Secondhand Sorcery

Their plane landed at 1733, perilously close to the scheduled start time of Operation Wolf’s Teeth. It couldn’t be helped; they’d been held up at Thessaloniki’s airport while the Marshall Family’s entire air fleet took off in sequence, then again in Istanbul as they waited for all those privileged planes to land. Luckily, they would be watching the whole thing from the airport; they were only jockeying for good seats before the big show began.

‘Papa Titus’ had offered to find space for them on a plane full of Praetorians, an offer Sarah Lawrence tactfully declined for her CO’s sake. “You good to handle the steps, Hamp?”

“For the last time, yes! I’m not a goddamn invalid.” He levered himself up forcefully from the seat, gripping chair backs as he moved toward the exit. There was no need to wait; they were the only passengers on board the tiny plane Uncle Sam had chartered for them. Keisha hurried after the Colonel, an arm half-extended to him behind his back in case of a fall.

Three weeks—almost four now—and he still wasn’t back to normal. It had taken her two of those weeks just to get him to see a doctor, who assessed some degree of distributed nerve damage and offered a battery of further testing the Colonel had refused in favor of a disturbing amount of ibuprofen. Probably he didn’t want to know what those fifteen minutes with “Yunks” had done to him.

Keisha hadn’t been able to push him further; she’d been busy with her other responsibilities, juggling Titus Marshall and his twelve-year-old adopted daughter. It was hard to say which of the two was more childish, demanding, and irritating.

But it all led up to this moment, as she caught her limping superior by the arm at the bottom of the stairs and hauled him over the tarmac, grumbling and cussing, so they wouldn’t be late for the Coalition’s latest billion-dollar spectacle. By the time they got to the terminal he’d given up griping to save his energy, and let her guide him through the door without complaint. White-helmeted Turkish MPs in dress uniforms were available at every turn to point them to the appointed place: the roof of a parking garage. It took another five minutes just to get through the security line. 1753—cutting it close.

Istanbul’s shiny new airport saw precious little civilian traffic these days, but plenty of military, and the Turkish government was determined to play the gracious host—possibly to make up for their utter impotence to dislodge Russia from the heart of their largest city after most of a year. They had six good-sized projection screens set up on the rooftop, currently showing live air footage from as many different locations around Fatih district. Nothing happening on any of them yet. The speakers beside them were turned off.

Including the security personnel, technical staff managing the screens, and white-jacketed waiters circulating with hors d’oeuvres, there had to be over a hundred people present. Most of them were still standing, milling about with drinks in their hands like it was a cocktail party. The various potted plants, carpets—Turkish, naturally—hardback chairs and elegant tables scattered around did a good job of covering up the lines of the parking spaces.

There was even a little stage platform and podium set up on the west side, between the screens, backlit by the setting sun. A banner hanging down the podium’s front depicted a wolf’s head and a crescent in white, against a bright red background. The same motif was repeated on little flags all around the rooftop. If the Turks were taking ownership of this whole circus, they could have been more subtle. Of course, the wolf was supposed to be a Turkish symbol in the first place—or so she was told.

Still, if half of the guests weren’t in military uniforms under coats, and the air hadn’t been horribly cold, you could almost pretend this was a wedding reception. God only knew what they’d have done if it rained.

Titus Marshall was wearing the same idiotic Roman Emperor getup he’d first met her in, now freshly polished, and was regaling a dozen people (who all stood at least eight feet away) with his very loud opinions of someone called Aristophanes. Keisha was pleasantly surprised that he’d had the tact to steer the subject away from the inevitable collapse of state governments in favor of emissor dictatorships. He beckoned with one hand; deliberately misunderstanding, she waved back, and ushered Hamp to a table on the east side, where they’d get a good view.

“Thank you so much, Lieutenant Lawrence,” he said airily, as she pulled out a chair and forced him down into it.

“You’re welcome, sir,” she replied deadpan, and plunked down next to him. A waiter offered them hot cups of coffee, which she gratefully accepted. Hamp told him to bring his back with at least one shot of liquor in it. The waiter blinked, but walked away without saying anything.

“You’re a little young to be my wife, you know,” he growled, when she gave him a look. “I’m not staying near that son of a bitch cold sober.”

“Fair enough,” she murmured back, looking around and checking her watch. 1800 on the dot; she thought she could hear the call to prayer on the wind. Officially, it had begun, and three teenagers were on their way into Fatih. She wished she could have been with them, instead of on a rooftop miles away from danger, waiting to take in the scenic view of the apocalypse.

She peered over the edge to survey the heavy guns laid out in the parking lot below, then looked up at the sound of roaring engines to see an F-22 circling in the distance. Security theater for their hosts. There’d be an even larger perimeter laid out still farther away, in the unlikely event Ivan felt like reaching out this far. Every security tough had a dowser out, and at least one of the people in this crowd would be an emissor, authorized to cut loose in case of catastrophe.

Of course there’d be Coalition forces involved in the assault as well, both conventional and paraphysical, and (thanks to her work over the past few weeks) a whole swarm of innocuous-looking bugs laid out along their route into the city, to keep an eye on the children and offer help if needed. But there was little help they could offer when the first familiar to manifest would wipe them all out. It really did come down to Hamza, Ruslan, and Nadia—no, “Natasha.”

It was hard to believe that all of the governments represented on this cold and windy rooftop didn’t have any of their own emissors to spare—reliable paraphysical operatives with years of experience, who spoke Russian, Turkish, or both, would likely have a much better chance of success. But the loss of even a single emissor would represent a major setback, impossible to replace in a hurry. Why risk losing one’s place in the international balance-of-power pissing contest when there was a cheap rental option available? All the Coalition emissors would be hanging safely back with the diversionary force. Maybe she should get a shot in her coffee too—

“Pardon me,” a man said from behind her in oddly accented English. “Is this seat taken?”

Keisha whipped her head around, then smiled. “Dr. Gus! I wasn’t expecting to see you here!”

“I will take that as a ‘no,’” he said, easing himself down into the chair beside her. “Incidentally, do keep your voice down, my dear. This place must be filthy with Russian spies.”

“Right you are. Colonel Hampton, I don’t know if you’ve met Dr. Gus. He’s … “ She wasn’t sure how much she could say.

“A consultant for the Numenate. Semi-retired, these days. And you are Lieutenant Sarah Lawrence at the moment, yes?” He threw a look over his shoulder as he said it, but Marshall was still jawing away at his captive audience.

“And you’re very well informed,” Hampton cut in, eyeing her old mentor with some distaste. It was hard to imagine a less suspicious-looking person; he looked old enough to be more than semi-retired, with a receding white hairline, wire-frame glasses, and a very tidy mustache. He was the sort of old man who not only wore a bow tie and a cardigan, but would look slightly incomplete without them. The Colonel was doing his best to be suspicious anyway. “Is your name really ‘Dr. Gus’?”

“No, but not for any sinister reason,” the Doctor replied with a cheery smile. “My actual name is rather hard for most English speakers to pronounce, so I go by Gus. Nobody can be scared of a man named Gus.”

“I don’t find you frightening at all,” Hampton retorted, and Keisha was about to tell him to back the hell off when Dr. Gus laid his hand on hers.

“Bear in mind, Colonel Hampton, that we have only just met. But I gather you are curious how I know about the Lieutenant? As it happens, I was the one who recommended her for this assignment.”

“I thought better of you than that, Doctor!” She was only half-teasing.

“Yes, he is tiresome, isn’t he? But this is critical, and I knew very well that you could be relied upon.”

“A consultant,” Hampton said, still eyeing him critically. “The Numenate has a lot of consultants, doesn’t it?”

“My involvement with the United States government predates the formation, or even the contemplation, of the Numenate by several decades. Most of your lifetime, I imagine. I have played many roles within that time, but never in any violent capacity. I am primarily an advisor.”

“I thought everybody knew Dr. Gus,” Keisha began, only to be cut off by the squeal of feedback as a microphone turned on. Some big shot officer or other had taken to the stage to kick off the ceremonies. He had a French accent; more than Turkish pride was being salved here. But he wouldn’t be saying anything she didn’t know already, so she kept her eyes and attention east while he welcomed various important people to the kickoff, and hopefully the successful conclusion, of Operation Wolf’s Teeth.

The Turks had helpfully set multiple pairs of binoculars on every table for this little soiree, and she picked one up to scan the horizon. Fatih itself was much too far away to see, of course, but it would begin in the air, and it wouldn’t be easy to miss.

The ancient center of the city was protected by a double perimeter forming a no-man’s-land: massive fortifications courtesy of Akritas shielding the Russians from attack, surrounded by a half-mile hedge of Mayakora’s noxious forests for the Coalition. Any attempt to break through either barrier would lead to a familiar manifesting to regenerate it in moments. Hence the past six months’ stalemate.

Up till now, Titus Marshall had been earning a handsome fee for feints, probes, and tests, punctuated by the odd opportunistic attack or retaliation. Blowing up ships, assassinating minor officers. There wasn’t much else to be done, with Moscow keeping a clairvoyant eye on the whole district around the clock. The first sign of paraphysical attack would put the troika on high alert, monopolizing Fatih’s population—and wiping out any VRIL constructs inside the walls. You couldn’t get an emissor inside the district without waking the troika, and with the troika awake any other familiar would be starving and outgunned. The whole thing was hopeless—or so went the conventional wisdom.

Tonight, they would try to break the siege with a combination of careful timing and overwhelming force. As tactics went, it wasn’t all that inspired, the equivalent of throwing a flash-bang into a room before forcing your way in with a squad. Just like that time-honored maneuver, it would be extremely hazardous to any innocent third parties who might be caught in the crossfire—in this case, the increasingly deprived and miserable civilians of Fatih.

The French general finished his bit and sat down, and there was an awkward pause. Several heads swiveled expectantly toward Titus Marshall, who pulled a phone out of his armor to thumb through it. “Secundus is facing some minor delays,” he announced. “Primus is in position with the rest of the task force.”

“Primus,” Dr. Gus said in her ear. “Alias … Yuri?”

She startled; of the hundred or so people on this roof, only she, Hampton, and Marshall should know that name. Most of the people here didn’t even know about the three children who made up ‘Secundus,’ though they certainly must have guessed the broad outlines of the plan. “You’ve done more than recommend me,” she muttered back, but got no reply beyond a twinkle of his eyes.

More time passed; a few people started quiet conversations at their tables. One or two hustled downstairs, presumably looking for the bathroom. David Hampton gave Titus Marshall a vicious look, downed the last of his Turco-Irish coffee, and motioned for another. Keisha wondered if she should cut him off at some point; she still felt irrationally guilty for what he had suffered. If she hadn’t been in the room and invulnerable, Yunks would have almost certainly have been much gentler, and her new CO would have escaped the castle with only his usual mild jitters. Apparently impunity pissed her off. She wasn’t used to being ignored.

There was a noise like a trumpet, and all conversation ceased abruptly. Ostentatiously Titus Marshall reached inside his armor, retrieved his phone, and glanced it over before turning his oversized mask to the French officer and saying, “Maréchal, by your leave?” The man gave him a sour nod, and he held up the phone to his mouth. “Primus, Secundus: Now.”

For ten seconds, nothing happened. Then a little dot of light rose up in the east—white at first, then multicolored. One of the screens caught it before she could swing her binoculars around; several guests who hadn’t seen it before exchanged incredulous stares. Even Keisha, who knew basically what to expect, was startled, because Shum-Shum, destroyer of Guryev, looked like nothing so much as a jellyfish made out of a Tiffany lamp.

A gleaming bauble of multicolored panels, lit up from within, floated serenely through the air, trailing a long curtain of metallic-beaded strands below it. The sight of it was so bizarre, so unexpected, that it took several seconds for Keisha to notice the music coming out of the speakers: a simple, tootling, jangling tune, like you might hear from an ice cream truck, or an old-fashioned carousel. A few people laughed. The majority, who had some inkling what a non-humanoid familiar meant, only stared as it drifted east toward Fatih.

Another screen showed the nearly instant response in kind: an elongated metallic bulb, at least fifty feet long, rising from Akritas’s bombastic battlements. Myriad, champion of Holy Rus’, empowered by a third of the people she held captive. As she cleared the skyline, she bloomed, opening up her twelve gleaming petals in pastel shades, and starting their stuttering clockwork rotation. Her smaller, inner ring of shining gold spun just as cumbersomely in the opposite direction, around the colossal glassy “dewdrop” at her very center, already pregnant with her glowing children.

Out they came in perfect unison, swirling streams of murderous flying drones of rainbow light, one for each person in her aura, always maintaining perfect radial symmetry with each other in a shifting pattern as they spun and twirled about looking for threats to her perfect order.

Those threats were already coming, flashing through the screens in turn. Usman the Dauntless, next to appear as a courtesy to their Turkish hosts, a slithering serpent of segmented steel plates wrapped around a hollow core, culminating in the torso of an armored giant with a hundred floating hands. Slothlike Pangu, barely visible by his single yellow eye shining through the frozen fog he made. Gangling Eisengrave, all bladed bones and barbed chains. Tantrum Song, beard and rags flapping and twisting around him as he rode his whirlwind into battle. A few others she couldn’t recognize from a glimpse at a screen.

Last of all came the rotting corpse of Mayakora, fresh tendrils of thorns and poison blossoms erupting out of her body as she writhed in pain, before the camera cut away in a hurry. Growing back her forest after her allies cut through it, sending its creepers after them to worry and tear at Akritas’s ramparts.

All of it was captured for their viewing pleasure by very high-quality airborne cameras with exquisite zoom capabilities that could achieve reasonable focus from outside the tech-jamming effect of a halo. From multiple angles, no less. The Turks had to know they would not be getting their city back from this assault, but the spectacle was worth it when the two forces met and all these men could see their incredible, atrociously expensive toys unleashed to their full extent while they sat in comfort.

A familiar could only be as strong as the human substrate it had to draw on, lost potency with distance from its emissor, and suffered degrading interference from another’s halo. Usman’s whirling gauntlets battered at the walls, Pangu cracked them with frost, Shum-Shum shook them down with fire and lightning, but Akritas and Myriad had an endless well to draw on and gave back as good as they got and more.

Usman was the first to fall, exploded into a cloud of shrapnel by Akritas. The bits disintegrated into loose ectoplasm and were absorbed before he could make a new wall from them. Tantrum Song and Shum-Shum were torn to bits by at least thirty ravening drones apiece. Eisengrave was eventually buried alive by Akritas, dust and shrapnel congealing around him and freezing him in place as the foundation of yet another wall. They could all be remade, but not as quickly as before, and regeneration made them groggy and stupid. At 1847 they gave it up at last, fading back into the night so Akritas could perfectly replicate the fortifications they had spent half an hour destroying.

It didn’t matter. The flash-bang had gone off. There was no way any esper watching the district could have kept track of all the simultaneous disturbances in the fabric of reality. A whole shift would be going to bed with migraines, while their replacements hurried to get into a proper trance. “Secundus” and his team were well inside by now, their familiars safely hidden, nothing to distinguish them from any three other teenagers in the crowd. Operation Wolf’s Teeth had only just begun.