Secondhand Sorcery

“… which brings us to our best available informant.” The next slide popped up with several pictures of a pretty but strong-featured young woman. A few were old shots, including something that looked like it was scanned from a high school yearbook, but the largest was something closer to a mugshot, a cinderblock wall behind the subject, who looked tired and frowsy. “Zeinab Nasr, age twenty-six. One of Mr. Marshall’s three substitute mothers for his ‘family.’ Voluntarily surrendered herself into our protective custody at the American consulate on the night of the sixteenth.”

Here, General Green paused to glance at Dimitri Gakos, the consulate official, who’d taken the room’s armchair. The rest of them, except Dr. Gus in the bed, had uncomfortable plastic chairs scrounged up by hospital staff. It would have been more pleasant to hold this little briefing at the consulate, but the hospital refused to let Dr. Gus go yet and the consulate was surrounded by enraged protesters around the clock. This was the best they could do, even if the room was so cramped they could hardly fit.

“Ms. Nasr is our single most credible source for the claim that Titus Marshall is dead. The rest of it is largely circumstantial in character, although there are few better conclusions we can think of to fit the known facts. Varvara Riazantseva was found dead in the facility’s courtyard, presumed cardiac arrest. Gulya Sharifova’s current whereabouts are unknown but Ms. Nasr strongly believes she would have accompanied the remaining children, and we are proceeding under that assumption.”

Flick, flick, went the screen, showing several images of each woman, none very high quality. “Ms. Nasr has also been helpful in accounting for the children.” The next slide was a much better photo, and very recent; Keisha had seen it in the paper. President Arthur Dawes, the day after his inauguration, bending over to shake the hand of a big-eyed waif his administration had rescued from the disaster.

It was a hell of a photo op; every kid was supposed to get fast-tracked American citizenship, plus a college scholarship, and probably a unicorn if they asked nicely. White House photographers had tastefully cropped out the Secret Service men she assumed were hovering around the edge of the room with their hands inside their suit jackets, ready to unload into the kid the second he did something funny. No wonder the poor boy looked nervous.

“Greek officials also have a number of Mr. Marshall’s security forces in custody, and have given us reasonable access, but these men seem to have taken little interest in the children and are mostly useful for corroboration of details from other sources.”

Ethan leaned forward, putting up a hand. “Like the body? Do they recognize their old boss, or don’t they?”

If General Tyler Green was annoyed at the interruption, he didn’t show it. “Again, Major Honoré, the body was in very poor condition by the time we obtained it. Air-to-surface missiles will do that. We can be reasonably certain that it was a man of the correct age and ethnicity, but given Mr. Marshall’s well-known paranoia we can’t entirely rule out the possibility of a body double.”

“And nobody actually saw the son of a bitch die? It’s all hearsay? Is that the shape of things?” Ethan drawled, leaning back so his chair tilted on two legs. He had, as usual, grown out his mustache just enough that it no longer complied with regulations, and had a significant five o’clock shadow. Ethan was a horse’s ass, but his presence was her only source of entertainment during this miserable meeting.

“Nobody we have access to at this time,” Green said impatiently. “May we continue, Major?”

“Might as well,” Ethan shrugged, letting the chair drop to the floor with a bang. Even Dr. Gus gave him a look for that, which he ignored. Nobody had mentioned Ethan’s specialty; he’d been introduced as simply “Ethan Allen Honoré, Numenate.” Even the slowest kids in the class had to have worked it out by now; Hamp was giving him the stink-eye. Keisha tried to act like she didn’t recognize him, for more reasons than one.

“Thank you.” Green’s voice was brittle as he moved to the next slide, which showed a beat-up laptop. He was involved with the Joint Chiefs of Staff somehow, and wasn’t accustomed to taking this kind of shit from grunts, or even majors. “Other sources are scant. Mr. Marshall’s personal computer is, as far as we can tell, very securely encrypted. The NSA has brought a team of classics scholars on board to try and guess the password, but as you can imagine they do not have great hopes of success.

“Several other electronic devices have been recovered, mostly phones, but none of them have much information relevant to our current difficulties, though they are of interest for their insights into the Marshall Family’s security protocols and past activities.”

Next slide, showing a map of Eastern Europe with a twisty red line leading from Thessaloniki up through Bulgaria and Romania, widening as it went, and ending in a big crimson glob across the western third of Ukraine. It reminded Keisha of hurricane projections, and served the same general purpose. “This route is highly speculative, based mostly on interviews with locals who happened to see or feel something odd. The Greek army has not recovered the two stolen vehicles and no longer expects to. We believe they employed the emissant known as ‘Mister Higgins’ to dispose of them, somewhere near the border.”

The military attaché from Athens raised a hand, less insolently than Ethan, and waited for the General to nod at him before speaking. “Bulgaria actually got back to us on that just this morning, sir. They found a bus abandoned near Sofia, some place called Kyustendil. They’re pretty sure it’s the same one that got hijacked last Thursday.”

“Very good,” Green answered somberly. “But that’s only confirming their location as of four, five days ago. Chief Graham, do you have any idea where they might be heading?”

“Not really, sir. I would have expected them to return to familiar territory, to one of their homelands. All of which are in Asia. They wouldn’t want to pass through Turkey, given our presence there, so it’s possible that they intend to circle around the entire Black Sea. But it’s also possible that they plan to hide out in former Soviet territory for a while.”

Dr. Gus spoke up from his bed, for the first time in a long while. His voice was steadier than his body looked. “General Green, what is this administration’s top priority where the surviving Marshall children are concerned? Does President Dawes have a particular overarching plan in place?”

“After three days in office, and a week since the start of this crisis, it’s still too early, and too much is unclear, to speak of a concrete plan. As to priorities, at present the Marshall children are a poorly understood but extremely potent strategic asset. Location, goals, and loyalties—if any—all unknown. This is not acceptable.”

That was one way of putting it. Keisha assumed Green was only being so civil to them since he’d already rained fire from heaven on everyone in a more senior position, and was worried about wearing out his voice. That, and they had some cover for now; the Press Corps had chased poor Dave McNeil out of the White House and down the street this past Sunday, virtually ignoring the Inauguration festivities.

President Dawes wanted all this horror dead and buried so he could focus on Medicare like he wanted. He wasn’t so naive as to think it would happen soon; there would be a few months of hearings and rulings as both parties of Congress struggled to find out who knew what and when. But that fire would go out much faster with nobody adding fuel to it by, say, bouncing out of the wilderness in six months to vaporize Warsaw.

“General,” Keisha spoke up. “Based on my experience with these children, I think it’s misleading to speak of their goals and loyalties. If Titus Marshall really is dead, and the ‘Family’ is just the five kids with familiars, one adult minder with no previous leadership role, and two dozen Metics … then it comes down to a vote between the five, or however they decide to settle their differences, in a situation none of them are likely to have anticipated.”

“I’m not seeing the distinction here, for our purposes. Whatever they decide is their goal, however haphazardly agreed on.”

“Yes, but the word ‘goal’ implies something more settled and firm than they are likely to have. They aren’t used to this level of responsibility, and they’ll be frightened. Their actions at any given moment are likely to be the simplest and fastest response they can come up with to resolve the current moment’s crisis. The way they decide to address the next crisis won’t necessarily be consistent with that or with any … doctrine, any policy that makes sense to us,” she finished awkwardly, with a silent curse for the four hours she’d spent lying awake in bed last night.

“Whatever they do,” Hamp observed, “they’ll be doing it in the remains of the Warsaw Pact. Crossing borders like they weren’t even there, probably racking up an even bigger body count in the process. Is this where Chief Graham and I bow out, General?” He sounded hopeful as he asked the question. Keisha supposed she shouldn’t hold that against him, though she still did.

Green hesitated before speaking. “An interesting question, Colonel Hampton. The President accepts that the two of you had limited freedom of action under the circumstances. Whatever we think of the multitude of questionable decisions that led us to this point, those decisions were not made by either of you. It seems likely that, given such critical deficiencies at the policy level, the present outcome is essentially the best we could have hoped for.”

Keisha very carefully did not look at the others, and assumed they returned the favor. She’d had no way of knowing whether the men who debriefed her were cleared to know about Project Belvedere, so she’d phrased her answers in such a way as to not bring the matter up. Nobody had yet asked whether or why any of the Marshalls knew sovereignty protocol. Hopefully it would stay that way. It was possible that General Green was in the loop, and had deliberately avoided raising the question in the first place. Letting Titus Marshall become public knowledge was bad enough.

“Warrant Officer Graham is also the only service member who is personally acquainted with any of the Marshalls.” His nostrils flared as he said it. There was no sane reason why that should have been the case; they should have had an inch-think dossier on each of those children long before their father set foot in Thessaloniki. It was only cowardice—with maybe a dash of laziness—that kept them from doing what Keisha had done the same day she first heard Titus Marshall’s name. Can’t risk alienating a vital asset!

“She, at least, will therefore be intimately involved in whatever field ops we execute to neutralize the Marshall threat.” Keisha nodded; she’d worked out as much for herself. “Major Honoré will also be attached to the project, at the Doctor’s request.” Also no surprise—though more than a little aggravating—given that he was one of Dr. Gus’s old students. “We will not be able to spare any other assets of his caliber from the ongoing crisis in Istanbul. You will remain involved in an advisory capacity if nothing else, but given the state of your health we hesitate to put you back in the field.”

Hamp frowned. “That’s fair. Who else are you going to send in with them?”

A cumbersome silence followed, broken by Ethan’s vigorous “Shit! I don’t imagine they’ve been overwhelmed by volunteers.”

Green’s hard stare lasted only a moment before he gave up and turned back to Hampton. “Sending a large force into the geopolitical badlands of Eastern Europe would not be advisable, Colonel. Short of an actual invasion, we’d do better to rely on a low profile. It says a great deal about the naivete of these children that they chose to retreat in that direction.”

“I know that,” Hamp said, nettled. “But if you’re talking about sending just the two of them into that hell, count me in too. I’ve been there before, and going back doesn’t scare me half as much as sending them in with no backup.” Ethan looked him over and snorted. “Oh, I’m sure they’ve both been there before,” he added. “And I’m not talking about the ability to project physical force, or even paraphysical. That hardly matters; what’s two more lions in a crowded pit?

“But I’ve been there too, up and down, east and west—we’ve taken on most of their big players for hire at one point or another, when we weren’t trying to kill them. I have contacts all over. Tell me you don’t need that.”

“As long as you’re certain you can keep up,” Green told him coolly. Gakos and the attaché looked at each other. This wasn’t the kind of briefing they were used to. “And you understand that no cavalry is coming. Any information you desire, anything we can send over radio waves, can be provided. Goods you can touch and feel, you’ll be waiting on local mail if we agree to send it. Additional manpower? That’ll take an act of Congress, or God.”

“Understood,” Hamp said. Keisha understood too. The best possible outcome, from the perspective of the Dawes administration, was for Nadia and her siblings to piss off the wrong warlord and get quietly liquidated, or absorbed by a new abusive father figure. That was also the most probable outcome. Failing that, the brass might accept taking one or more children back alive, if that could be arranged. If the Marshalls somehow gouged a place for themselves in the existing local hierarchy, that too was fine, so long as they directed all their violence somewhere east of the unpleasantly porous line formerly known as the Iron Curtain.

Task Force Graham was going in to quietly keep tabs on the Marshall clan, to hopefully provide advance warning if they decided to act out in a way that might cause more photogenic white people to die in a place typical Americans could locate on a map. Men like General Green were just scared enough of that possibility to risk Ethan, who was an unmanageable asshole of a liability at the best of times and could be spared more easily than most. If Keisha or Hampton died, well, they would die without giving tell-all interviews on cable news. Tragic.

“Is there room for a fourth person on this excursion?” Dr. Gus asked.

Green was appalled. “Doctor, given your age and current condition, I really don’t think that’s on the table.” The phrasing was interesting—he really wasn’t sure he had the power to stop her mentor from going if he insisted. Neither was she. Who did he report to, anyway? “You could assist better by advising from a distance.” You’re practically the Numinate’s mascot and somebody will have my ass if you get mauled.

“On the contrary, I have an indispensable role to play. Keisha is an able, experienced VRIL technician and knows the children better than anyone else we can trust. Ethan can provide essential services in the areas of transport and, if need be, close air support. David has relevant logistical expertise in the region. None of them has my aptitude for clairvoyance—an aptitude which has not been put to official use in some time, but which remains undiminished.”

“You’re recovering from a concussion,” Green said flatly.

“I have done some preliminary tests, and I believe I can still be useful. Dowsers are not a substitute for broad-spectrum ectenic surveillance, and I know you will not be allocating any other such talent to this enterprise. If you are concerned about my physical mobility, I do not believe that will be a concern—unless you were planning to have them walk to Kyiv from here. Might we take a train, perhaps? I do adore trains.”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Ethan chimed in, apparently for spite.

“I’ll consult with General Cutler about your role,” Green said. “You aren’t even discharged yet. We have yet to decide how and where to insert your team; hopefully we’ll have a clearer picture of the Marshalls’ location or locations within the next few days. Assuming they stop moving and form at least a temporary headquarters.”

“Of course,” Dr. Gus said with a smile. “Much remains uncertain. I am accustomed to uncertainty, my career depends upon it. One thing, however, I would not care to remain uncertain: do we have Mr. Dawes’s full support in this?”

“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t,” Green said.

“Ah. That is good. I ask because the Titus Marshall Affair, as they are calling it in the papers, has come to pass as a direct consequence of an executive order by the McNeil administration.”

Green’s eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

“I believe the number was 13603.”

The narrow eyes squeezed shut. “Doctor, this is not the time or place for humor.”

“I am not joking. I have seen five or six doctrinal shifts in my lifetime, as the highest levels of military command wrestled with the question of whom they could afford to trust: was it better to have a large number of less effective paraphysical specialists, or a few of the most dangerous operatives, the better to keep an eye on them?

“13603 was the latest and most ill-advised such shift. Understandable, given the widespread terror following the collapse of the Soviet Union; who would trust an emissor then? But to simply forbid more emissors to be trained, even as the so-called White Russians accelerated their use of the technology, was to ignore an obvious strategic reality for political reasons.”

“That is beside the current—“

“No, it is vitally relevant!” Dr. Gus said, slapping a hand on his bedside table. “We say there are to be no more emissors, but emissors must be used. What possible conclusion could we come to, except to employ men like the late Mr. Marshall, and having employed them go to the most absurd lengths to keep them satisfied?

“That is why I must ask you, General: do we have the president’s full support in this, or are we a mere afterthought and distraction? What does he intend for these children? Does he have any intention of rectifying the error which led to the spawning of these innocent monsters, or is he, like them, merely reacting to the crises of the present moment, fleeing from one terror into the arms of another?”

“You know that question is above my pay grade, Doctor, and yours as well. Ideally, that’s a question for the American people to decide democratically.”

“And I will spare you my thoughts on that,” Dr. Gus replied as he settled back against his pillow. “But we all have our jobs to do. I am an advisor. I have advised you. It is no fault of mine if you do not listen, but I, and all the world with me, will suffer the consequences all the same.”