“But the One says she is to be left alone. Remember that?”
“I remember. But no matter. I will find him, I will catch up to him one day, and then he will curse his mother for giving him birth.”
“Yes, well, good luck on that. Now, if you don’t mind…” He shuffled assorted random papers on his desk. “I have some of the Council’s business to attend to.”
Szeto left without another word. As soon as the door closed behind him, Ernst shot from his seat and began pacing his office. He could not sit still, not after what he’d just heard.
Bypassed! The One had bypassed not only him but the High Council as well, and gone straight to one of the Order’s enforcers.
Memory of Ernst’s last encounter with the One, here, on this very spot, flashed through his brain. He could still feel the pressure of the One’s hand on his throat as he’d lifted him off the floor, the heat of his breath as he’d spoken so close to his face.
You still might prove useful, otherwise …
Otherwise what he hadn’t said. He hadn’t had to. Ernst hadn’t been able to breathe.
“At last I can take direct action. I may call on you and your Order for minor logistical support, but now that I am free to act, I will take matters into my own hands. I will finish this myself.”
And then he’d hurled Ernst across the office.
Ernst rubbed his throat. The bruises had faded away only recently, but the fear hadn’t.
I may call on you and your Order for minor logistical support …
But he hadn’t called on Ernst. He’d called on Szeto.
Have I been marginalized?
The possibility brought a surge of bile. Like his father before him, he had devoted his entire life to the Order, to helping the Otherness become ascendant in this world. The Otherness would bring about the Change, and elevate its loyal helpers to allow them not only to survive unscathed in the remade world but to oversee it as well. To be Movers among the Moved.
His father hadn’t lived to see the Change, but Ernst fully expected to. He could sense its imminence. And the One would choose those who would be part of the Change rather than merely subject to it. Ernst had fully expected to be among the chosen …
Until now.
He had failed the One and the One had turned against him. No … not against him. Simply discarded him.
He had to find a way back into his good graces. If he couldn’t, it meant all his years in the Order had been wasted. After the Change he would be just another face in the hordes of oppressed humanity … looking up to the likes of Szeto for mercy.
No. He would die first.
6
Now what? Hank Thompson thought as he strolled the hall of the Lodge that served as Kickerdom headquarters.
He was bored out of his skull. Worse than that, he was still pissed that the Internet was rebounding so quickly from the meltdown. His Kickers had busted their asses blowing up the infrastructure while Drexler and his Order attacked from the inside. The one-two punch was supposed to cause a KO.
But no. A couple of days of chaos, and then things started getting back to normal. Amazing how fast they’d come up with a fix for the Jihad virus, disrupting the botnet. Even more amazing was how fast they’d repaired those blown fiber-optic cables. He’d wanted the ’Net down for good. Without all that constant networking, people would be forced to realize that their so-called interconnectedness was a trap. And that would push them one step closer to dissimilation, one step closer to him and joining the Kicker Evolution.
But the ’Net hadn’t been down near long enough for that. In no time their chat rooms and facebooks and myspaces and all that crap were back up and running. Still lots of glitches and bandwidth problems, but pretty much business as usual.
Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all.
“Hey, boss,” said a passing Kicker, a burly guy named McGrew. He carried a red toolbox emblazoned with a Kicker Man.
A tattoo of the same figure adorned the web between his thumb and forefinger.
Lots of Kickers had asked Hank why he’d never got himself inked with the symbol. He always gave the same answer. Because I am the Kicker Man.
Hank nodded and kept moving, thinking about the Kicker Man. He was more than a symbol to Hank. Years ago the Kicker Man had appeared in one of his dreams and led him to write Kick, the book that had put him on the map and started the Kicker Evolution. He’d appeared from time to time to guide him.
Maybe his frustration in real life was behind that weird dream he’d been having the past few nights, wherein the Kicker Man seemed to be in trouble—attacked by a flock of birds. At least they looked like birds. Hard to tell because it was happening in the dark. Hard enough to see the Kicker Man in the dark, let alone what was attacking him. Whatever they were, they swarmed him, buzzing him from all sides. He couldn’t seem to drive them off.
What the hell did that mean?
He knew it meant something, because the Kicker Man never appeared unless something was in the offing. Sometimes it was good, sometimes not. This didn’t look good.
Hank needed a little distraction. Maybe Drexler was in. Been a while since he’d hassled him. The uptight dickhead was always good for a laugh. Couldn’t tick him too much, though. He was the Order’s head honcho around here, and the Order let Hank use this Lodge as Kicker HQ. Push Drexler too far and he might kick them all out.
He entered Drexler’s office without knocking—Hank knew he hated that—and found the man standing at one of his windows, looking out at the street. The Kickers who hung out at the Lodge called him the Ice Cream Dude because of the white suit he wore year in and year out.
When Drexler didn’t turn, Hank said, “How goes it?” When Drexler still didn’t turn, Hank raised his voice. “Hello? Anybody home?”
Finally the guy turned and Hank felt a little jolt of surprise when he saw his face. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it had changed somehow. The swept-back black hair with the widow’s peak and the bits of gray at the temples were the same. So were the hawk nose and thin-lipped mouth.
The eyes … that was it. As blue as ever, but the Master of the Universe look was gone. Their usual ice had melted, leaving just … eyes.
“Yes, Thompson? What is it?”
His itty-bitty German accent hadn’t changed, but what happened to “Mister”? Ever since they’d met he’d called him Mister Thompson.
Hank shrugged. “Just stopping by to see what’s new in the world of the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order.”
Drexler’s eyes widened as he took a quick step forward. “Why do you ask? Have you heard anything? What have you heard?”
Whoa. His face was all uncertainty and hunger now. What the hell was going on?
“Nothing. Just sort of wondering if you folks have any more Internet tricks up your sleeve. One that’ll last a little longer. Like maybe permanent.”
“It wasn’t a ‘trick.’ And it wasn’t designed to be permanent, just long enough…” His voice trailed off.
“Yeah, just long enough for what? At first you said the Internet was all that was standing between the One and the Change. Then you mentioned some lady. Which was it?”
“It didn’t work. That’s all that matters.”
“No, it’s not. Not by a long shot. Things are pretty much back the way they were. My Kickers are just hanging around instead of going out and gathering up converts who don’t know what to do with themselves without the Internet.”
“Your precious Kickers,” Drexler said, looking like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “They’re just tools. As are you.”
That stung—maybe because it hit a little too close to home.
“Watch it. We don’t answer to anyone, especially your lame Order.”
“We all answer to someone. And we expect at least a modicum of loyalty in return. But sometimes it turns out to be a one-way street, and expectations aren’t met.”
What was he talking about?
“You mean the Change?”
Bringing the Internet down was supposed to clear the way to start the Change. But it hadn’t. “You telling me there’s gonna be no Change?”
That would mean all that Internet business had been for nothing. The Change was supposed to be bad news for everyone except those who helped bring it on. Like Hank and Drexler and the high-ups in his Order. They were supposed to be the One’s right-hand men when he took over.
Drexler’s thin smile was pure condescension. “Oh, the Change will come. There’s no stopping it. It will take all of humanity by surprise.” He took a step closer. “And you, Hank Thompson, might be the most surprised of all.”
Hank felt like he’d been punched.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Without replying, Drexler turned away and removed his white suit coat from the closet. He shrugged into it, grabbed his black rhino-hide cane, and strode to the door. Hank grabbed his arm as he passed.
“Hey, I asked you something—”
Drexler batted his wrist with the silver head of the cane, sending a shock wave up to Hank’s shoulder. Hank released his grip and stood rubbing his arm as Drexler stepped out into the hall and disappeared without a backward glance.
But his final words hung in the air.
And you, Hank Thompson, might be the most surprised of all.
What the hell did that mean?
7
Jack stopped at Tram’s laundry off Canal Street and showed him the bomber jacket. Tram squinted against the smoke from his unfiltered Pall Mall as he inspected the ruined lining of the sleeve. He was on the far side of sixty and as a younger man had lost the lower half of his right leg to a Viet Cong finger charge. He’d hired Jack a while back to help him with a mob problem he’d been pushed into.
“Much blood.”
“Tell me about it.”
He poked a finger through the bullet hole and eyed Jack. “Yours?”
Jack nodded. He’d gone home, found an insulated Windbreaker, then trained down here.
“Can’t clean,” Tram said, shaking his head. “But can fix hole and sew new sleeve liner.”
“Okay on the liner, but leave the holes.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Eh?”
“A reminder.”
Tram’s smile revealed a mouth crowded with canary-yellow teeth. “Yes. Reminder is good.” He pointed down to where his right leg was steel and plastic. “Makes one more careful.”
From Tram’s he walked up to Canal Street and caught a cab over to Doc Hargus’s place. He’d called from home and the doc was in. Doc’s office was his apartment, a third-floor walk-up. He’d had a little substance abuse problem back in the day. Okay, a big problem and he’d lost his license before he’d cleaned up. His only vice now was beer, and that in moderation.
He still practiced on the QT, treating injuries and overdoses and things people didn’t want part of the public record. Too bad, because his portly physique, deep voice, and Wilford Brimley mustache inspired trust and confidence.
“What’re you running on me?” he said after Jack had stripped to the waist and he’d removed Bill’s dressing.
Odd question.
“Not running anything. What’re you talking about?”
Doc pulled on a pair of latex gloves and removed one of the butterflies, peeling both ends at once toward the middle.
“Didn’t I tell you over the phone I couldn’t stitch up any wound over twenty-four hours old?”
“Yeah.”
“And you told me this happened just this morning, right?”
“Right.”
“Bullshit.”
Jack tensed, feeling a niggle of annoyance. “What do you mean?”
Doc pointed to the wound. “I can’t suture this. It’s already started to knit.”
Jack craned his neck and looked. The wound still looked bloody and angry to him.
“That’s just the butterflies holding it together.”
Doc looked at him over his glasses. “I think I’ve seen a few more of these than you, Jack.”
“Okay, no argument there, but Doc, I swear: I got grazed at around ten o’clock this morning. Why would I lie?”
Doc looked at him, then adjusted his glasses and leaned closer to the wound. He studied it for a few seconds, then straightened, shaking his head.
“Yeah. Good question. Why would you? But Jack … that’s at least two days old—” His hand flashed up as Jack opened his mouth to protest. “I’ll rephrase: It’s got at least two days’ worth of healing there. If, as you say, this happened this morning, well, you tell me what vitamins and herbs you’re taking because you’ve suddenly developed some super healing powers.”
Jack went cold as he heard Glaeken’s voice echo in his head.
Wounds heal much more quickly than you’d imagine … a scratch like that would heal almost immediately.
Jack’s wound hadn’t healed “almost immediately,” but Doc said it was already days into the process, though only hours had passed.
“You okay?” Doc said. “You don’t look so hot. Never known you to mind the sight of blood—even your own.”
“I’m okay.”
Big lie.
Glaeken seemed to be failing, and here Jack was developing the healing powers the old guy had once possessed. Pretty obvious that Jack, as the Heir to the Defender post, was being prepared to step into Glaeken’s shoes. How long had this healing thing been going on? If Jack hadn’t been hurt, he still wouldn’t know about it. It could only mean Glaeken’s demise was imminent. How long did the old guy have?
“I’ll replace the butterflies,” Doc was saying, “even though it hardly needs them at this point. Pretty good job of closing that wound. Who did it?”
“Some guy.”
I don’t want this, Jack thought. I do not want this.
But no one had asked. No one had given him a choice.
8
“Oy. You’re trying to start the next world war?”
“Call me the rovin’ gambler.”
Abe glanced up from the wish list Jack had handed him and offered a puzzled look. “Nu?”
“Were you ever a Dylan fan?”
Abe shook his head. “Neither Thomas nor Bob.”
Jack waved him off. “Never mind then. Take too long to explain.”
He took a bite of his cheesesteak. He’d brought two of them from Vinny’s pizzeria off West Houston. Vinny was a Philly transplant and knew his way around the classic cheesesteak. Jack confessed to being a purist and a minimalist where cheesesteaks were concerned. Razor-thin slices of steak, provolone cheese, fried onions on a sub roll. No peppers, no gravy, and Vinny might do violence to anyone who added mustard or catsup. Jack would help him.
Jack and Abe had laid the torpedo-shaped packages on the scarred rear counter of the Isher Sports Shop, spreading the greasy wrapping paper to reveal the treasured contents, then chowed down. Parabellum, Abe’s powder-blue parakeet, hopped around on the hunt for scraps. The seedless rolls made for slim pickings, so Jack tossed him a sliver of meat. He pounced on it.
Abe, already finished with his first half, had the second clutched in his pudgy fingers, which in turn were attached to pudgy arms connected to a pudgy body. He needed a cheesesteak like he needed herpes, but Jack had given up nannying Abe’s health. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. The last part was likely if Rasalom got his way.
Abe closed his eyes and groaned softly as he chewed.
“Why is traif so good?” he said around a mouthful.
“Because forbidden and flavor both start with F?”
“In her grave my mother would turn if she knew what I was eating.”
“Could be worse.”
“How?”
“She could find out about that Taylor pork roll and cheese with egg on a kaiser you had last week.”
Abe rolled his eyes. “Oy. That might return her from the dead.”
“I’ll never tell.” Jack nodded at the list. “What can you do for me?”
“Dogs of War?”
“That’s the one. With that meshuggeneh actor…”
“I prefer ‘quirky’—Christopher Walken.”
“Him, yes. You’ve been watching that movie?”
“No. Not lately.”
But Jack remembered it well. The MM-1 had been the film’s iconic weapon. It looked like a sawed-off shotgun with a huge rotating drum that held a dozen 40mm grenades.
“Then why an MM-1 already?”
“I may have a need for grenades and I want to be able to use them at a distance greater than I can throw.”
“Fine. But this throws a dozen in rapid succession.”
“I’m after a tough bastard.”
“Well, I don’t have one sitting downstairs. I’ll have to call around.”
“Fine, but please get on it ASAP.”
“This is a rush job?”
Jack looked at him. “It’s a long overdue job.”
Abe understood. “That mamzer whose name, like God’s, we shouldn’t say?”
“It’s ‘Rasalom.’ Say his name anytime you feel like it now. I want him to come looking.”
“Not for me, thank you.” He scratched his stubbled chin. “Like I said, the MM-1 itself I don’t have, but rounds to feed it I do. You want HE, I assume?”
Jack nodded. High-explosive grenades, yes—the higher, the better.
“What’s the kill zone?” Jack asked.
“Five meters.”
“Perfect.”
“But … the HE rounds won’t detonate within thirty meters of the launcher.”
Well, he couldn’t allow himself to get close to Rasalom anyway. But just in case it happened …
“Understood. What’ve you got for close range? I’ve heard of Beehives—”
“With the flechettes?” Abe waved his hands. “Those you don’t want.”
Jack had thought shooting a round that held forty or fifty darts might come in handy.
The Dark at the End (Repairman Jack) Page 4