American Craftsmen (33 page)

“What about him?” asked the dead boy, pointing behind me. “He’s stealthy, and ferrin.”

I thought,
Ah, here’s the reason the Ukie needs us.

“And the woman,” said the nurse. “She’s dangerous.”

My father shook his head. “On my honor as an officer, that thing downstairs is a strategic threat to the living and the dead. If my son fails, we’ll be destroyed or absorbed by my family’s Left Hand, and we do not want to go there.”

“On your responsibility then, Captain,” said the old man. “Go then,” he called after me. “You can’t make things any worse.”

By the time the dead stood down, I was at the foot of the escalator that led up to the corridor to the central courtyard. As an excuse to wait, I bent to retie my shoe. Scherie was at a gate, card out. Damn—she hadn’t been able to strike at Chimera. The card should get her through, but I wouldn’t chance it.
She shall pass,
I thought.

My father stood near me. “Everything according to plan, I see. How far do you think you’re going?”

“Far enough,” I muttered.

“I won’t try to stop you. Too late for that now.”

“Sorry, Dad. And thanks. Be stupid to fail at the beginning.”

“I’ll be holding the line with the others. Don’t be long.” And Dad was gone.

Roman and Scherie were through the gate. To my surprise, Roman didn’t just bolt ahead alone. Did he know about probability failure? His foreignness would be even more sensitive to it.

I stood still going up the escalator in order not to get ahead of the others. Then I strode through the corridor, hoping I could stop soon, before I dropped dead. A few men and women in uniforms and suits passed me, on their way out. The smell of popcorn filled the hall, and I suddenly craved some fast food—a conventional health hazard seemed quaint.

Roman was really turning on the stealth for me. The world outside went fish-eyed, the long corridors stretched longer. But I also felt a force pressing against me, making me strain a little more with each step, making the path ahead seem endless.

All at once, the force grabbed my leg, and my feet went out from under me. I was falling, falling …

I hit the floor. Ouch.

I had tripped on my just retied shoelace, now loose again. I heard the others trip behind me. Very improbable. But just a trip? Not very effective for a probability defense. A freak aneurysm should have hit my brain by now. “Why so weak?” I wondered.

I continued on through the long corridor until I hit the inner courtyard. The resisting force left me sweating and breathing hard, but I was oddly alive. Scherie and Roman emerged into the outdoors after me. Damn, survival was useless if she couldn’t act.

My gale and rain swept over and around us, but did not touch us—those elements were mine. Around the courtyard, weathermen were on patrol against the storm, but they couldn’t even keep themselves dry. Wet countercraft soldiers also patrolled, helping the Pentagon spirits temporarily stem the Left-Hand tide.

We reached the café at the courtyard’s center. The café was closed, so we huddled against one of its walls. Ground zero, and our luck should be about zero now. Hell, a good defense should have driven probability to infinitesimal ages ago. Why weren’t we dead yet? More unlooked-for help, and this time it wasn’t Scherie. Someone else wanted us to get this far.

“You don’t explode in bloody mess,” noted Roman. “Very nice.”

“What does he mean?” asked Scherie.

“We’ve been very lucky,” I said. “What are you feeling?”

“Not enough,” said Scherie. She gestured at the craftsmen on patrol, some of whom seemed to glance our way. “Aren’t these people going to see us?”

“Not problem,” said Roman. “We are ‘nondescript.’ Identities are slippery.”

“That was quite a walk,” said Scherie. “How do you deal with that fun-house view?”

“How does a whale hear underwater?” asked Roman.

She looked at the café building. “And what’s the deal with the glow to everything here? It’s starting to get on my nerves.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. Then I held up a finger. “Can you feel that?” A trace of red static electricity danced in 4/4 time around my torso.

“Chimera? Too faint,” said Scherie. “I can’t … I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Too slippery?” I asked.

“That’s it,” said Scherie. “It’s just some slippery fur of a big cat. And this glow isn’t helping. I could tell it to leave here, but I think it’ll just retreat like before. I can’t feel where it lives.”

“We know where it lives,” I said, nodding at the ground. Any mundane standing here would think of the nuclear sword over her head, or the vicious storm that circled like a pocket hurricane. Any other craftsman would be observing the spectral fireworks from the collective Left-Hand Morton überspirit smacking against the craft barrier overhead like birds into a domed-glass doom. That the Left Hand had made it so close was truly impressive. Shame they were such heinous bastards.

But I noticed little above. The destroyer dwelled below.

Some Arlington dead patrolled the grounds, focusing on the threat from the skies. “The chance of recognition is rising as we sit here,” I said. “We may as well move forward.”

Roman sighed. “I get you down to H-Ring.”

“OK. If we can find the elevator down, can you screen it?” I asked. I didn’t want to risk running into a craft master on the stairs before we hit bottom.

“Won’t they see the elevator moving?” asked Scherie.

For the first time, a little annoyance played on Roman’s smiling face. “Elevators move all the time. With me there, they won’t care.”

“We’ll take the elevator down,” I said. “It’ll open. You’ll have a couple seconds to act. The door will close. We’ll come back up. No one the wiser.”

And if that didn’t work? As nice as it was to have survived this far, I had the sense of a tactical ruse, being drawn by Chimera’s continual retreat into the deepest heart of bad luck to be destroyed. The stormy sky was my setup for my next plan (was I on plan C or D?). Like all my best plans, this one could easily kill me.

Scherie found the exterior door to the elevator first. “It’s glowing like a toaster.” Above its buttons hung an out-of-order sign. Roman shrugged. “Don’t believe what you read.”

We entered the elevator. The
H
of H-ring seemed ominous as we descended deeper, and deeper. The soil here was soft; we were sinking into a hollow of deep bedrock encased in swamp. The solid concrete of the Pentagon weighed hundreds of thousands of tons, all above my head. Great, another basement for me to enjoy my taphephobia in.

Time slowed. Scherie turned one direction, then another, distracting me from my own nerves. She pressed her hands against her eyes. “Too much. Not good, not good, not good.” Her agitation was growing. Not damn good at all …

The door opened.

*   *   *

Endicott didn’t hesitate. He returned to his father’s office. If the general was compromised, then Endicott was screwed anyway.

No, not screwed. Damned. Perhaps the destruction of the Families, even his family, was God’s will. Whatever their pretension to holiness, they had become the family of Simon Magus, trading purity for power. No, not a mere slide into sinful ease. The Families, his family, had submitted to an abomination.

But in the general damnation, Endicott still saved his greatest doubts and loathing for himself.

The only ones who had tried to warn him were those demons who called themselves his grandparents and the last scion of the greatest domestic foes of his Family. If God gave Endicott a long enough life, clearly some reflection and prayer on prior assumptions would be in order.

At the office door, Endicott rushed in—a violation of protocol and dangerous in a craft environment, but a clock of judgment was ticking. Other people were in the room; no time for them. “Sir, we’ve been breached.”

The general didn’t point out Endicott’s own breach, didn’t even raise his eyes from his desk. He pressed an intercom button. “He’s here.”

“Sir,” said Endicott. “Chimera—”

The general held up a hand. “You’re going to tell me that some person or persons, long presumed dead, are still alive and dangerous. I’m aware of the situation. It’s under control, and we’ll discuss it after this meeting.”

Endicott’s immediate dread slipped into simple unease. He was interrupting a meeting. He looked about him. To his left, the older guy from OTM was examining the feed from Chimera. To his right, a woman officer. It was Hutch.

“Colonel.” Endicott saluted, and held it. He hated to cry, particularly in front of his father, but he might anyway. Death held no sting, save the separation from comrades.

“Major.” Hutch returned his salute, and smiled at him. It was a strained, damaged smile. Her other arm was in a sling, her face bandaged, she was using a cane. Bad things had happened here.

“Who did this, ma’am?”

The smile remained frozen on her face. “Dale Morton tried to kill me, but I survived the attempt.”

Morton? Two days ago, Endicott would have accepted that statement as natural fact. Now? Hutch wasn’t lying, though there must be a lie buried in this truth. Perhaps she was mistaken, but this was not the time to ask.

The general continued to focus on his desk. “If we could get back to your report, Colonel…”

“Not much more, sir,” said Hutch. “From the phone records, his travel to Pennsylvania, his stealth movement beyond craftsight, his contact with the Morton Left Hand, and now this latest confession, I think the situation is clear.”

She turned toward Endicott, still smiling like a damaged painted doll. “You need to arrest the major.”

Endicott’s first instinct was the door. Too late. Two fine specimens of craft muscle from C-CRT stood behind him.

His father finally looked up from his desk. “You’re under arrest, son.”

Endicott kept his voice under control, the only emotional state his father would respect. “Have you seen what’s in there?”

“A traitor,” said the general, “paying for his crime.”

“A human brain,” said Endicott, “and God knows what else.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said the general. “Did it occur to you that there was a damned good reason we don’t let anyone in there? Did it occur to you that, without the mediation and control of all that technology, the most evil magus who ever lived this side of Hell might be a damned good liar and manipulator?”

Endicott had only heard “damned” from his father once before—when his mother had died. Somehow, he found the strength to keep arguing. “Chimera says that an Endicott is involved.”

“It’s told that story before,” said the general. “It’s got a different one for each Family.”

“We can check this story,” insisted Endicott.

The general waved this away. “Without further sin? That’s what it wants; its last little game.”

Sin.
Endicott thought of the experiments he’d seen in Prague. This was worse, the sin of Endor in flesh and blood. “Sir, keeping him like that is
wrong
.”

His father gave him his measure-for-a-funeral-dress-uniform gaze. At least he was paying attention. “No, soldier! Keeping it like this is smart. Nukes are stupid in comparison. Chimera is the greatest craft weapon in a hundred years. Thanks to your service and others, nobody has the equivalent. So you’ll sit in H-ring detention until we sort out the current crap. Then we can debate philosophy to your heart’s content, while we figure out what other discipline is necessary.”

“Sir, I—”

His father extended his hand. “Major, surrender the family sword.”

Endicott handed the blade, the visible sign of his family pride, hilt-first to his father. His hand kept steady while the rest of him threatened to shake apart. When his mother had died, Endicott had held fast to religious consolation. Now, he held nothing but ashes. So much for the controlled approach. Endicott’s voice broke. “In God’s name, sir.”

His father’s eyes returned to desk duty. “Gentlemen, please escort the major out. Dismissed.”

The two guards stepped forward to each side. With the formality of a funeral, Endicott saluted. He pivoted around for his reverse march.

Lord
, prayed Endicott,
right now I could use a break. Not for me, but for your whole people. All people. Thy will be done.

He stepped forward. Then the breach alarm went off.

The gray-haired technician dropped his tools. The guards turned back toward the general for instructions. Endicott no longer believed in coincidences. He was in hostile territory. Moscow Rules. Time for the bravest thing he could think of. “
Freeze,”
he said. And Endicott ran for it.

He reached the office door.
Lord, guide me to the fight.

Just then, a blinding flash and an artillery roar. The lights went out.
Not very goddamned funny, Lord.
But he turned left toward the main elevator and kept running.

His shoes clattered in the corridor.
Umph!
A surprise collision, a side check against somebody coming the other way. “What the…?” Endicott only slowed a moment. He wasn’t winded, didn’t care if he blindly hit a whole platoon. Emergency light tracks flickered just long enough to disorient him.

A flash and roar? Someone performing suicidal weather craft in H-ring? He ran faster. Where was Moses when the lights went out? In the dark. But my eyes have seen the glory. Something more than a little pagan about Jehovah God of Armies, but “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” was a catchy tune for times of slaughter and stricken fields. He has loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword. Glory!

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

When the elevator door opened only a foot, a blur dove out, and I failed to grab it. Roman had gone.

I reined in my first instinct: to pursue and kill. The opened door revealed two guards, both focused on a shimmering chameleon blur sprinting away, strangely leaving its traveling case uncamouflaged. With predetermined rapidity, one guard pursued, calling in support on his comm.

The other turned to find me in his face, and then found unconsciousness. One-on-one, hardly fair.