Siege Line

by Myke Cole

  Her walk grew stronger with each step as her body temperature increased and her heart pumped faster. The Director followed her to his personal elevator. He understood the temptation to lean against the wall inside, but Mark resisted it, showing him how strong she was. How worthy of the gift she so desperately wanted and could never have.

  The elevator opened onto the cell level, the long central corridor studded with the freeze and burn nozzles that could turn the space into either an inferno or a blizzard at the touch of a button. Video cameras relayed the length of it to the same control center that Eldredge had used to make good his escape. There were only two guards down here, more a formality than anything else. The Director doubted that any two men, no matter how they were equipped, would stand a chance against an escaped Gold. Faced with the choice of either stationing an army in the cramped hallway or relying on the automated freeze and burn nozzles, the Director had gone with the latter.

  The two guards down here were among the few to have seen him before, and while he could still smell the adrenaline spike of their fear, they didn’t show it as they stood to attention. He had long since taken to making sure every inch of his skin was covered. The suit, the hood, the gloves and shoes, all were ancient and rotting, and that was fine. Mystery was an important part of fear and control, and so long as he kept the basic shape of a man, kept his appearances minimal, and did not speak, humans would spin whatever stories they liked, telling themselves he was a dangerous eccentric rather than a monster. Mark’s slavish devotion was only one of a range of reactions humans might have when they discovered that their master was a corpse.

  He followed Mark in silence, making his way beneath slots that hid access hatches that could seal the corridor at a moment’s notice. Cell doors lined the walls, each one more than two feet thick, with a small pane of transparent palladium that granted a fishbowl view of the cell beyond.

  The incentives had individual cells that ringed a large central pen. The doors here were of normal thickness, with reinforced glass instead of transparent palladium. Mark pressed a button next to the door and louvered steel panels opened to give a better view of the interior. At the same time, the internal doors popped open and a few of the incentives emerged, blinking, into the central chamber.

  Their orange prison jumpsuits were clean, and apart from a few days’ growth of beard, they looked fit enough. The Director listened to the sounds of the guards’ breathing, judged that they were far enough away not to be able to hear the crooning hiss of his voice. “Only three?” He twitched a pinky toward the reinforced glass.

  “Five, sir,” Mark said. “Two aren’t coming out, for some reason.”

  The Director listened, pinpointed their heartbeats, confirmed the count was accurate. “We need seven.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “We deployed everything we had for Schweitzer. I need all the Gold Operators rounded up and brought back immediately.”

  “Understood, sir. But we don’t have another two. That will take time.”

  “Surely, someone on my staff has committed an unpardonable offense.”

  “It’s a disciplined shop, sir. As per your orders.”

  “Get me volunteers, then. Tell them it’s a chance to cover themselves in glory. You know how to make people do what you want, Mark.”

  Her smile at the compliment was so small as to be imperceptible, but the Director missed nothing. “Yes, sir. I’ll figure it out.”

  The incentives, and any volunteers who joined them, would likely not survive, but the Director didn’t need them to. He only needed their warm blood and beating hearts to tempt the Golds into the cage he’d use to bring them back.

  “I want the op run tonight. All the Golds back here and ready for another mission. Get them restrained or frozen so the technicians can effect any needed repairs.”

  “You have a plan, sir? Someone to replace Dadou?”

  “I’d like to pursue your lead.”

  Now her smile was obvious. “It’s thin, sir.”

  The Director said nothing. Let her think that it was thin, that his own sources hadn’t corroborated the intelligence. “Still. We should investigate it.”

  “Just some folk tales, sir.”

  “Just some? How many, specifically?”

  “Eight, sir.”

  “Do you think it curious,” the Director asked, “that there are eight existing folk tales, all dating from the same time period, and all confined to the same local region?”

  “I do, sir. That’s why I brought it to your attention. Still, I’d like to have more to go on before deploying.”

  “Fort Resolution has a population of under five hundred. The entire region has fewer than 7,500 souls. I would be shocked to find two documented folk tales that matched up, let alone eight. Why do you think so many people would be so eagerly telling the same story?”

  “Not a lot to do in the Northwest Territory.” Mark shrugged.

  “Not a lot to do in the Northwest Territory means kids having sex in the backseats of cars. It means drinking and firearms accidents. If there are eight matching folk tales, it is because people are very excited about them indeed.”

  “Sir, if we’re going on a rumor here, do you think it’s smart to depart with so many of the Gold assets?”

  Her questions were growing irritating. “I think I know what I’m doing,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  Mark’s head snapped forward, taking in the silent stares of the incentives beyond, their hands waving for her attention. They wanted a lawyer. They wanted to know why they were being held there. They wanted out. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Good. How soon can you have the Golds back here?”

  “A day, sir? Maybe two? You never know with them.”

  The Director knew better than anyone. “Back in their pens by midnight. Show me what you’re made of.”

  Mark stiffened. It was an impossible task, and he could feel both her terror and her excitement at the challenge. “I’ll tr . . . Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’m going back to my office. I’ll eagerly await your report.”

  “Sir.”

  She knew better than to accompany him back to the elevator. He returned to his office and shut the door. His laptop had gone into sleep mode, leaving the room in inky blackness, the frigid air wrapping around him. It wasn’t entirely true that the magically resurrected dead did not rot. Better to say that they rotted very slowly, and he could both see and feel the thin layer of bacteria at work on his dead flesh, their movements slowing and finally stopping under the barrage of the cold.

  No room could ever be said to be fully dark, and so long as there was even a shred of light, the Director could find his way. He could just make out the figures of the Golds he’d come to think of as his bodyguard. They had claimed to be brothers when Jawid had drawn them together from the void. Three souls bound so tightly by love and obligation that to bring one was to bring them all. It had taken the Director a month to find suitable bodies for all three, and he never regretted it for an instant. Eldredge had dispatched one of them, and the other two now stood patiently in the darkness, golden crowns and pectorals flashing to the Director’s magically augmented eyes. Since Dadou’s death, he no longer had a Summoner capable of providing the direct translation he’d always used in the past, but he’d taken the precaution of teaching himself a few Proto-Uto-Aztecan words. He used them now. Go, soon.

  Xolotl spoke. At least, that’s what it called itself. The Director had his doubts. Its remaining brother called himself Quetzalcoatl, which seemed the height of hubris. It didn’t matter. They worked his will, and that was enough. Living, soon?

  They wanted the same thing he wanted, a living body to inhabit. The warmth of live flesh enclosing them, the thudding of a beating heart to count the passing seconds. They believed he could give that to them. He had come so close with Dadou
. That was why they obeyed him. That was why they stood patiently in the darkness, resisting their urge to tear Mark to pieces, to bathe in her blood. That was why they were loyal. And the Director knew that the very instant they ceased to believe this, they would be just like any other Gold—wild, vicious.

  Yes, he replied. Their shared vocabulary was maybe twenty-five words, but successful marriages had gotten by on less. Besides, less time spent talking was more time spent working on making good on their demands.

  He opened the laptop and pulled up the file titled OP_ FROZEN_KEEP. He rolled his spiritual eyes. Military types and their hyper-macho names for operations. Even when he’d been in the military himself, he’d thought them ridiculous. Mark had been hip-deep in that culture since she’d enlisted straight out of high school, and it showed.

  Mark had pivoted off an article in the Journal of Ethnography, a cataloging of Athabascan folk tales titled “Magical Death.” It was interesting in its own right, but she was right to think it wasn’t solid enough to commit so many of his Gold resources. That decision was driven by another report, this one from his source in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

  NW_DILIGENCE got eyes on target on 05 JAN before being driven back by extreme winter conditions. Inability to make contact and concern about suspicions of subject’s granddaughter, who is Sheriff at Fort Resolution, forced call for extract at 1738Z on the following day. NW_ DILIGENCE acquired three images (attached) of target’s “pet” wolf described by NW_DILIGENCE_FWD_103. FWD_103 described animal as a “cousin,” lending credence to NW_DILIGENCE’s assertion that target is reincarnation of “Lived-With-The-Wolves,” a local werewolf legend. Images are grainy, and first two are unremarkable but provided for context. Third image needs color enhancement as wolf is facing camera, but is cause for medium confidence assessment attached. Canadian Security Intelligence Service has provided subsequent analysis and clarified that there are no indicators of Necromancy. Mapping and Charting Establishment confirms that the photo has not been digitally manipulated.

  If the report was to be believed, and the Director had never had reason to doubt DILIGENCE’s reporting before, then a powerful Summoner was living somewhere in the Canadian wilderness. The Director didn’t know where in that wilderness he was, but he did know where the Summoner’s granddaughter was, and that was as good a place to start as any.

  The Director brought up the third attached photo and looked over it again. The Canadian Mapping and Charting Establishment had enhanced and colored it to the extent it could, but the picture had still been taken through a blizzard at its peak, and while several overlays were used, the majority of the resolution came through long-wavelength infrared. The resulting image was grainy and broken, a vague black shape standing out against a snowy hillside. Far below, the hamlet of Fort Resolution glowed like a star to the LWIR sensor.

  The image was date- and time-stamped, with Military Grid Reference System coordinates punched in next to a description of the location—S. SLAVE REGION. NW TERRITORY. The flat expanse was so featureless that anything that wasn’t a tree or a rock would stand out.

  The Director could tell the shape was a wolf, but only just. Its neck was bent, long tongue lolling out to lick the snow. It had a patch of tangled fur on its shoulders that made it look hunchbacked.

  But the Director only cared about its eyes, which were staring directly into the camera lens, as if it had known it was being photographed.

  They were balls of flame, the color enhancement showing them as gold as Aspen leaves in fall.

  CHAPTER III

  IN FROM THE COLD

  “There’s a rest area off the highway about a half-mile that way.” Hodges pointed. “Should only take us ten minutes to walk.”

  “What do we need a rest area for?” Schweitzer asked.

  Hodges quirked a smile. “To rest.”

  Schweitzer turned his leering skull face toward Hodges. “Do I look like the kind of guy who appreciates a good joke?”

  Hodges shrugged. “Thought maybe all that being dead might lighten you up.”

  Schweitzer said nothing.

  Hodges sighed. “Look, Jim. I need to do a few things before I can help you. The first is getting us out of here quietly. The second is making contact with some people. Please help me to do that. If we’re going to work together, then let’s start the work. Otherwise, get rid of me, or kill me, or do whatever the hell it is you plan to do.”

  Schweitzer paused, considering, then finally reached out for Hodges’ waist. The Senator spun away from him, but even down an arm, Schweitzer was more than twice as fast, and within a moment, he had Hodges bundled back over his shoulder. “Where are we going?”

  Hodges sighed, head dangling almost level with the gray skin of Schweitzer’s ass. “There.” He pointed.

  Schweitzer leapt, and Hodges tensed as they sailed up and into the darkness. “Why take ten minutes,” Schweitzer said, “when you can take five?”

  They thudded down, Schweitzer crouching not to absorb the impact to himself, but to take some of the pressure off his cargo. A long, grassy rise ended at a giant disk of light centered around a trio of gas pumps jutting up from a stretch of broken asphalt. There was a single car idling near the stub of a building.

  “Why are we here?” Schweitzer asked as he eased the Senator to the ground.

  “Pay phone.”

  “They still make those?”

  “It’s the only one left in the state. I pulled some strings to make sure it was kept in place. There’s a little old lady that lives nearby, refused to get a smartphone. Best human-interest story of my career.”

  “Why don’t you have a smartphone?”

  “I do,” Hodges said. “It’s back in my office. You want to head back over there to pick it up? Maybe you can talk your way through the police cordon.”

  “What if someone recognizes you?” Schweitzer asked.

  Hodges was already stripping off his suit jacket and unknotting his tie. “So much of what people see is expectations and context. In a suit, I’m a Senator. In my undershirt and slacks? I’m just another white guy who got drunk, yelled at his wife, and got thrown out of the house.” He started up the hill.

  Schweitzer caught his elbow. “Hodges . . .”

  The Senator shook off his hand. “Jim, this isn’t my first rodeo. You have to trust me.”

  Schweitzer let him go, and in moments, Hodges had entered the circle of light, leaning casually on one of the giant poles supporting the overhead lights, grabbing the receiver, his back turned from the small building and its giant glass window. If the clerk inside noticed him, they gave no sign.

  Hodges punched a number into the stainless steel face, then returned to his slouch, phone cradled between his neck and shoulder. He spoke softly, his breathing smooth and even. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Training. Schweitzer recognized a professional when he saw one.

  Schweitzer dialed his hearing down through the lower frequencies, filtering out the hiss of the wind and the rasp of the waving grass, to focus in on Hodges’ soft voice. The Senator didn’t stay long on the phone. Schweitzer only had time to catch the final words before Hodges hung up and trotted out of the light and back down to where Schweitzer awaited him. “. . . four one four zero three three. I say again, four one four zero three three. Sunoco on Garage and South Fourteenth Street. Immediate.”

  Hodges reached Schweitzer’s side, his face lit. His breath was coming fast, from excitement, not exertion.

  “What the hell was that?” Schweitzer asked.

  “A little code I use with my staff for emergencies. You never know who’s listening.”

  “That’s secret-squirrel even for me.”

  “I worked at the CIA. I chair the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. You learn a thing or two about tradecraft.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

 
“We wait.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, a small green sedan pulled onto the asphalt just outside the circle thrown by the sodium lights over the gas pumps. The driver got out, went around to the back of the vehicle, deep in the shadows. It was too dark to see anything but the driver’s vague shape—male, pudgy, and balding—but Schweitzer’s augmented eyes could see him as clearly as if it were a bright day. He was unzipping his pants, groaning loudly, making a great show of pissing in the bushes, without the actual pissing.

  Hodges was already up and moving toward him, and Schweitzer followed until the Senator turned to him. “Stay here.”

  “What are you . . .”

  “Jim, we’ve come this far. I’m not just going to ditch you. I wouldn’t destroy you and there’s nothing to be gained by leaving you. Just trust me. That’s one of my people.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Jim, you’ll scare him half to death. Stay here.”

  If you’re going to trust him, then you’re going to trust him. If Hodges was planning to spring a trap, he was going to need more than this dumpy guy in khakis and a polo and a car too small to carry anything threatening.

  Hodges emerged and the man gave up the pretense of urinating. Schweitzer dialed his hearing back in to listen. “Sir, how’s it going?”

  Hodges ignored him and went around to the vehicle’s trunk. “Pop it, Noah.”

  The man used the remote to comply, and Hodges began to rummage inside, emerging a moment later with a suit on a hanger and a hooded sweatshirt. He turned toward Schweitzer, then spun back to Noah. “Do you have your lucky hat?”

  “I always have my lucky hat, sir. You know that.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Sir?”