The Last American Wizard (25 page)

“The plural of
oni
is
onidomo,”
Ace corrected him automatically while she went through the contents of her duffle– pulling out various items, examining them, and stashing them in her seemingly infinite supply of pockets. “I did some experimentation last night when you–and the rest of the block–was asleep, and oddly enough, you appear to be correct. I ruined two more of my handguns and a really sweet assault weapon. In fact, the magic appears to be able to adapt. By the time I tried the Mossberg shotgun, it was closing the muzzle completely before I had a chance to fire it. Damn, those were nice guns,
too.”

She paused with a look of wistful sorrow on her face. It only lasted a second and she was back to business. “So, I’m wearing Pinnacle Armor’s Level II-A Dragon Skin body armor–it’s rated to stop repeated hits with a 30 millimeter autocannon round, so with any luck it should handle an equivalent amount of magical mayhem. Under that is a CoolMax inner layer, and over it is the black version of the Crye Combat
Uniform.”

She pulled the shirt up to show a thick belt around her waist. “This
is
a
standard
plate
vest,
although
it’s
too
hot
to
be
wearing any plates. I will, however, be carrying all my smaller weapons– knives, brass knuckles, a couple of Filipino
escrima
–along with a dozen flash-bang grenades and a couple of MK3A2 concussion grenades for emergencies. I’m still trying to recover from my disbelief, but you were actually correct about pressure waves in an underground
environment.”

“Thanks a lot.” Steve put up a hand as she looked about to speak again. “Wait a second. You carry all those knives, brass knuckles, and heavy beating things around with you every day?”

“If by ‘heavy beating thing,’ you mean an Asp Tactical Baton, then yes.” She pulled an odd-looking metal device out of the duffel and began to fit it on her left arm. “I was hoping to get a small rail gun I could strap on, but it’s still on its way from the kid in Germany who invented it, so I’m going with the tried-and-true Saunders Wrist Rocket
Pro.”

“A
slingshot?”

“Yeah, a wrist-mounted slingshot with half-inch lead pellets. Might not kill, but anyone who gets hit will definitely remember the experience.” She refolded it and fitted it into a loop at her waist. “Unless I’m mistaken, I don’t think the idea is to kill people today. It’s to get information, break up some of their infrastructure, and, with any luck, convince them that they need to call their big brothers to take us out.” She put her hands on her hips. “If you
have other plans, it would be a good time to discuss
them.”

Steve realized that he had never considered killing people he barely knew–at least not when it wasn’t self-defense. “I think you’re right, Chief,” he said. “I’ll have to work on some non-lethal magic. I probably should say that I’ll have to
not
work on
nonlethal magic, but that even confuses me. How about you, Carlos? Are you willing to go in on a nonlethal
basis?”

“In my old business, eliminating the opposition was almost always
a
simple
cost-benefit
equation,
but
I
can
see
that
it
would be different in other professions. The primary issue I see is that I’m not all that sure that the
cadejo
is really suited for anything but killing.”

“How
much
control
do
you
have
when
you’re
in
the
cadejo
shape?” Ace
asked.

“I have a fair amount of control or I would have tried to kill everyone at the clubhouse, including
you–”

“You could have
tried.”

“We’ll have to go a couple of rounds someday.” Ace and Carlos exchanged chilly smiles. “The problem is more about rage. Emotions just fill me and…” He
shrugged.

“Well, try thinking happy thoughts,” Steve
suggested.

“If I could interrupt?” Barnaby said from the speakerphone. “I think we should all remember that 415 innocent souls–along with three guilty ones–on American International’s Flight 1143 were sacrificed to produce the massive Change we’re currently living through, and, while we can assume that there is a next step, we
have no clue what it is. Perhaps I’ve been affected by the general attitude around Fort Meade since 9/11, but I can’t see the
Illuminati or any of their buddies as anything other than dangerous terrorists. I’m not saying that summary execution is in order, but arrest and a fair trial, followed by a sentence of life without parole in the Colorado supermax wouldn’t be a bad
idea.”

“Haven’t you been able to listen in on them or read their email with all those supercomputers of yours?” Steve asked. “If you don’t know what they’re doing, what has been the point of this Bentham’s Panopticon society you’ve been
creating?”

“As we say, ‘If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear,’” Barnaby said. “However, sadly, we can’t pick up their communications. They aren’t sending emails or letters or using
cell phones or even landlines, and as far as we can tell, they never have. Now, some of my brighter colleagues have been trying to crack all possible methods of mystical communications. It’s a completely new project, and more than a few servers have blown, and one or two can’t really be described as ‘computers’ anymore– as a matter of fact, I’m fairly sure that they’ve completely
discarded their physical forms and just come back every once in a while to chat. Apparently, the plane of pure consciousness is a pretty boring
place.”

“Off topic,” Ace said
abruptly.

“Yes. Yes. I am,” the computer admitted. “The point is that
the STORMBREW system out in Utah is reporting that they’re having success with what can only be described as
‘séances’.”

“You’re kidding,” Steve
said.

“No, I’m afraid I’m not, and if you’ve never spoken to an opportunistic distributed system made up of Cray Titans, IBM Sequoias, and Chinese Skyriver 2s as it’s trying to climb down
from the yottaflop range, you have no idea what ‘spooky’ means. STORMBREW got through to Harry Houdini a couple of hours ago and is now sifting through about five thousand spirit guides a second. STORMBREW turns out to be an amazingly apt codename. I mean, there are data halls where the danger from floating tables
alone–”

“Off topic,” Ace
repeated.

“Yes. Well. The point is that there is some success in breaching the communications of…well, Stormy, is the nickname the lead server chose for the entire group, is reasonably sure that there is a transfer of information, it is emanating from somewhere on Earth, and it ‘tastes’ like the Illuminati, but beyond that, it’s not very
clear.”

“I’ll say,” Steve said
dryly.

“This should be easier to understand,”
the
computer continued. “Two of the more energetic sub clusters–BLARNEY and OAKSTAR–report making out chatter indicating that there is another event being planned that is similar to the American International crash but far more
powerful.”

“How much more powerful?” Steve asked. “In the kilo-logos
range.”

“‘Kilo-logos’?” Steve said
slowly.

“Yes. From ‘
logos
,’ one of the Greek words for
soul.”

“I hate to ask, but what was the American International event on this ‘kilo-logos’
scale?”

“Tragic as it was, it only measured
.041.”

“So, we’re talking about a hundred thousand
lives?”

“One hundred thousand souls, to be precise. However, discounting the odd person who is currently possessed by a demon or collateral damage among household pets, yes, a hundred thousand people will
die.”

Ace went back to her gear and began to replace various rounded, flattened, or rubberized items with those with sharper blades and barbed razor
points.

Hans was parked on 15th Street NW, a one-way street with renovated condominiums on one side and Meridian Hill Park on the other. The young people pushing their kids in expensive strollers made it clear that the gentrification of the neighborhood was well underway now that the park was no longer dedicated to Malcolm X. In the 70’s, the area had been an exciting mix of revolutionary speeches, spontaneous music, and major league drug dealing, but now it was the sort of place you took the kids for a quiet
walk.

It was midafternoon. After some argument, the consensus had been that there wasn’t any point in waiting for the cover of darkness.

“I have no idea whether you want to, but we’d appreciate it, if you don’t mind,” Ace said to the big SUV. “You never know; we could be coming out a lot faster than we came
in.”

Steve asked, “The Kabul package…did it come with a medevac
option?”

“Don’t be obnoxious,” Ace said. “I’ve always given you the Ultimate Wash, so you owe me the plastic seat covers at the least. And what do you mean by
‘again’?”

“BEWARE!”

Steve, who was halfway out of the car and leaning back in to retrieve the smartphone, jumped involuntarily and hit his head on the doorframe with a loud
thunk
. Moaning softly, he collapsed on the curb with his back against the car and saw Hamilton Jones, the young avatar of the Hanged Man, gazing down at him with the distant and glassy-eyed look that indicated he’d been taken over by his mystic
persona.

There was a snapping sound from the other side of the
car
as
Ace folded the wrist rocket back into its non-combat
configuration.

“Hamilton, it’s good to see you,” he said as he rubbed the top of his head and checked his fingertips for blood. “How have you been and what should we beware
of?”

“Beware,” Jones repeated in a somewhat less stentorian tone. “Yeah, you said that already.” Steve struggled to his feet. He hadn’t found any blood on his scalp but was trying to
self-diagnose for a concussion and finding it difficult. He worried that that the difficulty in itself might be evidence of a concussion, but a twinge from a growing headache convinced him to give up that train of thought.

“Saying ‘beware’ is all well and good, but it’s not very useful until you tell me what to ‘beware’ of. I understand that you’re not really in control at the moment, but could you try to
elaborate?”

“Beware the man seated by the river,” Jones said. “Remember, the light in the darkness isn’t a bug, it’s a bloody feature.”

At that point, awareness came back into the young man’s eyes and his voice lost its spooky quality. “Hey, Steve. How did you get here?”

“Beats me. How did you learn to speak British slang?” Steve laughed. “I’ll bet you’re not even in the ‘here’ you were in the last time you looked.” Jones looked around with surprise–Steve could tell by the look on his face that he indeed had no idea where he was. “You’re going to have to start pinning a note to your jacket like that guy whose kids left him at the dog track: ‘My name is Hamilton. Please take me home.’ Every time you get oracular, your rational brain just takes a break. I don’t suppose you have any idea what you were just telling
me?”

Jones shook his head violently; the dreads flying out like an amusement park swing
ride.

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said. “I appreciate even incomprehensible warnings. Now, do you need cab fare to get home?” Jones
nodded.

After Steve had given Jones ten bucks and sent him over to 16th Street to find a cab, he joined Ace and Carlos at the bottom entrance to the park. Ace asked if the Hanged Man had had anything useful to
say.

“Probably,” Steve answered. “However, since I can’t understand what he’s talking about, it’s hard to
say.”

Ace nodded her understanding and they headed into the park. A beautiful slope of grass, flowers, and trees centered on a block- long cascade that washed down in steps to a quiet pool at the south end of the park. They’d done some online research and picked the memorial to James Buchanan to begin their search. It struck both
of them that it was the most likely hiding place, since there was no other reason to build a memorial to the worst president in US history.

The Memorial was a small plaza walled in with marble on three sides, with a large green statue in the center of the president who presided over the beginning of the Civil War. On the back wall, there was an inscription: THE INCORRUPTIBLE STATESMAN WHOSE WALK WAS UPON THE MOUNTAIN RANGES OF THE LAW
.
Steve
had
at
first
thought
this
was
pretty
impressive,
until
a
bit more research revealed it was a quote from Buchanan’s own Attorney General and close
friend.

Barnaby had pointed out that Buchanan’s family had paid for the monument, so they could say any damn thing they
pleased.

They searched the area for hidden doors, switches, loose
rocks, or any evidence that a magical phrase would make any of
the above appear. Steve was getting bored. “Can’t we do
something magical to get this moving?” he
asked.

“I think that’s your department.” Ace gave him a withering look and said, “However, Captain
Stengel–”

“You mean the enormous crimson critter who damn near beheaded
us?”

“Yes,” Ace said in a clipped manner that made it clear she didn’t appreciate the dissing of a fellow soldier, even one she’d been forced to eliminate. “Right at the end, he was trying to tell me about the Illuminati and he said something about the ‘underworld’ and an
‘adept.’”

“Could he have meant ‘an expert on the underworld’?” Barnaby’s voice asked from the speakerphone. “That would be Dante Alighieri, the author of
The Inferno
, which is a guided tour of Hell. Also known as the
‘underworld.’”

Steve had been panning the phone’s camera
over
the unclothed female figure that represented Diplomacy, in case Barnaby’s photo-imaging software could find something hidden in it. Or in case the program might enjoy the
picture.

At this last statement, he switched to the “selfie” lens and glared at the screen. “No more condescending, remember? Even those of us without solid state memory know where Hell is.” He punched back to the front lens and crossed the plaza to take pictures of the equally unclothed but male statue of
‘Law.’

“Why am I supposed to discern what you wetbrains know and what you don’t?” Barnaby didn’t sound apologetic. ”The fact is
that I don’t understand any of you and that’s with all the power of PRISM at my back. For instance, do you know why Dante might be potentially important in this context?
Hmmm?”

Steve didn’t, so he intentionally began to shake and sway the camera.

“Stop that!” the computer said. “Maintaining my equilibrium
is pulling a significant amount of computing power away from the task at hand. Anyway, it’s
childish.”

Steve reluctantly held the smartphone
steady.

“The first statue to be erected in this park was the one of Dante. It was donated by the Knights of Columbus as a symbol of Italian-American political power or something. It’s just up the hill.”

Carlos and Ace started to move in that direction. “Couldn’t be worse than Old Buck Buchanan,” he
said.

Unfortunately, the statue of the Italian writer, although doubtless more deserved, proved to be even less stimulating than Buchanan’s. It was devoid of naked bodies, male or female, and Steve had the creepy feeling that Dante was looking at him with severe disapproval. For a moment, he wondered if the model had been one of his college
professors.

Or his
mother.

Send Money vibrated
briefly.

“Sorry.
No comprende
.” Steve continued to pan the
smartphone around the park. “Go and get another opinion. I’m sure I’ll understand
that.”

“See if I can get the Fool to create a lens?” Steve looked mildly astonished. “That is not the worst idea you’ve come up with.”

Send Money played a brief trumpet solo in
triumph.

Steve said, “Don’t get all excited. I still have to work out how to do
it.”

Steve brought the image of the Fool to the forefront of his mind. Again, it was a new card and the strangest version he’d seen yet. It looked like nothing less than a Chuck Jones cartoon of the Arrow, drawn only an instant after the hero in green spandex sat on a
spike.

Dressed all in green (with an impressive six-pack, Steve thought with a bit of envy), he was leaping forward from what looked like a circle of thorns right under his crotch. His feet were off the ground and looked as though he was wearing the long socks or slippers that Daffy Duck might wear with a nightgown and sleeping cap. Steve thought the small horns and the yellow skin were a nice touch; there were a number of animals about, a butterfly, a dove, and a tiger who was chewing on the guy’s thigh for some obscure reason.

As baffling as this version of the Fool was, it did have a swirling ribbon crossed over itself to form a heart-shaped rose- colored lens directly in front of the Fool’s surprised
face.

Steve decided he could do without the green costume– although he was tempted by the abdominal muscles–and only
Studied
the looping ribbon and the heart-shaped lens. He gritted
his teeth and, sure enough, staggered to his knees with pain ricocheting between his ears as the entire park turned a gentle rose color.

Ace regarded him in unworried assessment. “So, does all that extravagant groaning and writhing mean the magic worked, or are you auditioning for a zombie
flick?”

Steve had both hands flat to the sides of his head in a
desperate attempt to keep his brain from spouting out his ears like one of the park’s many fountains. He glared at Ace and climbed to his feet without deigning to answer. With the lens in place, the solution was obvious. There was a thick golden line stretching from the Dante statue to the twenty-foot-high wall that separated the flat top of the park from the steeply sloped bottom
half.

The golden line went to the center of the concrete panel on the far right–close to the stairs. Steve thought about the park’s topography and realized that, with an entrance there, the open field at the top could be the roof of an underground bunker that would extend for an entire city
block.

“Hey!” Carlos said. “Not all of us have spiffy magic glasses, you know. It might be useful to describe what you’re
seeing.”

“You’re right,” Steve said. “I might get taken out in battle and you guys would have to continue
alone.”

“As far as battle goes, we’re already doing most of the work.” She smacked one of her batons into her palm. “I believe Carlos
was thinking more of the danger that I’ll coldcock you in sheer frustration.”

“Ah. OK.” Steve began to turn and scan the park. “First, there is a magic string or something connecting Old Grumpy here to the first concrete panel on that retaining wall behind the largest fountain. Throw in the fact that it’s dead on the intersection of the Fall Line with the American Prime Meridian at the place where X Street would
cross–”

“–if it
existed.”

“If it existed,” Steve agreed. “Up on top, behind Joan of Arc there, is an open field a block wide–used to be a parade field for training troops during the Civil
War.

“Were there any parts of this city that weren’t turned into a
fort during the Civil War?” Carlos
asked.

Steve wasn’t listening. His attention had been caught by the statue of Joan of Arc on her horse that stood in the center of the upper terrace. A growing golden glow was building around the black iron figure. “Um, Ace. I think you should get ready for incoming.”

“What?”

“Just stand right there.” Steve said as he walked quickly–he would have denied that he was “scuttling”–behind the marble plinth that held up Dante. “I’m thinking about Joan up there. Woman who fought in full armor. Burned at the stake in the same Inquisition the King of France set up to take out the Templars.”

“So?”

“So, you’re the Ace of Swords.” Steve beckoned Carlos to
join him under Dante’s skirts. “Oh, and right now, she’s lighting
up like a Times Square billboard. Did I forget to mention
that?”