Operation Arcana - eARC

by John Joseph Adams

  Otto stepped up with his big ax and removed the wild ass’s head, after which good buddy Hagop began trying to recover my arrow for me.

  Darling signed, “The brat was right.” Not entirely pleased to admit that. “That was a crippling shock to the monsters. Let us move on quickly while they are panicked.” She walked on, again looking like she knew where she wanted to go.

  We took our places, Rusty now seeming all twitchy. There was a long difference between bullying and cold killing.

  The watery ropes around us were fewer and more randomly behaved. They stuck with us out of inertia, not purpose.

  Darling’s confidence soared. Her step quickened. Thirty yards onward a long, sad moan of despair from under a stone slab brought us to a halt. Shaking, Rusty took a knee, looked underneath. “It’s hollowed out under here. Somebody is in here.”

  Elmo, Hagop, and Otto took hold of the slab and heaved. Three men were not enough. Rusty and I joined them. Darling stood by, shielding us from the raging mad terror of the discorporate hungry ghosts.

  The hidden woman had been unable to keep quiet when the null touched her. She was not old in years lived, she was just starved to where her bones were brittle and her weight had shrunk to nothing. Were she not possessed, she would be dead already.

  We looked to Darling. Somebody had to act. She should pick.

  Ticking and twitching, Rusty started to step up but then thought better. Darling might figure he was sucking up.

  Darling used Otto’s ax to do it herself. She was muscular, but that ax was heavy. She damaged the blade badly.

  Was I alone in seeing the moment of human terror and pleading in the woman’s eyes as the ax fell? I did not ask. Something else we do not talk about with our brothers.

  The head rolled away. The body jerked once and stopped moving forever. Not much blood got loose. What did smelled diseased.

  The impact was instant. Insanely despairing emotion soaked into the null. The siren call collapsed completely. The rest of the Company picked up the next phase of Midnight’s plan, which began slowly because people had to shake the wool out of their heads before they could understand.

  Our intrepid band pressed on, looking for the wild ass being worn by the last incarnate hungry ghost.

  That hungry ghost did not want to get caught. It wanted to stay out of sight till we messed up and exposed some of our people to seizure.

  A few of our idiots tried, but Midnight, with stubborn help from Goblin, One-Eye, and Silent, kept the suicidal stupidity in check.

  The discorporate hungry ghosts never recovered enough to regenerate their call. Midnight kept their madness boiling by having livestock paraded outside the confining boundary. All reason fled the ghosts. Midnight and the wizards began to expose livestock carefully. The animals fought, futilely. They calmed instantly once a hungry ghost got inside.

  I asked Silent, “Can you keep track of which ones are infected?”

  Staring into nothing, in the general direction of where Robin and Rusty were watching, he signed, “I can. We can.”

  Those animals would be slaughtered and eaten first.

  Practical, pragmatic Darling and Chasing Midnight! Darling’s harshness did not trouble me. I had seen it for years. I was comfortable with how her head worked. Chasing Midnight, though, did worry me. She had so much potential and was still so young. She might make bad decisions. She might be nudged onto the shadowed path by another’s bad behavior. She could end up a victim of her own adolescent humors.

  Darling smirked when I mentioned that. “Smitten, are we?”

  “No! Not that way. But I do like the kid. In a fatherly way. She’s brilliant. I don’t want to see that wasted.”

  Darling nodded, reflected, most likely the only member of the Company who would not serve me a ration of shit about incest. She signed, “You fuss too much. She is fourteen. She is already who she is going to be. All you can do is set an example that she will want to follow.”

  Parenting advice from somebody twenty years my junior.

  “All right. I’ll try.” But I had my reservations. I feared that there was a shadow inside Midnight that she had kept well hidden.

  I went walking in the ruins, thinking they would be choked with loneliness and silence. I reexamined recent events repeatedly, sure that I was missing something.

  The ruins were neither quiet nor lonely. The hungry ghosts had been replaced by every vulture and carrion eater in nearby creation, all squabbling over the remains of two wild asses and one old woman whose dying eyes I could not get out of my head.

  It did not come together for weeks, during our talks with the Magistrates of Rue, who wanted to pay us to discourage the predatory behavior of their neighbors, the Dank. Both sides had heard wildly exaggerated tales of our work for the Lady, years ago.

  What I finally noticed, like a sudden slap to the back of my head, was that now always twitchy Rusty hung around Midnight more than Robin did. And Midnight put up with that dickhead.

  The last piece clicked. Rusty was no longer an asshole. Since the Village of Hungry Ghosts he had stopped being true to his nature. He had become, in fact, almost Chasing Midnight’s dog. And Midnight appeared to have no problems with him anymore.

  The same could not be said for her brother and the other surviving bandits. Moonlight still got that look when his gaze chanced upon Rusty.

  The Magistrates argued almost not at all before they made a deal. That guaranteed that they would double-cross us as soon as they felt safe from the Dank. We understood. It was nothing new. Evil in its own time. Meanwhile, we could take a break from traveling, in a place where people did not know us.

  I set up my clinic inside an actual building. We handled a few cuts, scrapes, and malingerers looking to get out of work. Caught up, I told Midnight, “Go fetch Rusty for me. I want to take a look at him.”

  She pouted prettily, not pleased. “Robin says he has been having stomach troubles. So, I guess, yes. You should check him out.” She left.

  I waited, appreciating my new digs. They were part of a small barracks. I might stay warm and well-fed all winter. Fingers crossed. Let us stretch out the war with the Dank.

  Rusty arrived. Twitchy, pale, watery-eyed Rusty, not at all pleased to be so close to the Company sawbones. I said, “Have a seat here.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve noticed . . .” and I explained my professional interest.

  Where was Midnight? I heard Robin talking in the waiting area. Maybe she was out there with him.

  Rusty began to relax. This was all routine. Yeah. He was having trouble with his guts. Maybe he got himself a ulcer. He had an uncle once; he got him a ulcer. Uncle used to puke up blood sometimes.

  I got behind Rusty, rested my hands on his shoulders, leaned, whispered, “I know you’re in there. And everyone else knows, too.”

  Rusty lapsed into the worst twitches, ticks, and shakes yet.

  The hungry ghost had him only under partial control.

  I would start checking local sources right away. There might be an exorcism that could save the man—even though haunted Rusty was better liked than Rusty his own self ever was before.

  I never saw Chasing Midnight again. She, Moonlight, and their friends stepped off the face of the earth. Not so difficult in a city. Darling would not let me waste time and energy looking for someone who did not want to be found. Darling wanted to be our unchallenged princess. Moreover, we had soldier business to handle.

  The skirmishes with the Dank all ended badly for them. Local fighters on both sides were amateurs of abysmal quality led by fat old men who got their jobs because they were the sons of privilege. And we had Silent, Goblin, and One-Eye to give us that extra edge.

  Rusty disappeared a week after Midnight did. Robin did not vanish with him. That boy went half crazy with worry. Nobody else cared. Rusty carried a hungry ghost that could not migrate unless he found another colony. The tacit popular choice was to let nature run its course.
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br />   One winter night a partially recovered Whisper slipped into Rue to hand the senior Magistrates a plain directive from the Lady concerning the Black Company. The Magistrates agreed to her terms but failed to execute their promised treachery because clever One-Eye had rat spies keeping watch on all of Rue’s most important men.

  We did considerable selective damage before we left town with pockets sagging.

  I got the final word on Rusty as we cleared Rue’s eastern gate. His mutilated corpse had been found in the mud and water along the edge of the river that ran through Rue. The rats and crayfish had been at him, but they had not done a tenth of the damage that he suffered at human hands before what was left of him was dumped.

  I knew then, for sure, why I had grown ever more uneasy with sweet, pretty little Chasing Midnight.

  Maybe there will be those new grim armies and fresh dark towers someday, after all.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Glen Cook was born in New York in 1944. He grew up in northern California and served in the U.S. Navy, spending time with the Force Recon unit of the 3rd Marine Recon Battalion. He attended the University of Missouri and the Clarion Writers’ Workshop. His only job has been with General Motors. Recently, he retired and is devoting more time to his writing. He is best known for his Black Company series, but has also written many other novels, such as those in the Garrett P.I. series, the Dread Empire series, as well as many standalone novels and stories.

  BOMBERS MOON

  Simon R. Green

  April 1944

  Spring, in Bomber County

  A lovely evening in the English countryside, not far from the coast. Rob Harding, bomber pilot, stood alone at the edge of the air field, looking out over the open fields, at the dark and moody woods beyond. So peaceful. The last hours of the day, before it gives itself up to the night. Rob smiled at the sounds of living things moving through the wood, birds and beasts settling down, or waking up to the night’s possibilities. The pleasant sounds came clearly to him on the quiet evening air, along with the smell of grass and flowers. He breathed in deeply.

  He looked up at the darkening sky. A full moon hung fat and heavy, gathering its light for the night. Rob looked for the man in the moon, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Rob Harding was tall and lean, with a calm thoughtful face, and a hawk’s fierce eyes. Barely into his mid twenties, he had the look of a much older man. Flying bombers will do that to you. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his navigator heading determinedly towards him. He didn’t look round. Chalkie White: big and broad and always cheerful. Not because he didn’t think or didn’t care about what he did, but because he didn’t let it get to him. Chalkie moved in beside Rob, and the two men stood together for a while, looking out on the world in companionable silence.

  “Full moon is a bomber’s moon,” Chalkie said finally. “A clear way out, and a clear way back. A hunter’s moon; if you like.”

  “The full moon is a two-faced friend,” said Rob. “It shows us the way, but it also shows us to our enemies.”

  “You’ve always been a glass-half-empty kind of guy, haven’t you, Rob? For me, the glass may be half empty, but I am half full.”

  Rob smiled, briefly. “Any idea how much longer?”

  “We’re still on hold, because the new priest isn’t ready yet.”

  Rob shrugged. “Can’t go up without him.”

  Their old priest, Father Alistair, had been rushed to hospital with suspected food poisoning. They were lucky to be getting a replacement at all, at such short notice. Rob turned his back on the woods, and looked at his plane, waiting patiently for him on the air field. Not a bad crate, the Hampden. Old enough, even old-fashioned, but the big brass had dragged every available craft that would still fly out of mothballs for this very special Op. The two men looked out across the ranks and ranks of planes, lined up and waiting for the off. Lancasters, Wellingtons, de Havillands . . . most of them already crewed, just waiting for the word. Dozens of planes, carrying hundreds of bombs, for the biggest raid of the war. The city of Dresden wasn’t going to know what hit it.

  “A big one, Chalkie,” said Rob.

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “Could end the war, they say.”

  “We’ve heard that before. And here we still are.”

  A cheerful voice called out to them. They looked round to see their main gunner, James Ross, limping painfully but steadily toward them. Short and stocky, with a uniform that fit him where it touched. No one ever said anything. James was always ready with his fists, to avenge any perceived slight, and he didn’t care what rank you were. Everyone made allowances, because it was either that or take him out back and shoot him. Which had been seriously discussed, on more than one occasion. The rear gunner, David Stuart, came bustling along behind, careful to match his pace to James. Even though he was clearly bubbling over with enthusiasm. David was young, eager, and ready for anything. Just looking at him made Rob feel like an old man.

  “Why are we still hanging around?” said James, slamming to a halt before them. Just about keeping the pain from his ruined feet out of his face. “Everyone else is boarding!”

  “The new priest is still in with the CO,” said Chalkie. “Father John. Don’t know him, myself. Any of you fellows . . . ?”

  There was a general shaking of heads, and some shrugging. They all liked Father Alistair, but in the end any priest who could do the job would do. They couldn’t get into the air without one, but beyond that, he was superfluous.

  Rob looked fondly at his waiting plane. The Hampden was a mess, but she was sound. Rebuilt and repaired so many times there probably wasn’t an original part left in her, but she was strong. Reliable. And that counted for a lot on a bombing mission. The old leather and canvas exterior was gone, of course—replaced by pages from the Bible. Stitched together by a local order of nuns, the holy sisters praying over every stitch. The holy words wrapping the plane in sanctity.

  Father John came hurrying forward, finally. A tall skinny presence in shabby black robes, with a prematurely bald head and a tense, fretful face. He handed Chalkie the CO’s latest maps, and introduced himself. The crew just nodded. There would be time to get to know one another, once they were up.

  Rob strode out onto the airfield, and the others followed him. James was soon left lurching along in the rear, but he still kept up, refusing to be slowed down by his crippled feet. The others didn’t look back. James hated anyone to make allowances for him.

  They boarded the plane and slipped into their accustomed positions with the ease of long practice. Pilot at the controls, in the cockpit. Navigator strapped in below him, studying his maps and calculations. Main gunner at the center, checking his big brute of a gun. Rear gunner at the far end, checking his water reserves. The priest dithered about, uncertainly, before finally settling onto a folding chair beside the navigator.

  Rob checked out his controls, running steadily through the regular routine, and then glanced back over his shoulder. “Say the words, Father.”

  The priest nodded quickly, and began the invocation. The familiar chant sounded loudly inside the plane, the holy words soaring up and out. A growing presence manifested, filling the Hampden, as something old and powerful descended upon them from every direction at once. A great and terrible presence, sinking into every part of the plane, suffusing it with power from Above. The holy sentences in the Bible pages blazed up with a sudden fierce light, illuminating the plane’s interior. The whole aircraft shook and shuddered as the angel settled in, possessing the plane.

  Hello, my friends. I am Uriel.

  The words sounded in their heads—warm as honey, strong as steel. Rob nodded, pleased. He’d flown with the angel Uriel before. A friendly, pleasant sort—calm and dependable. Unlike some. The light from the Bible pages winked out, replaced by a gentle golden glow that didn’t pass beyond the plane’s interior. Some angels had to be reminded to do that, on the grounds that a plane which glowed in the dark wasn’t too likely to r
each its target. Angels might be old and wise, but they were often inexperienced in the more practical aspects of the material world.

  Rob looked out his side window. Row upon row of planes flared briefly into life up and down the field as a host of angels descended on the squadron’s planes and possessed them. Holy fires, blazing against the falling night. Signs of hope and judgment day, come at last.

  The forces of Light, set against the Darkness.

  Ron spoke quietly on the radio to mission control. At least that was still there, still needed. Part of the old craft, along with the basic controls. Most of the rest had been ripped out, as unnecessary. A calm voice from mission control gave him the go ahead, and the Hampden’s crew braced themselves.

  “Operation Shadrack is go,” said the CO. “Good luck, everyone. Go with God.”

  There was no taxiing into position, no racing down the runway building up speed; the Hampden just rose suddenly into the sky, leaping up into the darkening skies in one swift, easy movement—as though the Earth and its dull gravity no longer mattered, no longer had any hold over the possessed plane. Rob’s stomach fell away for a moment, as it always did, and he had to fight to hold on to his last meal. Cold beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Man wasn’t meant to travel like this, he thought. And then the plane steadied, and so did his nerves, and his hands moved surely over the controls, taking charge of the plane. He never asked the others if they felt the same, on takeoff. It was none of his business.

  Plane after plane rose up into the air all around him, filling the sky, each taking its designated place in the formation. The biggest squadron of possessed bombers ever assembled; on their way to bomb the shit out of a whole city, and destroy its entire population. In the name of a greater good.

  Spitfires shot up into the air, in ones and twos, to fly alongside them. Ready to run interference against attackers, and protect the planes from flak. Spitfires: individual men and women, each possessed by an angel. Only a few were strong enough to hold an angel within them. The few, the brave, and the pure. They could fly, were supernaturally strong, and the fierce cold and thin air of the upper reaches didn’t bother them at all. But they didn’t last long. Even the most dedicated souls tended to burn out quickly. Because men and women were never meant to blaze so brightly.