by Gemma Files
Morrow gave the most minimal twitch of a nod and jerked his jaw sidelong. “My tent, back there, past the fire pit — got a big All-Seeing Eye on the flap, marked ‘25.’ Hunker down when you get there; walk quick, but not too quick. Don’t stop.”
Geyer nodded, already in motion. “Agent,” he said, and was gone, as the shouting match between the squabbling hexes — collared and new-flowered — erupted into the heat-shimmer flare of power battening on power. Even as Morrow recoiled, the monstrously warped Negro soldier grabbed both handlers with one tentacle each and began slamming them together, each impact producing a burst of St. Elmo’s Fire and acrid lightning-smell. The ersatz medico tried to haul him off and got a vicious backlash ’cross the face for it, sending him spinning to the mud, magic-drawing metal collar he’d hauled from a pocket gone flying.
Carver swore with the despairing viciousness men used to mask grief, and shot his fellow soldier in the back of the knee; the man crumpled, howling, joint ruined. Before he could rise again the medico was on him, snapping the collar home. The new-made hex went limp, tentacles splayed out to either side like severed lengths of ship-cable.
Ludlow stared, agape, for once seeming to have completely forgotten his notes. “Good . . . God,” he said presently. “Is this kind of happenstance typical of procedures, here?”
“Typical ain’t a word we use much, hereabouts,” Morrow replied. “Let’s go, Mister Ludlow. Mister Pinkerton’s got no love for waiting.”
Trudging on toward the camp’s centre, it belatedly occurred to Morrow how Geyer’s mission here might be to poach Doctor Asbury’s services and person completely; according to intelligence, his new partner Thiel had made no great secret of wanting to spoke Pinkerton’s wheels however he could. But with so many Pinks (real and honorary) all crowded around — not to mention that brutal hangover the Professor had been assiduously courting, the last few days — he saw no possible way for Geyer to accomplish that goal, at least not now.
More likely Frank simply wanted a word with the doc, which might well be a more productive course; not only was Asbury’s faith in Pinkerton near its lowest ebb, but his current state would render him an audience both captive and suggestible. By his own drunken testimony, the man was already more than half-convinced any value in his knowledge had been far outpaced by the damages wreaked by its abuses — and his appreciation of Asbury’s undeniably effective hex-killer shells aside, Morrow was hard put to disagree. “Harnessing the power of hexation” lost a lot of its appeal, as a concept, when you daily saw the people producing said hex-force shoved headlong into those harnesses.
Inside the hastily erected log longhouse which served as Pinkerton’s command post, the lamps were always on, supernaturally bright; Morrow shaded his eyes as he led Ludlow inside. A long oak table stretched out in the chamber’s centre, covered with maps, reports, rosters, equipment lists and logbooks. A larger map, tacked to the wall, showed Hex City and Camp Pink faced off across the plain and Bewelcome in its southward valley, while scraps of coloured paper pinned here and there traced the patterns of troop movement. At the sight of an iron-bellied cookstove blazing with heat, Ludlow went for it with a moan of relief, rubbing his hands dry before the open grate.
From behind the inner door Morrow could hear voices: Pinkerton’s Scots baritone plus a basso profundo he recognized as Captain Washford’s, and a third whose timbre — for no obvious reason — raised Morrow’s hackles. After a brief staring match with the two Pinks standing guard at the inner door, who finally moved far enough aside to let him gain access, he rapped on it twice, without announcing himself.
Pinkerton broke off. “Edward!” he called, with horrid jocularity. “Come in, come in — leave Mister Ludlow out there for the nonce, if ye would? Secure matters first!”
In some ways, Pinkerton’s love of petty hex-tricks was worse than Reverend Rook’s had ever been; never needing to ask who was at a closed door was only the mildest instance of such showing off. A symptom of his hexation’s unnatural provenance, or merely how he would have always acted, given enough power? Morrow disliked to dwell on it. So he stepped inside, instead — only to stop and stare gawkishly as Ludlow had, minutes before.
The inner chamber, dark as the outer was bright, was lit only by an eerie grey-green fungal glow spilling from the spectral image hovering in mid-air before him: A clean-shaven man’s head and shoulders, broad-nosed, with receding grey hair brushed back from high temples and eyes so deep-set they seemed mere pits. Below the elegantly cravated neck, the image trailed away into writhing streamers of mushroom-coloured smoke which led back to the gaped and drooling mouth of an old white-haired woman slumped unconscious in a chair; its fulgor illuminated Washford, standing at stiff attention, and Pinkerton, pacing back and forth.
Then — the image moved, eyes sliding sideways to Morrow, face frowning, like any living man’s. Its lips shaped words; a fraction of a second later, the dim, muffled voice he’d heard before slid buzzing from the comatose woman’s larynx. “Agent Edward Morrow? Former companion of Chess Pargeter, notorious outlaw and catamite?”
Morrow was bemused to realize he needed only a little effort to find his own voice. Perhaps he really was becoming inured, or at least simply too numb to shock further.
“Mister President,” he said, managing a short nod.
“Mister Pinkerton tells me you’ve referred to me as a fool and a double-crosser, on previous occasions,” said President Andrew Johnson’s ectoplasmic factotum, its plummy North Carolina drawl rendering the harsh words oddly mild. “Well, I’ve been called far worse; there were rumblings of impeachment from the Judiciary, before this latest storm blew up. Let us agree, then, Mister Morrow, that if I raise no issue with your past choices, you shall raise none with mine — are we understood? Good,” it finished, without waiting for an answer. “As it happens, you were right when you told Mister Pinkerton I wished no new war with Mexico. Sadly, the damned Carlotta colonists have stirred up vindictive sentiment at Emperor Maximilian’s court, railing about the suffering Mexican inhabitants of this ‘Hex City.’ Backed by a faction of discontented Texican seceshes, there is daily clamour for another invasion of these States. This must be avoided at all costs.”
“Of course, sir,” said Morrow, not sure what other response to make.
“Glad you agree. Mister Pinkerton is of the opinion that the single best way to forestall the Hapsburg would be to simply destroy Hex City soon as may be, expelling or putting down its Mex-folk at the same time, thus depriving Maximilian of any ‘mission of mercy’ casus belli — ”
“ — and replacing it with a cause of true revenge,” Washford interrupted, no longer able to hide the anger in his voice, “plus a populace even more ready to fight. Mister President, have we really sunk so low as to plan the eradication of a whole town of United States citizens, solely to toss some Spanish adventurer-tyrant a political bone?”
Again, the Presidential image — while still hanging stationary — slid its no-eyes over to Washford, whose presence it almost seemed to have forgotten.
“I do apologize for offending your fine sensibilities, Captain Washford,” it said, after a moment’s consideration. “Must admit, I hadn’t thought you set quite so high a stake on the ideal of citizenship . . . until, of course, I recalled exactly how recently you and your men had attained that very state. Yet as you well know, with great gains come great debt, not to mention great responsibility. Your Brigade has served our mutual nation well, undeniably, and benefitted from that service. It would be such a shame to let all that fall by the wayside now, merely on a point of personal protocol — to violate your oath as a soldier and your honour as a gentleman by refusing a direct order from your Supreme Commander, thus potentially opening all the men under your command to a share in your own disgrace.”
Morrow thought of young Private Carver in the room outside, whom the War had theoretically rendered free (by virtue of his uniform, and the authority it vested in him) to walk shoulder to sh
oulder with men of any other provenance — share a joke or take umbrage at a slight, carry weapons into battle and strike back if provoked, without fear of unjust retaliation. “Finally” free, he might have said, if asked — but was it really so? Or was that freedom merely momentary, doomed to vanish the moment their current struggle ceased, whether won or lost?
One way or the other, Morrow suspected, the Carlotta colonists couldn’t be the only Americans, former or present, who found themselves tempted by the idea of the old order’s return. Change was frightening, by nature . . . and for opportunists like Johnson, such basic human weakness was an all too easy thing to play on. As Washford himself, by his origins’ nature, well knew.
“Yessir,” Washford replied, brown face gone once more inscrutable. “I’ll leave you two, then, shall I? Now I know how things are.”
Pinkerton smiled. “Well, if you wish, Captain — but believe me, yuir input is always welcome.”
“Oh, I believe it,” Washford lied, barely glancing the big boss’s way. “Fact is, though, we got a raft of things need doing over on my side of the camp, ’fore the next assault. You could keep me in the loop as to what you and the President decide is best, however, I’d be grateful.”
“Ye’ll be the first to know,” Pinkerton assured him; “second, anyhow. Right after Mister Morrow here.”
“Much obliged.” Without so much as a glance back, Washford brushed past, shutting the door firmly behind him.
The Johnson-mask raised that portion of its manufactured forehead where its brows should lie. “That is one well-spoken nigger,” it remarked. “Overreaching, certainly — but at least he knows his place, once it’s shown him. And given his race’s natural inclination to laziness and lack of self-governance, I’d rather weather a scootch of backtalk every now and then, if it gets me the sort of performance I understand he and his are capable of under fire. Cannon fodder of the highest possible grade, even for a passel of Cain’s wayward children. . . . Still, it occurs to me casualties may mount high enough on the day of incursion to guarantee we don’t have to worry over the dear Captain’s moral qualms much longer, either way. Would you agree, Mister Pinkerton?”
“I’m almost sure of it, Mister President.”
“Yes. Well . . . make sure, will you? There’s a lad.” Johnson glanced off to one side, at something not immediately present, and scowled in irritation. “And now, since I’m being told that if we continue much longer, the poor afflicted creature presenting your image on my end may suffer irreparable harm — let’s finish, shall we?” Continuing, after Pinkerton’s nod: “As I was saying before Captain Washford mounted his high horse, Maximilian’s no fool — he wants another war no more than do I. But considering it was only Lady Rainbow’s re-emergence which saved him from execution by the Juarez consort, his position is yet fragile enough that to assuage those factions, he has detached an expeditionary force northward; no bigger than a brigade, but small enough to cross New Mexico, reach Hex City and rescue its Mexes, faster than any larger force can intercept. Or so the Emperor hopes his courtiers will believe.”
This last piece of information at least got Pinkerton to drop his aggravating smile. “The Texicans will join us in a moment,” he claimed, “if Maximilian sends troops over their border wi’out askin’ proper first. It’s no’ a serious consideration.”
“Forgive me, sir, for failing to see how exactly that will improve our situation!” The ecto-likeness distorted, Johnson’s features swelling and knotting the way clay does when flattened. “Do you think I am limited solely to what you tell me? Disabuse yourself of the notion, if so. Not all your former agents remain under your eyes, and I receive truly alarming reports of — No!” This went not to Pinkerton but off phantom stage left, a half-instant before “Johnson” suddenly evanesced into nothing; the old Spiritualist sucked in air with a huge gasp, convulsed and fell from her chair, spasming helpless on the floor.
“God’s teeth,” snarled Pinkerton, then wrenched the door open and beckoned his guards, who dragged the convulsing medium away. In their wake, Pinkerton slammed it shut once more and lit a lamp with a frustrated hex-flare — then rounded on Morrow. “You told me you spoke wi’ Geyer back ’fore we began this siege, when neither of us knew he’d turned traitor — if that’s even so, and you’ve no’ played me false this entire time! But giving you the doubt’s benefit, did aught he say betray his intent? Or Thiel’s, the twice-perjured bastard?”
Morrow swallowed. “We . . . didn’t talk much about it, but if you want my honest advice . . . I was him, I would head to meet up with the Mexes, since they’re the closest purely humanish forces to ally with, I wanted t’take you down.”
’Sides from Yiska and her crew, that is — Yiska, and Yancey, and whatever-the-hell that thing was ran off with Songbird, who ain’t probably feeling too friendly toward you either, right about now.
“Why not the Texicans?” Pinkerton demanded.
“’Cause you’d see that coming, and there’s no way you haven’t already made overtures their way, anyhow. Might just as well sign up with Hex City and see how that shook down, I wanted to paint myself into a corner.”
He watched the Agency’s founder ponder this, and thought: But at this point, I’d probably “ally” with Satan’s left nut if I thought it’d take you down, you unreliable sumbitch. And depending where Chess’s meat-suit ends up next, I may yet, in a fashion.
Morrow could still remember how much he’d respected Pinkerton, once — how glad he’d been to wear the badge, to take up the case against Rook (and Chess) that’d led him this long and looping way. Recollection of that first private train-bound briefing, back when Asbury’s theories on integrating hexes into society were fired with idealistic zeal rather than liquor, made him almost as sad as remembering the many ways Pinkerton’s subsequent actions had contributed, since then, to thoroughly disabusing both Morrow and Asbury of those notions.
Could be his thoughts had run just a bit too loud for comfort, however. Pinkerton’s eyes narrowed. Without warning, he grabbed Morrow’s jaw, fingers digging deep. Morrow gasped as power smashed down upon him, sizzling against his skin and searing his mind, burrowing in with that horrible shoving grip as Pinkerton’s will knotted itself with his, a fist in his soul.
For a moment, Morrow felt his mouth open to let everything spill forth, without exception. But a second later, the other man’s mental grip shattered, slipping free — Morrow staggered back, only stopping himself from raising (and pumping) his eight-gauge with a vast, convulsive effort.
Pinkerton studied him, apparently a bit too closely concentrated on fine interior detail to notice how close he’d come to getting his head blown off. “Verra interesting indeed, Edward,” he mused, the sheer speed of his anger’s disappearance in itself disturbing. “That signature ’round your person, interfering with my investigations; since I know ye’ve not replaced your Manifold as yet, could it be ye’ve gone hex yourself, and not told me? Or struck up a bargain, mayhap, with some Power or other. . . .” He stopped, smiling. “Ah, though — I think, in fact, we both ken the name of one entity with whom ye had a most intimate relationship, before this conflict got quite underway. Do we not?”
Rook’s words returned: You’ve already seen how hard it is to hurt Chess. Stay close, and that’ll be you, too. But that whole “prophet of the Skinless Man” sham had served its ends and been done with, surely; whatever protection he’d been gifted on the overspill had to’ve died when Chess did, hadn’t it? And yet — if not, as Pinkerton’s just-proven inability to simply seize his mind and squeeze it for anything he wanted would seem to argue, then . . .
Maybe Chess — the real Chess — is still alive, somewhere deep down. Inside the Enemy itself.
To merely form the thought was almost enough to stop his breath. Still, he barely had time to consider it any further than a heartbeat, before a knock at the door interrupted them.
The new arrival proved to be Asbury, looking deeply, wretchedly miasmic.
Geyer must still be lurking back in his tent, Morrow guessed, and tensed, hoping the Professor’s thoughts wouldn’t give anything away. Soon enough, however, it became clear that Pinkerton was clearly long-accustomed to paying as little attention to Asbury’s interior workings as he could manage — a decision which one could only hope would eventually prove a profound mistake, on his part.
“Apologies for disturbing you, Doctor,” said Pinkerton. “I presume from Ed here’s manifest survival that your test went well, but thought I’d as lief confirm it in person, and privately. Were we successful, then?”
“Admirably so,” Asbury admitted. “What third-mark Manifolds saw action performed optimally even when used foolishly, just as Reverend Rook himself proved unable to resist our new alloys. Yet, all this aside, I am unsure if the price paid was worth it.” As Pinkerton raised a brow: “Missus Sophronia Love, sir, and her babe — both lost, victims of the Reverend’s depredations. Without her to approve our methods, Bewelcome will be far less willing to provide us logistical support for the next advance, or otherwise. . . .”
Pinkerton snorted. “Though no man can question your genius, Doctor, your understanding of human psychology remains dearly deficient. A figurehead martyr does as well in rousing bellicosity as the Love woman would e’er have done her own self — and, better yet, lacks her disturbing tendency to argue.” Collapsing into the same chair the medium had used, he tilted it back, smiling rakish over tented fingertips. “On t’other hand, I’ve good news for you, too — our distraction worked. The hex-train arrived while the Reverend’s forces were engaged upon Bewelcome, laden down wi’ the last of the supplies you need for that ‘Land Ironclad’ you designed. Should take but a day or so to finish the vehicle’s assembly; arm its pieces with your anti-hexological shells, and we’ll have an assault no amount of hexation can turn back.” His eyes glittered at the image, hungrily.
“That is good news,” said Asbury, looking as though he wanted to retch. “I can attend to that in the morn — wait. ‘Distraction’?”