Valentine winced. “Ugh. Is this what it’s like for you?”
“I’m assuming, yeah.”
She sat the champagne glass on the bar, looked out the darkened window. “Whoo, I owe you a boatload of retroactive apologies. Mental note: add more tutorials.”
But Paul was already delving into the layers of shell corporations that swirled around Lawrence Payne. When he looked up, he saw Payne wreathed in cold blue numbers, stock market tickers circling protectively around him.
Now that Paul knew what to look for, he slipped through Payne’s defenses effortlessly, shucking aside the false trails.
Paul squeezed his eyes shut – and when they opened, his eyeballs were white as ledger paper, inscribed with small dollar signs scrolling up his eyelids.
“You own a private mental hospital near Hudson Valley that hasn’t accepted an outside request in ages,” Paul said, his voice booming like a CNN anchor. “You don’t advertise – also rare for a private institution. The Peregrine Institute isn’t even ranked on US News and World Report’s list of mental health care facilities. All your staffing records list people who don’t work on-site – except for a few discredited psychologists you list as ‘consultants.’ Yet you funnel millions in charitable contributions to it.”
Rainbird, startled, looked over at Payne’s smug grin.
“So,” Paul finished. “When we get to the Peregrine Institute, how many ’mancers will I find under your care?”
“That’s it!” Payne cried. He launched himself halfway across the bar, spry for an old man, to grab Paul’s bleeding arm.
“I told you how you and I were one of a handful of people in New York who’d witnessed a broach.” Payne squeezed the blood-soaked Maxi pad strapped to Paul’s left forearm as if to emphasize just how dangerous the broach had been. “But reality only tears when ’mancers are at odds. Germany is cut to ribbons because mundanes feared us, shoved us to warfare, made us fight – so when I got to America, I vowed I would make a haven for ’mancers. So we could live in harmony.”
He released his grip, his face hollowed. Paul saw the strain it must have taken to create a hidden sanctuary and keep it hidden for the past half a century.
“Let’s be honest, Paul: I’m pushing eighty. Rainbird is effective at what he does, but most ’mancers – well, they’re either not as powerful as you and Valentine and your darling daughter, or they’re not suited for leadership. I thought when I died, this – it would dissolve. But now I have someone who can catalogue everything I have, maintain it…”
Valentine straightened. “So OK, you’ve got millions of dollars, a huge company and a mysterious wonderland at your disposal.”
“Yes.”
“That makes you Willy fucking Wonka, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
She whistled. “And that makes little Charlie Bucket here…”
“Indeed, Ms DiGriz. Mr Tsabo here is the best candidate to be my rightful successor. Assuming the ’mancers under my protection accept him, of course.”
“Fuuuuuck.” Valentine downed her champagne glass in one gulp.
Eighteen
The Masque of the Red Tape
As the limousine pulled up the winding driveway to the Peregrine Institute, Paul felt a great tension unclench in his chest. The gatehouse had an attendant in a crisp white uniform who checked their papers before allowing them in. Groundskeepers raked leaves off the vast lawn and stuffed them into bags. A delivery truck sat out front, with a cook signing in a load of fresh groceries.
“We have seventeen ’mancers in residence.” Payne’s voice took on the plummy tones of a tour guide. “Most of my employees here are unaware of who they’re taking care of. They’re told – correctly – that these are special-needs patients on a retreat from the world. We imply my clients are celebrities who value their privacy – which, as far as I’m concerned, is true. They’re paid well to maintain our clients’ confidentiality. Only a trusted handful know who they’re really dealing with.”
Aliyah, however, bolted halfway out of her seat. She had the joyous beam of a kid waking up on her birthday. “Seventeen ’mancers?”
Payne laughed indulgently. “Yes, my sweet girl. Not quite the hundreds that Anathema promised, but her assault on New York did create an uptick. We save as many as we can, but it’s difficult – they’re such helpless creatures.”
“Helpless?” Valentine asked. “I held off a SMASH squadron by myself. Seems like–” She counted on her fingers “– seventeen ’mancers, plus your bureaucromancy, would let you take over NYC at will.”
“If only every new recruit was as powerful as you,” Payne lamented. Valentine preened despite herself. “Most ’mancers we find are low-key, possessing only a trick or two. Useful in the right circumstances, but don’t expect them to destroy the Institute with a wave of their hands.”
Valentine sized up the Institute – a sprawling two-wing, three-story marble building covered in ivy. The crenellations up top were made from fine white marble, the bushes below were trimmed into playful dog shapes tussling in leafy abandon, lending a festive air to the grounds.
But hints of the Institute’s true ability poked through, if you knew where to look. The Institute’s entryway had large steel gates, ready to be slammed shut in case of emergency – necessary reinforcement in case the cops came knocking. All the windows had thick steel shutters ready to drop into place.
And if you peered very closely, you could see sniper holes carved into the crenellations.
Yet the Peregrine Institute’s forbidding nature calmed Paul. It had size. It had scope. It had staffing. The built-in defenses spoke of planning.
Up until now, Paul had been on his own, guessing the best way to try to raise Aliyah. Here, there were protocols. Payne had run this place in secrecy for years; there would be regulations formed from experiences.
The Peregrine Institute had professionals who knew how to train ’mancers, and that thought filled Paul with glee.
Aliyah bounced on her tiptoes, pressing her face against the window, vibrating like Paul had only seen her on Christmas morning. And not even recent Christmas mornings. Paul hadn’t seen her that eager to be anywhere since – well, since before the fire.
She waved him over, whispering into his ear so the others wouldn’t hear.
“Is that my new school, Daddy?” she asked.
Paul’s throat hitched. He would finally have help, raising Aliyah. He nodded.
She hugged him.
“Thank you.” She leaned in closer, wanting to make her gratitude a private present to her father. “Thank you, Daddy….”
“I could destroy that with a wave of my hands,” Valentine boasted, polishing her fingernails on her dress’s shoulder. “A big mansion like this goes boom in every cutscene.”
“Which is why we’re quite glad to have you, believe you me,” said Payne. “It’s all fine and well to have a culinomancer make you a grilled cheese without a scrap of trans fat, but that’s useless once the guns come out. And besides….” Payne pursed his lips, evaluating Valentine. “If you’re as good as I hope you are, perhaps you’ll be one of my trusted agents who rescues the poor dears before SMASH gets to them.”
They cruised to a stop at a set of bulkier gates, this one with tire spikes embedded in the ground. A trio of uniformed guards, wearing holstered guns, emerged from a security booth to wave them through. The limo pulled around towards the rear entrance.
Here, at the Institute’s rear, looking over the sprawling green fields, the shutters were rusted shut and covered with dead ivy. The friendly topiary gave way to NO TRESPASSING signs. Shadows fell over the limo, cast by overhead trellises, and Paul guessed that’s what stopped any satellite imagery from picking up anything odd here.
The limo cruised to a halt before the shallow marble steps leading up to the Institute’s rear entryway. This one had a single steel door just wide enough for one person to enter at a time, rimmed with heavy automated bolt locks
and a metal box mounted at the side of the door at water-fountain height. It took a moment for Paul to identify the box as a retinal scanner.
“Is that them?” Aliyah’s voice was a high-pitched squeal of delight. Payne gave her an indulgent smile. “Is that where the ’mancers are?”
“Yes. We just have to go over the rules, and then you can meet my ’mancers.”
“All seventeen of them?”
“Sixteen. You’ve met Rainbird,” he allowed. “And… well, Mr Rainbird may be the only ’mancer you meet today. Most, well, they keep to themselves. And that’s the second most important rule here, Aliyah – not just for you, but for Ms DiGriz and Mr Tsabo as well. Your room at the Peregrine Institute is your own. No one else may enter your room without your permission – or you theirs. Your space is sacrosanct.”
Paul could see Aliyah’s eyes narrow. She’d be looking that word up later. But Valentine gave Payne the stink-eye. “…we get rooms?”
Payne spread his hands in a gesture that hovered somewhere between dear me, I forgot! and what a surprise! “Luxury suite. Though honestly, the ‘no trespassing’ rule is for your safety as much as theirs – that’s where they do their ’mancy. Things change in there. So as much as you’ll be tempted to open Mrs Liu’s door and pet her kitties, well…”
“You might be pulled into a hallway full of infinite cats and never be seen again,” Rainbird finished.
Aliyah gave Payne a deeply suspicious look.
Payne regarded her evenly. “It’s no joke, Aliyah. Our spaces are sacred. It’s where we create alternatives to this world’s laws. If you stumble into someone else’s space without knowing their rules, well… bad things can happen. And speaking of bad things….”
He unhooked a microphone from the car door. “This is the King of New York, confirming the airlock is cleared. We have unmasked with us. This is not a drill.”
“…the airlock?” Valentine asked.
“The internal staff are not allowed to fraternize.” Payne tapped his temple; his wrinkled cheeks puffed out, turned angular, his sagging skin hardening into the glossy sheen of a lacquered mask. His hair fused into a solid wavy mass, turning dark brown. Within seconds, Payne’s harsh ex-Marine face had become an art deco art piece: a young, handsome warrior with bright red dots in the center of both cheeks, sporting a lion’s mane of a beard and a golden crown.
“Cool,” Aliyah whispered. Payne leaned forward, his porcelain lips curling up in a geometric grin, offering up his newfound face for exploration. Aliyah pressed her palms against Payne’s forehead:
“It feels like glass!”
“It is glass,” Payne said. “Well, porcelain. Mrs Vinere, our masqueromancer, makes them quite comfortable. You forget you’re wearing them – which is good, for you may never be in the Institute without a mask.”
“We gotta be masked?” Valentine asked. “How many rules are there, anyway?”
“Well, we are bureaucromancers.” Payne gave Paul a chummy punch on the shoulder. “So quite a few. Yet I assure you, they’re all time-tested rules, proven to ensure safety.”
Valentine glanced over at Rainbird, who now wore the burning tree mask he’d worn when he’d teleported into Paul’s place – that anguished expression carved out of twisted bark, the eyes glowing with hellfire, the mouth contorted like a damned soul. “How’s making the world’s creepiest Halloween party keep us safe?”
Payne turned to Aliyah, a teacher giving a class.
“The biggest problem in hiding ’mancers is SMASH’s Unimancy. Do you know what the government does to you if they catch you, Aliyah?”
Aliyah shivered. “They take you out to the Refactor. And they… they torture you.”
“Government psych-ops professionals put you in isolation cells and run batteries of stress tests on you, forcing you to escape into whatever fantasies you’ve constructed. In our case, our fantasies are our power – so if you can do ’mancy, the government will drive you to do it. Once they uncover your true nature, the brainwashing begins.”
Valentine coughed, directing Payne’s attention to how miserable Aliyah looked. “I’m not sure the kid needs to hear about the Refactor.”
“She’s a soldier, like the rest of us,” Rainbird interrupted. “The more she knows, the smarter she’ll be. Keeping a child in a war zone uneducated is tantamount to murder.”
“Quite so, Rainbird,” Payne said, pleased. “You may reignite yourself.”
Rainbird fumbled eagerly for a Zippo lighter, lit his cigar, sucked in a deep breath with supreme fulfillment. With great satisfaction, he mashed the lit cigar into the circle of blisters in his palm. They burst apart, trickling magma onto the limousine carpet, filling the car with toxic smoke that made Paul cough.
Rainbird stiffened, the sigils on his cheeks glowing like a lit furnace, his face a paroxysm of ecstasy.
Aliyah balled her hands into fists, took a deep breath, and inched closer to Rainbird’s burning suit.
Show her what she fears, and she digs in, Paul thought.
The radio crackled. “Clear for entry, Your Highness.”
Payne grabbed the microphone. “Confirm camera shutdown. We have unmasked with us.”
“Shutdown confirmed. Entry at your command.”
Payne preened. “You see, Paul? Like clockwork.”
Payne exited the car quickly, walking with the brisk pace of a man giving a factory tour on limited time. He bent over and glared into the scanner, which flashed a blinding green. Rainbird handed Payne a handkerchief as Payne dabbed the tears from his eyes.
A whirr came from the box as it confirmed Payne’s identity. The doors unlatched with a harsh explosive sound. Rainbird pulled the door open, revealing a long corridor of polished gold-flecked marble, tastefully recessed fluorescent lights, and oil portraits of Mr Payne’s King-of-New-York mask peering sternly down. Both sides were lined with keypad-locked doors – an upscale institution somewhere between a college dormitory and a banking lobby.
Aliyah ran in, then skidded to a halt, looking in befuddlement around her.
“A few more rules before you can see the other ’mancers, Aliyah,” Payne said, taking her hand to lead her down the hallway. “As you can see, every employee here – well, the internal staff, anyway – has their own changing room, to prevent unwanted camaraderie. The less they know, the better. Come on, let’s bring you to the trainee room, we’ll get you masked up.”
Valentine backed up against the entryway, not budging from the doorway as Payne and Aliyah walked down the hall.
“‘Masked up.’” Valentine flattened herself against the entryway. “Christ, this antiseptic hallway’s already a Resident Evil level as it is. Throw in the Red Death, here, and we’re approaching Silent Hill levels of fuckimosity.”
Paul sighed. “I suppose you think I get that reference? Or, in fact, any of your references?”
Valentine beamed. “Nope! I make ’em to amuse me.”
“Come on, Valentine. I know you’re not big on regulations, but…” He lowered his voice, grateful Payne had given them a moment alone. “Aliyah. She needs some guidelines. And we–”
Valentine poked Paul’s chest. “I know what this means to her. That’s why I’m doing it. But I reserve the right to say this isn’t for me.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I know. I know. Just… give it a chance, OK?”
She lifted her hands before her eye, like a magician unveiling a trick. “Look at my face, Paul. You see this dubious resignation? This. This is my ‘giving it a chance’ face. What I want from you is your ‘I understand that Valentine’s not big on creepy white guy fiefdoms’ face.”
Paul bugged his eyes out and gave her a wan smile. “Is that the face you need?”
She hid a smirk, pushed him gently away. “God, no wonder you’re single.”
She put her arm around him and sauntered down the hallway, catching up with Payne and Aliyah.
“…I don’t do it to be cruel to our employees, Aliy
ah,” Payne explained. “Keeping them separated is necessary to the Institute’s safety.”
“How’s that work?”
“The trick is, once SMASH brainwashes you to learn Unimancy, your thoughts become theirs. You want to tell them everything you know – including the names, faces, and powers of every ’mancer you ever met. One of the reasons ’mancers can’t band together to fight the government is because the more ’mancers you network together, the quicker they fall once one is captured.”
Satisfied, Payne stopped to unlock a door – a door that, to Paul’s eyes, seemed like every other door in the facility. Except this one led to a tiled locker room lined with luchador masks and green nurses’ scrubs. Each luchador mask had a different name embroidered on the forehead: SKIMMER. ARTICHOKE. HYMNAL.
“…the fuck?” Valentine said.
“Standard procedure for mundanes.” Payne shut the door, locking it. Another locked door with a card reader stood at the far end of the narrow locker room, marked with a bright orange sign: “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. PSYCHIATRIC PATIENTS WITHIN. TRESPASSING WILL BE PROSECUTED.”
That’s where the ’mancers live, Paul thought, giddy with anticipation.
Payne consulted a clipboard, running his finger down it. Muttering, he plucked a bright orange, full-faced wrestling mask off a brass post, then knelt down to speak to Aliyah with ritual solemnity.
“This,” Payne said, snapping the mask open briskly between his hands, “is how we fight SMASH: anonymity. None of the nurses know what the residents look like. None of the residents know what each other looks like. None of the employees know each other’s names, just the names on the hoods. If someone betrays us, they can only tell SMASH so much.”
Except for us, Paul thought guiltily. We figured out who Payne was.
“Even Rainbird is not his true name.” Payne jerked his chin over towards Rainbird, who glowered at the revelation. “I chose it out of a book. He left his name behind to become something stronger in here… and I ask you to do the same.”
The Flux Page 13