The Second Siege

by Henry H. Neff

  “Everyone out,” said Dr. Rasmussen, ushering the engineers back toward the transport pods.

  “Tell my dad not to worry,” said Max, handing Nick and the talisman to Cooper.

  Miss Boon gripped Max’s arm tightly and leaned close.

  “Max, I don’t know what David’s planning to do, but that book is exceedingly dangerous. . . .”

  Cooper placed his hand over the teacher’s hand and gently removed it from Max’s arm.

  “We need to trust David, Miss Boon,” he said quietly. “Let’s get him what he needs.”

  Chewing a nail, Miss Boon gave David a decidedly maternal glance before turning to follow Cooper.

  The pods departed and Max slumped to the floor, resting his back against a hulking drill while David stood bathed in the ghostly white glow of the orbs. The small blond Sorcerer did not move until the Codex and coffee arrived, and even then he seemed utterly oblivious to the presence of anyone else. He stirred the cream and sugar into the thermal carafe and paced back and forth, muttering soundless words and flipping through the red book with the casual air of a bookstore browser. Max yawned and eyed the rows of heated coffee cylinders. The click-click-click of the marching ants filled his ears. He turned from David to scan the dark cavern, lit here and there by soft halos of fluorescent lights. By the time David began to chant, Max was already drifting to sleep.

  He awoke to a much brighter chamber. David stood within a protective circle that burned as blue as an arc welder’s flame; he leaned close to examine the door, clutching the open book to his chest. He was flanked by two other circles—pentacles that burned like red phosphorous. The ants were marching faster now. Max stood to his feet.

  “Don’t come any closer,” ordered David, without turning. “Stay behind the line.”

  Max glanced down and saw a faint, shimmering line in the floor, just beyond Dr. Braden’s stylus.

  “How is it coming?” hissed Max.

  “It’s coming,” David replied wearily. “The overall solution isn’t that complex, but it’s tedious, and the spells multiply if you’re not clever enough to—”

  David broke off abruptly, speaking a sudden flurry of words in Egyptian.

  “Sorry,” he muttered before continuing. “You have to speak the proper words of command at precisely the right time, like aligning the tumblers of a lock. Otherwise the requirements multiply.”

  “What’s with the circles?”

  “There are two very powerful demons in this room. The pentacles are to confine them, naturally. The circle’s to protect me. That line is to protect you.”

  David held up a finger as he bobbed his head in some silent count before speaking a command in Greek.

  “I don’t see any demons,” Max said, rubbing his arms as chills cascaded down his spine.

  “Maybe not,” said David. “But they see you. Stay where you are.”

  “What’re they for?” asked Max.

  “Doing the grunt work,” replied David. “They’re solving the trickier binding spells and parsing out the final commands so I can speak them at the proper time. Very helpful, actually.”

  Max lapsed into silence as David continued, periodically raising his small fist and uttering words that sounded nigh unintelligible. As Max watched, he began to discern subtle disturbances above the two pentacles. The air above them seemed to shimmer and distort periodically, like waves of summer heat rising off a highway. From far off, Max thought he could hear indecipherable whispers and mutterings—eerie, gibbering voices that played tricks on his ears. The march of the ants achieved a frantic cadence.

  “Come here,” said David with an air of calm command. “I need your help now.”

  Max crept forward but stopped at the faint line drawn into the floor.

  “But I thought—”

  “Stay where you are!” shrieked David, his body jerking suddenly up and off the floor as though he were a marionette. His feet landed dangerously close to the edge of the protective circle, and his body swayed about to face Max with milk-white eyes. Max stood utterly still. David’s eyes clamped shut, and he bent over, straightening slowly as though gathering his energies. He lifted his chin with an imperious air and seemed to gaze coldly upon something within one of the pentacles. Glancing at the Codex, he read from it in a strong voice.

  “Thy service complete, I consign thee to the places beyond this earth from which thee may not stir without proper summons. Disobey and you shall be cast into Oblivion.”

  Max exhaled as the pentacles began to dim; faint whispers faded to silence until all evidence of the menacing visitors had gone. David stood breathing heavily, his face shiny with sweat. Turning back to face the door, he seemed to follow the path of one particular ant as it marched. When it reached the top of the door, David whispered one final word of command. The ants promptly leapt off the door to land in a chittering, churning jumble at David’s feet.

  The great stone door shuddered.

  “David, get away from it!” yelled Max.

  David looked back at him, tottering wearily like a punch-drunk fighter.

  Hundreds of tons of stone toppled forward in a slow, murderous arc toward David’s defenseless head.

  Max leapt.

  With a deafening boom, the door crashed into the rock floor, sending up stinging chips of granite and effectively disintegrating the mindless, clicking ants. Max and David lay sprawled to the side, coughing in the choking plumes of dust that rose like a mushroom cloud. When the ringing in his ears subsided, Max pulled David to his feet, brushing bits of rubble and debris from the dazed boy’s face.

  “Don’t tell Miss Boon what happened,” David whispered before his legs buckled beneath him. Max felt about David’s cold, rubbery wrist for a pulse. He laid David on the floor, balling his own sweater beneath his roommate’s head. Fumbling for the device Rasmussen had given him, Max pressed it frantically.

  “Why, hello,” purred Rasmussen’s voice.

  “We need a doctor,” panted Max.

  “Is the door open?” asked Dr. Rasmussen.

  “Yes! But we need a doctor now!” Max screamed.

  “Of course,” came the calm reply.

  Max threw the device against the wall and began pacing the room, feeling utterly helpless as he watched David’s chest rise in slow, ponderous breaths. It seemed an eternity before the first pod arrived with a host of eager-looking engineers, including Dr. Braden. A physician and several attendants arrived in a second pod moments later.

  The physician was a kind-faced woman with jet-black hair. She hovered over David, examining his vital signs by hand while her attendants placed sensor pads on David’s wrists, chest, and temples.

  “Where’s Cooper and Miss Boon?” asked Max when Rasmussen arrived.

  “In your room asleep, I’d imagine,” he replied casually. “It’s four in the morning. What seems to be amiss, Patricia?”

  The physician at David’s side frowned and examined a small computer screen.

  “He has an erratic heartbeat—very weak.”

  “He had a transplant,” volunteered Max. “Two, actually.”

  “Hmmm,” said the physician, exchanging a grim glance with her colleagues.

  “Do something!” yelled Max.

  “For God’s sake, control yourself, boy,” muttered Rasmussen impatiently. He stepped past them to stand on the toppled stone slab. The repelling force seemed to have dissipated when David broke the spell; engineers were hurriedly rolling machines and monitors toward the dark tomb-like opening. Meanwhile, the physician quietly relayed instructions to an assistant, who selected from among a dozen long syringes filled with an ashy-looking substance. At the physician’s nod, the assistant suddenly plunged one of the long needles straight into David’s chest.

  “What is that?” cried Max, hovering over them. David’s leg kicked suddenly and thumped on the rock floor.

  “Medicine,” one of the assistants assured him. “Microscopic robots to structurally patch and strengthe
n his heart.”

  “Is it hurting him?” asked Max urgently.

  “If he were awake, he’d be in quite a bit of pain,” explained the physician patiently, “but fortunately he’s unconscious. Normally, we’d administer anesthesia, but not under these circumstances. You did the right thing to call for us.”

  Max heard Rasmussen’s voice sound behind him.

  “If the boy is bothering you, Patricia, we can have him removed.”

  The physician never had a chance to answer. Rage consumed Max; he whirled on Rasmussen. A moment later, the skeletal man had sunk to his knees, gazing up in sputtering terror as Max held him by the throat.

  “H-help!” croaked Rasmussen, his face turning blue.

  “This ‘boy’ just might snap your neck,” Max hissed. The power that surged through him was both terrifying and exhilarating. He was vaguely aware of figures moving in the background and his peripheral vision. They seemed no more significant than the ants crushed beneath the door. Faint pinging noises could be heard as projectiles bounced harmlessly off his nanomail. Then a dull pain spread throughout his legs. Glancing down, he saw several small darts embedded in his thigh. Another hit. Then another.

  Turning, Max spied a white-faced engineer pointing a device at him and fingering its trigger. But before the man could compress it, Max had released Rasmussen and closed the distance in two blurred steps. Wrenching the device away, Max crumpled its casing like aluminum. Its owner promptly fainted.

  Another version of Max appeared in the room, triggering frantic shouts and waves of darts that ricocheted off the walls. A second phantasm appeared, then a third. While his doubles played havoc with the terrified engineers, Max slipped silently behind a machine from which he might ambush the largest group. Before he could, however, one voice rose above the others.

  “Stop! Please stop!”

  It was the physician. She was addressing one of the flawless illusions, which circled her and David. The phantasms stopped and studied her. Suddenly, they dissipated in a curl of black smoke.

  “Everyone put away your weapons,” commanded the physician, hurrying over to Dr. Rasmussen, who lay sprawled and coughing. “Where are you?” she called.

  “I’m right here,” said Max, stepping out from his hiding place.

  The nearby engineers practically jumped out of their suits. They turned and backed away to the other side of the chamber.

  The physician gazed at Max’s legs in horror before barking technical orders at her assistants, who had taken refuge behind a drill.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Max.

  “We—we’ve got to get you to the hospital ward immediately,” stammered the physician. “That’s a fatal dose of tranquilizers. I don’t understand how you’re even on two feet.”

  “I’m fine,” said Max, plucking one out of his thigh. “Just look after David.”

  Rasmussen sat up, massaging his neck. Much to Max’s surprise, he was laughing.

  “Lesson learned,” he wheezed, clearing his throat in a series of rasping coughs. “I had no idea you—well, needless to say, I quite understand the witches’ interest in you. My sincere apologies if I caused offense. Delicacy is a personal shortcoming.”

  “Dr. Rasmussen,” pleaded the physician, “we must get him to the hospital.”

  “Does he look ill to you, Patricia?” snapped Rasmussen, brushing debris from his pants. He shuffled toward the crumpled curiosity that had been a functioning weapon only moments earlier. Picking it up between two fingers, Rasmussen peered at it intently.

  “May I at least take this patient to the hospital?” asked the exasperated physician. “Of course,” said Rasmussen distractedly. “Thank you, Patricia.”

  “I’m going with David,” said Max, remembering Cooper’s command. Just the previous day, Cooper had entrusted Max with David’s care, and already it seemed he was failing in his charge. He eyed the yawning chasm of Bram’s Chamber, reluctant to abandon it to the engineers, who had already resumed wheeling equipment toward the door. But Max snatched up the Codex and followed David’s gurney aboard the medical pod.

  * * *

  Several hours later, Miss Boon was furious. Max sat red-faced with knitted fingers while his Mystics instructor berated him for losing his temper. She paced back and forth, ramrod straight, uttering words such as reckless and juvenile and imbecilic with numbing regularity. Draped over the back of a nearby loveseat was Mum, who practically writhed with delight as Max was forced to recount the violent episode.

  “What did his face look like when you was squeezin’?” asked the hag, interrupting Miss Boon.

  “Not now,” muttered Max.

  “You should have given him a head-butt,” said Mum authoritatively, offering a ferocious demonstration. “Knocks ’em straight out!”

  “That’s quite enough, Mum,” snapped Miss Boon, spinning to address the hag, who fled cackling toward a bedroom.

  Before Miss Boon could continue her tirade, the door to their suite opened. Cooper and Mr. McDaniels walked in, clutching a wobbly David between them.

  “And that’s another thing,” said Miss Boon. “I want to know exactly what David did that has left him in this condition.”

  “I don’t know exactly what he did,” snapped Max. “I fell asleep.”

  “Ha!” snorted Miss Boon, digging in her heels.

  “The good news is that David should be all right,” interjected Scott McDaniels. “The doctor said he’d undergone a terrible strain and that it wasn’t good for his heart. But some pills, some shots, some rest, and our boy should be good as new.”

  David smiled weakly.

  “That’s the only good news we have,” said Cooper, replacing the talisman around David’s neck and tucking it in the boy’s sweater. “The Workshop recovered whatever was in that chamber. There was a golem inside, but they managed to immobilize and destroy it. Rasmussen wants a meeting to discuss the situation.”

  “What’s to discuss?” said Miss Boon, blinking rapidly. “It’s perfectly obvious that the Key is our property. Without David, they’d still be staring at a stone door, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Bring your attorney, then,” replied Cooper, shaking his head. “Everyone else, pack your things and stow them in David’s bag. We might need to leave in a hurry.”

  “But—” began the young teacher.

  “That’s a direct order, Miss Boon,” said the Agent stolidly. “Max, get your weapon. You’re to have it on you at all times.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Max, trotting back to the bedroom. He tied the spearhead to his back, as he’d seen Cooper do, before cramming the rest of their things into David’s battered pack. Nearby, Nick mewled and shredded a pillow before thrashing it in his teeth like a terrier.

  “Not a peep,” muttered Max. “We’ll have to feed you later.”

  The lymrill yawned and stretched his claws dramatically, giving Max an acid stare before waddling out to the living room. Several minutes later, an attendant knocked on their door, and they glided away in one of the high-speed transport tubes.

  They were escorted into a much more officious-looking room. No charming fountains or columns or students here, observed Max. Senior Workshop officials sat around a long table of polished redwood. Armored soldiers stood at attention along the dark-paneled walls. In the middle of the table, propped up like a grisly centerpiece, was the severed head of the chamber’s guardian—an unseeing lump of cracked stone whose rough, simple features might have been sculpted by a child. Dr. Rasmussen sat at the head of the table, grinning from behind his polished spectacles.

  “Welcome, my friends,” said Dr. Rasmussen, gesturing at the empty chairs. Max sat next to his father, cradling Nick in his lap. Jason Barrett sat across the way looking profoundly uncomfortable. “How do you like our new sculpture?” Dr. Rasmussen inquired, gesturing at the golem’s head. “Dr. Braden’s already taken the body to the museum. Quite the mindless, plodding creature, isn’t it? We were a bit disappointed to fin
d something so crude.”

  Cooper nodded.

  “I understand you have something of interest?” asked the Agent.

  “Indeed we do,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “A most curious object.”

  Rasmussen lifted something heavy from the floor and placed it on the table before him.

  Bram’s Riddle had mentioned a key with four notches, but this object did not resemble any such thing. It looked more like a globe of silver rings supported on a short stand of smooth wood. Dr. Rasmussen gave one of the rings a playful spin.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  “That’s an armillary sphere,” said Miss Boon. “Invented by Eratosthenes in the third century B.C. An astronomical teaching tool.”

  “Indeed,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “And what is it for, I wonder?”

  Silence ensued. Max glanced at Cooper and counted the soldiers along the wall, as he had been taught. Rasmussen tapped a long, slender finger against the tabletop.

  “I see,” he said, frowning. “I find it curious that Rowan expects the Workshop’s cooperation on matters great and small, but when we make a simple request for information you are as silent as the grave.”

  Cooper removed his cap, revealing the scarred, close-cropped skull beneath it. He examined the hat, plucking a bit of white thread from the black wool. Max felt Nick tremble. When the Agent spoke, his voice was calm and flat and terrifying.

  “That object belongs to Rowan. Its purpose is classified. We’re not leaving without it.”

  The tension around the table was palpable. Dr. Rasmussen looked genuinely perplexed. He blinked and ran his hand across his smooth, hairless cheek.

  “Surely you meant that as a request and not some sort of primitive threat, Agent Cooper. I can’t imagine that Rowan would arrive on our doorstep making such demands given all the Workshop has done for them. Such a threat would be ironic indeed, as we are in the company of two young gentlemen who, without our assistance, would now be eking out a miserable life with the witches.”

  “It belongs to Rowan,” repeated Cooper.

  “If it belongs to Rowan, why would Bram entrust its care to the Workshop?” asked Dr. Rasmussen. “Perhaps if we know what it’s for, we can better gauge what to do.”