Secondhand Sorcery

They were at least a quarter-mile south of where they needed to be. Keisha took off at a flat run. Adesina did not run; she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, and didn’t need to. Though she never moved any faster than a painful limp, and fell behind in seconds, she always managed to reappear from somewhere just outside Keisha’s field of view—hobbling out of alleys, emerging behind cars. And humming every step of the way.

There were no more explosions or gunshots. Shum-Shum’s hideous jingle was just barely audible in the distance, interspersed with thunderclaps, all overlaid with a growing chorus of screams and sirens. The black smoke of the familiar’s wake now covered an eighth of the sky. At least he would be easy enough to follow—eventually. For the moment, Keisha and her familiar had different prey.

The military trucks were right where she’d left them, one of them cut in half. There was no need to check for survivors. Nor much need to hunt for Rhadamanthus; men and women were pouring out of every doorway, shouting their outrage, all streaming in the same general direction—north and east, following Shum-Shum—with knives, crowbars, and every other kind of improvised weapon.

Ordinarily, they’d be laying low or running away, but these particular civilians had just seen a vision of a man named Bernie Willard, and each of them would be certain that he or she had to be the one person who stood up and got things done, even against something that could bisect armored personnel carriers. She didn’t know whether seeing the first few dozen such heroes cut to bits would slow down the ones behind, either. Probably not.

Adesina had found her way to the top of a condominium, to look down at the slaughter. Keisha couldn’t exactly see through her familiar’s eyes, but she had a rough understanding of what was going on all the same. A ghostly imprint was overlaid on her senses, an impression without clear pictures of a gnarled old hand holding blinding white cloth, the edge of a rooftop below dark bare feet, and a horde of civilians swarming around a giant figure in the middle of the street.

A few of them, at the edges, were slowing down, clutching at their heads, leaning against the walls. Ambivalence. But it wasn’t enough. Keisha herself was still hundreds of feet away, closing too slowly, and the halo would center itself closer to the emissor than the emissant, yielding more easily to valence pressure where Rhadamanthus had already staked a claim. The executioner swept his hand around, freezing dozens in place before the scythe-arm swung down for the next kill.

A caustic light seared the sky. In the streets below, Rhadamanthus staggered sideways with his bladed arm and a good part of his head burnt away, trailing char from the fresh wounds. His assailants stepped back, alarmed; the luckless crowd he had frozen broke suddenly free. On the rooftop, Adesina’s wrinkle-puckered eyes lit up white, preparing to burn again. And Keisha Graham, who had the beginnings of a stitch in her side, kept running.

The injured Rhadamanthus didn’t wait for either of them. His long legs picked a path through the crowd, shoving them aside with his intact hand where needed. The few who had wits enough about them to take a swing, missed by feet. Nothing mortal could touch him. Adesina had better odds, but no time to marshal her strength; the heat of her second glance only scalded his back before he retreated indoors, out of her sight and her reach.

Hamza was safely anonymous all the while. There would be any number of other teenagers in the crowd who looked hardly any different, and Keisha wasn’t confident that she could pick him out herself. Adesina made her way down to street level—through a process as obscure as it was irrelevant—and followed the crowd after her more conspicuous quarry, skipping ahead as she pleased.

With every step Keisha ran, the halo got a little stronger; ambivalence was starting to kick in for real now. Large swathes of the throng stumbled to a stop, glassy-eyed, struggling in vain to reconcile their bloodlust with a sudden feeling of calm, clear assurance. Keisha was at the edge of the same mob now, pushing roughly past men and women with wrenches and golf clubs. Adesina made another of her subtle little hops sideways, into another building, hunting for even a glimpse of Rhadamanthus. Between the two of them, they would find him, and then his master, and then … then, whatever needed to happen, would happen.

The better part of five minutes passed, with no sign of either of their enemies. Keisha kept to the streets, letting her familiar sift through the buildings for clues. There were plenty of buildings for one teenage boy to hide in, but as long as she kept him hiding he couldn’t attack Ethan and Song, who hopefully were dealing with Shum-Shum somehow. It would work out. She took a moment to catch her breath, then ran down an alley and peered around the corner. The motley mess of Turks in the streets—old men in bathrobes, young women in proper Islamic dress, boys with t-shirts and jeans with holes at the knees, businessmen in suits—were starting to look lost, and faintly queasy.

She was methodically scanning the crowd for a young, bearded, purposeful face when they all abruptly relaxed together. All confusion and disquiet was erased, replaced by resolute certainty. Men and women who had been looking ready to black out straightened up, looked one another in the eye with faintly embarrassed smiles, and at once went on their way. Keisha knew what they were thinking: Well, wasn’t that ridiculous? What was I thinking? I’d better get back to what I was doing, and leave all this to the people who know how to deal with it.

Hamza had released Rhadamanthus, or else moved very far very quickly. She knew better than to assume he would behave now; more likely he had to dissolve his familiar to regenerate him. It was too much to hope a teenager who’d nearly been killed would not be feeling vengeful.

Keisha started running again through the dissolving crowd, east this time, to where the skyline burned and smoked. Inside a minute she was moving more slowly along an avenue lined with smoldering wrecks, her feet slipping on ash as she sidled between smashed and burning cars. Shum-Shum’s music was audible again, faintly, in the silence that reigned in his wake. All the people in these buildings had choked to death on smoke, or had the ceiling fall on their heads, or burned alive. Laughing the whole time.

Adesina clambered on top of a gutted sedan to look around. Her face was its usual wrinkled mask, impassive, but she shook her head. The shining cloth, still immaculate in spite of the steady rain of drifting soot, slipped off her head to reveal a scalp fringed with a few scant grey hairs. She was small here, even feebler-looking than usual; there just weren’t that many people around to feed her. She glanced back the way her mistress had come, and frowned, very slightly.

Keisha followed her gaze and saw a tall young man in torn clothes limping down after her. When he saw her looking, he raised his right arm to point at her, and she caught a half-second’s glimpse of a sidearm. Then there was a flash of light, and he dropped it with a shout, grabbing at the hand that had held it. It smoked as it landed on the street, where a second, smaller flash disintegrated what was left.

“Don’t call Rhadamanthus, Hamza,” she advised him, her own pistol still pointing down at the street. “You can’t fight us and whoever comes running when the halo starts up.”

“I’m not stupid,” he told her, still limping her way. He was short of breath, and his cargo pants had a dark stain all down his left leg.

“I didn’t say you were,” she said, “but that’s close enough, thank you.” Her gun was still held low, but he obediently halted, leaning against the remains of a pickup truck. “How bad are you hurt?”

“Who are you with?” he asked instead of answering.

“I’m Numenate. American. My partner is chasing down your brother Yuri at present, or should be. I don’t know where Ruslan is.”

“Neither do I,” Hamza said at once. Probably lying, or telling part of the truth.

“It doesn’t matter. We both know Ruslan isn’t a violent young man. Your sister Fatima is in our custody, by the way. She’s been seriously injured, but she’s receiving medical care and is expected to survive.”

Hamza stared at her for a long time before saying, “Who are you?”

“You might know me as Beelzebub.”

“Byalza—what the hell kind of name is that? Never heard of you.”

“Then you can call me Keisha.” So Nadia hadn’t told him. And he hadn’t asked about her, either. To avoid incriminating her, or because he just didn’t care? Hard to say. “Chief Warrant Officer Keisha Graham, United States Numenate. I’m willing to take you in, and get you care for that leg.”

“Uh-huh. What terms?”

“I don’t have the authority to dictate terms. I can take you in, and I will protect you from immediate attack, but beyond that you’ll have to take your chances. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.” Or the simple version. Things would be a bit sticky, once they knew about Adesina, but maybe Dr. Gus could paper things over for a while … “What happened here?”

“Looks like Shum-Shum to me,” he said, deliberately unhelpful.

“Yes, it does. Why was Yuri staying in a separate apartment from yours, but just down the street? Given his history, wouldn’t they want you keeping an eye on him?” He didn’t answer. She hadn’t expected him to. “I’m trying to trace the timeline here, and it’s not adding up. There’s no way the Turks would have responded with a few APCs full of mooks if they actually knew what they were facing here. And I know it was an anonymous tip. Did you maybe get a warning too, Hamza? Letting you know you’d been found? How long in advance?”

He turned to rest his forehead on his crossed arms, against the roof of the truck. She was about to press her case when he said, “About twenty, thirty seconds before they pulled up.”

“I see,” was all she said. It would be better if he took the next step himself.

And he did. “You’re saying they fucked us.”

“After spacing you out enough for both—maybe all three—of you to have your own halos, and cause maximum destruction in response. Yes. That’s what I’m saying, Hamza. The way I see it, you wouldn’t keep fighting after losing two in the first attack, but they had a timetable to keep. This was how they chose to do it.”

He lifted his head enough to nod, then sighed, and straightened up as much as he could, turning away from her. When he was steady on his feet again, he took a few painful steps back the way he’d come.

“Where are you going, Hamza?”

“Are you going to stop me?” Still walking as he said it.

“I might. Or I might just follow you, until you lead me to Ruslan so he can heal you, or else you pass out from blood loss along the way.” His fists clenched at his sides, and she raised her pistol to point at his back. “Or you can call Rhadamanthus. He might kill me before I can shoot you, but Adesina will last long enough to turn you to ash. Probably. You can chance it, if you want. Ball’s in your court.”

He stopped walking to lean against a new vehicle. Most likely, he’d pass out long before he got anywhere at all. She still had her pic’ in her pocket, and could stabilize him long enough to take him into custody. All she had to do was keep him from doing anything stupid in the meantime. “You don’t act like you’re inside my halo, but I don’t see your friend. Titus Marshall taught you Sovereignty Protocol, didn’t he?”

“No. What the hell is that?”

“He might not have taught you the name. They might have called it something different when he was CIA, even. It’s a simple trick; all you have to do is pull up a mental image that’s loosely associated with your familiar’s valence. It creates a kind of half-halo, too weak to—“

“Yeah, yeah.” Another couple of steps, then he toppled over, landing on hands and knees.

“You’re only going to make the injury worse, trying to walk on it like that.”

“Maybe I’ll die, then,” he said, rolling over to rest against a semi’s half-melted tire.

“I’d rather you didn’t. If you agree not to do anything rash, I can help you.” He only grunted, but didn’t move as Adesina shuffled over and leaned down to inspect a small hole in his pants. There was another flash, and he let out a gurgling half-scream through his teeth. “There. No more bleeding. They can take the bullet out later. I’d hold still for a bit, so it doesn’t reopen.”

“Fine,” he said, and shoved his savior roughly away. She poked out her lip at his bad manners, but moved on all the same, holding up her wrap so it wouldn’t trail in the ash and soot. Hamza closed his eyes, and Keisha chanced letting Adesina go long enough to send a quick update to Hamp and Gus. Neither responded right away, and she called her familiar back a few seconds before Hamza opened his eyes again.

“What’s going to happen to Fatima?” he said.

“We haven’t decided that yet. I only learned we had her in custody this morning. If there’s a way to save her, to … rehabilitate her, I promise you I will pursue it.” Hamza didn’t reply. He’d heard enough promises from adults and foreigners, and he had no real reason to trust her. “Yuri might be a different matter. I can’t guarantee my partner will take him in alive.”

Hamza shrugged. “Whatever. The little shit has it coming. What about his sister? Where’s Nadia?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Then find her. She’s a good kid. ‘s not her fault, that … ” he couldn’t seem to find the right words, and trailed off, waving his bloody hand in the air in a failed bid to summon eloquence.

“I’ll find her if I can,” she said, painfully aware of the number of promises she was making, and the limits of her power to keep them. But Hamza did not challenge her, or react in any way, only leaned back against the car tire and breathed deep with his eyes squeezed tight.

She was just about to suggest that they try to find him proper medical care—or at least a working vehicle to move him out of the disaster area—when his eyes popped open and he said, “What the hell is that noise?”

Keisha listened, heard nothing but faint traces of Shum-Shum’s music. Evidently he was still running, somewhere. She’d have to get on with helping him, once things were settled here … but no. She could hear it now, something thumping or banging. Rhythmically, and from the opposite direction, close to the way they’d come. And more than that, people were shouting along. Not in fear. It was a chant. But she couldn’t make out the words.

She doubted Hamza could, either, but he was already getting to his feet. “You were stalling me. Damn you.”

“What? No! Why would I need to? I could kill you right now if I wanted that.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch. You’re not taking me in.” Rhadamanthus popped up beside him, intact and whole again, even if he was a bit shorter and less impressive.

Adesina was between them right away. “Hamza, you need to settle down right now, put that thing away and get out of sight.”

“I don’t need to take orders from you.” He took a few faltering steps toward the new threat before his familiar reached out a giant hand to steady him.

“Don’t be an idiot!” But he wasn’t listening. The banging was getting louder, and the chant with it, and under both a long, rattling scrape. A fresh crowd—or the old one reformed—came pouring out around a corner five hundred feet away, pumping their fists in the air as they shouted together.

“Us-man! Us-man! Us-man! Us-man! Us-man! Us-man!”

The crowd parted to make way as he appeared, grinding his plates against the pavement with a spray of sparks. The body of Usman the Dauntless was made of dozens of short, partially flattened metal tubes fitted together like the sections of a telescope, from the minuscule tip of his tail (still hidden around the corner) to the enormous torso of an armored giant at the top, with a spike-tipped helmet for a finial. He had no visible arms, but countless gauntleted hands floated in the air around him, ready to pummel his enemies.

As enemies went, the two of them and their familiars weren’t easy to miss, but the adoring crowd huddled around him were eager to point them out anyway. A hundred pairs of iron-plated hands clapped in challenge, and he charged, tearing up the road beneath him. The crowd followed, cheering and screaming.

“Run, jackass!” She led by example, dashing far enough into the closest alley that even Usman would have to stretch to reach her. Adesina made her unobtrusive way to the top of the sturdiest building. Arduously Hamza took cover behind a truck; Rhadamanthus stood his ground.

It would be no contest, of course. In an even fight, with a healthy emissor, Rhadamanthus would do fairly well. But this was not an even fight. They were in the middle of a classic “firebreak,” both literal and metaphorical, while the Turks’ favorite son had a willing horde of bloodthirsty fellow-citizens to bolster him, and Hamza was half-dead.

Which left it in Keisha’s hands … except there was, she abruptly realized, absolutely nothing she could do. She could not calm or reason with the crowd, deep inside Usman’s vengeful halo. She could not call for help, or hope for help to arrive in time if she did. She could not move Hamza fast enough, and she could not carry him with Adesina, whose murky shortcuts had never been open to mere mortals. She could not hide him in time, she could not distract or stall all the Turks at once, and if she did Hamza would probably die of shock waiting. Most of all, she could not stop Usman by force, alone or with Adesina, and trying would risk the deaths of innocents and a whole new international incident. Possibly war with Turkey.

Because, if it came down to it, those outraged Ankarans were in the right. Hamza was a foreign aggressor on their soil, guilty of or complicit in an unfathomable list of war crimes, and the mere fact that he had already been disarmed and very nearly taken into custody by some other foreigner, acting under dubious authorization … well, that meant nothing at all. They would not mourn the intel that died with him, so long as they got some measure of retribution. As for his being underage—if he even was anymore—what about it? Plenty of even younger Turkish boys had died in this war already.

There were probably more reasons and arguments to consider, but those were enough to get her hauling ass down the alley as fast as her legs would move her, long before Usman got in striking distance. She could think of plenty of reasons not to get herself killed while doing nothing useful. Adesina, who could be in no danger herself, stayed behind on her rooftop to witness.

Rhadamanthus put up a brave fight, considering, but that hardly mattered. The shining scythe smashed a half-dozen floating hands out of the air before ten or twenty others grabbed him by his various parts and ripped him into pieces. The mob backed up behind their champion like water in a clogged pipe, then found a way, and found their quarry. He was hardly moving, defended himself with a few feeble swings. The end was mercifully quick, a flurry of fists, feet, pipes, bricks, and every kind of jagged implement that could come to hand in the wreckage Hamza and friends had made of their city.

Keisha never slowed down.