Space Magic (9 page)

Just then Agnes returned. “I brought your materials, and something to eat. But I think they may search the mill soon. You must hurry.”

Ulrich wolfed Agnes’ bread and cheese, spitting crumbs as he explained to her what he had found. Taking the knife, he scraped away Heinrich’s words, replacing black treason with a pure expanse of creamy vellum. He read and re-read the remaining words, trying to reassure himself that this change would have the desired effect and no other. He thought that it would, but there was much here he did not understand, would not have understood even if his ears were not still ringing.

And now came the part he had been dreading. “A spell is a compact between wizard and daemon,” he explained to Agnes as he lit the candle with flint and tinder, “It must be sealed with blood. There are errors, in the spell or in the sealing, that can cause injury. Or death. So when the time came to seal the spell, before, I took the coward’s way. I re-sealed it with the old wax. With the two original wizards’ blood. I hoped that would seal the spell without involving me. But it didn’t work. The false seal inverted the meaning of the spells. Brought disastrous weather instead of good.” He dripped fresh wax onto the cord, picked up the knife.

“This time I use my own blood. This time I take the risk upon my own head. And may God forgive me if I have made any mistake.” He pricked the ball of his left thumb with the knife, squeezed a few drops of blood onto the hot wax. Then he dripped more wax onto the cord and took up his father’s signet ring.

The moment he pressed the ring into the wax, a blue light burst from the book, illuminating the dank hole like the legendary lighthouse at Pharos. With the light came a great whispering roar like the wings of ten thousand butterflies, and the flavor of cinnamon and salt.

“How will we know if you have succeeded?” asked Agnes.

Ulrich sat gape-mouthed for a moment. “Did you not see the light?”

“What light? The day does seem a bit brighter, if that is what you mean.” Indeed, the light outside was stronger, and the rain seemed to be slackening.

“Yes, it does,” he said. Though the light and sound had lasted only a moment, the taste of cinnamon and salt remained on his tongue and a peculiar tingling suffused his limbs. “I think that means I have succeeded.”

-o0o-

Mud-caked and aching, Ulrich leaned heavily on Agnes as they slogged wearily back to her half-ruined cottage. The spell-book lay in the crook of Ulrich’s arm, miraculously clean. Clearly the protective daemon was hard at work.

The sun raised wisps of steam from the sodden ground and glinted from the puddles that lay everywhere. A hungry winter lay ahead, but there might be time for one small harvest before the snows and there was the promise of an early, daemon-driven spring.

As they approached the village square they saw that a celebration was already in progress. People danced in circles, joyous at the sun’s warmth on their upturned faces.

“Ulrich,” Agnes said, “it has been twelve years since Lannesdorf had a wizard of its own. Will you consider staying here with us?”

Ulrich stopped walking. He stared at the shiny red seal on the spell-book. At last he spoke. “I will consider it. If I can find a wizard to complete my instruction. If my journeymen have not destroyed the shop in my absence. And if the village will build a proper house for me. One with wood floors.”

“I do not know if these things can be arranged,” she said. “But we will see. Come, now, let us enjoy the fine weather.”

Agnes took Ulrich’s arm, and together they joined the celebration in the village square.

A flash outside the Venetian blinds sent a crazy striped parallelogram of flickering orange light splashing across the wall of Clark Thatcher’s room. The plastic IV bag hanging at the head of his bed caught some of the light and reflected it onto his legs, a bright orange amoeba that danced and jiggled for a moment until the crash of the explosion frightened it away. Then he heard sirens, and shouting.

Thatcher craned his neck, straining against the straps that held him to the bed, but all he could see outside was a pale yellow flicker and moving shadows. Through the small window in his door, nothing but the same hospital-sterile light he’d seen since he’d been here.

How long was that? Hours. Maybe a day. Ironic, for a Knight not to know the time. But something soft filled his mouth, and no matter how hard he bit down his system would not activate.

He heard gunshots. More shouting. Was it getting closer? Hard to concentrate. The cold fluid seeping into his arm turned his muscles to putty and his brain to jelly. He pulled again against the straps. If he could get loose, maybe he could escape in the chaos of—whatever was happening out there.

If he couldn’t get loose, this was the end of the line. They would cut him open, take out the central stabilizer and a few other expensive and delicate parts, and let him die on the table. They probably wouldn’t even bother sewing him up again.

Knowing Duke—knowing what he knew now about Duke—they might not even put him under first.

Duke, you bastard
, he thought,
you used to be my hero
.

Movement outside the door. Voices. Thatcher held his breath, listened with his whole body.

“Halt!” A pause, then: “This area’s restricted, ma’am.”

“Thank God I found someone!” A woman’s voice, torn with panic. “They came through the window! They’re in the staff lounge on the third floor!”

“Shit! Preston, stay here with the nurse.”

Thudding of boots down the hallway.

“Preston, was it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mister Preston, I... oh my God! Behind you!” Then a gunshot—astonishingly loud in the enclosed space, though it sounded like something small-caliber.

The doorknob rattled. A face in the window, briefly. Voices again: the woman, and others. Talking too softly for Thatcher to make out over the rapid thudding of his heart. Another shot, even louder, and the door shattered open. The hard fluorescent light cut solid slices in the dusty air. Sharp sting of gunpowder in Thatcher’s nose.

Three people entered the room: a nurse, and two men in fatigues, with blackened faces. The nurse and one of the men dragged a body in with them—one of the door guards. “Is that Thatcher?” said the other man, low and hard. He had a beard.

“Yeah,” said the first man. “Thatcher, we’re from the CLU. We’re getting you out of here.” A pang ran through Thatcher’s chest and stomach at the words—a feeling of being pulled in two. No going back now.

The first man pulled a scuba knife from his boot and began cutting Thatcher’s straps, while the bearded one braced his shoulder against the door and peered out the window. The woman ducked down below the foot of the bed. “You can call me Bravo,” the man with the knife said while he cut. “The other man is Judah, and the woman’s Angel.”

As soon as one arm was free, Thatcher pulled the tape off his mouth. It hurt. “Can you walk?” asked Bravo.

Thatcher spit out a plastic horseshoe, but before speaking he bit down three times, then twice more. Green digits appeared in his peripheral vision: it was 2:35 a.m. “I’m a little woozy,” he said. Other readouts glowed, green and yellow, as his system came on-line. System status was OK but energy levels were very low. He helped the man free his legs and sat up on the edge of the bed. He saw that the woman, Angel, had pulled on camouflage over her white dress and was smearing black paint on her face. “You’re not a nurse,” he said stupidly.

At that, the man at the door, Judah, looked at her. “What are you doing?” he said. “We might need the nurse outfit for a bluff!”

“Too late,” she said. “I’ve already put on the paint.” She pulled on a black knit cap and shoved most of her hair under it.

“Save it for later,” said Bravo. To Thatcher: “Do we need to find you a wheelchair?”

Thatcher got to his feet. “No.” Then he had to sit down again on the edge of the bed. “Maybe.”

The two men supported him while Angel took point, moving down the hall. Thatcher felt hideously exposed in his inadequate hospital gown. At the first corner, Angel started to peer around it, but Judah pulled her back. “Keep your head down,” he whispered. She glared at him, but crouched low and stuck her head out at knee level. Then, with another glare, she waved them forward.

Two more corners. They didn’t meet anyone—they must all be dealing with the explosion and fire. “The front door guard has a gun under the desk,” Thatcher said. He knew this hospital well; he’d spent seven months here having the system put in.

“Thanks,” said Judah, “but we’ve already taken care of that.” They rounded a final corner to find the door guard—his name was Dave and he had a girl, five, and a boy, three—on the floor, eyes open and unseeing. Beyond him were glass doors, black mirrors reflecting the bullet-shattered desk.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Thatcher said.

“Just another victim in the government’s war on the people,” said the woman. “Come on.”

They crouched low and scuttled to the doors, acutely conscious that the brightly lighted lobby was plainly visible to anyone outside in the blackness. The doors slid open—Thatcher’s heart jumped at the sudden motion—and they ran through to the shelter of a concrete traffic barrier.

The west wing of the hospital was on fire, flames roaring and clawing the sky. Fire trucks and medic vans twitched in the shifting orange light; silhouettes of firemen sprayed water on the burning building. Someone was cursing, over and over.

“We came through the fence over there,” the bearded man said to Thatcher, pointing into the darkness on the far side of the parking lot. “Doesn’t look like they’ve noticed it yet.”

“OK, let’s go,” said the other man. They kept low and moved quickly from car to car. The pavement was rough under Thatcher’s bare feet, and they splashed in cold water—runoff from the fire hoses. Bitter smoke mingled with the gasoline and asphalt smells of the parking lot.

Bravo was in the lead as they reached the edge of the parking lot—just a few yards of scrubby grass between them and the fence. As he stepped over the curb, yellow flashes of gunfire burst out of the night to his left and he fell with an “Agh!”

Angel raised her rifle and returned fire, while Judah pulled Thatcher back into the cover of a black Ford Bronco. “Get
down
!” Judah said to Angel, but she fired again and again while bullets buzzed past.

Finally she ducked back behind the Bronco. “I think I got one of them.”

“And how many more are there?” The bearded man kept his voice down, but it was taut with rage.

“Just one, I think,” she replied in a matching tone, “and if
someone
doesn’t take him out pronto we’re dead.” She checked her rifle, then jumped out from behind the car and began firing into the darkness. Answering fire cracked back at her and the van’s windshield shattered.

“Crazy bitch,” muttered the bearded man. “Come on, maybe we can find another way out.” He pulled Thatcher in the opposite direction.

“Wait.” Thatcher bit down twice, then once—code 21. Green digits read fifteen percent. “I think I can get us out of this.”

Angel came back behind the Bronco, breathing hard. “Sonofabitch clipped me.” Blood, black in the sodium light, stained her ear.

“Give me a rifle,” said Thatcher. “I guarantee I can take down that shooter. But after that I won’t be good for much of anything. You might have to carry me. Understand?”

Judah stared in incomprehension. “Got it,” said Angel. “Here. Three rounds left.”

“Thanks.” Thatcher bit down again, code 323. He looked over the rifle, then stepped out from behind the car and fired three times—waiting and watching carefully after each shot, making no attempt to conceal himself.

There was a flash and a bullet slammed into his side. He felt the crunch of ribs shattering and a cold numbness spreading from the entry wound. As he stumbled from the impact, he bit down once.

Rewind.

Uninjured, Thatcher stepped out from behind the car. He turned to his left and loosed one precise shot into the darkness. He heard a grunt and a thud as the shooter fell. Then he collapsed, his face slamming into the dirt.

He drifted in and out of consciousness. The bearded man and the woman carrying him between them. Streetlights going by, seen from below through a car’s rear window. Gunshots. Screaming. The car rocking crazily back and forth. Sirens.

Blackness.

-o0o-

Thatcher awoke to too-bright sunlight and a cracked, cobwebbed ceiling. He groaned and covered his eyes. It was 10:53 a.m. Goblins were tightening a metal band around his head, and his side throbbed with pain—remembered pain, pain from shots that had never been fired, but real pain nonetheless.

“Welcome back,” said a woman’s voice. Angel. “How do you feel?”

“Uhh. I hurt all over. And I’m starving.”

“All I can offer is aspirin, and some cold fried chicken. If it’s still good.”

“I’ll take it. And where’s the bathroom?”

“Just out the door, to your left.”

He pulled the hospital gown closed as best he could while he limped to the door. She stared, but didn’t say anything about the scars that webbed his entire body. He hoped she wouldn’t.

She sat at the foot of the bed while he polished off two thighs and a wing, a little styrofoam tub of cold mashed potatoes, and a half-gallon bottle of coke. Black paint stained the furrows of her brow, the crows’ feet of her eyes. She had a bandage on one ear.

“Where are we?” he asked between bites. The room was tiny, barely bigger than the bed. A grimy rectangle on one wall showed where a picture had once hung.

“My apartment. Belltown.”

“Is it safe here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if anywhere is safe. We got ambushed at the rendezvous point. They shot Judah when he got out of the car.” She sniffed, and wiped her nose on an already-black sleeve. “I never even knew his real name.” She began to sob, tears making black streaks on her face.

Not knowing what else to do, Thatcher patted her on the arm. She leaned into him and cried on his shoulder. She was all bones, her skin soft and loose, her hair colorless and wiry. She smelled of gunpowder. Thatcher held her awkwardly, wanting to give comfort but disquieted by her touch. He kept thinking about how his instructor Dr. Collins had been killed in a CLU attack.