by C. Gockel
Technically, Bohdi isn’t a U.S. citizen. Or a citizen of anywhere. No one knows where he came from, or even his real name. Bohdi doesn’t have a country; he has Steve. Steve put his neck out and kept Bohdi from being shipped off to Gitmo a couple of times. Bohdi rubs the back of his neck and gives a bitter laugh. And now Bohdi’s expecting the guy to bail him out? Steve is going to run for mayor. He won’t even be working for ADUO anymore, he doesn’t need Bohdi, and working for the FBI was how Bohdi was paying the Feds back for his unauthorized tampering with their systems.
He hears the sound of footsteps outside his cell. Lifting his head he sees some police officers go running through the aisle to halt the fighting down the hall. Bohdi watches them go by, and then sits up straighter when the last two men stop by his door.
Slipping a key into the lock, one of the officer grunts. “Come on, someone paid your bail.”
As Bohdi climbs to his feet, both of the officers scowl, and he knows Steve isn’t the one bailing him out. Steve is famous in Chicago and popular with cops. If it was Steve, the officers would be falling over themselves to apologize.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” says the other officer.
Bohdi gives them a tight smile and walks out. His mind spins. Who is here? He only got one phone call, so Steve must have told someone. He winces. Can’t be Agent Hernandez …the guy is still convinced Bohdi’s a member of Al Qaeda. Brett or Bryant maybe? Maybe Amy? She’d be nice enough to do it ... but he doesn’t want her seeing him like this.
They reach the heavy metal door that separates the holding area from the station proper. A buzzer sounds and the door swings open. Bohdi’s led through to the booking area. His eyes widen. Beatrice, Amy’s 80-something-year old grandmother, is standing there, hands on her hips, her ridiculous pink flower-print umbrella swinging on her wrist.
Nearly two years ago, Loki, so-called God of Chaos, wiped out Bohdi’s memory and handed him the baton of Chaos Incarnate—without bequeathing him any significant magic. According to ADUO’s rumor mill, Beatrice’s run in with the so-called deity had been quite different. Loki had snatched her from a nursing home where she’d been almost a vegetable, healed her mind, and left her with the reflexes of a kung-fu master. She’s the best shot in the department, and a force to be reckoned with in the gym. Steve calls her “Amy’s rootin’ tootin’ grandma.”
The FBI isn’t exactly filled with dewy-eyed romantics, but some people in the office say Loki saved Beatrice for Amy. At the same time Loki fixed up Beatrice he also healed wounds Amy had gotten in an ill-advised SWAT team raid. Neither women remember any of it, but Amy says it wasn’t Loki. Considering Amy is carrying all of Loki’s memories, he’d be inclined to believe her. But she also says Loki didn’t love her—some sort of weird low self-image thing—and Bohdi doesn’t buy it.
“You’re a mess,” Beatrice says, snapping Bohdi from his musings.
Beatrice doesn’t trust him. He’s not sure why. Giving her a smirk, he says, “Here to bust me out?”
“No, I’m here to pay your bail,” says Beatrice flatly, tone sucking the levity right out of him.
The guy behind the bailiff counter says, “Over here,” and starts laying out Bohdi’s possessions. Bohdi goes over and collects his belonging. As he checks his wallet, Beatrice says, “You showed them your FBI ID and they didn’t let you go?”
Bohdi clears his throat. They probably would have. But when the police had pulled him away from Scrawny and his three friends, Bohdi had spat in their faces. It hadn’t gone over well. “Errr …no,” Bohdi says.
The guy behind the counter snorts and lays out the the pack of cigarettes Bohdi managed to snag off Scrawny during their little dance … and then the police officer lays out a Snapple, a snack size bag of baby carrots, and another bag of sliced apples. Bohdi freezes.
“What are those?” says Beatrice.
Snapping up the fruit and veggies, and then the cigarettes and Snapple, Bohdi says, “I’m an adult. I’m allowed to give myself lung cancer.”
“I meant the apples and the carrots,” says Beatrice.
Bohdi turns to her and feigns his best look of shock. Putting his hand to his chest, he says, “I like healthy snacks, Beatrice.” Actually, they’re for Sleipnir—and so is the Snapple. The couple of times he’s ridden his bike home through Grant Park, the eight-legged horse has said hello.
He expects a snort of disbelief, or a poke in his stomach with her umbrella. Instead Beatrice just sighs and looks down in an uncharacteristically unfiesty way.
Grabbing his non-regulation black sneakers and socks, he says, “Beatrice, why are you picking me up?”
Beatrice sighs again. “Amy’s with Fenrir. Silly dog caught a car and broke her back.”
Pulling on his socks, Bohdi frowns, he likes Fenrir, and that’s terrible, but … “Why isn’t Steve here?”
Beatrice pulls her umbrella to her chest. “You don’t know, do you?”
A shiver snakes up his spine.
Turning away, Beatrice, says, “I don’t know his latest condition. It would be best if they filled you in at the hospital.”
Bohdi’s entire body goes cold.
Beatrice starts walking toward the door. Bohdi follows her out into the early morning light without bothering to tie his shoes.
x x x x
The sun is rising when Amy pulls out of the parking lot below ADUO. In the little duffel-bag carrier on the passenger seat, Fenrir rests in a painkiller induced stupor. Anchored to a line of spider silk, Mr. Squeakers sits on top of the kennel, eight long spider legs tucked beneath his tiny mouse body. It may be Amy’s imagination, but he looks forlorn.
The clouds from yesterday have disappeared, which feels wrong, like heaven is mocking her pain by being cheery. She looks down at her little patient through the mesh at the front of the kennel.
Fenrir sustained massive spinal cord injuries and has lost control of her back legs and what little tail she has. That wouldn’t be so bad … Amy’s seen lots of puppies, cats, and even the occasional hamster who’s lived happily with the help of an animal wheelchair. But Fenrir’s either lost control of her bowels or is in too much pain to move. That sort of lack of control makes some animals depressed and anti-social. Amy bites her lip. When has Fenrir not been anti-social? She sniffs … but if her little girl is in pain …
In her sleep Fenrir whines and moans, and Amy sucks a breath through her teeth. Pain is her real fear for her little dog. Sometimes after spinal cord injury, pain is felt below the injury site; doctors aren’t really sure why. Thumping her hands on the steering wheel, she exhales slowly. Her eyes feel hot.
Two years ago when Amy was attacked by a serial killer, Fenrir had jumped to her rescue. Her little dog got kicked for her efforts, suffered a dislocated hip, and still tried to defend Amy.
Tears threaten to spill from her eyes. She has to think of something else, or she’s going to crash her car. She turns on the radio, and the local NPR station comes on. “ … triumph for Steve Rogers.”
Amy grits her teeth at mention of her soon-to-be ex-boss. She almost changes the station, but then the announcer says, “The popular mayoral hopeful has been working these past few months on a public-private initiative aimed at turning Chicago into the Silicon Valley of magic.”
Amy snorts. Good luck with that. No one really knows what magic is, and no human can harness it. She stops the car at a stoplight. Of course with what Katherine had told her … and what Steve had stolen …
“And last night’s reveal of magical materials found at World Gate sites that are being used to convert nuclear waste into energy—and less-harmful half-life materials—has assured that Director Rogers will at least have that legacy.”
What? Amy blinks. There have been no magical materials found at World Gate sites.
“That’s right, Terry. Apparently, the magical energy associated with the opening and closing of the gates left a magical charge on surrounding objects. Scientists at the University of Chicago, with the help
of some private R&D companies, have collected and harnessed their power …”
Amy stares at the radio. Her vision blurs. She is transported into one of Loki’s childhood memories …
As Loki splashed in a stream, Mimir said, “Everything is magical, Loki.”
“Even this river stone?” He was enjoying their picnic in Midgard, the realm of humans. They’d seen a few; they looked like the other two-legged races of the realms, but tinier than the elves, without the solid bulk of dwarves, and missing teeth. Worst of all, they had no discernible magic; it made him sad for them.
Sitting on a boulder, Hoenir, holding Mimir’s head beneath his arm, nodded. Mimir’s head spoke. “Yes. Everything has energy proportional to its matter. But some objects are made disproportionately powerful by the will of a magical creature. The maker can give the object a function—”
Loki jumped in the stream. “Yes, they bind magic and function to the object! And then even a non-magical creature can use its power!” He looked at the river stone.
“Yes,” Mimir said. “Or a magical creature could simply use it as a sort of stock-pile of energy, to be drawn upon with much less effort than harnessing wild magic.” The head’s voice turned somber. “However, it is important to remember … a magical object picks up the essence of its maker, and that will affect its function.”
Loki tilted his head and squinted at the stone. Maybe he could imbue the rock with his magic and leave it for a poor nonmagical human to find? He blinked. What was his essence? Odin had declared him “God of Mischief.” How would mischief manifest itself in a stone? Would the bearer of the stone become more clever? Holding the stone up before his eyes, Loki concentrated and felt the dull, little rock beneath his fingers turn warm.
Hoenir coughed, and Mimir said, “Yes, I’m getting to that, Hoenir. That is how the ring Andvaranaut became so dangerous … its maker wished that the ring would bring death and destruction and bad luck to all that held it. It was lost long ago in the realm of the Black Dwarves, and some say, that is the reason why the Black Dwarves’lands are so prone to famine, flood, and disaster.”
The rock beneath Loki’s fingers became almost unbearably hot. “I’m imbuing this rock with my magical essence!” Loki said.
“Loki, no!” Mimir shouted. Loki was vaguely aware of Hoenir jumping off the boulder and running toward him—but then the rock in his hand exploded and he was blinded by the tiny pebbles and dust.
Around Amy horns honk, shaking her from Loki’s memory. Her hands tighten on the steering wheel and the shift knob, anger making her skin go hot. Materials can only become magical with the will of a magical being. She almost snarls. Steve Rogers is not just a thief; he’s a liar.
Putting the car in gear, she tears out of the intersection. She’s really going to kill him.
On the radio one announcer says, “Steve Rogers has certainly assured that he has a powerful legacy.”
“Yes, Terry, he has that. Now with the shooting, however, it’s almost assured that he isn’t going to run for mayor.”
Shooting? Amy’s eyes go to the speakers.
“I thought details of his condition weren’t being released,” says the announcer, who must be Terry.
“That’s true … ” The announcer pauses. Amy hears him swallow. “ … but some reliable sources saw him being transported to Northwestern Memorial Hospital and overheard the paramedics … and … Director Rogers’ condition is very serious.”
Terry’s voice fills the car again. “Have the Dark Elves who attacked him and the First District Police precinct been apprehended, yet?”
“No, Terry.”
Amy looks from side to side, and for the first time realizes the streets are relatively empty. Instead of turning toward Ukrainian Village and home, Amy guns the engine and heads to Northwestern Memorial.
When she pulls into the hospital parking lot, Fenrir whimpers. Unhooking her seatbelt, Amy pauses. She can’t leave Fenrir here. Quickly unlatching Fenrir’s carrier, she picks it up and slides it over her shoulder. As Mr. Squeakers climbs into her coat pocket, she looks down at the empty passenger seat. The journal she was reading earlier is lying there. The cover features an electron microscope shot of HIV attacking a cancer cell. The caption reads, “HIV crosses the blood brain barrier—inoperable brain tumors can no longer hide.” It’s the research of Katherine’s husband, James.
Something tugs at the back of her mind. Shaking her head, she adjusts the strap of the carrier more securely and gets out of the car.
x x x x
Beatrice and Bohdi get off the hospital elevator at the intensive care unit. The hallway is cold and smells like disinfectant. They walk through some swinging doors with a sign that says, “No one under 18 admitted.” Just beyond the doors is a desk with one nurse and several FBI agents. When Bohdi and Beatrice approach, the agents pass magic detectors over their bodies before they allow them to check in.
They walk down another hallway painted cream and blue. Nurses and doctors pass quietly without making eye contact. Agents Brett and Bryant McDowell stand with two other agents outside a door to a room.
Bohdi hasn’t seen the brothers in a while—Steve said they were working on a super-secret project for him. Bohdi lets out a breath of relief. Brett and Bryant don’t hate him, maybe because they work with hardware, and he’s more a software guy. They won’t try to keep him out of Steve’s room. He eyes the other two agents apprehensively; he doesn’t know their names, but their mouths are set into frowns and they’re scowling at him.
He doesn’t have the cheek to smirk back. His eyes fall to the McDowell brothers’ hands. They are holding magic detectors, and the other two agents are openly holding rifles. All the extra security makes Bohdi’s shoulders sink. Neither Brett nor Bryant jokes about Bohdi’s night in jail, or even make eye contact. Which makes Bohdi’s heart sink.
Bohdi holds out his arms, and the brothers start running magic detectors over Beatrice and him again. Brett’s gives a little half-hearted tick when it passes over Beatrice’s umbrella. Brett taps it, and Bryant says, “You set the sensitivity on this too high, Brett.”
Brett just grunts.
Bohdi looks through the window set into the door to Steve’s room; it is lined with Promethean wire. The wire blocks the room from the eyes of Heimdall and prevents any magic from working within. Promethean wire has been hard to come by lately—something about their source drying up. That they saw fit to use so much of the precious stuff securing Steve’s room is not good. Through the gaps in the mesh, he can see Ruth and Henry, Steve’s parents. They’re sitting on some generic-looking furniture, eyes focused beyond what Bohdi can see. Their dark skin looks ashen in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Bryant runs the magic detector over Bohdi’s and Beatrice’s feet, and then he says, “You’re both clear.”
From where she is sitting, Ruth glances at the door. Her gaze meets Bohdi’s and her eyes go wide. A moment later, she is rushing into the hall and catching Bohdi in a hug. He stands stock still as she drops her head on his shoulder. Bohdi feels rather than hears a sob. He’d lived with Ruth and Henry after Loki’s attack on Chicago, they treated him like family, and helped him get established in his adopted country. Trying to keep from shaking, Bohdi puts his arms around her.
“They say it was dark elves, but we know better,” she whispers cryptically. And then another sob wracks through her, and she proceeds to tell him about the extent of Steve’s injuries. The words flow over Bohdi in a jumble, but he picks up that a bullet shattered one of Steve’s vertebra and all but severed his spinal cord. His muscles tense. Steve may never walk again or have control of anything below the neck.
Ruth pulls back and looks up at Bohdi. Her face is shining with tears. “But we won’t give up on a miracle.”
Managing to pat her back, Bohdi averts his gaze. He can’t look at her. His mind is starting to fill with what Odin said was the destiny for any incarnation of Chaos. He destroys everything and everyone he loves �
�
Ruth pats him on the shoulder. “He goes in and out of consciousness, but he was asking for you.”
Bohdi feels the air rush out of him. He feels like he’s the one without control of his limbs, like he’s the one who’s paralyzed; and he knows how pathetic that is. Ruth’s standing very close. Through his bangs he can see her red-rimmed eyes. She’s looking at him like somehow having him here makes things better. How many times has she called him “her other son”?
Stepping away, Ruth pushes him in the direction of the door. “Go.”
Bohdi does. Not because he wants to, but because he can’t bear to let Ruth down.
He steps into Steve’s room. The walls, floor, ceiling, and windows are lined with Promethean wire. It makes the room feel like a prison. In his seat, Henry doesn’t looks at Bohdi.
Bohdi follows Henry’s gaze. At 6’5” Steve’s too big for the bed, his toes are hanging over the edge, and his shoulders are so broad it looks like, if he could roll, he’d roll right off. Yet for the first time since Bohdi’s known him Steve looks small. Some weird contraption like a too-tall white scarf with pins and metal is wrapped around his neck. A tube is attached to his nose. A bag of something that might be water is hanging on a trolley thing beside him. The only sound is something beeping, and the whir of electronics. Steve is so quiet. Bohdi expects him to open his mouth at any moment and say, “Why the hell were you in jail?” Because that’s how their relationship goes: Bohdi does shit, Steve gives him shit, and then they go get beer and commiserate over all the other shit.
This is so backwards, and wrong; it makes Bohdi want to bolt. The hospital’s cream and blue walls feel surreal, and maybe they are surreal—maybe if he just runs fast enough he’ll wake up and this will all be a horrible dream.
“Bohdi?” Steve says. Steve’s eyes are closed. How does he see him?
Bohdi lets out a breath. Henry looks up at him. Steve’s father’s eyes are too shiny, and Bohdi swears his hair has gone grayer overnight. He nods his head at Bohdi, as though urging him to speak.