Sister Bernadette cries out in a wordless chord, until the shadows cut her off.
Robert, Xian and I all try to run, but it’s hard. The shadows don’t injure us, which is one thing to be grateful for. I mutter something under my breath, and both of them say “What? ” right back. A little experimentation reveals that we can hear each other when we whisper, no matter how far apart we are. We try to use that as one more advantage in searching for a route out of the ruins, but it doesn’t help. In a matter of minutes, the whole place is a single vivid red sand dune, and the wind whips up waves of it. They wash up to our knees, to our waists, to our necks, over our heads. Suddenly I have the peculiar sensation of falling, falling.
When I come to rest, I open my eyes. I’m lying on dry grass, in Earth gravity. My legs once again lie useless—getting anywhere from here may be an interesting exercise. I turn my head, and see the lab, just a hundred yards away. I turn again, and there overhead is the red star, shining brightly enough that I can make it out even in the light of afternoon.
* * *
MING XIAN
The terrible fall pulls me out of the ruins of that great chantry and away from that trio who, for all their annoying features, seemed to have the answers we would have welcomed. I come to rest and lie on familiar stony ground, not wanting to open my eyes just yet. “Robert? William? ” I whisper.
“Xian. ” “Yes. ” They’re both there, close as a whisper.
“Where are we? ”
“Outside my lab in Raleigh. ” “On the roof of the apartment I was renting in New York. And your “How about you? ” Their answers overlap.
I open my eyes. As I thought, I’m right next to the jeep I drove on my way to commune with my ancestors, back when this began. Everything looks as it was. Except, of course, for the terrible red star overhead.
* * *
Robert Here we are home for different meanings of the word. But what next? Salonikas said he showed us what would happen with us removed. Have we returned? Can we return with this mark of judgment upon us? I suppose we’ll have to find out by trying to resume our lives. If there was much truth at all in what the magisters told us, time is running short.
* * *
* * *
WILLIAM
What comes next, of course, is the debriefing. Technocratic operatives can’t simply disappear from their area of assignment and reappear at home base without any record of their passage without facing some questions. And “facing some questions” means rather a lot in this context.
I feel the psionic contact with Robert and Xian fade almost at once, even as I’m struggling into my wheelchair. That’s no surprise: all the Ragnarok facilities maintain extremely strong psionic dampers, as much against natural phenomena as against would-be psychic seers. (This shouldn’t be a surprise. We have floods, hurricanes, earthquakes and solar flares. Why would you expect the noetic medium to be any different? ) Nor is the next development any surprise: A whole squad of the Men in White shows up. What the proverbial Men in Black are to troublesome outsiders in popular folklore, the Men in White are for the Union’s operations in cold hard reality. They’re scary as hell, to be honest.
Without the augmentations built into my wheelchair coming back online, I wouldn’t have had time to see them. They move fast, faster than human nervous tissue actually allows since they’ve replaced the sodium/potassium ion regulatory mechanism with carbonate cabling inside major nerves. They move very precisely, too, carrying out threat analyses as they go. By the time this squad of five has me surrounded, they know who I am, my recent reported movements, and everything at all relevant out of my files. They brake to a halt in perfect unison, their silver mirror shades reflecting each other’s perfectly pressed white suits. One of them pulls a pocket computer out of his jacket pocket and pokes at it. “Mr. Albacastle, this is not an approved mode of arrival. We’re taking you into analytical detention. ”
Now there’s a phrase that chills my bones. It means pretty much what it sounds like: being taken into custody and taken apart as long and as thoroughly as the investigators deem necessary. Usually what’s left comes out in small containers ready for organ transplants or disposal as toxic waste. It’s not a fate I much relish. “I wish to report a Category IV encounter, and operations cod?20. 5 assigns that immediate priority in the absence of direct manifestation of hostile intent or subvention. Please scan me and let me get on with it. ”
That stops the lead thug. He thinks for a moment, remembers that I’m quite right, and tilts his head slightly. The others all get out their pocket computers and fire up instruments intended to examine me for signs of manipulation by means of cybernetics, biochemical alteration, and quite a long list of other means. They can drag their feet a bit at this, and they do, but the operations code is clear. When I say I’ve had a Category IV encounter, that takes precedence over nearly everything this side of a repetition of the 1999 Bangladeshi incident.
And yes, of course we wrote in that provision deliberately. It’s not our fault if Inter-Convention Security Procedures Standardization Oversight let it pass, right?
Ten minutes later (in the side door, up the elevator, across a double-doored bridgeway, up another elevator, into the biggest room in the next-to-top floor), I’m sitting in front of an impressive bank of cameras and monitors, facing the Director of Security for the facility, the boss Man in White, and an assortment of flunkies. DirSec is an old-school sort of fellow. I sometimes think that he really wishes he were back in the Union’s founding days so that he could wear silk hats and cravats without attracting skeptical attention. I don’t simply think he’d like to throw me to the wolves. I know it for a fact, thanks to his comments on my fitness reports. But I also know that his sense of propriety requires him to do it purely and precisely by the rules. That’s my opening: given a situation that I can’t explain coherently, I can get investigations rolling and sustain them long enough to work out something adequate.
“Senior Analyst Albacastle, ” DirSec begins, “you assert a Category IV encounter. Please summarize the circumstances and details of the encounter. ”
I describe Terry Vineces presenting himself to me, and our ensuing travels. There’s an interruption there from one of the flunkies. Was I aware of current protocols with regard to suspected defectors and related hostiles? “Yes, indeed I am, ” I say and reel off the relevant passages until it’s clear that nobody can plausibly question my mastery of the code. I add, “Given that there was first information to gather and then anomalous behavior to study, I judged that on-the-spot surveillance was of paramount concern. Yes, I gambled that I’d be able either to return myself or pass on sufficient data via standard drop procedures, but it seemed a gamble worth taking. ”
From there we get into verbal fencing about the details.
* * *
Robert My first sustained emotion upon returning to this little room proves to be sheer outrage. Things end, yes, but spirits endure; this is one of the most basic tenets of shamanic practice. Consequences and connections both extend far past the end of the mortal body, whether it’s a worm, a tree, a person, or a larger entity like a continent or culture or cloud. Furthermore, much of the shaman’s day-to-day work is learning the names and natures of individual spirits. There are categories somewhat analogous to the biological notion of species, but they only go so far in explaining beings who each originate in unique circumstances and may have nearly unlimited capacity to redesign themselves over time. So this impending apocalypse isn’t just an offense against the order of spiritual life, it’s somebody else’s apocalypse, by damn. I’m just stuck dealing with it.
While I sort through my anger at it all, I feel the telepathic bond with Xian and the stranger, William, fading rapidly. By the time I’m upright, dressed, groomed, and ready to step out into the hall, I’m alone in my head. But not alone in my spirit walk! I feel faint stirrings in the dumpster down below, and know that although it may take a while yet, the Rubbish is on its way back
to me.
That makes it all a lot more tolerable. For all that I sometimes curse my totem (like many other shamans), it belongs to me and I belong to it for good reasons, and I’ll act more wisely in its company.
In the meantime, though, I should check on my tribe of the day. I don’t feel any of that unnatural ordering that Mike and Louie were responsible for. It’s too much to hope for that they just stopped it, or that they fully awakened to their power and began using it responsibly. More likely, they’ve a) moved on or b) been killed or otherwise seriously shut up, and I owe it to my neighbors to find out what.
The first person I meet in the hallway is one of the maids. Estella, I remember after a moment’s thought. She’s one of the oldest, one of the first to identify me as el brujo, and in her quiet faith and determination to bless her surroundings quite a potent force for good. She smiles when she sees me, and asks in her typically courteous way, “Is Mr. Robert rested today? ”
I shake my head, while giving her back the same courtesy. “I’m sorry to say it, but no, ma’am. I was called away unexpectedly to deal with sick relatives, and then sent back rudely when they were done. How have things been while I was goner’ I realize that I don’t actually know what the day is, and the vagaries of spirit travel being what they are, I might have been away much more (or less) time than I experienced.
She holds up two fingers and ticks off points. “Two days ago, you leave, all very sick. A terrible spirit of oppression descends on us all, a prison of up and down. ” I nod at that; it’s as good a description of the phenomenon as I could have managed. “One day ago, the prison is gone, hack to normal. ” She smiles. “Today, who knows? Maybe anything. ”
The relief from that terrible confinement is good news, at least. “Did you see Louie or Mike? " She looks a little confused, so I describe their appearance.
Gradually she realizes who I’m talking about, and looks very serious. “Yes, I see them, and a terrible thing. ”
“Oh? What was it? ”
“Someone burn them, ” she says, “on the evening of two days ago. Right out on the street. A car drive by, someone shout at them, and they burst into flame. Man in car must have throw gasoline or worse at them. They die quick, but not quick enough. Screams linger a long time. ”
I wince. It’s not surprising: they were channeling a tremendous amount of raw power by the time I left, and if you don’t know what you’re doing with that, it can—and eventually will— turn on you. I would have liked the chance to make the outcome better than this, though, not least because I’m going to have to hunt down stray spirits driven unbalanced by it all. “I’m sorry, ma’am, that must have been a terrible thing for you. I will pray for you. ”
That meets with her approval, and she gives me a small nod. “It is good. And I pray for their souls. Something must be very wrong for death to come like that, yes? ”
“Very wrong indeed. May it pass from us all. ”
She crosses herself. “You be good, Mr. Robert. Heaven needs you. Always too many to watch on Earth. ”
I don’t know anything about what Heaven may want, but she's certainly right about Earth. “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll do my best. ”
Downstairs and out through the lobby I go, feeling the currents stirred up by confined spirits now released but still feeling uncomfortable. I get a cup of coffee from the urn the day manager keeps available, sit in a chair, and sip it gently while making small offerings. A drop of hot coffee here, a sprinkle of sugar there, a strand of fresh-plucked hair to bridge them, and soon the lobby’s spirits are at least listening to me, even if they’re not very happy about it.
“Comfort comes, ” I tell them, speaking to the little eddies in the dark comers and those swirling around my feet. A single flicker overhead indicates that at least some of the lamps are paying attention as well. “Your tormenters are gone, and I will see that you are all properly fed. ”
Something hisses back at me from underneath my chair. “New tormenters. ”
Aw, hell. "New ones? ”
“Outside, ” the unseen thing says.
“Then I’ll check it out, ” I tell it, and drink nearly all the rest of the coffee, leaving only the dregs for the spirits. They like to feed on those.
* * *
MING XIAN
I make the descent back down to Urumqi without any particular sense of haste. I’ll have to account for my absence for the last few days, but that’s not terribly difficult; if necessary, I can always blame it on bandits, who have taken up the Western gangster tradition of kidnapping for profit. The route itself is familiar to me, and as I drive I have plenty of time to think.
My heart longs to believe that it’s all a trick, or all irrelevant, that the world has many ages still to come, dynasties to rise and fall, revolutions of the celestial pole, of the sun through the galaxy, all the great cycles that science and tradition both speak of. Where is there, in any of the teachings given to me, room for the end to be now7.
But my head knows that to deny what inner and outer senses confirm is the beginning of folly. What we have is the world as made manifest to us in accordance with our various Ways. If we do not accept the world, we have nothing else. Alone, I experienced a terrible severance thanks to the red force that the dead magician identified as Judgment. Then I experienced a peculiar rebirth, and a second death and transfiguration, all simply to arrive at the place where he and his comrades could speak to me. I think that I would be a poor custodian of my Way if I failed to grant at least some weight to what they told us. When Heaven paves the royal road to wisdom that dramatically, its servant must pay heed.
So, then, the Time of Judgment has come upon us. (My thoughts get this far as I come down out of the mountains, and onto the lowlands highways. Tanker trucks stalled for reasons unclear to me give me more time to think. ) My old mistresses, the Wu Keng, will never achieve the throne of China, or at least not long enough for it to matter. Nor will their old rivals, the arch-chauvinist men of the Wu Lung. Nor will anyone else. The current premier is the closest there will ever be to an emperor of All Under Heaven. That’s a depressing thought, to put it mildly. My ancestors, like so many others, had always hoped for a more righteous day, and it will never come to them.
What can there be for me, in the time remaining? Poor dead Magister Porthos, Sister Bernadette, Magister Salonikas. The Red Star sought them out, as it sought out we living three. It was aware of our unusual power to come. That thought terrifies me. If judgment comes first to all the most powerful, then the weak will be left on their own to face dissolution. How can their souls possibly be ready for that? Even in normal times, they need teachers and guides to tend to their little crises and show them the Way through difficulties. Soon, perhaps, they’ll have to do the most perilous passage of all on their own. It seems a cruel trick on the part of the cosmos.
As I drive through the industrial wastelands, leaving the tanker trucks behind at last and alternating between the highway and branching side roads, I become angry at the whole tragedy. This land around me could blossom again, given many years of loving cultivation, prayerful ritual, and blessings in the tending. Heaven has chosen not to allow it. I cannot help but see this as a blemish in what ought to be perfection. The thing is so sudden, so hasty. I will never put myself in opposition to the will of Heaven, having no desire to become one of the hungry ghosts or worse, but I also choose not to acquiesce in any victory for corruption and waste that I might yet fight. The great masters of the Way teach that the small is reflected in the big, and vice versa. Our gardens speak of forests and jungles, the lights in our hallways and cars of the rivers of stars.
I determine that if I have no time to redeem the big, I may yet nevertheless redeem the small. If China cannot pass into Heaven with a worthy emperor on the throne, still there might be some justice and virtue to be had in Xingjian Uygur, or Urumqi, or the seventh district, or my block. Heaven’s hastiness cannot keep me from ministering as I may.
* *
*
WILLIAM
By midnight on the second day of interrogation, I think I have a pretty full sense of their agenda. My old friend Terry is apparently part of a trend toward former magician-styled reality deviants turning to psychotic philosophies and developing previously unsuspected aptitude for very dodgy psionic manipulation of the world at very low structural levels. The thing that the Men in White and the supporting Tac Ops guys really want to know is whether there’s a causal link (and if so, in which direction— psychosis to power or vice versa), or whether the power comes from something unrelated. They’re also waiting for me to start a little cracking up of my own, and in addition to their scientific interest, the ones I’ve alienated along the way are hoping for some good old-fashioned horror-movie entertainment.
I don’t oblige them, of course. I don’t have the sort of power they think I do, and while they may disapprove, the fact is that I am not anywhere close to the boundaries of acceptable Union outlook. The closest I come to anything that would warrant action is the anger I display at having my usual wheelchair taken away. Granted it makes sense, since they don’t want me going all MacGyver at an inopportune moment, but still, this twenty-year-old clunker they’ve given me for the duration of interrogation just sucks. I let them know just how much I disapprove of it and remind them of choice Union codes when it comes to the wasteful prosecution of ill-founded cases. That latter part would probably be more convincing if they didn’t have good evidence of my running around in the midst of the hematovore mystery and consorting with the worst kind of fucking weirdo, but one takes one’s leverage where one may.
The great escape begins just after midnight. A young guard I remember from the security around telescope transport keeps me company. Well, okay, he’s watching me and under orders to shoot me if I try to violate my restraints—and if he’s as good as he once he was, I wouldn’t have much of a chance if I did. We’re seven floors down from interrogation with three to go before detention level, when the power goes out.
World of Darkness - [Time of Judgment 03] - Judgment Day Page 18