DIRE : BORN

by Andrew Seiple

  “PROBABLY WISE.” If Khalid wanted them to know, he'd tell them. If their stock in trade was information, they might know already.

  “GO TELL GUZMAN THAT THIS BARREL'S THE STUFF HE WANTED, ALL RIGHT? AND IF IT'S NOT, DIRE NEEDS TO KNOW IMMEDIATELY.”

  Roy nodded. “All right. Watch yer step an' I'll do the same.” He hurried off, and I headed to the laundry tent, ducking my head to step inside. I didn't want to decant out of the armor around the Midtown Militia, wasn't ready to show that gesture of trust quite yet. Perhaps in time.

  I found Sparky leaning forward in his chair and talking with Carson. Their voices were low, and they stopped as soon as I entered. From the wall where he was leaning, Martin cracked a grin. “The prodigal Dire returns.”

  “ANYTHING SHE SHOULD KNOW?”

  “They're keeping your machinegun.”

  “Hey.” The fat man raised his hands. “Honestly, it wouldn't be much help to you. Those things are a bitch to use unless you're trained.”

  “IT WAS STILL A PART OF THE VEHICLE THAT DIRE REQUESTED YOU RETURN TO HER,” I noted. “WHY DID YOU EXTRACT THAT WEAPON?”

  His face colored a bit. I got the feeling that people didn't often talk to him in that manner.

  “First off, we lost people supporting you with that, so I don't give a red fuck if you called dibs. Second off, we'll have a use for it soon. Turns out Stig was a pretty key part of the Black Bloods' Downtown defenses. They're crumbling now, and the Kriegers are pushing in. Guess who's holding the line there.”

  “The cops, I bet. With your asses trying to look like you're doing something worth a damn.” Martin sneered.

  Carson stood up, so fast that the chair fell out from under him. “I don't like the tone of your voice.”

  “EASY,” I told them. “IF YOU WISH TO KEEP THE WEAPON, THAT IS ACCEPTABLE. FOR NOW. THE REST OF THE VEHICLE IS INTACT?” The gun was a secondary concern. The vehicle itself... Possibilities there. I tried not to drool, and thanked heaven for my mask. No wonder so many costumes wore them.

  Carson calmed himself and picked up the chair, before settling back into it. “Oh yeah. We even hosed out the back of it for you. Sweet Jesus, those draugr are horrible.”

  “YOU KNEW WHAT THEY WERE, THEN.”

  He paused, with his mouth half open for a second. “Ah. Yeah.”

  “YOU COULD HAVE SHARED THAT BEFORE WE ENGAGED THEM.” I remarked, making a show of studying the fingers of my right hand. “HAD TO SWITCH TACTICS TO PROPERLY DEAL WITH THOSE THINGS.”

  “Truth of the matter is,” he spoke, “we didn't think they'd be deploying those things here. They usually only bust them out against major opposition.”

  “FIFTEEN OF YOUR MEN AND DIRE WEREN'T MAJOR OPPOSITION?”

  He scowled. “They shouldn't have known about us helping you. You might want to check your camp, it's possible you have a leak.”

  “Also possible it's on your side,” Martin said. Carson flushed again.

  “MARTIN. YOU ARE BEING VERY RUDE TO OUR GUEST.”

  He snorted. “You missed our shouting matches earlier, when he tried to get me to leave the room. That was fun times.”

  “AT ANY RATE, IT'S IMPEDING PROGRESS. CARSON, WHAT CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT THE STATE OF THE BLACK BLOODS NOW? WHAT FURTHER HELP CAN YOU OFFER? IN THIS MATTER?”

  If we could get more reinforcements from the Militia, we stood a chance of fending the Bloods off. They didn't have infinite resources or people, and they were down half of their leadership.

  But Carson was silent, and I felt my heart sink as I finally glanced back to him.

  He sighed, and looked away from my gaze. “Things have changed. The Kriegers are pushing up, like I said, and we lost good men and women during that raid. We didn't expect a riot truck.”

  “YOU OFFERED AID THE LAST TWO TIMES YOU APPROACHED.”

  “I know. Munin feels horrible about it. We're trying to pull in contacts, get you reinforcements from the spandex side of things, but Ballista's saying some pretty ugly things about you.”

  “WHO CARES?” I raised a hand, palm up. “REGARDLESS OF DIRE, THERE ARE INNOCENTS IN THIS CAMP. SCORNING IT BECAUSE OF HER MERELY DOOMS THEM.”

  He rubbed his forehead with a jacket sleeve. “I know, but... it's complicated. Heroes walk this fine line, y'see. A lot of them won't kill to begin with, and with the Black Bloods it's kill or be killed a lot of the time.”

  “Seems to me I got over that in '44.” Sparky spoke up for the first time. “Nazis didn't exactly pull no punches, neither.”

  Carson shut up, and the wind whistled outside.

  “IF DIRE DEPARTED, WOULD HEROES PROTECT THE CAMP?”

  Martin whipped his head around to stare at me, eyes wide. “What? Shit, no, that's a bad fuckin' idea—”

  Carson was shaking his head, too. He pushed a hand toward Martin, and cut him off. “I can't guarantee it. There's a lot of trouble going down throughout the city, and not enough heroes to go around. Much as a lot of them would like to—”

  “Oh. Fuckin' beautiful,” Martin snapped. “Bet Pyre Hill don't have no problems getting' patrolled each night.”

  Carson rolled his eyes. “Yeah. The Torchbearers are busy keeping the SCK from grabbing that turf. You remember those guys? Those guys you helped set up into a drug empire?”

  “Fuck you, man!”

  “ENOUGH!” I didn't have to amp it up much, and both of them flinched as I stepped between them.

  “CARSON. GIVE MUNIN DIRE'S THANKS FOR YOUR HELP TO DATE, AND HER REGRET THAT BRAVE PEOPLE DIED BEFORE SHE COULD GET THERE.”

  He nodded, and I turned to Martin. “WE HAVE MUCH TO PREPARE, AND IT'S TIME TO TALK RESOURCES. AFTER CARSON LEAVES, STICK AROUND. YOUR HELP WILL BE NECESSARY.”

  He smirked. “You heard the lady. Get gone.”

  Carson ignored him and rose. He nodded to me, stuck out a hand. I took it as gingerly as the gauntlets would allow. My synch was still off, and I didn't want to crush his bones. I managed a shake with nobody getting maimed out of the deal.

  “You've got our flaregun, still?” Carson asked. I looked to Martin, who nodded.

  “YES.”

  He stopped for a moment, considered me. “Bunny asked if she could stay behind when we leave. Maybe train some of your people, help them with learning their guns.”

  I nodded. “ACCEPTABLE TO DIRE.”

  “All right. Take care of her, huh? Got enough funerals in the days to come. Don't need another. Especially not her.” His face twisted, and I nodded again. He left without another word.

  Sparky watched him go, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes squinted. Martin took Carson's chair after the tent flaps closed, putting his feet up on a washing tub. “Shit. Sorry, the guy was pushing my buttons.”

  I pulled the release on the armor and stepped out of it, smoothing down my undershirt and pants as I went. Fights were sweaty affairs. I pulled up a chair myself, relaxed into it, and looked at Martin. “So. Let's talk money.”

  “You want me to show you the money, honey?”

  I barked laughter. That had been the Goldigger's catchphrase, in that smackbrawl show we'd watched. The flaxen-haired harridan had indeed taken home the gold that night.

  “Perhaps some explanation,” I sniffed, as I rubbed my grinning face. I had needed that laugh. “Dire ran into the Steampunks to the west of here. It was a pretty good fight, but they relented once Dire had them in a bad position. We discussed our mutual enmity with the Black Bloods, and—”

  “Wait. Steampunks. Plural. You took on the Steampunks and won?”

  “Well, only three of them. Hatman Deux, Technomancer, and Kineticog.”

  “Jesus. You okay?”

  “Armor's a little banged up. Listen, they're fighting the Black Bloods right now. They're doing it because the locals are paying them to do it. Dire offered an alliance, to put pain on the Black Bloods, and they were disinterested.”

  “Smart.”

  “But they did imply that they would help out for a lot of mon
ey.”

  “I take that 'smart' comment back.”

  “Dire's got this.” I dug into my armor's storage compartment, dug out the remainder of my cash. About four-thousand, give or take. I riffled it out, and he looked it over, nodded. “It's a start. But for hiring them? For that? Nah. Gonna need some more zeroes.”

  I nodded. “Which is why she's asking you about money.”

  His eyes shifted, as comprehension dawned. “Ah. Huh. Well, shit.” He gnawed his lips. “I got maybe six grand here. The rest is... tied up.”

  “Tied up? Where?”

  “Business I'm in, you don't keep much on you at once. Investments elsewhere, some of it. And product is costly so most of it's in that form right now. Oh, and bribes to the local asshole cops. And the part I pay for the camp.”

  “It's that costly?”

  “We built shacks and been squatting on a public bench for years without being kicked off. You think that comes cheap?” Then the rest of his statement sunk in.

  “Wait, you're bribing the cops? Why are they doing the Black Blood's work, then?”

  “I'm small potatoes. Bloods prob'ly made them a better offer. Or threatened them. Or both. Dunno if you noticed, but those fuckers are a little scarier than me. And they got a vampire. Fuck a duck, they got a vampire!” He threw his arms up. “The hell we supposed to do about that? I did not sign up for this Bram Stoker shit!”

  “Well, we've got an alchemist, at least. One that's good at fighting vampires— and doing whatever alchemy is.”

  Martin stood still for a second, his face gone blank. Then he smiled. “We do, don't we? Shit, maybe we can add in some more zeroes after all. C'mon, let's go talk to the dude.”

  “He's back?”

  “Oh yeah. Brought a whole bunch of shit over in an old pickup truck. I didn't know better, I'd say he was cookin'.”

  “Dire didn't see anything like that from the air.”

  “That's 'cause he took over the showerhouse. Said it was safest in case the phlogiston hit an impurity, the walls would funnel the blast up and away from camp. That's about the point I backed off and let the man move his shit in peace.”

  “No more showers?” My voice came out a little more plaintive than I thought it would, and Martin laughed.

  “Shit, he probably ain't using a stall or two. Just gotta watch your feet don't turn green from the chemicals or stuff. C'mon, let's go.”

  I pulled on the fur coat, and followed Martin out into the cold. People waved at us as we went, and I nodded back, squinting at some of the new faces. “Dire doesn't recognize some of these people.”

  Martin sighed. “Yeah. We got maybe fifty more in the last hour or so.” He gestured toward the new tents, and I grimaced as I saw that they'd multiplied in a very short time. Heartening to see more flocking to our banner, so to speak, but it made the area harder to defend. Too spread out, not enough fighters.

  “More mouths to feed. Joan will—” I caught myself, shut up. She was gone, and I pushed the pain that rose in me aside.

  Martin was quiet for the rest of the trip, and I felt bad for raising her memory, so soon after she had left us.

  Plumes of thin smoke rose from the showerhouse, and acrid odors wafted across us as we made our way to the entrance. I wrinkled my nose. “Perhaps she'll wait on a shower.”

  “Can't blame you on that. Serious ass stank. Yo, Khalid, it safe to come in?”

  “Enter,” came the terse response.

  I looked around at the piles of brass and copper containers, the rows of glass alembics filling the shelves, and the tubing that zig-zagged throughout. Several beakers were bubbling, and the plumes of smoke rose from what looked to be brass kettles. For once, my memory filled in none of it. This was chemistry of a sort that baffled my knowledge.

  “Don't mind the crucibles,” Khalid smiled, as he stepped around a curtain, green smoke billowing around him. He was wearing black, a thick leather apron over slick-looking cloth. His spectacles had been replaced by goggles, the right side of which had a rotating arrangement of different colored lenses. “Though I would advise against breathing in too much of the smoke. Your lungs cannot heal as well as mine do, after all.”

  “You set this up in an hour or so?” I looked around the mass of equipment. “Dire's impressed.”

  He shrugged. “I have had a lot of experience in evacuating quickly, and setting up new havens just as fast. After a few centuries it becomes rote.”

  “Still can't get over the fact you ancient, man.” Martin shook his head.

  Khalid laughed. “There are those older than I out there.” He sobered up, and his face grew serious. “God permitting, we will end one here, before long. We must.”

  I waved a hand toward him. “Working on it. To that end, Dire's made contact with a villain group called the Steampunks.”

  “I think I have heard of them. Though, I pay little attention to most heroes and villains when possible,” he said. “Too much drama.”

  “They fight Barbatos and his men right now. They may be willing to aid us, but it will take money. Much of it.”

  Khalid twisted his hands, spread them. “I have little of that. What I have I need, and much of it is out of reach until phones and computers work again, to be honest.”

  “Right,” said Martin. “But answer me a question. How much of that whole alchemy lead-to-gold thing is a myth, and how much is it real?”

  “Ah.” Khalid scowled. “That.”

  “Not real?” Martin asked.

  “Real. But it takes time. And... it might get me in a lot of trouble. Gold has mystical properties to it, you see. Alchemical gold does not. If I start making much of it, and someone or something with magical clout ends up holding it, then they may take offense at being given false currency. General rule of thumb in the magical community is that when that happens, the alchemist who transmuted the gold is held responsible. As such, the few practicing alchemists left today are usually unwilling to take the risk without dire need.”

  “Ah, okay. Sorta like cutting the good shit, and passing it off as good shit.” Martin nodded. “Still, what if it don't go to the magical guys? The Steampunks are about as magical as mulch, from what I know.”

  “Yes, but gold doesn't go bad,” said Khalid. “A decade down the road if it ends up in the hands of something like the Senate of Order, or god forbid a dragon, I could still face retribution.”

  “Wait, whoa. First vampires, now dragons are real, too?” Martin was skeptical.

  “Yes,” Khalid said. “Pray you never meet one.”

  They were getting off track. “Without dire need, you say?” I grinned. “She's standing right before you. Dire needs this. But the choice is yours. It comes down to how badly you want the Locust dead.”

  He gnawed his lip, turned from me. Turned back. “The Militia spoke of how you killed Stigmata. And the two draugr, without knowing what they were. And you did this all before coming here, to fight again. Those are the actions of a hero.”

  “Dire is no hero,” I snapped. “Just ask Ballista.”

  He shook his head. “I come from a different time. Was Caesar a hero? Was Solomon a hero? I think so. Their crimes were many, yes, but they were... ah, how to say it. They were of myth. If you were on their side, they were heroes beyond compare. What you have done here, what you are doing now? It strikes a chord.” He smiled at me. It faded after a second. “Don't go getting cocky, though. You still have to win here, or we're all damned.”

  “She isn't standing here because she plans to lose,” I folded my arms. “Gold or not? Choose, because time is scant.”

  He nodded. “You ask, rather than order. Very well. I shall make you six bars, and stamp them with sigils that proclaim them alchemical in origin to those who know. Hopefully they do not get melted down any time soon. If they do, eh, six bars' worth probably won't be my life. Maybe a few years of servitude, but not my life.”

  I nodded. “Good. Dire shall take them to—”

  “Naw,”
Martin said. “Leave four of them here, take two with you. Offer them one up front, up to two if they dicker. Bring all six, you'll tempt them to jump you.”

  Khalid nodded. “Wise. Good to have a proper merchant here, it makes things much easier. Speaking of that, I will need these things.” He handed Martin a rolled up piece of paper. The youth unfolded it, scanned it.

  “The hell is cinnabar?”

  “Mercury ore. Sometimes treated as a semi-precious stone.”

  “Wait, I know this. I seen like dragon carvings in antique stores, and shit like that. Yeah, I can get that. The other stuff on this list don't look hard.”

  “Good enough,” I said. “How soon can you have the gold done?”

  “So eager?” Khalid asked.

  “So pragmatic,” I replied. “We won last night. We have an advantage, but we need to move quickly or we squander it. Too many dead for Dire to want that to happen.”

  He nodded. “You'll have them by tonight. I need to finish cooking the Greek fire, interrupting the process now wouldn't be good for any of us.”

  “Greek fire,” I mused. “Is that the stuff that you threw last night that burned everything?”

  “Yes. That's the stable form. Right now it's much more volatile.”

  I flicked my eyes around the showerhouse, looked at Martin. He turned pale, and slowly edged out of the room. Khalid chuckled. “Before you go, please remove your pants.”

  “What?” I stared at him.

  “Your leg. I want to check it.”

  “Ah. Right.” It felt most of an eternity, since he'd applied that goop to it, but it really hadn't been that long. I slipped free of the sweat pants, and he knelt, poking at the bandages. A nod, and he pulled out a small knife, started cutting them free. “The remedy worked well. The bone will be weaker there for a few months, though. I recommend a diet high in calcium, if possible.”

  “When it can be arranged.” When he was finished, I slipped my pants on again. From the doorway, a noise, and I glanced back to find Martin looking away, clearing his throat. Huh. I wondered what had him so bothered. “Anything else?” I asked Khalid.