Mage Against the Machine

by Shaun Barger

  “Fight me!” Nikolai snarled. “COME ON!”

  Unmoved by his challenge, Joseph fixed him with his icy calm gaze. “Wizard Strauss? The Watchmen are on their way. I recommend you lay down your Focals.”

  “What, you scared? You milk-sop wretch. You Fox-crack son of a flesh mage!”

  Though Joseph didn’t so much as flinch at the insult, Astor rose and began to cross the open space. Their eyes met, and Nikolai saw that her horror had been replaced by an incredible sadness.

  “You are your mother’s son,” she whispered, voice tinged with heartbreak.

  Nikolai stood there, stunned, as she passed him to kneel beside the whimpering mage to soothe the burns Nikolai had inflicted on him.

  “He’s not worth it, Joey,” she said. “If you two really feel the need to measure each other’s dicks, go ahead. But I’d like to go home now.”

  Nikolai winced, hissing. Gripping his baton and blade with a white-knuckle grip, he wheeled on Joseph, who was walking away.

  “Come on, you yellow Jeeves bastard,” he snarled. “I kissed your girl. You gonna just let that slide? I kissed your girl, and she liked it.”

  Nikolai said it, he couldn’t believe he’d said it, but it didn’t matter, the words were out and he’d said it, oh Disc, he’d said it.

  Behind him, Astor sighed. “Your funeral, Nicky.”

  Expression hard as stone, Joseph turned to face him.

  “Too far, Strauss.”

  The circle widened—Astor and another mage moving the wounded out of harm’s way.

  Joseph came at him. He didn’t even run—his big golden flyball boots shot him across the space between them, his fists covered in akro gloves like Nikolai had done.

  Joseph was so fast that Nikolai wasn’t quick enough to completely dodge out of the way. He struck the hand holding the blade Focal so hard that it was knocked from Nikolai’s grasp and went spinning into the crowd, who screamed and parted to dodge it.

  Joseph held his eagle-topped scepter Focal in his hand as he flipped midair, more graceful than should have been possible for a mage his size—pressing his feet lightly against the wall as he pressed off again, making another go at Nikolai.

  Screaming, Nikolai swung his baton at the incoming Joseph, smearing rainbow light arced with flame so hot it burned blue, a fan of fire aimed to ruin that pretty face of his—but the flames turned to smoke inches before it could so much as singe him, and Nikolai remembered with horror that Joseph was a Watchman, trained in all the Watchmen weaves. And at that moment Nikolai felt the akro tentacle that Joseph had sent out from his scepter wrap around the wrist of his hand holding the baton.

  Joseph flew past him, the invisible akro tentacle pulling after him—and too late Nikolai felt it go taut. Nikolai’s wrist snapped, breaking and bending up in a way that it shouldn’t have been able to. He screamed as he tumbled after Joseph, dropping his baton Focal as he went. His arm had been dislocated, yanked out of its socket at the shoulder. As Nikolai lay there, stifling sobs through gritted teeth, he could feel the akro tentacle release and slip away.

  Whimpering, Nikolai clutched his arm and forced himself to stand. Joseph stood there, golden-haired, without a scratch—looking like a fucking superhero. Hatred bubbling up, Nikolai took a step forward. Then another, then one more—and then he was running for him.

  Nikolai pulled back his one good fist, fingers black and numb from Joseph’s first strike—probably fractured—and lurched forward to make a weak swing with his bare knuckles. Staring at the fist, unimpressed, Joseph raised his forearms to block—and Nikolai pivoted, kicking him in the balls instead.

  Joseph grunted, face going pale as Nikolai fell back, cackling. As Nikolai hit the floor he saw his baton, just a little ways away. He started crawling for it, broken hand and dislocated shoulder trailing pathetically.

  A brave, skinny mage darted out from the crowd to try and grab the baton before he could reclaim it, but weak, injured, drunk, and without a Focal, Nikolai still managed a puff of flame in his direction, gurgling “Fuck off!” as the mage scrambled back, terrified.

  Bruised fingers of his good hand closed around the smooth black surface, and he could feel it come to life again—could feel its strength pouring into him. But even then, getting up was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  Nikolai panted, bleeding and exhausted.

  “Come on,” he wheezed, struggling to stand. “Kick your . . . gonna kick your ass.”

  Breathing hard, Joseph straightened up, recovering from the kick in the balls.

  “I wish it hadn’t come to this,” he said simply. Almost too quickly to see, he became a blur of crimson and gold flying at Nikolai once again.

  Gasping, desperate, Nikolai barked a quick “Camelos!” and wrapped himself in a sheet of invisibility. The crowd gasped as he disappeared from their vision. Nikolai tensed his muscles to dodge to the side, to lose Joseph and come up behind him and knock him down, to put him in his place—

  But he was too slow. Invisible or not, Joseph had already aimed for Nikolai, and he twisted around midair to point his boots right at him, no longer shooting akro but letting the momentum carry him along—flyball reflexes lightning quick, impossibly quick—and he slammed his boots into Nikolai’s stomach, 260 speeding pounds of muscle and bone focused into one point.

  Though the uniform cushioned the force of the blow, a strike that would have otherwise shattered Nikolai’s rib cage, he was thrown flying back, weaves of invisibility dissolving around him as the back of his head struck the edge of the bar, hard.

  As he fell, vision spinning, lights exploding in his skull, all he could think was that Joseph beat him, Joseph beat him . . .

  Blood and filthy sawdust filled Nikolai’s mouth as his face hit the floor, and everything went black.

  * * *

  Soft sheets. White walls in front of fuzzy figures and shapes. Warm sunlight on his face.

  Nikolai was confused at first. How did he get here? Why was he in a healer’s ward again? And for a moment he thought he was back in New Damascus, that it was the day after he’d been attacked by the half-mages in the alleyway.

  But then he remembered what he’d done—remembered every vivid, horrible detail—no Tabula Rasa potion to forget this time—and he was filled with suffocating despair.

  “You’re awake,” a gentle voice rumbled, and Nikolai turned his head, a golden-haired blur slowly coming into focus as he strained to concentrate through his potion-addled brain. Shock hit Nikolai like a sheet of icy water. He sat bolt upright, confused to find Joseph Eaglesmith calmly watching him from a chair.

  Nikolai stared at him numbly, then lowered his gaze, staring at his hands. The bruises, the cuts—they were gone. Healed. Wiped clean, like everything always was.

  But what he’d done—no way that would be wiped clean. He’d gone too far. Hunching in on himself, Nikolai clenched his fists, fighting back tears and wishing desperately that Joseph would leave.

  “Ras is okay, in case you were wondering,” Joseph said. “Chad too. Thomas, Kenmore, the others. All fine.”

  Nikolai grunted, not entirely sure which name belonged to which mage.

  He could have easily killed someone. He was surprised he hadn’t in the state he’d been.

  Joseph leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

  Nikolai gave him a sharp look, sitting up straight. “What do you want, Eaglesmith?” But then he saw that Joseph was wearing his Watchman uniform and realized that he was probably going to take him into custody. “Were you just waiting for me to wake up so you can arrest me?”

  “Cecilia’s pretty upset,” he said, not answering Nikolai’s question. “And George, he went crazy after I knocked you out. They just left a little bit ago. Both of them waited up for you all night. Didn’t sleep at all—I finally told them to go home. George thought you were dead—thought I’d killed you. I thought I’d killed you, too. There was . . . there was a lot of blood. But that’s normal for head woun
ds, Cece said . . .”

  He shrugged, lapsing into a brief silence. He tightened his lips, fixing Nikolai in a stare.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Nikolai. It sounds like you’re in some real trouble. Your uncle said that he’ll be taking you to the capital for disciplinary action.” He shook his head. “Assault with deadly weaves against civilians. If you were just a Watchman you’d be clapped in chains right now, stripped of your Focals. Instead . . .”

  Joseph nodded at the little table next to Nikolai’s bed, where he was surprised to find the neatly folded uniform resting beside his baton and blade Focals.

  “I did my best to talk down how bad it was,” he said. “That you’d had too much to drink, that Ras goaded you into a fight, and that the others rushed you and you were just trying to defend yourself and your friend, but you were too drunk to hold back. I convinced the guys not to press charges, but . . . your uncle says you’re to report to his office immediately upon waking. That you’ll be departing this afternoon for New Damascus.”

  He sighed, expression softening. “I wish you could’ve seen how happy Cecilia’s been. She said that you’d finally come out of your shell—that, for the first time, you seemed happy. Confident. Like I said, she’s pretty upset right now . . . but she wants you to be a part of our lives. And I do too. Nik, I know that a lot of the others have always given you a hard time. And I know we’ve never been friends, but I’ve always thought that you’re a really cool guy. Last night, though . . . shit like that, and you’re just proving the others right.”

  Nikolai sat there in sullen silence, staring at him.

  “Nik . . .” Joseph continued. “Me and Cecilia, we’re getting married. We haven’t really told anyone, but it’s happening. And you might not like me very much, but I’m going to be good to her. I’m going to make her happy. If you really give so much as a Fox’s whisker about her, you’ll be happy for her. And I hope that you can be—that we can move past this whole thing.”

  Nikolai didn’t react to that—didn’t really feel anything about it. Just a kind of icy numbness.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Joseph said, managing a weak chuckle. “You won’t have to worry about any of the guys bothering you again. And between you and me? Ras—he needed a few good slaps. He can be a real ass sometime.”

  “You’re a really great guy,” Nikolai said. “You know that, Joseph?”

  After a moment of shock, Joseph smiled, taken aback at the compliment. But then Nikolai sneered, and the smile faded.

  “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?” Nikolai spat, bitter. “So easy for you to be this great guy. So good, so nice—even to that sonofabitch Nik. Everyone loves you—so you don’t have to be cruel.”

  Nikolai got out of bed, angrily pulling his uniform on over his undergarments. “It’s easy for you to take the high road,” he continued, with increasing venom. “To be the guy everyone looks up to. Golden boy. But that’s because it costs you nothing. Because you were born to it. Because you’ve always gotten everything you’ve wanted—and you always will. So save your kindness. Save your pity. I don’t need it. I don’t need you or Astor.”

  Nikolai slid his Focals into their hilt and holster. Tying up the sneakers Stokes had made for him, Nikolai’s face grew hot, a lump forming in his throat—but he swallowed it angrily, clenching his fists around the strings as if using them to strangle someone.

  “Nik . . . ” Joseph started, but Nikolai just scowled and stalked past him without a second glance. Joseph didn’t try to stop him. He just watched Nikolai go, face heavy with disappointment. He was trying to be kind—trying to be his friend. Joseph—he really was a great guy. And Nikolai hated him for it. Him and every last motherfucker here.

  Storming out onto the cobblestone street outside the healer’s ward, Nikolai just stood there at first, feeling lost. He wondered what time it was, and briefly considered going to find Stokes. But even if he wasn’t mad at Nikolai, it would never be the same between them again. This was a mess purely of Nikolai’s own making. Besides Stokes, and maybe Astor, even after everything, he’d probably just driven away the last mage in Marblewood who was rooting for him—the last mage who had any interest in being his friend.

  He thought about calling Ilyana, but realized bitterly that she probably wouldn’t pick up. Even if she did . . . what would he say?

  So Nikolai walked. For hours, he just walked. It wasn’t until he came upon the shore that he realized where his feet were taking him.

  South along the sand and pebbles, where he and Astor had made love for the very first time on a scratchy blanket under a sparkling sea of artificial stars.

  South, under the great old willow tree where Astor had broken things off with him, on a day too sunny and too perfect for the words coming out of her mouth to make any sense.

  East, through the forest his mother used to train him. Used to torture him. To make him strong.

  East, through the clearing where Hazeal had poisoned him with words and dark magic. Where Hazeal had died on top of him, blinding and choking Nikolai with the dust that had once been his flesh.

  North, through the marshy swamplands where he, Astor, and Stokes used to play as children.

  Back when things were good. Back when they’d spend whole weekends practicing acoustic covers of hundred-year-old pop hits, whole nights secretly watching old R-rated movies, or reading novels printed from the archives aloud to each other in Stokes’s rickety tree house by the weak glow of their tiny, magical spheres of light. Even without Nikolai’s parents, he had them. And for a while, it had been enough.

  His sneakers moved silently across thick green moss, his mind brimming with memories as he hopped from stones to logs across the algae-filled waters and deep swathes of mud.

  That life was over now. Stokes had his girlfriend, had his shop. In two short years, he’d grown up. Had outgrown Nikolai. And Astor? Astor had stopped loving him a long time ago. Even if there had been room in their lives for Nikolai, he had made damn sure there wouldn’t be anymore.

  There was no getting past what he’d done. Publicly revealing that he knew how to cast invisibility. Hurting, almost killing a bunch of civilian magi. Making a vicious, drunken fool of himself.

  He was going to be stripped of rank. There’d be no Edge Guard career for him now. At best, they’d find Nikolai a desk job in some other Veil. There’d be no more secret spells for him to learn. No more Ilyana or Albert. He’d be alone. Totally and completely.

  Nikolai didn’t know how long he’d been walking, but he was no longer in the swamp. He was climbing a steep, grassy incline. But soon grass turned to soil and stone, and even featherweighted it was a struggle to keep from falling. Yet still he climbed. He climbed and climbed, until his fingers were cut and bleeding, until his hair was plastered to his head, sweat and dirt pouring down his face, stinging his eyes.

  He pulled himself over the final ledge and found himself faced with his faint reflection in the illusion of sky embedded within the dome. He stood on a thin strip of land atop the edges of the steep terrain bordering this side of Marblewood. He’d seen this ledge on scanning duty, but it was one thing to see it from a distance—it was another to be standing at its precipice.

  Nikolai glanced over his shoulder and realized how incredibly high he’d climbed. A sharp wind rose, howling in his ears as it buffeted against him powerfully enough that he was forced to kneel.

  Nikolai pressed his hand against the mirrored wall, feeling the energy pulse through his fingers. For a moment, he was struck with a blinding, crippling fear. He wanted to run, wanted to climb back down, to go crawling to Uncle Red. To throw himself on Jubal’s mercy.

  Nikolai squashed the idea. This could be his last and only chance to ever see what truly remained of the human world. His only chance to find out what he’d trained in the killing arts to defend against, and if Armand Hazeal had been telling the truth after all.

  There was a good chance that crossing the Veil would
kill him. But with a sudden calm, Nikolai realized he didn’t care.

  He eased the baton from its holster and pressed it against the surface. “Apocrypha,” he whispered, and pushed through the Veil. Falling forward, Nikolai closed his eyes as he was enveloped by the brilliant blue.

  VI.

  THE MARK OF TORMENT

  The self-proclaimed savior of humanity rummaged frantically through her closet, searching for whiskey. Drawers, closets, boxes. Occasionally she would break from her search to attack Jem with a flurry of kisses on her forehead and cheeks while Jem laughed and weakly tried to fend her off.

  “I swear it’s here,” Eva said, going back to her search. “It’s been so long since I’ve had real company, or a reason to celebrate, or—”

  Jem’s cheeks ached from smiling. Her eyes were still puffy and sore from weeping for the first time in ten years.

  “It’s okay, really,” Jem insisted. “I can’t even remember the last time I drank.”

  She scratched the skin over the contact point behind her ear, which had been itching since she’d woken up in Eva’s Alpha Core chamber, just down the hall from her luxurious quarters.

  “Nonsense,” Eva called from within the depths of a storage crate. “Odette and Odile! Together at last. If that doesn’t call for a drink, I don’t know what does. Reunited after over a decade of turmoil and . . .”

  She trailed off, and Jem grimaced, wondering if she’d been about to say Torment.

  “Ah-ha!” Eva said, emerging from her closet with a dusty bottle held aloft like a trophy. She admired it, soft, artificial lighting shining gold through the sluggish amber liquor. “C’est magnifique. Jem, you stunning vision. What’s the oldest thing you’ve ever tasted?”

  Jem made a face at her and Eva laughed, uncorking it to take a swig.

  She handed the bottle to Jem, who took a tentative sip.

  “My dad would literally come back from the dead to kill me if he knew we were dipping into his Old Rip Van Winkle straight from the bottle.” Eva took another swig, then grew serious. “Okay. I’ve procrastinated long enough. You are owed some serious explanation.”