Killing Rocks

by DD Barant

  I think.

  SEVENTEEN

  Being carried over the shoulder of a golem like you were a bag of laundry is extremely uncomfortable. These golems are also wearing some kind of body armor that’s all ridges and edges—well, mine is, anyway—so by the time we’re hauled from the truck to the inside of a building, I’m sore in all sorts of places.

  I’m placed on a chair and strapped securely to it. Before they do that, though, they remove every single stitch of clothing I’m wearing, and they don’t bother untying me first; they just cut it off, like doctors in an ER prepping a patient. The very last thing they remove is my blindfold, though the gag stays in place.

  I blink in the suddenly bright light and look around. I’m in some sort of office, and Azura’s in the chair right next to me. She’s also bound, but they’ve let her keep her clothes on. Figures.

  I realize whose office I’m in the second before he walks around from behind me. The plaques on the wall are too far away to read, but the picture of him and the president shaking hands is kind of a giveaway.

  Tom Omicron stands in front of us and crosses his arms. He’s not as big as some golems, maybe a few inches shorter than Charlie, and he’s wearing only a wide leather belt with multiple pouches on it over his slick plastic skin. He’s filled with some sort of gray dirt, which I understand is a political statement; it’s a color not normally used for lems, a mineral-based dye that has to be added after the fact. I guess he wears the belt because he couldn’t find a flattering purse.

  “You two,” he says with a frown, “have caused us some serious problems.”

  I really wish I could respond to that, but the gag is making that impossible. Fortunately, Azura’s willing to take up the slack.

  “Good,” she says. “Wouldn’t have been much point in causing non-serious ones.”

  “You think we enjoy destroying the underdead? They’re more like us than the pires or the thropes.”

  “Then why do it?” Azura asks.

  “It’s for the greater good.”

  “It’s what your master commands.”

  “Not true.” If she’s trying to get under his skin, it’s not working; Omicron sounds like a patient parent trying to explain something to an unruly child. “This is a strategic alliance between equals—one that will ultimately benefit both golems and humans. I think you’re letting personal feelings cloud your judgment.”

  “Well, that’s just how us human beings are. We get all caught up in emotions like loyalty and trust and what’s that other one? The one about not letting a psychotic sorcerer overthrow the world?”

  Omicron shakes his head. “I would think that of all people, you would have a different point of view. But in the end, it really doesn’t matter what you think; it’s up to Ahaseurus to decide what to do with you. I’ve asked him to be compassionate.”

  Gee, what does that mean? We get milk and cookies before he chops off our heads? I glare at Omicron, but apparently he’s not telepathic; he just gives me a bemused look and walks away. I hear the door shut a moment later.

  I look at Azura, and she looks at me. “Well,” she says. “I think we both know who the next person to walk through that door will be, and he won’t be nearly as polite as Mr. Omicron. Whatever shall we do.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “If only they hadn’t gagged you,” she continues, “thereby taking away your ability to utter a spell. If only they hadn’t removed any and all devices you might have secreted on your person that you might use to escape your bonds. Oh, these golems are too clever for us by half.” She puts the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically. “If only—”

  She looks at her freed hand in mock amazement. “If only,” she says, getting to her feet, “they had mistaken one of us for the other.”

  She grins at me with a perfect replica of my own teeth, then undoes my gag.

  “Pfah!” I spit. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing—the fact that I’ve wound up naked—again—or that anyone looking at me sees your body. I feel disguised and exposed at the same time.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” she says, working on my ropes. “Damn, they’ve got these magicked up. Going to have to cut them…”

  She produces a knife from nowhere and starts sawing away. In another moment I’m free. “Here’s your gun,” she says, doing that same out-of-nowhere trick. “They took your scythes, but didn’t bother with this.”

  “One of the advantages of having a weapon no one takes seriously. I’m surprised they didn’t confiscate the knife, though.”

  “They would have had to find it, first. One of the advantages of looking like an NSA agent while being an Astonisher—they simply didn’t look hard enough.”

  I stand up with a wince, rubbing my sore belly. “Well, they sure feel hard. And speaking of hard, being around you is extremely hard on my wardrobe. Do Astonishers all have some kind of clothing-repellent field they naturally generate, or is that just you?”

  She takes off the black top she’s wearing and hands it to me. “Here. Unless you’d prefer the pants?”

  “This is fine.”

  “I don’t know why you even care. In a moment, anyone who looks at us will see two golems—you’ll be more concealed than if you were bundled head-to-toe in burlap.”

  “Yeah, but burlap’s scratchy. I got this top at the Gap.”

  She shrugs, tells me to stand still, and murmurs the same illusion-casting enchantment she used to swap our appearances. A few seconds later we look like two rocky gray army grunts, complete with desert camo outfits and lace-up combat boots. Azura even alters our voices so they’ve got that deep, rumbly sound to them.

  “Ready to do this?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “Let’s do it anyway.”

  * * *

  Discussing strategy the night before, we realized our best option was assassination.

  It wasn’t my first choice. I’ve been told killing Ahaseurus kills my chances of ever getting home—but Azura managed to convince me that it’s still possible with help from Nightshadow’s mages. I want to believe she’s telling me the truth, but even if she isn’t she has a pretty strong argument: If we don’t stop him, Ahaseurus is going to own at least one planet, and he really doesn’t seem like the kind of landlord who responds well to complaints. I can be selfish at times, but how can I compare being stranded with that? At least the planet I’m stranded on has coffee, cineplexes, and the internal combustion engine—if I get trapped here, I’ll have to get used to mushroom tea, puppet shows, and grumpy zebras.

  But I’m going to have to be the one to kill him.

  I hate that. I’m a cop, not a hit man. I’ve never killed except in self-defense, and I’ve never enjoyed it. Killing someone should always be an officer’s last resort, because using it means you’ve failed to do your job.

  But Azura’s a born strategist, and she knows what she’s talking about. Ahaseurus will have all sorts of magic wards set up, meaning Azura won’t be able to get anywhere near him; she points out what happened the last time she tried. It’ll have to be done quickly, from a distance, and with the kind of force that won’t permit any chance of survival.

  That means my gun. A regular .454-caliber bullet fired from an Alaskan Super Redhawk hits with more than thirteen hundred foot-pounds of energy; I’m not sure how silver-and-teak loads compare, but the former was expressly designed to take down an angry grizzly or charging moose, and my version can blow a hole the size of a pineapple in an enraged thrope. Ahaseurus, for all his sorcery, is still only human.

  If we have to do this, I’d much prefer a thrope or pire sniper with a compound or crossbow—silent, just as deadly, and more accurate at long range. But if that’s not available, then me and my boomstick will have to step up.

  Neither Azura nor myself expected a mass attack. We thought Ahaseurus would send some kind of strike team to nab me, but we didn’t think he had the power for an all-out assault; we were still operating under the assumption
that popping from one universe to the other was difficult to do. We didn’t understand that once the sorcerer had his foot firmly wedged in the dimensional door, shoving it open a little farther didn’t take much more effort. Not when he had a powerful mystical conduit right at his fingertips, anyway.

  But that still didn’t change the basic plan. We were inside his defenses, we were free, and we were armed.

  “Good luck,” Azura whispers as I open the door that leads from Omicron’s office to the hall.

  “You, too,” I say. And then I’m striding down the hall, not looking back, doing my best to seem like a golem on an important mission. Both of us have roles to play, and we’re going to have to split up for our performance to succeed. If it doesn’t work we’ll both die, as well as a whole bunch of other people.

  If it does work, it’ll probably just be us.

  * * *

  I have no idea where I am. Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?

  I march down the hall, studying my surroundings furiously while trying to look like I’m not. I’ve already figured out that I must be in the headquarters of the Mantle, but I don’t know exactly where that is—somewhere in Vegas, in some kind of office building? Is this where Ahaseurus is based, or has he set himself up in some kind of opulent pleasure palace?

  No, all the fancy hotels are in Nightshadow now, which means this building must be outside city limits. Makes sense—he has to keep track of what’s going on in the rest of the world, which means access to modern technology. Right now there are a bunch of dazed thrope and pire tourists wandering around a whole lot of bamboo structures and tents, wondering where all the blackjack tables went and why they can’t get a cell phone signal.

  I feel about as lost. I get to the end of the corridor and a bank of elevators; there are two other lems standing there, both in desert fatigues. One of them is talking in that deep, subsonic bass language I heard over the radio—but this time, thanks to the translator seed I swallowed, I understand it.

  “—not going to take very long,” the lem says. His stripes mark him as a sergeant.

  “Not once Europe falls,” the other replies. “I understand Africa is now ours?”

  “Reports are still coming in, but there’s very little resistance.”

  The elevator doors open.

  Charlie steps out.

  I freeze up completely. The other two lems step in, still talking, and the doors close behind them. Charlie’s got a big brown patch over his throat where I shot him, and his color seems different—they’ve replaced some of the black volcanic sand with gray, giving his skin a lighter tone.

  He walks right up to me—but then keeps going, striding past me down the hall the way I just came. I finally notice what he’s holding in his hands and realize where he’s headed in such a hurry.

  I turn around and chase after him. Here’s where I see just how well Azura’s managed to disguise my voice.

  “Sir!” I call out. He doesn’t stop.

  I catch up, but don’t try to grab him—I don’t know how extensive this illusion is. I get in front of him and block his way instead. “Sir, please!”

  He stops. “Get out of my way, Private.”

  Great—couldn’t Azura have given me a higher rank? “Sir, I have a message from—uh, General Omicron.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He needs those, sir.” I point to the scythes he’s holding in his hand—my scythes. “I was instructed to take them to him immediately. Sir.”

  Charlie, it appears, has been made a captain. He could just order me to get out of the way and continue along—but I’m hoping that invoking his superior’s name will at least slow him down.

  “Why?” he snaps.

  “I don’t know, sir. But he was very clear that it be right away, and that I was to deliver them personally.”

  He glares at me. I feel light-headed; all I want at this moment is to throw my arms around him and tell him how sorry I am. Instead, I stare straight ahead and keep my face as impassive as possible. I’m made of stone, I say to myself. I’m made of stone.

  Yeah. Sure I am.

  His glare lasts a long time. I wonder if I’ve made a horrible mistake. Maybe he’s on his way to give my scythes back because he’s overcome the spell and wants to help me escape. Maybe I should just tell him who I am before he decides to take my head off with my own weapons—wouldn’t that be a great way to die, decapitated by my partner with my own—

  He shoves them at me. “Go ahead, take them. I don’t know why I grabbed the damn things anyway.”

  I take them from him. “Thank you. Sorry to bother you, sir.”

  “I was bothered before you got here, Private.” He turns and stalks away, presumably still headed for the room he thinks I’m being held in. Once he gets there, it won’t take him long to figure things out. I have to assume that when he does, he’ll raise the alarm.

  I don’t have much time. I don’t know how to find my target. I may have just intercepted my former partner on his way to murder me.

  So why am I suddenly so damn happy?

  * * *

  If I were a world-conquering wizard, where would I be?

  At the hub of things, the place where I could guarantee the maximum amount of protection plus the most up-to-date information. The command center. This world doesn’t have explosives, but they have screamer missiles and silver-nitrate-laced napalm, so I’m guessing the command center will be as heavily fortified as possible.

  I head for the basement.

  The elevator takes me all the way down to the bottom level without any problem—I just crowd into a car with a bunch of other lems. We’re let out into a parking garage that’s been converted into a staging area; it’s full of military vehicles, tables stacked high with arrow-filled quivers and bundles of javelins—and many, many lems. In all the hustle, it’s easy for me to pause and decide which way to go.

  There’s a large whiteboard propped against one wall, with arrows pointing in various directions. MILSUP ARM is on Level 3, stalls J17 to J23. MILSUP TAC EQ is on Level 1, stalls A3 to A14.

  COMMAND is on Level 4, the level I’m on. I don’t need the arrows to tell me where, either; it’s obviously behind that large double door being guarded by four extremely large, midnight-black lems. There’s no way I can just stroll in there without being challenged—and even if I do get past the guards, getting too close to the Big A will no doubt cause my disguise spell to trip one of his mystic safeguards. I need a certain amount of empty space between me and him for this to work, and this environment just isn’t providing that.

  I consider the brave but stupid option: bluff my way as far as I can get, then start shooting as soon as I meet resistance. Yeah, that’ll get me another twenty feet or so before I get turned into Jace Valchek, the human pincushion. Suicide won’t solve anything.

  My best bet is to camp out here and wait for him to put in an appearance—except, of course, that any moment now some master sergeant is going to notice the dumb private twiddling his thumbs and start shouting orders at me. Which means that what Azura is working on probably isn’t going to help that much—

  The lights go out.

  As far as diversions go, it’s a pretty good one. I’d feel better about it if I hadn’t noticed a table stacked high with night-vision goggles against one wall, but it’s about the best I’m going to get.

  I pull my gun from its shoulder holster, hidden inside the illusion that surrounds my body. I can’t see a damn thing, but I remember where that door is; I’m going to have to go for it, because this is the only shot I’m going to get—

  A shot I can’t take. The emergency lights flare to life, and my window of opportunity—small as it was—has passed.

  I pretend to study the whiteboard as I frantically try to come up with an alternative plan. Come on, Jace, there has to be something you can do.

  And then one of the headings on the board registers for the first time: TUNNEL.

  Of course. There are
tunnels leading inward where I just came from, so there must be something similar here going the other way. All those lems must have come through the dimensional interface from somewhere.

  Not only that, but there seems to be a steady stream of lems moving in that direction. I join them; if nothing else, it gives me a purpose and makes me look less suspicious. If I can’t assassinate Ahaseurus, maybe I can find a way to disrupt the flow of energy between the two realities, shut down the spell that’s controlling the lems.

  The lems head for Level 2, where I see that a large hole has been punched through the concrete wall at the end of the car park. This tunnel is a lot more high-tech, with power cables, electric lights, wooden planks along the floor, and the throb of pumps getting rid of groundwater. The tunnel’s wide enough for two golems side by side, but fortunately the one next to me doesn’t seem talkative.

  I start having second thoughts. What if I just get marched right back into Nightshadow? I might be able to escape, but I’m no closer to my target than when I started.

  That doesn’t happen, though. The tunnel widens out into another staging area, where they have a couple of big javelin batteries set up—basically oversize crossbows stacked on top of one another, capable of throwing six-foot-long steel shafts half a mile or so. They’re aimed at a wall of bare earth that looks different from the tunnel walls I just marched through: darker, richer, wetter. This is the edge of the city of Night’s Shining Jewel, its damp, fertile base. And at the top of the wall is the stormstalk root itself, looking as if it were cleanly bisected—hard to believe that the other end of it is located in another reality. The interior of the root is glowing with a soft white light, with an almost hypnotic pulse to it; energy, flowing from there to here.