The Violent Fae

by Phil Williams

  “That might be, but I don’t know jack about your blue screens and this grugulochs business. Might’ve been useful to know when I got to Ordshaw that this wasn’t yet a clean-up operation. What were you hoping to do next?”

  “Study their patterns,” Ward softly rejoined. “They expose themselves through novisan. When they feed, when they make things, when they transfer the energy.”

  “But they’re sticking close to the praelucente,” Pax said. “Maybe so we mistake their novisan fluctuations for its. They’ll find new ways to stay hidden, if they’re forced out from under its shadow. They infiltrated our government, hid their own existence –”

  “I got the picture,” Obrington said. “And you wanted to study this on your lonesome until you could be sure they’re not listening. Except you can’t ever be sure of that because you don’t know what they are. And here we are, with them targeting precisely the person thinking she’s got one up on them.”

  “You believe us, though?” Ward said, hopefully.

  “Does it make a difference? Beyond believing neither of you would be idiot enough to join these low-rent gangsters, the details aren’t important. You’re telling me there’s something still out there, suckling at your praelucente’s teat. They’re of the same energy, they’ll burn just the same when we fry it.”

  “We’ll send out a party invite, then?” Pax said. “Come to an all-you-can-eat and lock the doors? We don’t even know how they communicate.”

  Obrington gave her an unsettling look through his magnifying lenses. “You know why Management sent me up here? Me, specifically. Not a bookkeeper like Mathers. I see a thing needs doing and I find a way to do it. I don’t prat about overanalysing it.”

  “It’s an otherworldly creature no one understands! How much analysis is too much?”

  “Ward’s words,” Obrington said. “Understanding is not an absolute requirement.” Hell, he’d accepted their reality, but it was making no difference. “We can still take a pop at damaging these things. Your problem, in a nutshell, is how do we make sure they’re in the right place when we pull the trigger?” Pax began to say they couldn’t, so he added, “These things targeted you specifically, Kuranes. You.”

  His glare told her to really consider that. The screens had plotted to attack the Ministry and the Fae using the turnbold situation. And they helped the Fae kill Apothel, years ago. But true enough, this wasn’t them taking advantage of an existing situation, today. They knew things about her and her associates. Meaning . . . Pax said, “They sense me in some way, the same as I sense them. Even after this trick with the grugulochs, they know I’m a threat . . .”

  There was something in that mantra, that understanding was not a requirement. However the blue screens thought, with rationale or reason, the horde swarmed feverishly when it scented energy – might their targeting of her be the same? And if they had a gentle attraction to her, their attraction to the Fae was uncontrollable. She said, “Certain energies inspire them to act stronger than others. With Fae energy, we can get them in one place.”

  “The girl’s a genius,” Obrington said, flatly. “So we tie a fairy down as bait.”

  “What?” said Ward, startled. “The Fae are people.”

  “More important than the entire population of this town?” Obrington replied. “Want to wait until next time these things screw us over?”

  “We’ve already provoked the Fae,” Ward said. “There’s no way we can ask this.”

  “Wait,” Pax said. The image of Edwing came back to her. That poor, small man, torn savagely open. “I have an option.”

  “Pax –”

  “If I can find Lightgate. We need to stop her, anyway. She’s as bad as those bloody screens. If I can get her, we can trap the creatures that way.” She looked away from them, hearing her own voice. That was where she’d got to. Using a living person as bait for monsters? A maniac responsible for a lot of deaths. Yeah.

  “Lightgate,” Obrington echoed. “The Fae our people were scouring the city for? Shall we add a few needles in haystacks to our shopping lists, too?”

  Pax shook her head. “No. She’s crazy but she’s . . .” What had Obrington said? Pax had the whole of Ordshaw fawning over her. Lightgate included. “She sees something in me she likes. I can get close to her.” And then get killed?

  “Alright,” Obrington said. “We’ll head back to the office, make a –”

  “I can’t,” Pax said, and explained it to Ward rather than him. “She’d have to believe I’m not with you. Between now and me getting in one of those cars, that’s the only time I could make a break for it. They might be watching. She might be watching.”

  Obrington pulled back his jacket, revealing a small bulge in his inside pocket which he tapped. “This would tell us, within a hundred metres. Not just Fae presence; if they were running any equipment. There’s no –”

  “Thanks but your scanners can piss off,” Pax told him. “This is how I’ve got to do it. I get away from you; out on my own, she might believe I’m desperate, looking for other angles. Help from the likes of her.”

  “Even if she does . . .” Ward said, but let the question go unasked. How was Pax going to ensnare the city’s most dangerous fairy? It didn’t matter. She had to. Ward’s face shifted. Searchingly, trying to understand Pax’s bravery. “You’d do that?”

  Pax almost laughed. “I have a choice? It’s up to you guys now.”

  She looked to Obrington. He asked, “Got a weapon on you, Ward?”

  “I’m unarmed. Now.”

  “Right. You’ll be on your own, Kuranes. See this gun I’m watching so loosely? Be a shame if you took it. And these car keys. Might be something I’m too big and slow to prevent. But you know what happens, this proves to be anything other than what you’re saying?”

  “I know,” Pax said.

  “I’m gonna take out some cuffs. To take you in. Understand?”

  He had accepted her proposal, setting a scene for escape. Leaving the only complaint at the back of Pax’s own head. It was the best way forward, the only clear path. If you ignored the definite risk of her own violent death.

  After taking a breath, Pax grabbed his gun.

  3

  Sam was not quite able to focus. The spark of action with Pax running for the car, Obrington shouting at his men not to shoot – they needed her alive – scarcely enlivened her. Obrington pursued Pax himself, with his most vigilant agent, in what was bound to be a carefully unsuccessful car chase, while another agent escorted Sam back in.

  She tried to strategise, but the face of a young Chinese man kept springing to her mind, lifeless eyes staring at the warehouse ceiling. Shot through the chest. At least, she thought he was Chinese, he might’ve been Japanese, what did she know. Not even that. Only that he was dead because he’d picked up a gun he wasn’t trained to use. Or rather, because he wouldn’t put it down again. Why was he dead. Not even connected to the Sunken City.

  When Sam finally suppressed that image, she imagined a future not much better. Pax murdered by a fairy, or worse. The blue screens could build a monster to tear her apart. While Sam did what? Managed an office. Overanalysed, as Obrington said.

  All heads turned to her as she entered the Ministry office. In Greek Street, late afternoon had been about the time they all started zoning out. Down here, the time of day was less obvious. The receptionist asked what was happening and Sam replied automatically, “Get me reports from everyone, and whatever we’ve got on Protocol 38.”

  “And your meeting?” Tori whispered it like a secret. “They weren’t happy –”

  “Meeting?” Sam frowned.

  “I directed them to the café you used this morning, I hope that’s okay. We’re not setting up meetings here, are we?”

  It dawned on Sam like the breaking of a wave. Tycho Duvalier. Oh. Hell. It was almost 4pm. An hour after they’d arranged to meet. “Is he still waiting?”

  “I got a call ten minutes ago saying so. Seems they just
arrived.”

  Well, at least there was that; Tycho probably turned up deliberately late. Top-floor office power-plays were the last thing she needed. But after that gunfight, she didn’t have the energy to be worried, regardless of Obrington’s warnings about Duvcorp. “Tell him I’ll be there in five.”

  Before Sam could leave, Holly Barton raced to her side, ahead of her hobbling husband and Rufaizu, having apparently been waiting her turn. “Mrs Ward, where’s Pax? I’ve got a lawyer in the family, and we’ll contact Pax’s people – her disappearance will not go unnoticed.”

  “What?” Sam blinked, trying to follow. The civilians’ presence was almost surreal down here. “Pax hasn’t disappeared. She’s fine.”

  “She’s not here now, you’re –”

  “Honestly, Holly,” Sam said. “We let her go.”

  Holly was ready to keep complaining, but something made her stop. Reading Sam’s face, she changed tack. “Are you okay? What happened?” Her hand was up, towards Sam’s collar; there was a bloodstain. At Holly’s shoulder, Barton’s expression was equally concerned. He didn’t say anything, but his stare begged for answers.

  “Not my blood,” Sam mumbled. “They gave us no choice.”

  “If Pax –”

  “Holly, what are you doing here? You should go home.”

  “Where is she?” another voice hissed, Casaria appearing from behind, slinking into the office with Landon in tow. The latter gave Sam an apologetic look. They must’ve raced back after Sam. “What was that, give her thirty seconds then you come shooting?”

  “What?” Sam said. “We let her go.”

  “We?” Casaria snorted. “In cahoots with that fucking oaf?”

  “Yes,” Sam said. Everyone was watching, she was aware. Even those pretending to work. Casaria looked ready to hit something. It must’ve stung him, missing the shootout, and now being excluded from Pax’s flight. Sam explained, “Pax has gone to find Lightgate. The fairy that killed our people. She’s going to bring her in.”

  “You’re out of your mind!” Casaria said. “How is Pax supposed to take –”

  “She’s going to bring her in,” Sam growled. Not louder than before, but sterner, going by the startled look on Casaria’s face. The rest of the office was absolutely still. “Then we’re going to use Lightgate to lure all the worst creatures of the Sunken City together. Then we purge them.” She turned on the spot everyone staring, finally focusing her – time to take charge. “Revise the terms of Protocol 38. Test our weapons against the new scanners and produce an action plan ready for this evening. I want the current locations of the myriad creatures, optimal choke points to place field agents. I want everyone on hand.” She turned back to the Bartons. “If you’re staying, Holly, I’ve got reports you can study. Darren, you can liaise with Support, share what you know about combating the horde.” Holly looked like she might protest. Sam didn’t give her a chance, clapping for movement. “That’s it, people, let’s go!”

  Staff raced in different directions, a rush of comments passing between them. The older analyst, Roper, guided Barton away while Sam diverted Holly, saying, “Your daughter, is she safe?”

  “She’s not going to open the door to strangers,” Holly replied, with a significant look Casaria’s way. “What’s Protocol 38?”

  “It’s where we nuke the Sunken City,” Casaria said, bitterly.

  “It’s nothing without the Fae element,” Sam said.

  Casaria was about to continue, but Landon intervened. “Didn’t get a chance to say so back there: you performed admirably under pressure, ma’am.”

  Sam squinted at him. Was ma’am good or bad? Just a distraction, to block Casaria?

  “The city owes you a debt,” Landon continued, definitely for the others’ benefit. “Scumbags like that might’ve done some real damage.”

  Sam hesitated. Thanks was the easy option. All I did was shoot an Asiatic man, was more honest. Did it make her racist? Three white guys got away alive. This wasn’t the time. Everyone was rallying around her. She looked from Landon to Casaria, one kindly supportive and the other dangerously aggrieved. She made another snap decision, pointing at Casaria. “Something else I need to take care of. You’re with me for a second.”

  Not sure exactly what she was going to say, Sam entered the café with her head high. Like she wasn’t ready to collapse with stress. Her determined energy had kept Casaria tensely quiet for their short walk, with only scant instructions: “We enter together, but you take a seat by the door. Say nothing. Do nothing.”

  “What –” Casaria started.

  “Say nothing, do nothing.” Zero room for discussion.

  Tycho Duvalier had a booth to himself, sitting patiently upright. The waitress behind the counter was shamelessly staring, somewhere between awe and disbelief that this sharply dressed, familiar face was in her diner. A group of builders paid him no heed, but another man in a suit, two booths back from Tycho, stood out. Wearing dark glasses, hunched over a menu but patently observing the surroundings. Yes, Casaria’s conspicuously shady appearance made a good choice for backup.

  Standing, Tycho wore a welcoming smile, but gave Casaria exactly the sort of wary look Sam had hoped for. He began in a genial tone: “I’m not used to being kept waiting, so I hope you’re planning to take us to your actual office –”

  “Here is fine,” Sam cut in. “We won’t be long.” She hadn’t thought this through, and didn’t intend to. She had a feeling to latch onto, stirred by surviving a shootout, observing Obrington, watching Pax put herself on the line – Sam let it flow. “You are not being shown our office or our work. We had information that you’d developed scanning equipment that we needed. We’ll use it until our benchmarks are reliably satisfied, then we’ll return it. We won’t be studying the equipment itself, and you will not question our activities. Consider it a tax for doing business in our city.”

  Tycho’s smile was gone. “There were proper channels to go through for –”

  “No, see,” Sam said, invoking Obrington to sound tougher than she felt. “This is a matter of national security. I’m telling you, not asking. The only question you should have is if there’s anything more you can do.”

  The man’s face was professionally blank; taller than her, more powerful by a thousand degrees, he studied her carefully. Her skin was sheened with sweat, suit marred by dirt, still smelling lightly of gunsmoke. His eyes lingered on her bloodstained collar, but he didn’t ask. Finally, he said, “It’s not so much the co-operation that concerns me, as the subterfuge. I discovered this situation on a chance hunch, and I remain in the dark as to exactly how you came to know what we were working on.”

  “Let it concern you,” Sam told him, “but think carefully before crossing the Ministry. There’s no authority higher than us.” She didn’t indicate Casaria, but Tycho’s eyes went there. Who had the more dangerous goon, here?

  “If I wanted that kind of trouble,” Tycho murmured, “I would have brought lawyers. I wish simply to see where our interests align.”

  Sam reached into her jacket, not buying the friendly act. Obrington wanted to distance himself from Duvcorp for good reason. She took out a business card. “Prove that with a meeting in your offices. Explain your research to me and I’ll consider what I can share with you. How’s that?”

  Tycho looked at the card. Sam’s thumb had left a black smear. She needed a shower. But he took it, the billionaire tycoon pocketing her soiled business card. He said, “It’s a dangerous game, believing yourselves untouchable.”

  Out of nowhere, Sam said, “Less than an hour ago, I shot a man dead.” She wasn’t sure if it was meant to sound threatening, unafraid, or what. Just had to say it. To own that, acknowledging the weight of things getting out of hand. His sly eyes betrayed no surprise. She continued, “Don’t test me. It’ll be as before; we won’t step on your toes, you won’t step on ours. I guarantee we won’t do any more than use your scanners to take readings. And then, if you truly want
to talk, that will depend on your openness. Want to start by explaining what Duvcorp has been measuring?”

  Tycho’s face gave away nothing. He avoided the question, reaching a businesslike decision. “I’ll have them send papers. Properly inventorying the scanners’ use. Invoiced at a rate we consider fair. With appropriate NDAs and other legal documentation.”

  He had bowed to her. In his way; there was no doubt that invoice would be steep. But that was Management’s problem. Sam gave him a respectful (thankful?) handshake, and turned to leave before she lost her bottle. She marched outside and up the street. Walking strong, aware she was still visible through the café window. Casaria hurried after her and came close to say, “What was that – what’s –”

  “Not now.”

  Right around the corner, onto another street, into cover, and there Sam slumped, energy puffing out of her. She continued quietly back to the office, ignoring Casaria’s questioning stare. Christ, she’d just stood up to Tycho Duvalier. Did that make her tougher than Obrington? She allowed herself a faint trace of pride, that maybe she could make inroads into Duvcorp relations where Management had presumably failed.

  She was up to this. She was in her element.

  Except why had Management failed? What were Duvcorp doing, that Tycho would let them use their scanners to avoid the slightest discussion of their own projects? Hell.

  When she re-entered the office, Obrington was back, standing dead centre. Her face lifted, ready to tell him what she’d done, but his grim expression warned her off.

  “Got another bleeding call from those little Fae menaces.” Obrington’s voice bounced off the walls. “Making a whole heap of demands. Rights, borders, the full gamut.”

  Sam frowned. “They want to open a dialogue? Isn’t that a good –”

  “It wasn’t a request. They’ve got a weapon that they, I quote, are not afraid to use. Care to tell me what in bleeding hell septjad is, Ward?”