s helping? You put a bomb in her chest, too?’

‘She’s helping because she wants a shot at amnesty.’

‘She honestly believes she’ll get it?’

‘She honestly will.’
You can’t promise that. You don’t know what the president will say.
But he could feel the weight of Scylla’s army at his back. If there was anything he could say to convince Swift to help him, he would say it. It was truth enough.

Swift turned, bent his head to Guinevere’s, whispering.

He turned to face Harlequin. ‘Send her here. Let her tell me herself.’

‘She’s pinned down in the fighting. We need her where she is.’

Swift shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sure. Well, good luck with everything.’

‘Okay, okay. I’ll ask her. And I need to talk to someone, too.’

Swift spread his arms. ‘We’re all here, Harlequin, at least all who survived the scouring after you killed Big Bear.’

‘You know who I’m talking about.’

‘Oscar Britton’s not with us.’

‘Downer told us how you kept in touch before. Do you honestly expect me to believe you’re not in touch with him now?’

Swift folded his arms and said nothing.

‘Please,’ Harlequin said. ‘I know him. I know he’ll help. Just ask him. Just tell him I asked. Let him know what’s at stake.’

‘Send Downer,’ Swift said. ‘Alone. I don’t want you looking over her shoulder while we talk. And she needs to come today.’

‘Please . . .’

‘Enough,’ Swift said. ‘Get out of here.’

Harlequin turned and launched skyward, speeding his way back to Battery Park. As he approached the perimeter, he radioed the access point, but no one answered. He guessed they hadn’t had time to recover yet and tried Cormack.

‘Sir?’

‘Inbound. Check your fire to the northwest.’

‘Respectfully, sir? We don’t have overwatch reconstituted yet. You’re clear.’

‘Damn it.’

‘We’re dancing as fast as we can, sir. How’d your . . . visit go?’

‘It went.’

‘That doesn’t sound promising.’

Harlequin was silent.

Cormack finally transmitted again. ‘So, what do we do now, sir?’

Harlequin searched for words of inspiration, something to lift the man’s spirits, give him hope to carry on the fight. But, once again, the exhaustion permitted only honesty.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, clearing the perimeter wall and circling over the broken remains of his tiny force.

‘I don’t know.’

Chapter Eighteen

Embassy

What moves people? That’s the real question here. What does it take to get a person up off their ass and motivated enough to vote? To fight? To give until it hurts? We try every angle we can think of, we appeal to people’s compassion, tribal kinship, sense of self-actualization. But it’s fear, isn’t it? If there’s one thing people cannot stand, it’s being afraid. They will do absolutely anything to feel safe.

– Lee Thomson, Host of WQXR radio,
Friday Night Fights

Sarah Downer felt the cushion of air lift her, spin around her, tickling her nose, her eyelashes. The air elemental was sentient, but that didn’t make it smart. It loved her with the slavish devotion of the dog to its master, knowing in its soul that she was the thing that gave it life and that she could take it away in an instant.

She could feel it reaching along the current that connected them, seeking her will. She reached back, not understanding how the current conveyed her desires, only knowing that it did, the Binding transmitting the pictures in her head, the electrical signals she sent to her muscles, the emotions churning in her gut.

The elemental wavered, bent, descended.

Below her, the cleared blocks of Tribeca hove into view. It was just as Harlequin had said, four square blocks, completely clear of the enemy, earthen barricades blocking the intersections, clearly the product of expert Terramancy. The elemental felt her trepidation, hesitated, whirled faster, the air pulling protectively around her.

The last time she’d seen the Houston Street Gang, she’d been shivering and feverish, vehemently denying her place at death’s door. The fever stole most of the memories, but she knew she’d been betrayed, delivered to the SOC, tried to rejoin them only to begin the long nightmare of her incarceration.

Swift, she remembered.
Trust me, little girl,
he’d said.
You’ll curb your enthusiasm fairly rapidly. Within a month, you’ll be wishing these fuckers had shot you.
He was wrong then, but his words had proved prescient as she sat on the bench in her cell, waiting for the next ‘debriefing session’ to begin.

She still remembered him standing over Harlequin, gun pointed at his face, his other hand pointing at her. Electricity leapt from his fingers, blue arcs rising across her vision, her hair standing on end, the smell of something burning. Then, agony and blessed darkness.

She’d remembered how Harlequin had looked to her then: square jaw, blond hair, those beautiful blue-gray eyes. A man who had mastered his magic, a man who owned the world he lived in.

It felt like a lifetime ago. The mooning of a stupid, little girl. She didn’t trust Swift, but she sure as hell understood him now.

He stood in the street below, five others standing in a loose semicircle around him. The tall basketball player. The woman in the sharp suit. The Pyromancer who’d first found them in the subway tunnel. Swift looked much as she remembered, tall, lean, and pale, the mottled remains of the old tattoo smeared across his bare chest. But the similarity stopped at his eyes. They looked older, tired.

‘Sarah,’ Swift said. ‘Good to see you.’

The elemental set her down, moved between the two of them. It could feel her memories, Swift’s lightning searing through her, the unconsciousness that followed. It spun faster, whipping the ground up between them. She dug into her current, sending her will down through it. In the early days, she’d barely been able to control her elementals. She shuddered at the memory of what they had done to her old school, but that was a long time ago, the same mooning girl who’d thought Harlequin was worth a damn.

That girl was gone. The elemental stayed put.

‘Harlequin said you wanted to see me.’

‘No kind words for me?’

‘There’s no time for that. I’m needed at the barricades.’

‘All business, now. You’ve changed.’

‘So have you. Last time I saw you, you were straining at the lead.’

‘Yeah, well. That didn’t get me very far. Slowed down a bit. Helps me to see more clearly.’

‘Seems to have worked out for you here. You going to throw in with us?’

‘Well, I wanted to ask you about that.’

‘Me? Why me?’

‘Because you were with us at the start. Because . . . you know him. He . . . talked about amnesty.’

‘Yeah, he’s said he’ll go to bat for me. Get me a pardon.’

‘Do you believe him?’

She nodded. ‘I believe he’ll try. Harlequin’s no liar.’

‘And what if he fails?’

‘Then I’m hardly worse off than I was before. I’m not Suppressed and sitting in a cell.’

‘Yeah, but if they try to take you in again . . .’

Anger kindled in her belly. She raised a finger. ‘Last time, I gave myself up. I wanted back in. They want me this time, they’ll have to come get me. And that’s going to hurt.’

Swift smiled. ‘I bet it will.’

‘Where’s Oscar?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Come off it, Swift. I’m not stupid. There’s no way he sent you back here from the Source without a way to keep in touch. I’m not going to try to convince you to help save this city. If millions of lives at the mercy of someone like Scylla isn’t enough, then you’re too far gone for anyone to change your mind. Oscar will help us. I know he will. Let me talk to him.’

Swift’s smile faded. ‘It’s not that simple. I don’t want people to die . . .’

‘So you’re just going to dig in here and wait to get rolled over. Or you’re going to rally to her flag? Help her hand this city to those . . . fucking things the Apache worship? Jesus, Swift. You haven’t learned a thing.’

‘I’ve learned plenty,’ he said, ‘and you could use a bit of learning yourself if you think you can trust these people. You gave yourself up to them, and you just said they’d put you in a cell.’

‘I don’t trust them,’ Downer said, ‘but Harlequin’s right about one thing: Something good is broken, you fix it. You don’t just chuck it out the window and put something worse in its place.’

‘I knew Grace,’ the woman in the suit said . . . Guinevere, she’d called herself. ‘She was one of the most brilliant, decent people I ever met. I was in the room when they came for her. She invented that drug you use to help control your magic. She worked overtime to make this world better. I’m not so sure that’s not what she’s trying to do now.’

‘I didn’t know her back then,’ Downer said, ‘but the woman now is a killer. The creatures that are with her are . . .’ She turned to Swift. ‘You remember the schoolhouse in the SASS. You remember those videos. Tell her.’

Swift stood with his arms crossed, said nothing.

‘He remembers,’ Downer said. ‘We watched those things . . . they’re nasty.’ She shuddered.

Swift turned to Guinevere. ‘What do you think?’

Guinevere shrugged. ‘We owe it to Oscar to let him make the call.’

Swift sighed. ‘Yeah, I guess we do. It’s your lucky day, Sarah. Come on.’

He turned, stepped into a narrow alley between two buildings, his magic carrying him lightly over a pile of trash bags. He motioned for her to follow.

The tall buildings shut out the light, shrouding the alley in a thick gloom that cloaked all in gray. The rest of the gang made no move to follow. Downer hesitated.

‘Come on,’ Swift said.

She was alone, with only a single elemental for protection, surrounded by six powerful Selfers. If he’d wanted to harm her, he’d have done it already.

She stepped over the trash bags and into the alley, her elemental hovering just above her head, the darkness thickening with each step. At last the gray began to yield to a light at the end of the alley, a flickering, static glow, like a television screen left on a test pattern.

Downer recognized the light instantly; that same light had been her constant companion through her time with Shadow Coven. It was a means of egress, it was a weapon.

A Portamantic gate.

Swift stood to one side, pressing his back against the alley wall and bowing slightly, gesturing to the door-sized portal hovering at the alley’s end.

‘His lordship will see you now.’

Downer let her magic drop, the elemental dispersing back into the wind, closed her eyes, and stepped through.

The gate’s light washed over her, offering no resistance. The only indicator that she had changed planes was the sudden sweetness to the air. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the wonderful scent of the Source.

‘Sarah Downer, it’s good to see you.’

She opened her eyes, squinting against the Source’s bright sun, bigger and closer than on the Home Plane. She stood on a broad plain of waving, saw-toothed grass, almost up to her knees. In the distance, she recognized the low, wooden palisade that marked the perimeter of Marty’s village. Their tribal banner, a gnarled tree on blue cloth, fluttered from the gate towers.

Oscar Britton stood before her, unchanged since the day she’d last seen him.

His head was still shaved, huge frame covered in leather shirt and pants, beaded and fringed in goblin fashion. She’d known he would be here, but her heart still sped up at the sight of him. Like Swift, he’d fought her on her loyalty to the SOC, like Swift, events had proved him right.

Therese stood beside him, her hair hanging to her waist now, but otherwise exactly the same, save the leather dress she wore. Downer smiled. Therese had never been anything but kind to her.

Simon Truelove, she barely recognized. The Necromancer had filled out, stretching the same goblin leathers, intricate beadwork patterns covering almost every inch. His coke-bottle glasses were gone. The left side of his body was covered in the white chalk-paint goblin sorcerers wore, his hair sticky with the stuff. A battered notebook hung from a leather thong at his waist, and he carried a spear, an ornate thing with a painted head, more walking stick than weapon.

‘Good to see you, too,’ she said, surprised herself by meaning it. There was more here than the hope of reinforcement, there was the pleasure of reuniting with old friends who’d weathered storms alongside her.

‘You were right,’ Swift called through the gate before heading back out of the alley. ‘They locked her up.’

Therese reached out, Binding her magic. ‘If there’s an ATTD . . .’

‘There isn’t,’ Downer answered quickly. ‘Harlequin sent me here in good faith.’

Britton nodded. ‘What does he want?’

‘Help,’ Downer said. ‘We’re losing.’

‘Don’t,’ Therese said to Britton. ‘Once you’re with them, they won’t pass up the chance to take you.’

‘They’re not here,’ Downer said. ‘All Harlequin’s got is a bunch of training Covens. And General Bookbinder now. And me. It’s not enough.

‘He means it, Oscar. He’s going to do what he can for me. If we beat Scylla here, then he might just have the ammunition he needs to help you, too.’

‘What did they do to you?’ Britton asked.

Downer went quiet. ‘I talked, you know? I ran my mouth like you wouldn’t believe, told them absolutely everything I could think of. I figured . . . I figured if I showed them I was loyal . . .’

‘But the questions just kept coming,’ Britton said.

Downer nodded. ‘They kept me in a “debriefing” room. Kept saying it was for my own protection. After a while, I started making shit up.’

‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ Oscar said. ‘I should have dragged you through that gate, I should never have let you . . .’

Harlequin had used the same tone when she’d first got off the helicopter in Battery Park. ‘I’m not a fucking kid, Oscar. I make my own choices, good and bad. That was the choice I made. I can live with it.’

Britton smiled. ‘You’d have made one hell of an officer.’

‘Yeah, well. That ship has sailed. I need to get back to the barricades. You helping us or not?’

Britton exchanged a glance with Therese. ‘Amnesty.’

‘It’s what you want, isn’t it? A chance to come back and campaign for Latent rights out in the open?’

Britton folded his arms across his chest, was silent.

‘What happened to you?’ Downer turned to Truelove.

‘What do you mean?’ Truelove asked, frowning.

‘You look like half goblin sorcerer and half abandoned craft project.’

Swift, Britton, and Therese laughed, and Truelove’s frown deepened. ‘Nice,’ he said.

‘Just like old times,’ Downer said. ‘I missed you, Simon. I really did.’

Truelove softened. ‘I missed you, too.’

‘So, what’s with the getup?’

‘Marty’s tribesmen took a liking to Simon’s magic,’ Britton said. ‘They worship their ancestors here.’

‘And he makes them stand up and shake hands?’ Downer asked.

‘Something like that,’ Britton said. ‘It’s won him a lot of status in the tribe.’

‘He’s writing a book,’ Therese said, ‘the first real anthropology of Marty’s people.’

Downer stared at the book, at Truelove’s painted body, realization slowly dawning on her. ‘Who’s going to read it, Simon? You going to bring it back to the Home Plane and publish it there?’

‘I’ve . . . I’ve made a place for myself here,’ Truelove said. ‘I’m not writing it for anyone else.’

‘So, I guess that means I shouldn’t bother asking you to help.’

Truelove said nothing, but shame and defiance warred across his face. ‘This isn’t my fight,’ he said at last. ‘I did my time with the SOC.’

‘I never thought I’d see the day,’ Downer said.

‘What?’

‘Simon Truelove, a fucking coward. You’re scared. Jesus, Simon. I watched you stare down Fitzy. I was beside you when we took Chatto. I never thought I’d see the day when something could frighten you.’

‘Whatever,’ Truelove said. ‘You turned yourself into them, gave up everything you knew, and they locked you up for it. I’m not a coward, I’m just smarter than you. Here, I work my magic, study, and write. Nobody chases me. Nobody orders me around. I go to bed without worrying who’s going to come get me while I sleep. The only thing the SOC ever gave me was near-death experience after near-death experience. Why the hell would I go back to that?’

‘Because this isn’t your home, Simon. Because you know Scylla. You know what she’ll do if she wins. There are millions of people . . .’

‘I’ve got people here, Sarah. People who respect me.’