“I gave myself precisely one hour to bathe in self-hatred.” Though he wore an old-fashioned clockwork Timex, he showed her the watch face as though his self-inflicted deadline was engraved on its surface. “Now we need information to keep Aliyah protected while we’re on the run.”
He wouldn’t be running anywhere, Imani thought. Paul had unbuttoned his shirt and removed his tie – a look that, for her dignified husband, was nearly naked. He peeled his shirt’s sweat-soaked fabric away from his bruise-blackened ribs.
“She doesn’t need to hear this.” Paul jerked his head back towards Aliyah. “Let me find out so she doesn’t have to know.”
Imani nodded.
He snapped on the radio.
– the first unsealable broach on American soil, almost certainly a terrorist act –
Valentine and Aliyah froze as the announcer’s voice boomed through the car. Paul scrabbled at the headphone jack, which was apparently broken–
– or had it been working when they got the car, and this was someone’s stray flux coming home to roost? Imani never could tell a genuine bad break from flux, which always unnerved her. After a while, it felt like the entire universe was out to get you.
“Sorry.” Paul flailed at the radio in an attempt to shut it off, accidentally switched the channel.
– I repeat, the President will be making a speech in a few minutes. In the meantime, she has called upon America to remain calm, stressing the need for stronger anti-’mancer laws to “conscript and retrain those who would do us harm” –
Imani smoothed her dress so she wouldn’t punch the window. Under normal circumstances, turning on the radio would have blasted music – but even the pop stations were interrupting the latest boy band’s hit to explain that buzzsects were spilling out from the Morehead broach.
“Sorry,” Paul repeated, cranking the volume down. “Sorry.”
“No.” Aliyah leaned forward in her seat, the soccer ball slipping from her fingers. “It’s OK.”
Valentine pressed the ball back into Aliyah’s hands. “Come on, kid. It’s just gonna be blah blah blah more funding for SMASH blah blah blah do we want to go the way of Europe blah blah blah ’mancers aren’t people. And that’s… not something you wanna listen to right now.”
“You’re people, baby.” Imani reached back to clutch her daughter’s hand.
Valentine gave her a curt nod of approval, which worried Imani. Valentine’s and Imani’s goals for Aliyah generally overlapped for brief periods, like an eclipse – and like an eclipse, those periods presaged dark times.
Aliyah shrugged off her mother’s touch. “I did this to Savannah. We should… we should hear what I did.”
– no statement from Paul Tsabo, who is rumored to have triggered at least two broaches before –
“I’d make a statement, if I could get to a phone,” Paul muttered.
Yet Imani had sat through enough PR meetings to realize what was happening. Paul had sealed broaches ripped open by the Unimancers – and yet he’d been fighting to protect his daughter, and so the press had gone easy on him.
Not anymore.
– the broach that consumed Europe at the climax of World War II continues to spread across the continent despite the efforts of a global squadron of Unimancers. Instabilities on the Belgium border last winter caused the broach to expand twenty miles closer to the Atlantic ocean, prompting fears of what might happen if the broach crosses the coast to expand into deep sea areas –
Valentine drew a finger across her throat. “Ix-nay on the otal destruction-tay oadcast-bray,” she whispered, glancing towards Aliyah, who hid behind her soccer ball.
A soccer ball with Savannah’s name written upon it.
She wanted to tell Aliyah this wasn’t her fault. But Aliyah had lost control on the soccer field. Not for the first time, Imani wished there was a place to get Aliyah’s power under control – but the last school they’d taken her to had turned Aliyah into an assassin.
“Sssh,” Paul said. “The President’s coming on.”
They hushed. As Imani passed a gas station, she noticed the parking lot filled with people who had pulled over to listen.
Good afternoon, the President said, her voice somber. A few hours ago, our country – our very dimension – came under attack thanks to a broach triggered in the sleepy town of Morehead, Kentucky.
Paul Tsabo ripped open this broach – Paul Tsabo, the criminal leader of a pro-’mancer political movement called, worryingly, “Project Mayhem.”
Already, Tsabo’s defenders have claimed the act was in self-defense, that he was simply attempting to allow his daughter to play soccer, that he intended to bring no harm to the people of Kentucky.
Yet “intent” cannot be our standard. A drunk driver does not intend to harm people, yet by their own blinkered judgement they kill children. And every ’mancer’s judgement is impaired by a psychosis so encompassing that it weakens the fundamental principles of the universe. They are simply not competent to make decisions about safety – particularly when Europe has already been lost to ’mancers’ mistakes.
This administration’s stance is, and has always been, that ’mancers are not human – they are smiling weapons, waiting to go off.
Valentine checked off an imaginary square on a bingo card.
Yet because they look like us – even used to be us, the President continued, we have been lenient in allowing ordinary citizens to campaign for anti-’mancer laws. Yet Paul Tsabo – a fugitive criminal – has acknowledged his organization trains ’mancers, runs ’mancer safehouses, hides ’mancers from SMASH’s helpful rehabilitation.
Valentine wrapped her hand around an imaginary cock and jerked it off. “That’s not rehabilitation, it’s brainwashing…”
In the past, some people have been sympathetic to these goals – but in the wake of the Morehead broach, America is united. With Congress’s full approval, I have just declared Project Mayhem a terrorist organization. Anyone aiding or abetting Project Mayhem from this moment on – whether a ’mancer or an ordinary citizen – will have their assets seized, and face jail time.
“What?” Imani catapulted from her seat.
“Can they do that?”
“They can,” Paul whispered.
However, we offer amnesty. Any former Project Mayhem members who wish to provide us with information and avoid prosecution can do so toll-free by calling 1-800-SMASHEM…
Paul grabbed for his cell phone before realizing it was broken. “I need to make a statement. Pull over, Imani, we’ll find a phone – the Unimancers have never sealed a broach in their lives, only patched them over! Maybe we can broker an agreement to let me back in before the broach rips open further–”
“Stop, Paul. Just stop.”
– in addition to additional emergency funding for SMASH, I have called for our best magical expert from Europe, General Saagar Anil Kanakia, to help stabilize the Morehead broach –
“No, Imani!” Paul shook with anger. “They haven’t heard our side!”
She punched his arm.
“That. Does. Not. Matter!” Imani hated to see that puppydog terror he always got when she yelled at him – but she had to get through to him now. “They’re telling America that we almost disappeared down the same interdimensional sinkhole that ate Europe – and they’re not wrong, Paul. You didn’t seal it up like last time.”
Paul objected. Imani rolled right over him.
“And it doesn’t matter anymore, Paul, because they won’t give you the chance. They’re going to rain hell down on us. People will barrage Capitol Hill with angry letters until the politicians parade you around America as a nicely tamed Unimancer. I know you want to tell them how this never would have happened if Morehead hadn’t panicked. You want to tell them you could fix it. Maybe that’s even true. But… what we did today is exactly what they’ve been telling people all ’mancers do.
“We just lost the argument, Paul. Now the hammer will fall.”
Paul’s face went pale. He gulped, looking back towards Valentine, who nodded in acknowledgment. Aliyah did her best to sink into the back seat; Valentine reached over, pulled her into a tight embrace, as though she feared this might be the last time.
“I just wanted friends,” Aliyah whispered. “This isn’t fair.”
The President had moved onto promising that America would be safe, their Unimancers would guard this broach to keep it from swelling further–
Paul shut off the radio.
“OK,” Paul murmured, his chin sagging to his chest. “OK. I guess our next step is… we have to get to the safehouse.”
She pressed down on the accelerator, wondering whether the Appalachian safehouse was still there – wondering how long it would shelter them before SMASH’s forces rained down on them.
Eight
’Til the Landslide Brought Me Down
The final road to the safehouse was a muddy ditch threaded around a mountain. Paul tried not to pay attention to their surroundings as Imani wrestled the wheel; to their left was a crumbling rock face, to the right a steep wooded slope. One slip and their car would tumble into a hundred-foot drop.
“How much longer is it?” Aliyah asked.
“I didn’t memorize distances, sweetie, only directions.” Imani’s voice was remarkably even. “It’s at the end of this road, wherever that is.”
Aliyah pushed her way across Valentine to peer out the passenger side window, shaking her head. “The seclusion is good, but what’s our exit strategy? If SMASH corners us on this mountaintop, we’ve got no retreat capacity.”
Paul frowned. A thirteen year-old girl shouldn’t have to worry about such things.
“Hey,” Valentine chided. “Uncle Robert set this safehouse up. I’m sure it’s got a few tricks.”
But was Robert still in charge there? As the road twisted in towards a thick forest canopy, Paul tried not to consider the possibility that someone working for the camp had betrayed them to SMASH, and now instead of a haven they’d find armed men with Magiquell darts…
They rounded a curve to find the road blocked by a huge golem of teetering rock.
“What the–”
Imani slammed on the brakes – but as they slid to a halt, Paul took in the monster straddling the road. It stood higher than the trees, thousands of moss-covered rocks stacked roughly into a man shape, its clumsy hands reaching out to grab two tree limbs as it bent over the road protectively. The sunlight glimmered through the chinks in a torso formed of fist-sized crystalline rock and shale slates.
Yet what stood out most was the grizzled old man standing on a ladder next to this faceless rock brute, reaching up to tend to his creation with deft care. His bushy eyebrows lifted high in surprise at their approach.
He tapped the beast’s side, as if to get its attention.
The great rock beast made an angry clattering nose as it dove for their car, breaking apart into an avalanche, banging on the windshield as the rocks flowed over their SUV, rolling beneath the wheels, trapping them.
Valentine tried to open the door; it was stuck fast. Then she leaned forward to tap the windshield, which was miraculously uncracked, though covered with rocks with a jigsaw puzzle’s precision – allowing them absolutely no view outside.
“Well,” she said, “I think we have our answer as to whether ’mancers still live at the safehouse.”
“Oh, shit!” they heard from outside – muffled, but at great volume. “That’s Paul! Dammit, Yoder, I told you to stop anyone suspicious!”
Whoever responded spoke in a low, slow, subsonic drawl, like an earthquake that chose to speak. The words were lost through the layers of rock and an impenetrable accent, but the gist was clear: Hold on, now, how was I to know these were your friends?
“Look, Yoder, when SMASH comes, they’re gonna be arriving in tanks, not a soccer mom special… oh, never mind. How long will it take to dig them out?”
“But a touch,” the rumbly voice said, trudging closer. His steps were well-paced, as if no fuss could make him move faster. “All I must do is pop this rock out, and–”
There was a sharp pop as he yanked one stone free – and the rocks cascaded away from the car like water, rolling off obligingly to reveal Robert Paulson striding towards the car door.
Paul had never gotten used to the new Robert, though he understood the new look was a side effect of his security chief giving up his Fight Club-inspired ’mancy. When Paul had first met Robert, Robert had called himself Tyler Durden, and his magic had shaped his bruised body into a carbon copy of Brad Pitt. But after he’d met Valentine, his need to be Tyler Durden had dwindled – and he’d slowly mutated into a beefy six-foot-five man who looked like an aging nightclub bouncer, complete with a lurking air of ominous violence, a battered leather jacket, and a sagging paunch.
Yet anyone who knew Robert thought of him as a teddy bear. And he looked like a teddy bear, crouching down with his arms open, grinning like a polecat as he shouted, “Rock star!”
Valentine burst out of the car to leap into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, grabbing his face by both cheeks.
“You should have seen what I did, baby!” Her face was flushed with excitement. “Full super-saiyan! I made it rain, and what I rained was destruction!”
“I did see it!” He held up his smartphone, matching her giddiness. “Somebody posted it on YouTube!”
She twirled around to curl up in his arms, and they watched Valentine’s magical battle with the cooing fondness that other couples might use to watch baby pictures. Robert squeezed her tight every time an explosion went off – he still had a Fight Club-mancer’s appreciation of his girlfriend’s devastation.
When it was over, they had the faint flush of a couple who’d watched a particularly satisfying porno. “Whew,” Robert said. “When was the last time you teed off on anything like that?”
Valentine stepped gracefully out of his arms, like a woman regretfully bowing out from a dance. “It’s been a while.”
“…has it?”
She stiffened.
Paul knew Valentine’s inactivity had been a source of tension. She stayed by Robert’s side, which was handy because Robert generally stayed by Paul’s side – but between Robert’s brute competence and Paul’s extensive planning, there hadn’t been much need for violence. Even the rallies had grown efficient enough that Valentine’s magic was used mostly for crowd control. And since Valentine’s videogame magic couldn’t create anything lasting, she’d sat by the sidelines as Robert had built safehouses or delegated Project Mayhem duties or just took Krav Maga classes.
He shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, love. Your ’mancy remains a glorious supernova to behold. It’s just, you know… things have been going right lately.”
She waved him off. He took her hand, holding it tight and long – a little too tight and a little too long, Paul judged. And if Paul noticed Valentine’s discomfort then it must be blatantly apparent to everyone else.
Then Robert glanced over Paul’s shoulder.
“How’s she doing?”
Paul realized Aliyah had yet to get out of the car.
Valentine shook her head: not good. Robert hunched down, stuck his head in through the window.
“We’re safe, kid,” he assured her. “I’ve set up tons of safehouses and I assure you – this will be the last to fall.” He gestured back towards a distant set of rustic cabins, where a small militia tended to gardens, unpacked crates, toted water buckets. “I handpicked every man and woman for loyalty. And the feds are distinctly not welcome here in the Smokeys. More importantly, we’ve got some real unique ’mancers in our stockpile. Wanna see ’em?”
It was a good gambit: Aliyah loved naming new ’mancies – and given ’mancy could spring from any obsession, the endless varieties of magics that flourished in their safehouses were a delight. Seriously, how often did you get to be embraced by a stone golem? Put that lumbering statue in a museum and art critics would
have praised its rough-hewn beauty. This ’mancer had taken a thousand rocks no one would have looked at twice, seen a secret magnificence within them, and labored until he joined simple stone into a geologic clockwork.
Aliyah stared at the heaps of stone as if all she saw was an avalanche.
She reluctantly allowed Robert to lift her from the vehicle. She looked back towards Paul.
“You’re coming along, right, Dad?”
Paul was so filled with gratitude that he leaned down to enfold Aliyah in a hug before his broken ribs made him recoil in pain. Like most teenagers, Aliyah ran hot and cold – she couldn’t have abandoned him fast enough back at the Morehead Wendy’s.
But going to visit the new ’mancers? That was their ritual.
“Come on, kid,” Robert said. “You’ve been marinating in your own misery for hours now, get out and walk it off. It’ll do ya good.”
“…except for that blazing ball of death overhead scarring my fine pale skin…” Valentine muttered darkly.
“Got you covered. Literally.” He tossed her a travel-sized sunscreen bottle. She snatched it out of the air before slathering it on her skin with exaggerated “yuck” noises, and for a moment Paul marveled at how the two of them functioned like a single organism.
“Who’ll drive the car back? Will he do it?” Aliyah asked, pointing at Yoder, who had ignored the conversation to pick up rocks. This was, sadly, something Paul had come to expect; most ’mancers were so obsessed with their craft, their social skills had atrophied into indifference.
“Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, bang bang, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop,” Robert said rhythmically.
“…what?” Aliyah squinted, suspicious. Valentine stifled a laugh with her hand.
“Yoder doesn’t drive,” Robert explained. “He’s Amish. All he knows are horse-drawn buggies.”
“So what was that noise?”
“An Amish drive-by,” Valentine explained, and both Robert and Valentine dissolved into childish giggles while Aliyah stood stiffly, not getting the joke.
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