“Oh, what now?” Francis grabbed his shoulder holster, threw it on, and then tossed his coat over it. The .45 sitting on top of his desk went into the holster. There had been talk about a new executive order, but he’d been too busy trying to keep his business holdings in one piece to pay much attention to the rumors. “They rounding people up already?”
“It is a special holding area for Actives, all right,” Jane answered, “but it isn’t a roundup, Actives are supposedly volunteering for this.”
“What? That’s got to be a lie. The propaganda machine isn’t even trying hard.”
“We need to head over to New Jersey to check it out.”
“New Jersey?” Francis thought about it for a second. He went back to his desk, grabbed another .45 auto and several extra loaded magazines. Jane raised an eyebrow. “Hey, don’t give me that look. It’s Jersey.”
Drew Town, New Jersey
It wasn’t at all what he’d expected. It wasn’t a prison camp. It was a town, and a rather cozy one at that, nestled in the forest, next to a serene lake, all within commuting distance from the city. The signs even said that they’d be putting in a bus line, the lake was stocked with fish, and the forest even had hiking trails. There were signs every-where, all talking about how wonderful Drew Town was and would be, and every sign had happy families on it doing happy family things. Some of the art had been stolen from the Saturday Evening Post.
The houses were nice. Most of them were still under construction, but the first two hundred were already finished in their neat orderly rows, on perfectly level streets laid out in a grid. Numbers north and south, letters east and west. Lawns were still going in, but every finished house already had a white picket fence around it.
There was no barbed-wire fence around the perimeter. No spotlights or guard towers. Sure, there was a gatehouse on the road with a couple of bored security men inside, but that was it. They’d simply gone around the gatehouse and followed a dump truck up a dirt side road. Even in the middle of the night the construction crews were working at a feverish pace, with hundreds of workers toiling away beneath the spotlights. More signs proclaimed that these men were employed because of Roosevelt’s Works Project Administration.
“WPA?” Dan asked as they drove past dozens of homes under construction.
“It stands for We Poke Along,” Francis answered. “It’s a new billion-dollar agency that pays the unemployed tax money to dig holes and then fill them back in.”
“Why, Francis, I’d never known you to be so political,” Jane said.
“I’ve got a right to complain. When I get mugged, I’m not expected to thank the mugger.” There were electric lights on every corner. They’d already broken ground for several large buildings. The signs around those sites said that those would be schools, hospitals, churches, and even factories. It was like a massive, planned-out company town, only far nicer. “What the hell are they up to?”
“I’ve not heard a word from the news about this place,” Jane said. “According to Browning’s government informant, this places is supposed to hold Actives.”
“They’re expecting thousands of people to live here, that’s for certain.” Dan pulled the Packard to a stop in front of one of the finished houses. The lights were on inside. “Hang on. I’ll get us some answers.” Dan got out, and Francis and Jane followed him.
Their Mouth went up the steps and rang the doorbell. Insects were buzzing around the porch lights. Jane paused to admire the flower beds. Francis noted that there was a bronze plaque on the door. It was a floating anvil. “You see that?”
Dan scowled at the plaque. “That’s the sign they want Heavies to wear on their armbands.” He rang the bell again.
There was noise from the other side, and then the door opened to reveal a tall, extremely broad-shouldered, thick-necked man. The fellow towered over them and had callused worker’s hands that looked like they could entirely engulf Dan’s head. He certainly looked like a Heavy. “It’s late. What do you want?”
“Are you the resident?” Dan asked.
The Heavy’s beady eyes narrowed. “Huh?”
They needed to remember that most Heavies weren’t known for their smarts. Jake Sullivan was an anomaly in that respect. “Do you live here? Is this your house?”
“That’s a dumb question. Of course I live here . . . Who are you guys?”
Dan turned up his Power. “We’re friends from out of town, come by to visit.”
“Oh hey!” the Heavy grinned. “Good to see you guys. Come in! Come in! Hey, Alice, we got company!” Totally defenseless against the Mouth, his demeanor changed. “You guys want some cookies?”
“Naw, we’re good.” Dan smiled. Pushover. “We’ve only got a minute so we can’t stay.”
“Aww, but I haven’t seen you guys in forever.”
“We just wanted to know, friend, how did you end up living in this nice house in this lovely little town?”
“It is real nice, ain’t it? Lord knows I couldn’t afford this on a steelworker’s wage. The government folks sent me a letter. Alice helped read it. Said since I had magic, we could come and live here for free. Even said that if you didn’t have work, you could live here for free until they found work for you. Everybody in Drew Town’s got magic of some kind. Mr. Drew says only magical folks get invited to live here.”
“The architect,” Francis muttered as he remembered bumping into the man in the White House. “Son of a bitch.”
“Aw, he’s perfectly nice,” the Heavy said. “He just wants to keep Actives safe from the folks who don’t like us. You know how those League types can get.”
Francis knew that he was talking about the League for a Magic Free America. Like most groups of bigoted fools, they loved lynching and firebombs. It still chapped his hide that he’d gotten shot saving a bunch of those ungrateful bastards from a truck bomb. “Those hoods are nothing a tough guy like you couldn’t handle, I bet.”
The Heavy shrugged. “Yeah. I’m tough, so what? But I got a wife and little kids. Here, we don’t have to worry about nothing. My kids don’t even have to worry about getting treated different for being weird, and they can go to school like I never got to. I ain’t alone. Bunch of folks already signed up. Mr. Drew says pretty soon this town will be all filled up with magical folks and they’ll make more towns like this across the whole USA.”
“Thanks, friend,” Dan said. “Have a nice night, and forget we were ever here.”
“Okay. Buh-bye.” The Heavy closed the door.
They walked back to the Packard. Francis turned, went across the lawn, hopped the fence, and ran up the next porch. There was a Crackler plaque on that door. He crossed the street to find the crossed bones of a Shard. He pulled a flier off of one of the light poles. Beneath the Norman Rockwell painting was a reminder that Actives could get monetary bonuses for suggesting their Active friends and family for membership in Drew Town to the town administrators. Francis ran back to the car and got in. “All the houses are tagged.”
Dan was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. They were all thinking the same thing, but it was Jane that spoke first. “It appears that President Roosevelt understands that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“You can also catch flies with bullshit.” Francis held up the flier. “This is Bradford Carr’s master plan all over again, only with a happy face, a two-car garage, and a fish pond.”
“They won’t need to round up Actives if most of us volunteer,” Dan stated. “We know the OCI was making lists, and now they’ll just send invitations. I bet once this place is all beautified and full up, it’ll be all over every newspaper, magazine, billboard, and radio program. That’s how I’d do it. They’ll have every fed-up, tired of being picked on, or out-of-work Active in the country beating down their doors.”
Francis looked out the car window at the white picket fences and imagined them replaced with razor wire. Once again, the men in charge were trying to herd magicals into eas
ily controlled groups . . .
But why?
Somewhere in France
Jacques had shown up the next morning with two train tickets and asked Faye to gather her things. She didn’t have much in the way of things so it hadn’t taken very long. The Grimnoir elder had been as enigmatic as ever when quizzed about their destination. Faye couldn’t read French, but it helped that there was a very rough map printed on the back of the ticket. It looked like they’d end up in Germany eventually. She didn’t know much about Germany, other than that the Kaiser had been on the other side during the Great War, and men like Mr. Sullivan had fought there until its capitol had gotten blown up by a Peace Ray. Heinrich, the only German she knew well, had made his homeland sound pretty nice, actually, except for the parts about the starvation, poverty, anarchy, and, of course, all those zombies.
“Come now, Faye. Why so sullen? You have done nothing but stare out the window all this time. You should be happy. We are traveling!”
Faye snorted. “You call this traveling?” Regular folks would never be able to understand the glorious freedom of her magic. Travelling was like pure bottled happiness.
“Admit it, my dear. You are only content when you are in motion.”
“This ain’t traveling, Jacques. This here is some rich folks took a room out of a mansion and stuck it on rails.” Faye pointed at the table between them. “Heck, we even get served cookies. What is it with you and big sugary things?”
“I am a big sugary person.” Jacques patted his belly. “Come now, perhaps this method of transportation is not as fast as you are used to, but this way we get to enjoy the scenery.”
She had to admit Jacques had a point. Europe was rather lovely. Everything she’d seen so far in France was neat and green. Very pretty. Sure, Faye was a fancy world traveler now, but that was all a recent development for her. Most of her life had been spent in two places. First was Ada, Oklahoma—and most of what she could remember about that was it being a barren, dry, horrible, mean, ugly wasteland. Then she’d gone to El Nido, California, which had been a paradise of alfalfa fields and happily chewing cows in comparison. France reminded her a lot more of California than it did Oklahoma. She’d never seen a fat person until she’d gotten to California. The sun and the wind burned the fat right off you in Oklahoma, left you hard and mean. Mr. Bolander had changed that, since his death had unlocked the rain and saved Oklahoma. Faye had heard on the radio that grass was starting to grow there again, but that wasn’t the Oklahoma she remembered. She’d been glad to get out. Didn’t miss it one bit.
“It’s nice I guess.”
“Besides, we have this all to ourselves.” Jacques picked up a cookie and used it to gesture around the luxury car. “Being a retired man of wealth has its benefits.”
“My boyfriend owns UBF.”
“Indeed. How could I forget? I am but a penniless hobo in comparison to young Francis Stuyvesant, but I reserved this car because it was the only one which gave us privacy. It will give us time to talk.”
“So I can continue my lessons?”
“I do not know if there is actually a lesson to continue. That was Whisper’s notion. I will tell you what I know of the Spellbound. Hopefully you will manage to not turn into a rampaging murder machine in the process.”
It was a little too late for that, but Faye figured she could keep her murdering and rampaging confined to just the bad folks at least. “That’s mighty hopeful of you, Jacques.”
The old man grinned. “I am by nature an optimist, my dear.”
“So where are we going?”
“Do not trouble yourself. I will tell you when we get there. Just know that we go to speak with an old friend of mine. He helped me to understand what the Spellbound was truly capable of. I hope that he will be able to do the same for you.” Jacques reached into one of his bags. “We will not be there for many hours.”
Hours? And to think that normal folks considered this Traveling . . . “I’d like to know—”
The thump of a thick stack of papers onto the table interrupted her and threatened to knock the giant plate of cookies onto the rug. The papers were bound together with string, and Jacques quickly untied it and let them spill outward in a mass of chaotic correspondence.
Faye picked up one of the old letters. This envelope was discolored with age and had been damaged by water at some point. The handwriting was very swoopy and hard to read. “What is this?”
“I told you Anand Sivaram was a prolific writer. Perhaps if you can get a glimpse into the one who first bore the mantle of the Spellbound, you will understand more about your own Power. You had best get started.”
Hours and miles flew by as Faye read about Anand Sivaram.
It was in my twenty-fifth year, while still mastering my own connection to the Power, that I received my first glimmer of understanding. I have read the words of the learned and respected, scientists and philosophers, zealots and eugenicists, and yet it was in a pathetic excuse for a hospice where I came to understand that all of them were wrong. They did not understand magic because they could not experience magic. Magic must be lived. It must be breathed. It must be part of your soul. Only through immersion into this river of magic do we truly commune with the Power.
It was during an extended convalescence, healing from an accidental misuse of my own magic, that I spent the time necessary to let my mind roam to truly formulate my understanding of magic. I had injured my back after foolishly placing myself in a precarious situation. Barely able to walk, I had been forced to lie still, with nothing else to do for days but turn my thoughts inward.
All Travelers, as they have taken to calling my kind, develop some instinctive form of sensory ability relating to the area in which we are set to appear, or we die in short order. It is that simple. Despite being faithful to the methods I had developed in order to protect myself from injury while using my magic, I still found myself injured. On the day of my accident, I had done as I had taught myself, and opened my mind for any sense of foreign bodies which could potentially impact or embed themselves in me—the single greatest cause of death among young Travelers is flying insects—before Travelling. Yet in a moment of distraction I had foolishly landed and placed my feet upon slick stones, slipped, and wrenched the vertebra of my lower back.
Thus confined to bed for weeks on end, I had set myself to the mental task of improving my methodology. I meditated upon this at great length. In time, my mind seemed to expand beyond my physical presence, and for the first time in my life, I saw the Power as it really was.
My eyes were opened. My journey had begun.
Jacques chuckled, and it broke her concentration. Faye looked up from the note. “What’s so funny?”
“You move your lips when you read. I just noticed that. You really shouldn’t do that. Terrible habit to have in the field, secret messages to you won’t be very secret if there is an Imperium spy around who can read lips.”
“I’m not afraid of Imperium spies.”
“You should be. The really clever ones will seduce you and then leave you to pay the bill. Ah, never mind. That is a story best shared with more mature company. Speaking of spies reminds me, though, you have yet to spot all of my men.”
Faye scowled at him. She had never been particularly good at reading, and if it hadn’t been for Grandpa, she wouldn’t have known how to at all, so going through the letters of Anand Sivaram was a difficult, frustrating, time-consuming process.
But she simply couldn’t stop.
“Shut up and eat your cookies.” Faye picked up another paper. This one was an amazingly complex drawing of a spell. She recognized it instinctively. Faye didn’t need Buckminster Fuller’s Power to tell that all of those complicated shapes stuck together represented the part of the Power that controlled Traveling. Sivaram had been bored in a hospital and his mind had wandered until he’d first seen the Power. Faye had once followed Mr. Sullivan’s dying spirit to the place where the dead people dream in order to see t
he Power itself. She liked Sivaram’s way better, but it did make her wonder, did it take somebody who could Travel to actually see the Power? Without dying first and getting dragged back first like Mr. Sullivan had, at least? The Chairman had been visiting there for years, which explained how come Imperium magic sometimes seemed so much more advanced than theirs, but then again, it seemed like the Chairman had been able to do whatever he felt like.
Many of Sivaram’s letters had been dated, so she’d put them into order as best as she could. Then there were loose pages, random scribbles, doodles, old photographs, and even napkins with hasty notes scrawled on them. There were huge gaps in time, obvious spots Jacques hadn’t been able to fill in, references to things Sivaram had written that there was no record of, but despite those handicaps, she could follow his path, clear as day. Sivaram had been consumed with a desire to understand the way things worked, and it had dragged him across the whole world.
The majority of the letters were to his wife. The love there was obvious, especially in the early letters, but that began to fade as he became more and more distracted, and his devotion changed from people to magic.
Dearest Devika. I will not be returning home this month as planned. I can only hope that you can endure my continued absence. I cannot give up when I am this close. The journey must continue. This week we went even further in the jungle. When I first heard the British ambassador speaking of this man known as the wizard, I knew I had to seek him out. What manner of man could manipulate magic into all new forms? It has taken years for me to even begin to understand my own Power, yet I cannot conceive of such a skill. As a Traveler, I can catch but the tiniest glimpse at times of what magic really is. I have learned so much, but the things they attribute to this wizard, if even only true in the smallest measure, could drastically increase our understanding of magic. They say that he has learned to draw magic. Draw it? As if it is so easily manipulated! They say that he has engraved magic upon his own body, giving himself whole new types of Power. Surely this is impossible, but I simply must know for myself.
Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles Page 16