Hard Magic gc-1

by Larry Correia

  Have to get to ground. When she came out the other side of a Travel, she was always going the same speed as she was going before, and she didn't went to hit the ground and explode like an egg that had fallen out of a bird's next. Her hair hit her in the face as she focused and-

  There. She was staring up into the blue sky, Heinrich above her, his eyes impossibly wide, his mouth in a perfect O as he screamed. The rotation continued and the ground spun up to meet them. TOO FAST!

  She felt Heinrich's Power shimmer down her arms. His body went grey and blurry and she sure hoped she looked the same. She squeezed her eyes shut as they impacted the ground, but there was no splat, no explosion of guts all over the place, and opened her eyes to blackness as they sunk through dirt. She felt like they were gradually slowing, like they were sinking through thick water.

  The head map didn't let her down this time. Clear. They were right beneath the surface, descending gradually, and she Traveled just as Heinrich's Power gave out.

  They flopped into a pile of hot ash and crackling branches.

  The map showed that the world immediately around them had been scoured clean of life. Trees trunks were laid sideways, all of them cleanly pushed down by a single wave. Fires were still burning on the hillsides. Everything was black and nearly as scary as the place with the big magic jellyfish.

  Heinrich groaned as he gradually let go of her hands. "Never never ever never again will I do anything like that ever again," he said, sitting up, coughing as he inhaled a lungful of smoke. "Never!" He made it to his feet, managing a few steps before stumbling off balance and landing on his butt in a puff of soot. "Never!"

  In the middle of the wasteland, Faye began to giggle.

  Chapter 18

  Among the many misdeeds of the British rule in India, history will look upon the act of depriving a whole nation of magic, as the blackest.

  – Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, 1930 Mar Pacifica, California Sullivan did not know how much time had passed in the dark. Delilah's body was cold next to him. Her blood coated him and had dried, sticky on his hands, clotted and pulling at his arm hair, but he would not leave her side. He only partly heard the others over the crash of the ocean. Someone had come to speak to him, but the words had been uncertain, his memory vague. Browning was coughing, dying. Dan was getting worse, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was useless.

  Madi had been right. He was weak.

  No longer distracted with trying to protect the others his mind turned inward, focusing on his own pain. He'd broken super-hardened bones, torn flesh, bruised muscles, yet the magic design on his chest had managed to keep up. It had burned Power to keep him alive. Even now he could feel the hot itch as his body mended itself far faster than normal.

  But why hadn't it worked on Delilah?

  He moved back and forth between wakefulness and fitful sleep. His dreams were terrible, and he relived Delilah's wounding, over and over. He saw the assassin's steel wrench out of her body, and he questioned what he could have done different, what he could have done better. If only he'd been quicker, faster, stronger, smarter. Anything. If he'd been able to defeat the Greater Summoned faster, then she would never have come down to help, and he drifted off, hating himself for not accomplishing something that whole squads of Actives had failed at during the Great War.

  He awoke once to the noise of chattering teeth and talking. Francis had tried to swim for it when the tide had gone out, only to find that more of the cave had collapsed toward the entrance and he couldn't squeeze through. He'd nearly drowned, and surely would have if he'd gone earlier. There was some talk about Faye and Heinrich disappearing after trying something stupid, but he tuned it out and went back to his stupor. They were dead too, and that was probably his doing as well.

  Damaged goods. Delilah told him in his sleep. You understood me, Jake. You were the only one.

  Sullivan found himself walking along the top of a trench at Second Somme, the Power visible around him in the land where the dead went to dream. He knelt in the dirt and studied the mysterious being and the geometric patterns that made up its body. It eluded him. There was no way to bring her back. The Chairman was there, reclining on a throne made of barbwire and human bones. He did not mock Sullivan. He understood such pain.

  Delilah was dead and it was his fault. The dreams told him that he deserved to die for his mistakes. He deserved to be the corpse, not her. The Chairman told him that ritual suicide was the appropriate response for such weakness, for such total failure. At one point he awoke with his pistol in hand, the safety off, the muzzle pressed against his temple. No. Not like that. Never like that. He unloaded the 1921 before putting it back in the holster.

  You don't even have the balls to do that right, his brother's voice whispered in his ear.

  Delilah's ghost came to him once. She didn't speak. She just pointed at him, accusing him, and after a while it faded, but the afterimage swam on inside his eyelids. He'd not realized how much damage he had taken in the fight, he knew that he was hallucinating, but he could actually feel his skull mending from where Madi's fists had left it cracked and his brain swollen.

  They'd lain together-was it last night? The night before? Weeks? Just like back in New Orleans where he'd saved her from herself, until he'd thrown that all away for a moment of stupid charity trying to protect some kid he didn't even know. There had been letters he'd written her from Rockville, but he'd never gotten a response. Not a single one. He didn't know if he'd ever have worked up the courage to ask her why, but it didn't matter now. She was lost forever. Dead in a cold black hole, her spirit surely stuck between hell and the Pacific Ocean.

  Back in the land where the dead dreamed, he watched the Power. It had surely fed well when Delilah had died. The Power made a certain kind of sense. The day of the Second Somme it had feasted, growing fat, and he knew that with the deaths of all those strong Actives, thousands more of the children born on that terrible day in 1918 had been born with the gifts farmed from his dead friends and enemies. The new Actives, teenagers now-had it really been that long?-They too would increase their Power, until they died, and the cycle continued, until…

  Until what? Until everyone in the world had magic?

  He wondered where the Power had come from. It certainly had not been born on this world. The Chairman had said it came from someplace else.

  "It was pursued," the Chairman said from behind him. "Chased from the other place. We are its refuge. We are its hope." Sullivan did not bother to turn. He knew that this was not another dream of a swelling and fevered brain. His enemy was actually speaking to him from the other side of the world. He was glad for the company.

  "Why are you telling me this?" Sullivan asked.

  "Because you impress me. Because there are very few people that I can discuss such things with who would understand, and these things I tell you will give you no advantage in your struggle against me." The Chairman stopped beside him. Today he was dressed in an elaborate military uniform, resplendent with braids and medals and gold. The only thing that was not flashy was the well-used sword at his side. It was remarkably utilitarian. The Chairman saw Sullivan taking in the flash. "I was at a parade," he explained. "As I was saying, it fled its old world, as it fled the one before that. You are correct, Mr. Sullivan. It feeds on us. It needs us, and we need it. We increase it, but as we grow dependent upon it, we must also defend it from the thing that preys upon it and has pursued it across the stars."

  "What's it running from?"

  The Chairman's expression seemed sincere. "When the Enemy comes, you will know. The Power wants me to cleanse this world of weakness. Only the strong will be able to defeat the Enemy. If the world is not ready to stand before the Enemy, the Power will flee, and the Enemy will consume us all in its hunger, then the cycle will begin anew."

  He was in no mood for the Chairman's bogus religion. "Sounds like a load of bunk… Why didn't the healing spell work?"

  "This, I will not tell you. You h
ave chosen to stand in my way. It would be folly for me to help you become stronger." Sullivan turned back to the Power. The mystery of his failure taunted him. The Chairman cleared his throat. "I will tell you this. When one is so very close to death, they have to want to come back. Perhaps your lady believed she would be happier in the next place."

  He nodded slightly. Every moment of Delilah's life had been an uphill fight. From her drunken, abusive father; to her miserable poor upbringing; to a life on the streets; to petty crime, abandoned by everyone she'd ever loved… She'd had to fight for ever scrap that had fallen from life's table. Maybe he was right. Maybe she'd gotten to the end and saw something on the other side that was better… She'd sure earned it. "Thank you, Chairman."

  The leader of the Imperium gave a slight bow. "You are welcome, Mr. Sullivan."

  He spat on the ground. "But I'm still gonna kill you. I swear to God Almighty, I will. I'll kill you and every fool that follows you, including my own brother, for Delilah and every other decent person you've ever hurt."

  "I would expect no less. I look forward to our meeting."

  Sullivan awoke in the tiny sea cave. There was an excited commotion from the other side as a brilliant light scalded his eyes. Faye had returned somehow. His body ached from the damp, but his injuries were mostly healed. His head was clear for the first time. If he could not live for the future, he could live for revenge. He knew exactly what he had to do. If he lived long, there would be time for grief in the future, but now he had duty. He found Delilah's face in the dark and kissed her gently on the cheek. "Goodbye, girl. I'm sorry I let you down."

  ***

  Francis almost had a heart attack as yellow light filled the cave. At first he thought that it was the Peace Ray firing again, but as he lowered his shaking hands, the light resolved into the single circle of an electric torch.

  "I did it!" Faye shouted. "I made it, Mr. Rawls! Good job… Yes, I know I don't need to shout!" she said, still yelling

  "What the hell?" Lance asked. "How'd you get down here?"

  Faye put the torch down and went to John Browning's still form. "No time to explain." She grabbed Browning's hand and they both disappeared.

  "So… I guess that means she made it?" Francis rasped. He was dying of thirst, and wished that Faye had dropped off some fresh water with that lamp. "I thought this was out of her range?"

  "She just keeps getting better faster," Lance said proudly. "That girl's got scary lots of Power. Best Traveler I've ever seen, and getting stronger everyd-"

  The Traveler reappeared and Francis flinched, having never realized that her grey eyes actually reflected light in the dark like a cat. "I'll explain in a minute. I met the nicest old Grimnoir! He's a Reader, and he's putting the picture of up there right in my head!" She latched onto Garrett's leg and took him next.

  "What happens if she runs out of Power while jumping back and forth?" Francis asked nervously. "She doesn't seem to be slowing down any…"

  "I don't know. You probably don't want to go last though." Then Faye appeared, put her hand on Lance's head, and they were both gone.

  Francis felt the cold tug of fear in his gut. He didn't like the idea of magically zipping through a whole bunch of rock, especially in the hands of somebody who was so carefree, no… reckless and-He actually screamed as Faye landed beside him and the next thing he knew, he flopped harmlessly into a pile of ash.

  Faye grinned at him. She was covered in soot from head to toe. Her wild hair was a mess of tangles and blackened sticks. She was completely in her element. This was no longer the scared little girl that they'd found such a short time ago. This was one shockingly gifted Active. "You can thank me later!" she said as she vanished.

  Francis stood shakily. He still felt nauseous from swallowing and vomiting all that seawater. Everything around him was blasted and black. It took him a moment to realize that the ashen lump nearby was all that was left of the mansion he had grown up in. The sky was dark with smoke, and the afternoon sun was angry and red overhead. If he hadn't been already so emotionally drained, he might have started crying.

  In the light, he could finally see how bad his companions looked. Browning was pale as death, nearly blue even. He had been placed onto a stretcher by a few men in long yellow slickers and they were putting him into the back of a truck. Garrett didn't look much better. Madi's bullet had passed through his left arm, leaving a hole that you could put a finger through. He'd become feverish and incoherent over the last few hours. Lance was covered in black and yellow bruises and his beard was matted with blood.

  Faye reappeared, this time with Delilah's body. Francis had to avert his eyes. "Sorry, Mr. Sullivan said that she came up before he did. I'll be right back." Lance limped forward and draped a wool blanket over the corpse as Faye left.

  There were several dirigibles in the air. A flight of biplanes tore past. Dozens of cars and even a few tractors were on the nearby hills. Cameras were snapping and film reels rolling as newsmen recorded the destruction. His home had been isolated, but there had been a lot of other nice houses in the area, and a small town on the other side of the forest now looked like a box of spilled matchsticks. The village was flattened except for a handful of broken buildings. The only things moving were the searchers.

  A man in a cowboy hat approached and offered him a canteen of water. Francis sucked it down greedily. Cold water spilled down his neck. "How long were we down there?" He gasped when he was done.

  "A day and a half," the man said. "We've been combing this place the whole time. We've got a couple thousand volunteers and the Army tearing it apart, but y'all are the first survivors we've found here in the black circle." His eyes were bloodshot. "Everybody else for miles is dead. Then at the line, it just quit killing. We've got hundreds of people with burns and injuries outside the circle, but not a single one killed."

  Francis had no idea how many people had lived in the area. The very thought sickened him. Sullivan and Faye appeared. The volunteers didn't so much as flinch from the display of magic. They'd seen too much already. Sullivan had his Browning Automatic Rifle over one shoulder and was still wearing the canvas vest filled with magazines. The haunted look in his eyes frightened Francis.

  An older black man took Francis by the arm and led him to the back of the truck. His voice was low so the volunteers wouldn't overhear. "Come on. We need to get you knights out of here."

  He was familiar, but it had been a long time since he'd seen a member of the Grimnoir elders. "Mr. Rawls?"

  He held up his left hand, showing his Grimnoir ring. "It's been a long time, Mr. Stuyvesant. And I see that you are a grown man now. Please, call me Isaiah. Come, get in. We have much to discuss."

  Faye was excited, near giddy. She'd been the one that had saved everyone. She'd been the one brave enough to Travel through the cliffs. She'd been the one that had found Mr. Rawls and led him to the spot where the mansion had stood. If Mr. Browning and Mr. Garrett lived, she knew that it was because of her. She was as big a hero as the brave adventurers on the radio programs. She'd never seen a motion picture, but she assumed that she was at least as brave as those people too. She knew that Grandpa would be proud.

  If she could squeeze any more pride inside she figured she would burst. Her Power was stronger than she'd thought. It hadn't let her down. It was still there, as much as ever. It wasn't just a well that she could dip a bucket into. It was a river.

  They'd all been loaded up into the back of the big farm truck and it rumbled through the ash heading north, kicking up plumes of smoke from under the tires, going back toward the city. She was pleased to see that so many folks had shown up from all over to help. Farmers had used their tractors to drag broken trees off what had been the road. They passed an Army bulldozer pushing up dirt, looking for bodies inside what had been a house. After that was another truck like theirs, only all the charcoal things stacked into the back of it had once been people and that made her real sad. The Peace Ray had burned them all.

&
nbsp; There were two new Grimnoir. Both of them were old men, nearly ancient by her standards. Mr. Rawls was the first black man that she'd ever actually spoken with and he seemed really nice. He was a Reader, like General Pershing, only he had a whole lot more Power. His hair was white and his skin was dark as night. His suit was covered in ash, and the fact that he'd jumped right in to help look for survivors made her like him even more. He wasn't afraid to get dirty. She was willing to bet that he was a very nice grandpa to his grandchildren.

  The other one was named Mr. Harkeness. There was something about him that didn't sit right with her. He was old too, but he'd dyed his hair black, like he was trying to disguise his age, but he was too dried out and wrinkly to be vain. His eyes were cold, his face narrow, and he talked funny. He was European, not from the warm, loud, laugh-a-lot side of Europe like Grandpa and his family, but from the cold, harsh, serious side of Europe. Mr. Browning and Mr. Garrett were on litters in the middle of the floor, and he was kneeling between them, checking their vitals.

  "Are you a Healer?" she shouted hopefully over the engine noise.

  "Something like that, child. Not nearly that strong though. Please, let me be."

  Mr. Harkeness had seemed sullen ever since she had first spoken with him. The very first question out of his mouth was if Jane was alive. When she'd told him that Mr. Madi had taken her away, he had given her the sternest glare, like he held her personally responsible for her friend's loss. That wasn't fair at all. She'd killed an Iron Guard and shot Madi and a couple of zombies and kept Francis from getting squished and kept Mr. Sullivan from getting a bullet in the back of the head. She'd done her very best and she wasn't even officially a Grimnoir yet. She'd like to see the fancy-pants European do any of that.

  Her friends were all staring out at the destruction, bouncing back and forth in the rusty truck bed, all except for Mr. Sullivan, who was watching something else, something far away in the distance, where only he could see. Delilah's body had been wrapped in a blanket and he knelt next to it, protectively. She'd sworn to kill Mr. Madi, but she figured it was going to be a race now between the two of them as to who got to kill him first. Mr. Sullivan looked real mad. The truck bed smelled like manure, and that made her feel a little more comfortable, like home. Either way, as long as Madi died, that would make Grandpa and Delilah happy in heaven. Maybe they would kill him together. That seemed fair.