Blaze of Glory

by C. J. Strange

  “Bloke’s a wanker,” I summarize, for everybody who isn’t capable of meeting Oliver on his own level. As sweet and eager as his intentions always are. “But he’s good at it, so the guys want to be him and the girls want to be with him.”

  Oliver nods. “In a nutshell.”

  “I’ve got a contact in the States,” I say slowly, in real-time with the thought developing in my brain. “I should give her a bell. See if she can fill me in on Mr. King from an American’s point of view.”

  “I can do some research on him too, if you like,” says Oliver. “On the FreeNet. See what he’s been up to beyond our borders.”

  “Hang about, hang about—” Gav is waving a hand in my direction, fingers of the other on his lips as if he daren’t ask the question. As if the question he’s about to ask may be the most terrifying one he’s ever had to receive an answer to. “You—you have a contact? In America?”

  “Yes, Gav,” I say, shaking my head with a bright but sympathetic smile. His naivety makes him so pure. “I have a contact who lives in America. Colorado, actually. It’s quite a nice state. They have legal marijuana and rock concerts.”

  Gav’s blue eyes grow enormously wide. “No—that’s mental. No flippin’ way, love. Nowhere with a government with any sense would they legalize both drugs and unchecked, unregulated music. That’s a recipe for complete and utter bloody shambles!”

  “How old are you, Gav?”

  He raises an eyebrow, as if unsure whether or not he should answer me. “Thirty-something. Ish.”

  “So you were about my age when the whole Brexit thing went down then?”

  Gav’s eyes roll upward for a moment as he takes his dear sweet time in subtracting a decade from his own age. “Yeah. About that. Why?”

  “Just a personal study I’m doing,” I say aloud. On various ages one could be at the time of assimilation and still not question a single fucking thing they’re being spoon-fed, is the part I don’t.

  Behind me, Oliver sneezes, then starts coughing repeatedly. Alfie chuckles and slaps him on the back.

  “What’d I say about all the dust down there, Muppet?” he scolds him playfully. His hand rubs up and down Oliver’s back, and even as he’s choking, Oliver twists and writhes away from his touch.

  “All right, all right, sorry,” mutters Alfie, going back to the monitor he’s been wiring.

  “Oi, PS, that contact of yours.” Gav has taken the opportunity to slide a few steps closer to me, hovering at my side. “She have any other contacts in Britain that you know of…?”

  “This all just fascinates you, doesn’t it?” I ask him with an amused chuckle. I check on Oliver before continuing; he’s breathing again, drinking from his aluminium water bottle with his eyes on me and Gav. “I honestly don’t know, mate. She’s smart, and cautious. I don’t blame her. Things over there are looking like they may start to follow the same footsteps as their English ancestors.”

  “Gav, were you able to get that press badge for Alfie?” Oliver interjects, his mind back on business as usual. I love him for it, I honestly do.

  “Oh! Right! Sorry, mate.” Gav nods. “I knew there was something you needed last minute. I know a bloke who knows a bloke who knows a bloke with a wife with a brother. I’ll have it to you in two days, tops.”

  It’s my turn to quirk my eyebrow at him. “This bloke’s wife’s brother any good, is he?”

  Gav beams at me. “The dog’s bollocks! Never had a problem with him yet.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Oh, there is one thing I gotta tell you.” Gav winces. “You said something about a book?”

  I tip my head. “More of a tome, really? It’s supposedly Magickal, the sort of thing those in the know might get a little too chatty about down the pub with you. Someone I know has an inkling it’ll be important to the party, in some respect.”

  “Right, gotcha,” says Gav. “I ain’t heard owt yet, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground and stay in touch.”

  “Oh—PS,” Oliver chimes in again. “I need to talk to you about that later. The leak may have heard something.”

  “Leak?” Gav asks.

  Oliver affirms with a nod. “Someone on the tech crew, if you can even call it that. Apparently, they aren’t anticipating much of a production despite the number of musical performers they’ve hired.”

  Gav’s frown is serious. “Now you be careful, son,” he says sternly. “You never know which of them leakers is gonna sell you out. You even know this bloke’s name?”

  “Names aren’t exactly an affordable clause in our everyday etiquette,” Oliver says, as honest and sweet in his mannerisms as Gav is in his. “We deal mostly in aliases. And she,” he confirms with a polite smile, “has apparently decided to go by ‘Irene’.”

  “Come on, Irene…” Alfie sings as he unwinds yet another cable.

  “I think it was Eileen, mate,” I cut him off. “And why the fuck won’t that song die?”

  “I believe they call them classics,” says Oliver.

  “All right,” says Gav. “Before you lot get another one of those awful ‘classics’ stuck in my head, I’m gonna hit the road. Stay strong, all right?”

  “We will, Gav,” I answer with a warm smile. “Stay safe. Don’t let them see you on the way out.”

  The natural hush of quiet that descends upon a room when one member of a conversation leaves it does its due diligence. It’s pleasant, to catch up with Gav. It’s even more pleasant to deliver the news to an old friend that you’re not as dead as he thought you were. The comfortable silence that follows is the rapture, the comedown. And it’s as pleasant to share as conversation itself.

  Until it’s untimely shattered by our bizarre and unconventional fifth member dropping into the biggest of the three computer chairs. The wheels squeak in protest, a cloud of dust explodes from the cushion, and Oliver—who was unfortunate enough to have been underneath it dealing with wiring—nearly has a heart attack.

  “Oh my gif—” he squeals, clutching at the chest of his T-shirt as he struggles for breath. “What—is—wrong with you!?”

  Rhys glares down at him, folding one leg over the other and draping an arm across his eyes as he slouches. “Please do try to keep it down, small and squeaky one,” he grumbles, as Tesla bounces up onto his stomach and sits there. “I have the most brain-splitting headache.”

  I realize I’m staring. And I realize I’m staring because I had no idea Rhys Shields was even missing from our ranks when we were meeting with Gav.

  “How long were you gone?” I ask, a note of suspicion in my voice as I step closer to him. “Have you been here the whole time?”

  “Yes and no,” is the muffled response from beneath his cardigan sleeve. “I wandered in three times and found him still here. There is no reason that entire conversation couldn’t have happened in the space of four minutes, flat.” He moves his arm for as long as it takes to glare at me. “You folk talk too much.”

  Alfie snorts a laugh. “Magick migraine?”

  “I’ll say,” groans Rhys. “That was nothing but an annoyance.”

  “So.” I whip my head back and forth, trying to figure out if at any point I could remember seeing Rhys re-enter the bunker from either of the two hatches. “Wait. You seriously weren’t just waiting in the van?”

  Rhys chuckles beneath the weight of his limb. “Oh, Captain,” he murmurs sleepily, “exactly how did you imagine luck Magick would feel when it’s used on you?”

  And with that, he’s unconscious from exertion, draped across the computer chair and snoring into his sleeve.

  12 Penny's Dilemma

  “So, Captain, how’s life in Hell?”

  “Hellish,” is my response, as expected. These video connections are less secure than simply hopping on a server and sending text, for whatever reasons Oliver has attempted to explain to me multiple times in the past. He’s the expert; I simply employ that expertise.

  Either way, if Chuck Moss initially addresses me
as anything other than my brigade rank, or I answer with anything other than that specific word, we can quickly and efficiently communicate that the line is, as far as we know, safe to talk on.

  No guns against heads, no bodies in the room other than those visible on the screen. No nasty surprises.

  Sometimes, when Oliver thinks he can get a good enough signal to latch onto, it sure is nice to see a friendly face.

  “I can imagine,” she says, her voice a tad distorted. “You’re in the capital now?”

  “Oh, you bet.”

  “Who all came with?”

  “Just B.L.A.Z.E., the five of us. Alfie and Rhys are taking the watch.”

  “Hey, boys.” Chuck smiles at Duncan and Oliver before her unconventionally beautiful face pinches with sympathy. “Be real with me, girl. How bad is it?”

  “Oh, it’s pretty fucking bad.” I have no reason not to be straight with her. “I know OP summarized most of it in his messages to you. It’s one of their recent guest announcements that’s got me a bit worked up.”

  Chuck’s frown is venomous. I believe the cliche is ‘if looks could kill’. “Oh, let me guess. That little British fuck-boy Mason King, right? Campaign broke the news this morning, interrupted my meditation and my routine and everything.”

  “Campaign?” presses Oliver, verbalizing my own inner thoughts.

  “Presidential.”

  The word takes all of us by surprise. Though perhaps it shouldn’t. After all, Mason King’s most notable success so far has been his work on Wentworth’s general election campaign.

  “He’s working with the Republican candidate over here.”

  “Aye, is that the fellas on the right or the nae so right?” asks Duncan from my left.

  “The bad guys,” Chuck says with oversimplified logic. “This year, anyhow. They ain’t satisfied just hating on blacks and gays and poor people anymore. There’s talk of some seriously violent shit happening this side of the river, guys. We already had some crazy son-bitch trying to blow up every Anomaly they can get their goddamn hands on. There’s a school shooting every other week, minimum. Shit’s getting real over here. And your boy, Mason King? He’s at the motherfucking epicenter.”

  Oliver and I exchange a nervous glance. None of that sounds particularly thrilling considering everything we know to be true about modern-day America.

  And while the Sovereignty and their loyal followers like to pretend the rest of the globe doesn’t exist, it does. We’re still attached to it—to all of it. We’re all in this together. Whether we like it, or not.

  “We’re not a week from Election Day 2028,” Chuck is saying, “and King decides he’s gonna head on back to his homeland for a snazzy little photo op. Show the world what’s so great about this brand new anti-globalist movement Britain’s trying to export and monetize. It’s a god—damn—publicity stunt, to sell their far-right, anti-Anomaly agenda. And it’s pissing me the hell off.”

  Duncan leans in closer to the laptop. “What’s King doing fer the campaign, lassie?”

  “PR, spin. Running his damn mouth in that fancy-ass accent of his—no offense, fam,” she adds quickly, and we all wave it off. “A lot of people are saying Governor Bill Boone may be the candidate in this race, but Mason King? He’s the face.”

  “Well, if he’s as bad as his big sister,” I exhale tiredly, “which I have a horrible feeling he is, he’ll be a nightmare addition to this entire affair.”

  “Got any idea what they’re going to try yet?”

  I shake my head. “Not a clue. This is… something else entirely. It’s not like there’s an expert I can phone on ancient lore and mythology. Those areas of study carry the death penalty these days.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Go in. Steal the big, magic book. Get out.” I offer my American friend a thumbs-up. “Ask questions later.”

  Chuck hums in approval. “Okay. This book, what do you know about it?”

  “The Opus Veritas? Not much.” I glance sideways at Oliver. “But we recently connected with someone who infiltrated the production crew for the event. She claims to have information on it, and has offered to meet us.”

  “So, that’s probably—”

  “A trap? Oh, one-hundred per cent.” I like to think I do a good job of conveying my lack of surprise through my vocal tone. “Dee and I are going to check it out tomorrow. Worst case scenario, Branch 9 try and set us on fire again. But, we have a lot more to gain than we have to lose. Especially if all goes according to plan.”

  Duncan snorts. “Besides, we got enough problems a darn sight closer ta home right now.”

  Chuck cocks her head. “Oh?”

  “The new guy. Rhys.” I sigh, struggling for the right words. “Ever since the idea of London came up, he’s been acting strangely—even more so than usual.”

  “But, really though,” Oliver says quietly. “When it comes to Rhys, how strange is too strange?”

  Duncan is quick to come to my right-hand, as per usual. Though when he speaks, there’s definite conviction in his defense. Or prosecution, depending on how you look at it.

  “He wouldn’ae meet our mate, Gav,” he says. “He’s avoiding the lot of us. Using his Magick to scoot ‘round us and avoid us whenever’s inconvenient fer him ta have a brigade.”

  “It is suspicious,” I agree, with a sympathetic glance at the younger of my two beloved friends. They’re both so stunning in such starkly different ways; Duncan so big and burly but so soft at the end of the day, and Oliver a pushover until pushed to his limit. It’s impossible to decide which brand of B.L.A.Z.E. boy is more brilliant, or more beautiful.

  I swallow, quickly trying to revert my mind to the matter at hand.

  “I mean, avoiding Gav was a red flag of its own. Gav knows people all over this country, all throughout the resistance movements in its deepest, darkest bowels. You reckon…?”

  I trail off, and it’s Chuck who nudges me further toward the cliff. “Go on, girl.”

  “You reckon he was worried Gav may have something on him he doesn’t want us to know?”

  “Or even that he’s already met Gav before,” Oliver adds, “and the story doesn’t reflect so well on him?”

  “Either-or.” Chuck drums her short, blunt, cherry-pink nails against the tabletop a mite too close to the microphone. “I’d keep an eye on him regardless. You’re all past the point where trust can be presumed, you get me?”

  Oliver’s mobile phone beeps insistently on his thigh. He drops his head sharply, then snaps it back up to look at Duncan.

  “Irene,” he says. “About tomorrow. Captain?”

  “Set it up,” I tell him, giving him full permission to leave the conversation at hand. “Make the date. Do the thing.”

  As they leave to go pretend to take the bait, I return my attention to Chuck. “I should head off, too. We shouldn’t keep the line open longer than fifteen minutes.”

  “I hear you, girl. I need to get back to my own country, too. See if I can stop it making the same mistakes yours did.”

  “I sure bloody hope you can,” I say, propping my chin up on one fist. “‘Cause I mean it. It’s hellish.”

  Chuck stares at me for a few moments, judging me with those narrowed, dark eyes of hers, before she finally speaks again. “So. Which one of them?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Which one of those two boys,” she breaks down for me, “have you told is your new lieutenant?”

  “Oh!” I laugh, perhaps a little too relieved. “Uh, look. We haven’t really had a chance to have that conversation yet.”

  Chuck isn’t buying what I’m selling. She knows the vendor too well. “Uh-huh. And I heard KING News report something this week that had actual, factual basis.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek, hidden away where no one can see me stew. “It’s just not really the right time, you know? What with the world being torn open, and everything else.”

  “You worried if you pick one,
the others will feel like they ain’t the favorite?”

  It’s a legitimate question. Or at least, it is for a person who doesn’t fully understand the inner-workings and dynamics of this brigade.

  “I don’t think so?” I say truthfully. “Aside from the occasional dick-waving contest, there doesn’t seem to be much animosity between them all.”

  “Then why can’t you pick a lieutenant?” she demands. She’s good at backing me into a corner, it’s a specialty of hers. “What happens the next time you decide to throw your skinny, white ass into danger and nearly get yourself killed?”

  “They’ll… cope. They always do.”

  “How many of ‘em you fucking?”

  If one could imagine the noise of a single exclamation point, that would be the noise I make.

  “That is absolutely none of your—two.”

  “Two?”

  “Two.”

  “Of four?”

  “That’s half.”

  “That’s not half-bad.”

  I smirk, and in doing so, am forced to focus on the buzz I get thinking about the two boys it’s becoming easier and easier to love.

  And not the one that makes me squirm with feelings both positive and negative on the inside. The one I apparently don’t even have the guts to admit to, yet.

  13 Oliver's Unlucky Streak

  “You need to warn all members of this so-called family before you go inviting friends over for an evening of fun and games and political treachery,” Rhys is grumbling—either to himself or whoever will listen—as he stuffs his arms into the sleeves of his cardigan. One after the other, with increased annoyance to his actions. “Not everyone here is as social as the rest.”

  “We’re in the business of doing business, Shields,” Penny says off-handedly as he passes us by. We’re at the smallest of the four (highly contraband but top-of-the-range) WrightTech monitors I’ve set up. “Now keep it schtum so we can watch this painful video trailer they just this minute put out for Pyronamix.”