by R. E. Vance
“About what?”
“Our little guest.”
“OK … what’s up with Sinbad, the little girl sailor?”
“Not here and not with super-hearing angels in earshot.”
Michael turned to us and Penemue waved at him, giving him an exaggerated smile. I followed suit, to which Michael grumpily went back to his own investigation.
Hunter circled the Tree three times before he did something with more grace than I thought possible for a goat: he started to climb the tree. “Don’t bother,” Conner called out. “O’D’s crew were up and down that thing with all kinds of sensors. The only thing on the Tree was the firing cap—”
“Here,” Hunter said. “I found something.”
We couldn’t see him through the dense canopy of the Tree. “What is it?” Michael bellowed.
“I don’t know. It’s the size of a six-sided die. I guess that’s why the humans missed it, but … hold on, let me remove it from its spot.”
“Ahh, Hunter …” I said. “How did you know it was there? Did you smell it?”
“Yes. The tiyanak’s scent, which was on the cap, is also on this little box. As well as a human scent.” He took an audible sniff. “I smell female pheromones and—”
“Don’t touch it!” I yelled out, but too late—before I could finish my warning, there was a loud explosion and Hunter was thrown several dozen meters from the Tree. The explosion knocked us all to the ground. If it hadn’t been for Penemue’s preternatural speed, and his shielding me with his wings, I would have been toast.
When the dust literally settled, I saw Michael had done the same for Conner. The other cops seemed to be OK, either because they were far from the Tree or were made of tough enough stuff to withstand the blast.
What didn’t survive was the Tree, which was now on fire.
“Oh, boy,” I said. “The tourist board is going to be pissed.”
Michael must have burnt a little bit of time, because the Tree suddenly extinguished itself. Once the smoke settled, I saw that although its central branches were burnt out and missing, the Tree miraculously still stood. I guess you didn’t grow up in the desert without learning how to handle the heat.
I looked at my watch. Mickey’s second hand was spinning like crazy. “What was that thing?”
Michael stretched out his fingers and closed his eyes.
“You’re not going to start with the Tongues again, are you?”
He ignored me. Fanning out all six of his wings, he whirled around in the dust and debris. “Burnt time. Whatever was in the Tree suppressed the magic. Think of it like an air purifier, gathering all the magic into its filter.”
“OK,” I said. “So we’re dealing with a new kind of bad guy. One that knows how to use magic and hide it. And really, really good at blowing things up.” I turned to Michael. “Have you ever heard of a magic purifier before?”
Michael shook his head. “Have you? Back when you were a soldier.”
“No, but I’ve been out of the game for a long time now. New tech is invented all the time.”
Michael nodded.
“And there’s only one guy I know who knows his way around magic and tech. Cain, as in Mr., and given it was one of his facilities in which they were hiding out, I can’t imagine he’d turn down an interview.”
“Indeed,” Michael said.
“I’d like to call him down to the precinct, and if you don’t mind”—I pointed at Penemue—“I’d like Penemue to watch.”
“Penemue?” Michael asked.
“Yeah, you know … cause of his thing.”
Luckily, the situation was too serious for anyone to be tempted to turn that into a dirty joke.
Do That Thang You Do So Well
An angel’s “thing”—before the gods left, every angel had one. Michael was a judge, jury and executioner. He could balance your deeds and know—without question—whether you were Good or Evil.
Miral’s “thing” was healing, and it was said that of all the angels, she was the only one who possessed the ability to bring one back from the dead. Lazarus and the Big JC could both attest to that.
And then there was Penemue—his “thing” was knowing the written word. As in, absolutely anything written, ever, in any capacity. Including what was written on your soul—or rather, he saw what was there, once-upon-a-time. After the gods left, all the angels lost their “thing.”
Luckily, Penemue had a perfect memory. All angels do. Penemue could take one look at you and know everything about you and all your ancestors, all the way back to Adam and Eve themselves. Further, if need be. Because he knew so much about you, he also knew all your ticks, your tell-tale signs, the nervous gestures you make when excited, the slight shifts in demeanor when you lie. He was better than any lie-detector ever made.
That skill went for both humans and Others. Anyone who’s been around for more than fourteen years could not easily lie to Penemue—and given the way he hit the bottle, I suspected that extended to himself, too. The angel always knew when he wasn’t completely honest with himself … and with all the good and bad he had done in his long life, I guess such brutal honesty is hard to live with. Drown it in a bottle. Mute it with a drunken haze.
That was why I could never judge him or his drunken antics. Walk a mile in his shoes? No. I’d have to live a thousand years in his head before I could begin to understand him.
Still … his “thing” was useful. And I wanted him there when Mr. Cain was interviewed.
↔
Mr. Cain came in without question, entourage or lawyer. He showed up within the hour and sat across from Michael and Conner, while Penemue and I stood behind a one-way mirror. Conner had a small microphone so that I could feed him questions. And Michael—well, Michael would hear a fart in a hurricane, so he didn’t need anything. All I had to do was whisper.
“Michael,” Mr. Cain said. “It’s been awhile.”
“Indeed,” Michael said.
“I believe the last time we spoke you were dealing out You-Know-Who’s punishment.”
Michael nodded.
“I don’t suppose I’ve been forgiven?” Mr. Cain asked, a curious smile painting his lips.
“Not that I am aware,” Michael said in all seriousness.
“No, not that I know of, either.” Mr. Cain pulled at his shirt cufflinks. The same ones as before, with the Memnock logo on them.
“Mr. Cain,” Conner interjected. “Do you know why we summoned you here today?”
“ ‘Summoned’? What a curious word … to summon means to conjure out of thin air. I believe I drove here of my own accord.”
“Mr. Cain,” Conner said in a warning tone.
“Yes, I know why you’ve summoned me here. There has been a breach in the abandoned military installations near the Tree. Our systems alerted us of it this morning.”
“And you didn’t call to inform us?”
“Oh, but we did. A member of my staff called as soon as we understood what was going on. I believe it was because of that phone call that your detectives were able to be on the scene within the hour.”
That revelation struck me as odd. I had assumed it was General Shouf who called the Paradise Lot PD. Either Mr. Cain was lying—which would be foolish, given how easy it would be to verify this—or General Shouf didn’t call, despite promising to. Again, not likely. Shouf was many things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. Especially not over something like a telephone call.
Which left only two choices: either Paradise Lot PD got two phone calls, one from Mr. Cain’s staff and another from Shouf, or Shouf was the member of his staff he referred to. “Can we verify if there were one or two phone calls alerting the precinct about the trouble at the Tree?” I asked the goblin technician in the room with us.
The goblin saluted me and picked up a phone. “Uh-huh, uh-huh … OK, understood.” The goblin hung up and turned to me. “Just the one phone call, sir.”
“Mr. Cain,” Conner continued. “How would
someone get into your facilities?”
“We don’t know.”
“Cain,” Michael said in an admonishing tone.
Mr. Cain shot Michael a look that could shatter glass, but probably had no affect on the archangel. “I am not the child you met all those years ago, Michael. You can say that thousands of years of wandering the world matures a man, can you not? We do not know how they managed to break in. Our security systems are supposed to be unhackable—multilayered encryption and algorithms that I doubt even He could crack.” He pointed up at the ceiling, to which Michael growled in a warning tone. Mr. Cain ignored this. “And as for our walls? They are impenetrable. Reinforced flexi-steel designed to withstand a ten-megaton bomb. They are also lined with lead, iron and a whole host of other goodies that even you, Michael, could not smash your way through.”
“Could it be an inside job?”
“I cannot imagine anyone in my organization contributing to such a thing. Each member of the team is scrutinized: background checks, personality profiles, monthly psyche evaluations … we are extremely thorough. Extremely.”
“But someone could have been turned.”
“No, I also doubt that very seriously. And even if they could, our internal security is extensive. We would have picked up the inexcusable behavior.”
“What about a shapeshifter? Changelings and tiyanaks are so accomplished in mimicking their victims, it’s not uncommon for them to forget they are not who they’re impersonating.”
Mr. Cain gave Conner an incredulous look. “Do you honestly think that Memnock Securities can be breached by a … shapeshifter? If we were that vulnerable, we would have never—”
“But you are vulnerable. That much is clear.”
Mr. Cain stopped and considered this. “Yes. We are.” He pulled out an envelope from his pocket. “Please give this to your investigators.”
“What is it?”
“A list of recent systems failures. So far, five of our security systems have been compromised.”
“That you know of.”
“Yes … that we know of. Of the five, one is the military facility and one is the Northern Lights Compound. All are detailed in here.”
“Paradise Lot sites?”
“I wish.” Mr. Cain sighed. “We’ve only had two breaches on the island. The rest are on the mainland, I fear.”
“And you’re giving this to us … why?” Conner asked. “Why not give it to the mainland police, or the Army or any number of organizations better equipped to investigate this?”
Mr. Cain ignored Conner, instead giving Michael a hard, uncompromising look before continuing in a steady voice. “Because, despite my reputation, I do want to help both human- and Otherkind. My security systems offer humanity a sense of safety. They install my systems, which they believe will protect them from wayward Others.”
I put my mouth to the mic and asked, “So you want us to handle this discretely? Why? To protect your bottom line?”
Connor repeated my question.
Mr. Cain shook his head. “I lose money on every home security system we install. We do so because my systems need to be affordable, and to truly install the systems that offer the kind of protection we do would cost nearly triple what we charge. No, we do not make money off of costumer sales. All our income is derived from military contracts.”
Michael folded his arms across his chest. “Really?”
“Yes,” Mr. Cain said, his nostrils flaring with anger. “Really.”
“And why would you take a loss?” Conner asked.
“Because we make humans feel safe. Do you know how they would behave if they did not feel safe? Others would be attacked, maimed or worse all the time by small-minded wannabe militia roving your streets.”
“Like the HuMans?” Conner asked.
“Worse. Right now, that gang of Other-hating thugs is mostly comprised of kids. I’m talking politicians campaigning on anti-Other policies. I’m talking fascism, except instead of being aimed at Blacks, Latinos, Asians or Arabs, their guns would be pointed at harpies, nasnās and angels.” He looked at Michael pointedly with that last word.
I turned to Penemue, wanting to get a sense of what he was saying. The twice-fallen angel nodded. “He’s telling the truth. He does want to help.”
“If you say so,” I said.
Conner nodded and said, “Admirable. So you want us to … what? Investigate in silence?”
“I want you to stop chaos from hitting the streets, Officer. I want you to see the Greater Good, instead of just the good.”
“You want us to lie,” Michael said.
“I want you to serve and protect. Surely that is worth an omission or two.”
Michael considered this. Being the original Boy Scout, lying did not come easily to the archangel. Actually, it didn’t come at all. But Michael, like all angels, obeyed a hierarchy of laws, with lying being pretty high up the ranks. Luckily it was just after outright carnage. Michael nodded. “Yes … yes, it is.”
Mr. Cain looked pleased. “Then, if there are no further questions, I’d like to get back to my own investigations. I will share everything I find with you, and I do hope you will extend me the same courtesy.”
“If advantageous, then gladly,” Conner said. But I noticed Michael didn’t seem to share in this opinion.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less. But know that you will have full access to me and mine. Now, if there is nothing else …” Mr. Cain started to stand.
“One more thing,” I said. “Ask him if he recognizes this.” And I described the symbol that the Occultists formed with their hands just before attacking.
Conner listened. Then, pressing his forefingers and thumbs together, he made a diamond shape with the empty space between his hands. Mr. Cain’s eyes widened for just a spilt second before he grabbed his cufflinks and his facial expression returned to neutral.
“Do you recognize this?” Conner asked.
“Yes,” Cain said. “I do. It is the sign that some harmless activists used when protesting a recent speech of mine. I dismissed it as one of those symbols that might have meant something once-upon-a-time, like an Anonymous mask or Green Peace sign. Why?”
“It seems,” Michael said, “these activists are not as harmless as you assumed.”
↔
Mr. Cain pulled out a dossier from his briefcase and spread it out on the table. “Here,” he said. “Right now, you know very little, so I show you this to aid in your investigation. Consider it a courtesy. A courtesy I hope, as I have said, that you will give me in return.”
Michael raised an eyebrow, before saying, “No.”
Mr. Cain lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? Your Officer here said otherwise not one minute ago.”
“I cannot agree to those terms. What I will agree to is this: we promise to deal with the threat with the least possible damage to Memnock Securities, its reputation or its staff. We will do so, not because I care about you or your company, but in the interest of the public’s peace of mind. That is the best you will get from us.”
Mr. Cain eyed the archangel for a long while before nodding. “Fallen fruit, Michael … Father always said you weren’t much of compromiser. But he also said you were fair. Very well, then—shall we?”
And with that, Mr. Cain went over the compromised locations: the military base and the Compound, which we were already familiar with, and three households, all situated on the mainland. With that done, he stood up and bid Michael a “Godspeed.” Michael dutifully nodded and bid the first child of man—and first murderer of man—farewell, instructing Conner to see him out of the building.
Michael came into the back with the envelope. Inside were the three addresses. He handed one case to me, the other to Penemue and retained the third for himself. We examined each and traded files until we’d read all three.
Each case file had the same three details: 1) the disabling of the security systems; 2) a break-in that seemingly did not use magic or computer hacking; and 3
) children taken without so much as a peep. There were no fingerprints, signs of break-in or reports of children crying, screaming or making a peep of any kind. What’s more, there were no witnesses. It was as if in each case the perpetrators just walked right in.
Or the kids just walked out.
These three cases also shared a distinct difference from the security breach at the Compound—the disappearance of Sarah—where the kidnappers actually left a bit of a mess behind. But there were two things that made that particular case special: 1) by all indications, Sarah was the first kid to go missing; and 2) the monster-under-your-bed woke up her dad. If the kidnappers had had more time, they might have cleaned up after themselves—or maybe they were quick learners and adapted appropriately. But generally, teams like theirs were not so quick to adapt. They’d spent too much time preparing; to adapt so quickly would upgrade them to supervillain status—and I prayed to the GoneGods that it was that little shadow monster that mucked things up, and there wasn’t some other puzzle piece I was missing.
I put down my file and turned to Penemue. “Well, what do you think?”
He put down his own file, although he’d probably committed the whole lot to memory by now. “The writing style is atrocious and very sparse in detail. Where is the gravitas, the oomph that makes the words jump from the page?”
“Not the documents, idiot … Mr. Cain?”
“As far as I can tell”—Penemue hesitated—“he is not lying.”
“But …?” I asked.
“But there is something else going on.”
“Like what? Maybe he’s nervous. If his tech is hackable, he has a lot to lose.”
“True … but there is more to it.”
“Like what?”
“He believed what he was saying completely.”
To this, Michael groaned in that all-bass way of his that shook the room.
“So?” I asked, obviously missing something.
“So,” Penemue said, “when a human is involved in something, even marginally, they usually have some sort of self-doubt. Mr. Cain had none. He completely believes that this is not his technology’s fault and that his company has nothing to do with it. The thought that someone in his organization could betray him was completely dismissed without even a second thought. Even”—Penemue whistled and pointed up, refusing to say the name—“doubted His angels from time to time.”