by K. Gorman
He opened his eyes again. The bottom of the shield engine stared back at him, a hodgepodge of Terran wires and circuits built into the smooth, obsidian-like surface of the engine’s Lürian body. Made of Maanai, the same energy-channeling crystal substance that had caused the collapse of Lürian civilization—a raw strain of it had, in a private engineering lab, mutated its magic-channeling abilities into magic-eating abilities, smashed through the lab’s safeguards, consumed the building in a flashpoint growth event, and begun its world-dooming spread through the cities before anyone had known what had hit them—the substance had, like all others that served in their technology, undergone the eriduat exposure process which halted its growth and produced a tamed, domestic form for the manufacturers to mold.
It had become the backbone of modern Lürian life, forming the basis of everything from their ships and weapons to their computers, comms devices, vehicles, public transportation, and, in one insane showcase of wealth and crass, someone’s private toilet. Without the raw form available for growth, exposure, and manufacture, they couldn’t make any more, only change existing structures. It had, therefore, been officially dubbed as ‘Lost Technology’ in the early years of the Transition politics.
As one of the few crystal engineers left from the old world, its post-Transition remodels and maintenance had been the bane of his existence.
If they’d been on Lür, he could have simply added a few parts and reconfigured the internal settings, and his energy crisis would have been solved.
Of course, if they’d been on Lür, there wouldn’t have been an energy problem in the first place. The overabundance of latent magic fields would have taken care of it.
He put down the ruler in his hand, placed his palm on the part of the engine closest to his head, and gave it a hard shove. The mechanic’s crawler he was lying on scrambled backward, one wheel squealing in his ear before it realigned itself.
When the rest of the room came into sight, and he’d counted the requisite two seconds to avoid bumping his head on the front overhang of the engine’s dashboard, he hauled himself upright and stripped off the one glove he used to do his work and made an immediate turn to consult with the engine’s dashboard.
It was ready and waiting for him, displaying in shades of red, yellow, and orange to match the Fire crystal inside. With the sentient spirit inside anticipating his query, it had already plugged in the new data variable and re-run the calculation.
The graph’s line had moved about half an inch. At best, his latest tinker had bought them another day.
Fuck you, Michael.
He clicked his tongue, then straightened, his gaze still narrowed on the graph.
Yeah, this is a problem.
But he needed a break. He turned, switching his attention to the rest of the room.
As far as spaces went, the engine’s containment facility was severely lacking. Built as a simple panic room, it sat in a concrete bunker under his main office and had all the trappings of a modern dungeon—rough, unfinished walls, an oil-stained floor, a scattering of furniture so old and broken, he was pretty sure Buck had found it in a dump, a sense of creeping despair if one lingered too long…
He hadn’t meant to spend so much time down here and, hells, he wasn’t supposed to. Except, the war had lingered on much longer than he’d anticipated, their protection clause had, somehow, not quite been broken—their contract lasted until the first bomb got through the shield, which hadn’t yet happened—and Aiden had a soft spot for Ryarne.
Not as much of a soft spot as Derrick had for Terremain, though. As the city’s sole Mage, with only a single crystal to defend against the front line bombings, he used his own energy to power the shield.
Aiden wouldn’t do that. Not ever. As far as he was concerned, he was only responsible for crystal defense. It was the Westran people, for which Ryarne was the seat of government, who were responsible for keeping the war out. Once his crystal neared depletion, he would make a less-than-quiet exit, and the city would learn that—yes—the Fire Mage’s old spaceship still worked.
The prospect was looking more and more tempting every day.
“Something wrong, Boss?”
Buck Thierbach, facing Aiden, had the misfortune of looking like his name. A large man, he filled out his clothes and was tall enough to find some door frames short. He kept the crew-cut the military had given him and preferred non-descript dark clothes. Abroad, he wore his gun in a shoulder holster; now, reclined in a black leather armchair perpendicular to Aiden, his holster lay on the floor beside him. A book was open on his lap, face down.
Even in the dim light—only a single bulb hanging from the ceiling to supplement the soft glow of the engine’s dashboard screen—Aiden could see the sharpness in Buck’s gaze. The man was a master at observation and reading nuance, and those quiet eyes picked up everything. It was a quality Aiden liked about him, but only when he was not being observed.
Joanne Abernacky, seated on the ratty couch beside Buck, was not as quick as him, but became quite intent when something pointed her in the right direction. Her black, coiled hair was pulled back from her brown skin in a tight bun. She was slighter than her partner, but made up for it in attitude and aggression. Despite—or perhaps to spite—the room’s dimness, she cleaned her gun. She looked over, the whites of her eyes a stark contrast to her dark skin.
Aiden glanced between them. After a moment, he straightened in the chair.
“At this rate, the shield will fail in a month. Technically, I can rewire it to the second crystal in the ship, but I’d rather not.”
The two continued to stare. Aiden’s index finger tapped against his thigh.
“Never mind. I’ll deal with that.”
“Anything we can do, Boss?” Buck asked.
A small silence filled the room. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the ache that was starting to rise in the back of his head. Both Buck and Jo were former soldiers, hired on as part of a government requirement that he be escorted everywhere.
When first introduced, some eighteen years previous, it had been a thinly veiled attempt to keep tabs on all Mages. Now, with Mages integrated into Terran life, the Transition period violence behind them, and a new war distracting the civil government, the policy had become a simple formality.
Buck and Jo didn’t escort him anywhere. Instead, they ran errands, acted as near-useless bodyguards—with his Fire magic, he could out-fight any non-magical combatant with a single sweep of fire—and read paperbacks on the city’s dime.
“Have you guys done a sweep yet?”
“One of the magic sweeps?”
“Yeah.”
As Elder Kenmin had predicted, the local population had begun to evolve their latent magic abilities. So far, they’d mimicked the Lürian Elemental system and remained primitive and unrefined. About a month ago, Mersetzdeitz had handed him a modified Lost Tech device and instructed him to do periodic sweeps of public areas with the thing.
As if he didn't have enough on his plate.
Buck glanced at his watch. “Not yet today, no.”
“Ah. Then perhaps we should do that.”
He needed to get them out, anyway. They’d spent too long in here with him, and it had been a long couple of days. He felt cagey. Needed some alone time.
“Do another sweep,” he continued. “Hit the main hub, then maybe go through some of the more far-reaching stops. Have you done Lower Ryarne at all?”
“No, sir,” Buck said.
“Well, maybe do that today, then.” He made a vague, waving gesture and stifled a yawn. “I’ll stay in here.”
They glanced to each other. Neither of them moved.
“Aiden,” Jo said. “It’s one o’clock.”
He winced.
“P.M.?” he asked hopefully.
“No,” she said.
Oh. Shaking his head, he tossed his glove down on the side of the engine and nudged the crawler out of the
way with his foot. “Then let’s get out of here. I’ve done more than my due diligence here.”
Metal clicked together. Without looking away from Aiden, Jo reassembled her gun.
Buck made to get up. “We’ll do the sweep tomorrow.”
As they left, Aiden switched off the light. Only the glow of the dashboard, with its filaments forming the graph, filled the room. A tinge of power brushed the edge of his Elemental senses from the crystal spirit, then dissipated. That happened on only rare occasions, usually when he’d spent a long time in close proximity with the crystal. The spirit’s way of saying goodbye, he figured.
He closed the door, locked it, and followed Buck and Jo up the stairs.
Chapter 4
September 24, 2002 — Transition Year Twenty
Meese had missed first period, and wasn’t responding to Robin’s texts.
Robin cradled her forehead in her palm, fingers edging under her beanie. The classroom’s fluorescents strained her eyes as she sat sideways at the too-small desk, feeling the chair’s wooden back jab into her ribs. Around her, a steady, hushed conversation filled the room. Her phone rested on her thigh, safely hidden behind the desktop. Staring absently at its screen, she overheard a few snippets of gossip:
“—Really? Ben and Jessica? Have they fucked yet?”
“—got her wallet stolen.”
“Devil Bitch Murphy is on phone-conquest again.”
She looked up at the last one, spotting Mrs. Murphy at the front of class, erasing the chalkboard. Her hand curled protectively over her phone. The teacher’s confiscating habit had earned her a few nasty nicknames over the years.
It was a mid-sized classroom, smaller than what she was used to for the rest of her classes, but the Life Planning class never needed much space. By the front window, the classroom’s taxidermy-ed brown buzzard reeled on its wire, dead wings outstretched. It lorded over a shelving unit filled with animal skulls, textbooks, and wilted plants—the room doubled as a second Biology lab. The bird slowed its spiral and paused, as if to consider escaping through the window. A draft pushed it into an opposite spin.
Glancing back down, she swiped her phone’s screen before it timed out.
Meese was a lot more fragile than she’d let on. Though Robin had long suspected it, yesterday had clinched it. Perhaps both of them had been content to pretend that wasn’t the case. Pretending was good. There had been some good times.
But pretending was a thin way to live, and there was something about her friend that grated in her head. She suspected things might not be all right.
And how could she have been so stupid? Of course the ‘temple’ was a memorial. How hadn’t she seen that? After Meese had pointed it out, it had seemed obvious.
And all those burning words on the wall? Those had been names. A lot of names.
The Mages had lost more than ninety percent of their population.
Meese had seemed oddly at ease with it. Yesterday, they’d parted ways on good terms, with a promise of eating lunch together today. She’d even smiled.
Missing class was very un-Meese-like.
Had something happened?
Robin’s gaze wandered away from her phone again, sliding along the projects and posters that crammed the classroom. The periodic table curled away from the wall behind a TV set that was probably older than her mom.
“Oh, great, career day,” someone said.
Robin jerked her attention back to the front.
On Meese’s behalf, she stiffened.
A woman had entered in full military dress uniform, although she had elected for the pencil skirt as opposed to the slacks Robin normally saw. Medals glinted on her left breast, and her bright blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun under the black-rimmed red beret she wore. On one hand, a small purse swung by her side. In the other, she carried an easily-recognizable, squarish case three times as long as it was wide.
A rifle.
As Robin watched, she put both on the front table, and, laughing with Mrs. Murphy, began to set up for a presentation.
Meese shouldn’t see this.
Quickly, Robin turned back to her phone and opened a new message. Meese hadn’t replied to her other messages, but there was no harm in trying.
“Don’t come to class.”
She hit send, sliding the phone farther up her thigh. As she glanced between the officer and the classroom’s door, tension gripped her shoulders. The room felt colder. The buzzard slipped to a stop for another moment, its glass eyes on her. Then, its gyre moved on. She huddled further into her hoodie—the same one from yesterday—and sank into the seat.
The bell rang.
On its tail, Meese walked into the room.
She faltered a few strides in, eyes locking on the officer. For a moment, the redhead froze.
It took visible effort for her to thaw enough to walk up their aisle and find her seat.
Meese slid her backpack down to the floor. Robin relaxed as she sat and began to unpack her binder and textbooks. Her friend’s fingers were still red with cold.
The officer pulled the rifle out of the bag.
Meese’s hand froze in mid-air. As the officer propped the rifle in a stand, that hand went to the edge of the desk. Tendons tightened over Meese’s knuckles, turning the skin white. A few seconds passed. Then, with another great effort, Meese relaxed enough to release the desk.
She began to repack her bag.
The officer turned around with a bright smile and a salute.
“How’s everyone today?”
The smile faltered as Meese stood up, drew her hood over her orange hair, shrugged on her pack, and turned toward the classroom’s back. For the first time that day, Robin saw her face. The skin around her cheeks was blotchy and red, and there was a puffiness around her eyes that, combined with their staring, red-tinged quality, made her suspect her friend had not slept well that night. She met their gaze for a moment. Meese’s mouth had stiffened into a hard line.
The moment passed as Meese walked by the last of the desks. The class heard the back door open, then close.
The officer stood at the front, her mouth open. Her beret had a coquettish tilt. She stared at the door, blinked once, and refocused on the class.
“I guess she won’t be joining up, then, hey?”
No one laughed. The silence was a stoicism Robin had learned early on in school: shut up, keep your head down, and you’ll get through ’til the final bell.
Unfazed, the officer continued:
“Did everyone see that bomb yesterday?”
Yeah. It was probably a good thing Meese had left.
Robin’s phone buzzed loudly against her thigh. Some of her peers looked around as she clamped it against her jeans, hurriedly swiping at the screen. The buzzard swept its gaze past her. Mrs. Murphy had gotten up to turn off the lights.
She looked at the message.
“Thanks. Why is she here?”
She glanced at the officer again, who had wheeled the TV set to the middle of the classroom.
“‘Career Presentation,’” she replied, careful to put the quotation marks in. Meese would appreciate that.
A small, polite cough made her look up. Mrs. Murphy’s keen eyes looked down on her.
“Your phone, Miss Smith.”
Chapter 5
The outside air was crisp, and it settled over Mieshka like a cool blanket. Her cheeks were already numb, and the cold bit into the corners of her eyes.
Pressing a tissue to her nose, she turned up the volume in her headphones until a heavy techno beat drowned out the world. She didn’t want to think just now, instead keeping a forward tilt toward Uptown’s skyscrapers. Soon, the shadows of the great, giant buildings had enveloped her.
Though the sun glinted white-gold at the tops of the buildings, frost still covered parts of the concrete where she walked. Some cars, likely coming from the mountainside, drove by with a capping of snow on their roofs. She paused at a corner, watching a ma
gpie flit onto the traffic light. A second one joined it.
It occurred to her that she was skipping school. And that she was strangely okay with it. Shivering, she jammed her hands into her pockets, her breath misting in front of her.
She had a lot of time to kill.
The light changed, and she resumed her walk. No one gave her a second glance. She didn’t stop again until the subway stair opened in the sidewalk—the same spot where she and Robin had stopped yesterday. Pausing at the lip of the stair, she looked at Ryarne’s valley down the street’s eastern slope.
There was no bomb today. The Sisters, two mountains that formed the highest, most-noticeable peaks on the western border, stretched up in the background, their rugged slopes skirted by a translucent haze. A third of the valley was still in shadow.
What was the worst that could happen? The school wouldn’t expel her. This was her first time. Nothing ever happened to the other students who skipped. Except for a few panic episodes in class, she had a stellar record.
Dad would get a call, though. There was an automated system for that.
Her jaw tightened. The cold numbed the anger, but it brewed at the top of her mind.
She checked her phone, seeing that Robin still hadn’t replied to her last text.
Guess I’m on my own, then.
She stepped down into the tunnel, and the wind pulled her the rest of the way. She followed it down the stairs, her knees stiff and hard with cold. In a minute, she paused, considering the first gate.
She couldn’t go home. Her father would be home. There would be questions.
Other gates opened on the left side, some leading to other tunnels. Pop music briefly overpowered her techno as she passed a stairwell leading up. Overhead was a mall.
On the floor, colored lines organized each destination.
Mieshka ignored them all.
Her gaze landed on a newspaper stand. Yesterday’s bomb took the front page in mid-explosion. A small flare had been caught, illuminating the shield’s outline.