by Jim C. Hines
Nidhi’s gun crumbled away, but it had given me enough. I felt Jeneta fighting back from within. Her assault was desperate and instinctive, but between the two of us, we finished what the JG-367 had begun. She collapsed onto the ice, her forearms still frozen in place.
I crouched beside her. “Can you hear me?”
Jeneta nodded, a movement which transformed into shudders. I tried to undo the portal’s magic, but I had overexerted myself. My eyes refused to focus.
Ponce de Leon strode across the river. His cane rapped the ice, and Jeneta’s hands pulled free. I felt the portal’s magic start to dissolve.
Jeneta’s fingers were frozen claws. She was crying and shaking, and it was all I could do to hold her as Ponce de Leon worked a second spell. Slowly, warmth flowed through her flesh.
I tried to rise, but she clung to my arm. Together, Nidhi and I half-dragged, half-carried her to shore while Ponce de Leon continued to dispel the portal. Soon, all that remained was a frigid berg of ice in the middle of the river.
I saw the naga pinned beneath a tangle of roots. There was no sign of the kitsune or the harpy.
The three of us collapsed on the dirt. “Has anyone seen Smudge?”
Jeneta pointed a shaking finger behind me.
“Huh.” I cocked my head to the side. “That’s new.”
Smudge stood atop the water, burning as hot as I’d ever seen him and floating on a cushion of steam like a tiny, pissed-off hovercraft. He was trying to crawl to shore, but his legs simply passed through the steam. Ponce de Leon dipped his cane beneath Smudge and carefully lifted him free.
“Isaac?” Jeneta whispered.
I looked at Nidhi. She was the therapist. If anyone was supposed to know what to say to a teenager who had just regained control of her body and mind from a psychotic millennium-old sorceress . . . But she simply nodded at me and walked away, leaving the two of us alone.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry about your hands,” I said. “And your e-reader. And, you know, everything.”
Jeneta didn’t answer. She was shuddering so hard she could barely speak.
“Come on.” I took off my jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her skin was cold. Sweat beaded her brow. Her teeth chattered.
Smudge scrambled up my leg, steam rising from his back. I scooped him into Jeneta’s lap. She brought her hands over his body for warmth.
“Is she gone?” Jeneta balled her fingers into a fist.
“Sort of. She’s still trapped in the sphere, and—”
Before I could say more, Jeneta punched me in the face.
“You told me I was safe at camp!” Her tears spattered my shirt as she continued hitting me. The blows were wild, but strong enough to bruise. “I told you about the nightmares and the devourers, how they hated me. You said I’d be safe. You lied to me!”
“I didn’t know—” I caught myself. I might not be a therapist, but I knew this wasn’t the time to argue. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d be safe. I’m so sorry. I’ve been searching for you every day since you were taken.”
She landed one last punch to the center of my chest, then collapsed against me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, holding her as she sobbed.
I’m pretty sure I was crying as well.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Speculative Fiction Writers Guild Supports Authorial Freedom
The Speculative Fiction Writers Guild (SFWG) was founded in 1974 for two purposes:
1. To support, educate, and promote our authors.
2. To promote speculative literature in all its forms.
Our membership has struggled with the revelation that magic exists—particularly the school of magic known as libriomancy. The idea that products of our imagination could be made real and brought forth into the world has shaken our entire community. Some of our members have cosigned a letter pledging never again to write stories that could be used to create new tools of destruction. Others have begun working on books with which they hope to improve the world. (Although like any community, we don’t always agree on the best way to do that.)
As writers of speculative fiction, our job is to imagine the possibilities. We see the potential risks of libriomancy as well as the potential hope, and we understand the backlash against our genre. We understand the fear of the unknown.
It’s important to remember that speculative storytelling has been with us for millennia. The Epic of Gilgamesh is more than four thousand years old. Lucian’s True History introduced aliens and space travel in the second century AD. Stories of powerful sorcerers and futuristic technology have entertained, inspired, and enlightened. What these stories have not done is cause the fall of civilization, despite the existence of magic.
The official position of SFWG has always been that authors should be free to write without fear of censorship. But as authors, we also recognize that words have power. The role of the storyteller is an important one, and carries great responsibility.
Some publishers and editors are working to revise their submission guidelines, asking that stories not include new and potentially deadly elements. SFWG is collaborating with several other writers’ organizations to develop “Best Practice” guidelines that would ease fears for publishers while allowing authors the freedom that is essential to creativity and art.
However, SFWG strongly protests the legislation proposed today in the Canadian House of Commons that would allow the government to ban and destroy books based on arbitrary criteria and uninformed fears. The false sense of security such measures might bring about are not worth the price we would pay in freedom of expression and thought.
In short, Fahrenheit 451 was never meant to be an instruction manual.
Connie Allen
President, SFWG
“IT LOOKS LIKE MOST of Meridiana’s minions bolted when you pulled her out of Jeneta,” said Lena. She and Ponce de Leon had been searching the immediate surroundings.
“Thanks.” None of us were up for a prolonged hunt, but if I told Jeff what had happened, he could probably find some werewolves who would be eager to track the remnants of Meridiana’s forces.
“How’s your vision?” asked Ponce de Leon. He was sweating hard, and blood soaked his left sleeve. “Black spots floating around the edges?”
His question chilled me more than the icy water soaking my clothes. “How did you know?”
“I’ve seen it before. You think magical charring only happens to books?” He tapped the side of his head. “I saw how you were working your magic. Almost entirely visual, which suggests where the damage would begin.”
I had charred books before, pouring too much power through the pages and reducing them to supernaturally blackened ash. Imagining the same thing happening to my eyes and optic nerves made me shudder.
“Why do you think sorcerers use wands and staves?” He raised his cane. “Better to char a piece of wood than your own body. It’s not a perfect solution, of course. The sorcerer still channels and controls the magic, but it helps.”
Lena kicked a chunk of floating ice. “Would you like to explain what the hell just happened? How did you freeze her portal?”
“I couldn’t destroy the sphere, and no matter where I sent it, I figured there was a good chance she’d rip the location out of my head and retrieve it. So I sent it somewhere that would bite back. According to the rules, the three wishes I pulled out of the gaming manual can duplicate the effects of any spell. But the teleportation spell I used requires the caster to be familiar with the destination.” I grinned. “Fortunately, I’ve been to the moon.”
Ponce de Leon chuckled. “The question is, can you get the sphere back?”
“Not at the moment, unfortunately. I used up all three wishes.” I rubbed my hand. “That may be a moot point by now, though.”
“Did you say you’ve been to the moon?” asked Walt Derocher.
I hadn’t heard him approach. I tensed as others from Copper River closed around me. One hand move
d toward my gun before I caught myself. Last time, the mob had tried to kill me, but there was no anger on their faces now. Only shock and exhaustion and pain. “Yah, that’s right. It was just the one time, and I didn’t get to do much sightseeing.”
I searched the crowd. Where was Lizzie? I didn’t see Tee Marana, either. My gut knotted tighter. “How many . . . ?”
Walt knew what I couldn’t bring myself to ask. “Two dead, and we’ve got three people in dire need of a hospital. Tee’s in the worst shape, and nobody’s been able to find Rusty Isham. Is there anything your . . . your magic can do to help?”
Dammit. That was fewer casualties than I had feared, but it was still too many. “I think so. I can—”
“Allow me,” said Ponce de Leon. “Isaac has seriously overexerted himself, and his work is only beginning.”
“These people helped us because I asked them,” I said. “Don’t tell me I can’t help them. I owe them at least that much.”
“You helped to save their town and their world.” He turned to accompany Walt. My gut told me once he finished whatever healing spells he had planned, he wasn’t coming back.
“Nidhi, could you stay with Jeneta?”
She folded her arms, and I got the sense she was more than willing to tie me to a tree to prevent me from further burning myself out, magically.
“No magic. I promise.” I looked after Ponce de Leon. “There’s something I need to do.”
The rest of my things were scattered outside the UFO where I had left them. I dug through my bag and pulled out a metal canister. I found Ponce de Leon sitting beside Tee Marana. Tee was alive, and the bullet wounds in his chest and gut slowly healed as I watched. Ponce de Leon was doing something to a compass and a cigarette butt. He handed the compass to Walt. “This will take you to Rusty Isham.”
I waited for them to go. “I have something for you.”
He blinked in surprise. “As we discovered earlier, it’s not even my birthday.”
“This is what’s left of the vampire blood I stole.” I offered it to him. “I thought you could use it to talk to Gutenberg. To say good-bye.”
He stared at the canister. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak. He reached out to take the canister, holding it as carefully as if it were porcelain instead of heavily insulated steel. Tears dripped down the sides of his nose, but he didn’t bother to wipe them away. “Thank you, Isaac.”
“You’re welcome.” I looked over my shoulder toward the river. “And thank you.”
He stood and raised his cane in salute. “Good luck.”
Babs Palmer arrived two hours later, accompanied by about twenty automatons. Their arrival created a strobe light effect powerful enough to trigger seizures. In my case, it simply added to the throbbing pain in my skull.
“Took you long enough,” I said. Lena and I were resting at the base of a pine tree. Everyone else had cleared out as soon as they found Rusty, who had lost an arm to Death’s scythe. He would have died if he hadn’t been able to get his belt tightened around his shoulder as a makeshift tourniquet. Ponce de Leon had healed the stump, and I’d promised to restore his arm as soon as I got a good night’s sleep.
I pointed to the clearing. “Would you believe that asshole Ponce de Leon stole my car?”
“You stole it from him first,” Lena said. Her appearance was human once more, soft and warm and beautiful.
“The Porters will be reviewing your history and actions,” Babs said after a long pause. “I know you were able to save Jeneta.”
I yawned and rested my head on Lena’s shoulder. Her arm snaked around my waist, her thumb hooking through the belt loop of my jeans. I waved a hand at the automatons. “I take it you found the sphere and built your army of toy soldiers.”
“We sensed the magic of Meridiana’s portal when it activated, and were able to trace its power to the moon. You’re fortunate we were able to retrieve it before she did.”
“Well, Meridiana was suffering from brain freeze.” I clamped back laughter at my own bad joke. If I started giggling, exhaustion and giddiness would make it impossible to stop. “I knew you’d be searching for it. I figured you’d have an automaton hop up for a quick moonwalk within minutes of Meridiana trying to grab it.”
“And if you’d been wrong?” Babs asked. “If she’d gotten her mitts on the sphere first?”
“This wasn’t exactly how I’d intended things to go,” I admitted. “I had to improvise a bit when you and your friends showed up at the fort.”
Babs straightened, visibly trying to get back on script. “Based on your results, we might be able to overlook your other actions and restore your position in research. We’ll also be assigning Jeneta to a Porter psychiatrist. I know you’ve been concerned about her. However, you need to tell us everything you know about Ponce de Leon and Bi Wei, and where they might have gone.”
“They left.” Bi Wei had slipped away during the battle. I had no idea where Ponce de Leon had gone. All I knew was that I would be unlikely to find him unless and until he wanted me to.
“How many of those things did you make?” Lena asked, waving lazily at the automatons.
“We weren’t able to capture all of the Ghost Army,” Babs admitted. “Some escaped. But we have five hundred new automatons.”
It was the first thing she’d said that truly bothered me. “You had the sphere. How could they just escape?”
“We miscalculated the amount of magic it would take to duplicate a thousand automatons.”
At least half of the Ghost Army was still out there. Damn their ambition. “I guess that makes you king of a pretty big magical hill, eh? What about the sphere itself?”
“Destroyed, along with Meridiana.”
“You hope.” It saddened me to know Gerbert d’Aurillac’s masterpiece was no more.
“The ghosts aren’t the only threat,” Babs continued. “The Porters are splintering. The students of Bi Sheng are out there, waiting for us to drop our guard. And there are other rogues to worry about, like your Spanish friend. Christ only knows what the rest of the world’s going to want to do to us as the truth spreads.”
“Where’s Nicola Pallas?” I asked.
Babs must have heard some unspoken threat in my tone. She frowned, and the two closest automatons stepped forward. “She’ll be given a fair hearing. Most likely, she’ll be dismissed from the Porters with strict rules limiting her use of magic.”
“Yeah.” I dragged the word out. “I don’t think that’s going to work for me. How about instead you give Cameron a ring. Tell him to let Nicola go. I don’t know if she’ll want to stay with the Porters or not, but I think we should let her make that choice.”
Automaton magic surged to life, preparing to counter any spells I might attempt. As if I had the energy for that.
“Oh, please. I’m too damn tired to fight you.” I raised my hands in surrender. “I’ll tell you what, though. I can understand why Gutenberg locked some of those gaming manuals I found at the fort.” I waved my fingers, admiring my ring with its three now-empty settings. “The craziest campaign I ever ran, my brother’s dwarf wizard got hold of a ring of three wishes. There are limits to what you can use wishes for, of course. Let’s say, in theory, you wanted to wish all the automatons out of existence. A direct assault like that is just too much. You probably couldn’t use it to destroy Meridiana or prevent her from ever being born, or anything like that, either. It would take too much power.”
I slid the ring from my finger and tossed it to Babs. “On the other hand, you could use a wish to transport an object to another location, like the moon. Or to create a moderately powerful, single-use magical item. Something like a silver tack enchanted with a pair of spells. Maybe a maximized dispel magic and a force orb. Automatons have defenses against that sort of thing, so the trick would be to plant it inside the head. Difficult, unless you already have a partially disassembled automaton to work with. Then you could get within its protective spells. If all went well, the f
irst spell would dispel and destroy the ghost, and the second would blow the automaton apart from the inside out.”
I tilted my head. “But even then, you’ve only managed to sabotage a single automaton. Unless someone was using a magical gismo to duplicate that automaton . . . and everything inside of it.”
Babs was three shades paler by the time I finished my monologue. Power shot from a beaded bracelet around her left wrist. My body went rigid. I couldn’t move or speak. She forced her way into my thoughts, searching to find whether or not I was telling the truth.
I was. I let her see the memory of how I had rammed the enchanted tack into the inside of their decapitated automaton, hiding it in the shadow behind the metal neck joint. And then I let her find my third and final wish. The one I had used to create a magical remote that would trigger those spells. I had shaped it into a silver ring in the shape of an oak leaf.
“Where is the remote?” she demanded.
“Oh, that? I figured you’d try to stop me, so I gave it to Lena.”
Beside me, Lena twisted the ring on her middle finger. Twenty automaton heads exploded in unison. The concussive force toppled me onto my back. As I waited for my ears to stop ringing, I studied the magic Babs had used to trap my body and peeled it back, one story at a time.
Babs groaned. Wood and metal shrapnel had pelted her body. She was alive, but in no condition to fight. I had gotten a few cuts and bruises myself, but my jacket had protected me from the worst of it.
I walked over to remove the bracelet from her wrist. I also took a magic wristwatch, a sidearm, her cell phone, and three books tucked away in her purse. Once she was magically defenseless, I checked her pulse and made sure none of her injuries were life-threatening.
Decapitated automatons fell all around us, their magical armor clinking to the ground in pieces. I saw no sign of active magic, or of the ghosts Babs had imprisoned within them.