Battle Hill Bolero

by Daniel José Older

  “Ha . . . in theory,” the doctor titters. He brings his hands down and rubs them together. “Of course . . . things don’t always pan out that way. At the Sunset Park headquarters, there is a corresponding room where the information itself is broadcast, but it’s not, shall we say, reliable?”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “Often the data is out of date, or just gone. But most people don’t know that.” He’s pleading with me, proving his worth in secrets.

  Carlos.

  I walk along the edge of the Brain, avoiding the threads and keeping Dr. Calloway in my peripheral. “Seems important.”

  “Oh, very!” He falls into a glidey step beside me.

  “Then why doesn’t the Council care about it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Four soulcatchers to guard the central communication site of the entire operation? Seems low priority.”

  “Ah, no one can destroy what they don’t know exists. The Brain is one of the Council of the Dead’s best-kept secrets.” He’s excited now, right back in his nerd-bro element. “Secrecy is the best form of defense, yes?”

  “Apparently not,” I say. I bring my blade down on the nearest glowing strand. It doesn’t give right away, some tough ghost fiber, but with some added encouragement from my shoulders, the thread shivers and then collapses, the newly free strand floating off and disintegrating in the darkness.

  “Oh no!” Dr. Calloway screams. He lurches toward the squiggly stump of thread left behind. “This is . . . treason! And the Council will . . . oh! I—” He stops short because my blade is in his face.

  “Carlos Delacruz.”

  “W-what?”

  “Show me the thread that’s connected to Carlos Delacruz.”

  “But I—”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  Dr. Calloway shakes his head, coughs, simpers, and then deflates a little and leads me to the other side of the Brain. At the far end of the room, a slightly open door lets a sliver of light into the dark warehouse. I nod at it. “Someone else here, Dr. Calloway?”

  “No! I swear it! She’s out.”

  “She?”

  “I . . . It doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, but it does. Show me Carlos’s thread; then we’ll talk about this she.”

  He floats up amongst the glowing Brain strands, eyes squinted, mouth opening and closing around some inconceivable equations, and finally yells, “This one!”

  “Bring it to me.”

  He frowns, looking back and forth between me and the thread, then eyeing the far door. “You won’t make it,” I say. “And if you do, my people outside will kill you. And if they don’t, I’ll find you later and kill you and everything you love.”

  Reza taught me that one. It only works if you really mean it when you say it. I do and it does: Dr. Calloway wraps his trembling ghost hand around the thread and pulls it down to where I stand. It looks like the rest except for a dim red hue.

  “They’ll know,” he says, still holding on to it.

  “I’m sure they will.” I cut the thread—a strange gift, a strange kind of freedom for a strange man.

  Dr. Calloway sighs, then looks at me with wide eyes as it dawns on him his usefulness has worn out.

  “Who’s this she?” I nod at the open doorway.

  He shakes his head, backing away. “Please, don’t . . . no. Just . . . do whatever you want, but I can’t . . . don’t make me . . .”

  Chasing him down will be more trouble than it’s worth at this point. “Go.” I turn toward the door. “Believe that I can find you, wherever you end up. You have more to fear from me than the Council.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Calloway whispers.

  The door opens to a small office that’s been converted into a crude kind of living space. There’s an air mattress, an electric stove top, a Crock-Pot, and a space heater. On the rusty old metal desk in the corner: a laptop.

  There isn’t much time. At some point, the Council will realize their precious CentCom has been sabotaged. I’m not sure how long it’ll take them to get their shit together and counterattack, but I’d rather not find out. I scoop up the laptop, walk out the door, and freeze.

  Dr. Calloway stands at the far end of the room. He waves his hands over his head, then turns and runs toward me, squealing in terror. Something huge emerges from the shadows. It’s carrying a long length of chain that glimmers in the glow of the Brain. Dr. Calloway turns back to look, shrieks, and then trips over himself. The thing lurches, and its chain lashes out, crashes down on Calloway in a tangled heap. A dozen screaming mouths open across the monster’s bulky, misshapen form. It’s a throng haint, a collected mash of spirits. And it’s pissed. The throng haint reels its chain back in, dragging Dr. Calloway with it. When he lies writhing at its feet, the haint reaches two long, bulgy shadow arms down and scoops him up, extracting him from the chain. Calloway lets out one final shriek as he’s enveloped into the haint’s flickering mass, and then he’s gone—another open mouth in the mire.

  I drop the laptop and launch forward while the throng haint is still taking Calloway in. It flicks a wrist and the chain whips up to meet me. My blade cuts a long upward arc, clanging against the chain. The chain doesn’t shatter like I thought it would—instead, the reverberations shoot up my already-wounded arm, throw me wildly off-balance. I hurl myself to the side just as the other end of the chain crashes down where I’d just been.

  The throng haint whirls, sending its whip in a low circle across the room and shredding at least a dozen ghost threads in its path. I hit the floor, barely in time, and roll out of the way, panting. The haint lurches again, throws a bulky, tumorous shoulder forward and the chain comes flying over its head toward me. I roll again. I won’t be able to keep this up much longer. I rise running, aim directly at the haint, and flush to the side at the last minute, dragging my blade across its midsection as I pass. An arm bursts out of its bulk, smashes clumsily against my shoulder. I spin at the ground but manage to slice it as I fall. Part of its shadowy hand disperses into the air.

  The throng haint howls, a hideous Klaxon exploding inside my head. Then it hurls the entire coiled mass of chains at me. I clamber away, gasping. A dull, pulsing ache works its way up my leg.

  I’m caught.

  The haint is on me, faster than I thought possible, long, bulbous arms closing in on either side. I’m in no position to get leverage, but I swing anyway, clipping off a few fingers to clear those hands and then stabbing at its midsection. Mouths open, teeth gnashing, saliva dripping, and I shove my blade in one. The haint shudders, clobbers at my shoulder with one arm, but it’s a sloppy attack. I swat its arm away, stab another open mouth, and then pull my blade upward, cleaving through ichorous haint flesh and slicing through a few mouths on the way.

  The haint falls to its knees. The mouths keep opening and closing around me. If it collapses forward, we might go out together. I slash again, up and then across, opening generous new gashes in its bulk. The chain still has my ankle pinned though.

  “Sasha!”

  Janey. I can’t turn to look, not with this monster still clawing. I get two more cuts in and then throw myself as far out of the way as I can when the haint falls forward in a muddled heap, barely missing my leg.

  “The chain,” I gasp as Janey runs up. She’s on it, shoving the scrabbling creature aside with her glowing red hands. The thing’s flesh dissipates at her touch. She grabs the chain, extracts my foot, pulls me up.

  My sword comes down on what’s left of the throng haint. Then again. And again.

  “Sash.”

  “Shh.”

  It’s scattered shreds of shimmering, empty flesh now. I splatter each one, watch them dissipate.

  “Sash, we gotta go.”

  She’s right. I close my eyes, bow slightly to the carnage. Shred as many strands of Brain matte
r as I can on the way to the door. “Thank you, Janey,” I say quietly.

  Outside, the snow cascades in relentless sheets. We’re halfway down the hill when something prickles at the back of my neck. I look back, squinting through the snow and darkness.

  “C’mon,” Janey urges, but something’s out there. Something watches us. “What is it?”

  I shake my head. And then my eyes adjust and I see them. Eight more throng haints stand at the top of the hill, shimmering chains in hand. They don’t move; they just watch us as we turn back toward the boat and run.

  Carlos

  There was this moment a few months ago, and I feel like it’s been imprinted on my mind, lingering with me ever since. The Council had sent me to Remote District 17 to quell a potentially unstable situation. To the Council, anyone having a good time without permission constitutes a potentially unstable situation, but in this case, a bunch of ghosts had figured out how to immigrate into the district and they were flooding the streets—the living communed in the full public eye with their ancestors. And it was . . . it was beautiful. I’d brought Jimmy with me; he was still pretty new on the ghost scene, and for a moment I just stood there and took it in, this marvel of coexistence, this armistice in the war I carried within me. A dapper, middle-aged shroud accompanied a fully alive little old lady to the bakery. Three little ghostlings played hopscotch with some living kids, while teenagers both flesh and ethereal looked on.

  Something in me almost broke right then and there. I pulled it together, though. There was a rebellion about to break out, and not the good kind—this one was a massacre waiting to happen. No time to get misty-eyed about what would never be.

  I remember that happy street, as I do at least eight times a day, while I stand off to the side with Ookus, Riley, and Damian. One by one the Remote Districts send their reps to confer privately with Cyrus. The respect for the old conjurer is palpable; infighting and related bullshit falls away as each spirit takes a turn trudging through the falling snow to where Cyrus waits by the forest. First up is Saeen Moughari, the woman who butted heads with Moco. They confer quietly, and then she returns to the RD 4 contingent; they nod at the others and fade into the night.

  Father Desmond reps RD 5. He’s an older cat, doesn’t seem to want any trouble, but his area sits along the southern reach of East New York and his folks have been fed up with the Council for ages now. He leans his old shaggy head forward to listen to Cyrus’s whisper, then thinks quietly for a few moments, eyes closed. Cyrus waits, then smiles when Father Desmond mutters a final word and departs.

  Kaya Doxtator and Breyla Phan are next. RD 7 sits nestled into a far corner of Harlem, and they’ve sent a large delegation. Kaya and Breyla always move as a pair—I think they’re connected by some kind of unseen magic—so Cyrus doesn’t bother trying to get one or the other to come. RD 7 has risen up a few times already, always with deadly consequences; I’m sure they’ve been waiting a long time for this day.

  Vincent Jackson swaggers through the snow with that never-ending ease he always radiates. Like me, Vincent died so violently it tore every memory of his life away. But it was a high-profile case, and soon after he showed up as a spirit, all of Remote District 12 clamored to let him know what happened, who he was. They showed him his family, the corner he’d stood on when the cops blew him away, took him to the protests that had erupted in his name. Soon other spirits who’d been killed by cops gathered to him, and the Black Hoodies were born—one of the most badass ghost crews in open defiance of the Council. And the Council was predictably pissed—they’d lost control of the narrative from jump, but Vincent was too big a deal to snuff out. Cyrus embraces him like an old friend, and they chat amiably for a few minutes before getting down to business, Cyrus’s reckless, cigar-stained cackle echoing through the park.

  Moco staggers forward, always a little off kilter. I don’t know if it’s those wandering, bugged-out eyes or just a general awkwardness, but the dude can’t seem to walk a straight line. He’s with Cyrus the longest, nodding, then shaking his head, then nodding again. Finally, they part. Moco bows slightly, and then he fades away with the rest of RD 17 and we’re alone.

  “Nice of you to show up,” Krys says, working her way out of the woods with Big Cane in her wake. Rohan follows close behind, his eyes scanning the snowy fields.

  “I do what I can.” She wraps me in a chilly hug. I would say I took Krys under my wing, but the truth is, I probably learn more from her than she does from me. She sought me out and slid seamlessly into our little ragtag posse. Plus she has a bazooka.

  “What was that all about?” Riley asks.

  Cyrus grins as we gather around him, his old eyes glassy. “That was called the New Amsterdam Rat Trap. That’s what we usedta call it back when, anyway.” Damian hovers beside him, looking smug.

  “You had a chat with ’em each,” Riley says, “and told ’em ’bout where the meet-up point is for the coordinated appearance.”

  “Ay.”

  “But how we gonna know which is the rat?” Krys asks.

  “If any of ’em,” Big Cane puts in.

  “They all got different locations,” Rohan says, looking wildly proud of himself. “If one spot gets flooded with soulcatchers, we got our rat.”

  Cyrus nods. “Indeed, young man, indeed.”

  “Reza and I usedta do that with rival gangs during the War Years. Play ’em off each other.”

  “So we got a stakeout to do tomorrow,” I say.

  “No.” Cyrus’s old face crinkles into a frown. “We got a stakeout to do tomorrow. You, Carlos, gotta go to Sunset Park and tell the Council you’ve been spying on us.”

  “With ya not showing up to the pre-meeting meeting ass,” Riley mutters.

  “Otherwise,” Cyrus says, “as far as the Council knows, you just showed up at a meeting of subversives and are therefore in open rebellion against your own bosses.”

  “Story of my life,” I say, but he’s right. If there really is a mole, I’m blown. “Alright, I gotya.”

  “You want me to go with him?” Krys says. “In case, you know . . . they don’t believe him.”

  “And then we lose two insiders instead of one?” Cyrus shakes his head. “Carlos is more than capable of fighting his way out of there.” He winks at me. “And anyway, we need you on the stakeout, Krys. It might get ugly.”

  “Speaking of ugly shit,” Riley says. “What if they had decided to come crush us while they had everyone here in one place at one time? I don’t think Krys and them hiding in the woods woulda made that much of a dent against the full force of the Council. I mean . . . what are the numbers looking like?”

  Damian steps up. “We estimate the Council at full force to be about a thousand soulcatchers strong. If the throng haint rumors are true . . .”

  “They’re true,” I say. “We seen ’em.”

  “There probably aren’t more than a dozen, from what I figure,” Damian continues. “Of course, a dozen throng haints can do as much damage as a hundred squad of soulcatchers. And they get stronger as they kill, so that’s not cute.”

  We grumble amongst ourselves.

  “On the other hand: each Remote District has pledged seventy souls to the cause. Most of ’em won’t be trained, but that still gets us to barely half the Council’s force. Give or take. And there’s no telling what kind of strength Ookus will be able to rustle up from the river giants.”

  Shrouds begin emerging from the woods around us: spirits. My hand is on my blade. A high-pitched wheeze stammers out into the night, and then I realize it’s Cyrus. He’s . . . he’s laughing.

  “What, man?” Riley asks.

  “Wasn’t gonna be no massacre tonight,” Cyrus says when he catches his breath. “And we well over half the soulcatchers body for body.”

  We send him a collective gape. The figures sweep across the field toward us, a closing circle.r />
  “Y’all ain’t counting the new Remote District. The one nobody knows about.”

  I can make out their determined faces, their old clothes and jewelry. They carry pickaxes and shovels and swords.

  “We rose up together as slaves,” Cyrus says. “And y’all helped us escape the tombs beneath this city we were trapped in.”

  They are elders and little ones and everything in between. They arrive with a gentle, ongoing murmuring, something like laughter, something like tears, something like a river. It gets louder as they close around us, join our ranks.

  “They’ve been making a life in this new city, this new world, the future, ever since. And this is their home, the eighteenth Remote District: Prospect Park.”

  The murmur grows to a reverberating thrum: a war song.

  “And they’re ready to fight.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Caitlin

  It’s been a difficult year, hasn’t it?”

  This simple, tawdry, milquetoast prick. Dr. Eldwin Shrug-Brannigan MD, licensed and board certified psychiatrist, according to the certificates on the wall. What kind of deranged hippies name their child Eldwin?

  “It has,” I say. I throw in a sniffle.

  Behind his frameless glasses: sleepy blue eyes. Beyond that, comb-over, then the diplomas, and above that, a drab painting of a drab woman in a drab pink dress standing beside a flowerpot.

  “Many tragic occurrences,” Shrug-Brannigan continues, feeling, I’m sure, very clever about his little synopsis. “But also some triumphs, no? You have certainly taken the potatoes that life gave you, as they say, and made potato soup, if you will.”

  Is that what they say? I just blow my nose pathetically into a tissue and nod.

  “Mr. Byron tells me you’re the youngest senior VP the agency has ever had. That you’ve altered the entire course of our trajectory as an organization even and, let me see”—he adjusts his glasses and peers at the notepad in his lap—“in so doing, perhaps helped usher the whole international adoption industry into the twenty-first century.”