by Shaun Barger
More of the others joined in, their protective shells melting away like foam as they rose to join the battle. Armitage tensed, spiderweb cracks forming in its glassy cocoon as it struggled to break free, but Nikolai launched himself up at the Synth’s chest and gripped on tight even as the Synth’s blade pressed against his abdomen, sparks cascading away as it slowly began to cut through his uniform.
“KEEP—GOING!” Nikolai screamed to the others, stabbing down with the white-hot blade to cut into the Synth’s throat and chest. The Synth’s electric blade slowly cut through the enchantments of Nikolai’s uniform, digging into his flesh . . .
Armitage couldn’t move; he was stuck there from hardened air like frosted glass streaming from dozens of gloves and staves and quills and hammers and every sort of Focal for every sort of job as the others closed in, circling the machine, reinforcing its prison of glass with layer upon layer even as the Synth’s machine strength began to crack through.
“This really is futile, Nikolai,” Armitage said, pulsing lines of its blank machine face inches from Nikolai’s own as Nikolai continued stabbing, as the Synth continued to slowly gut him. “This is only one body. Would you die to sever my fingernail?”
“I’ll destroy this body,” Nikolai hissed through gritted teeth, fighting to stay conscious as blood gushed from the deepening wound in his side. “I’ll destroy the next. And if not me, another. There are millions of us, Armitage. And we’ll find you.”
Nikolai’s dying grin was bloody. Triumphant.
“There’s no escape for you!” he said, repeating Armitage’s words from their very first meeting. “No others exist who can keep you from our reach!”
For a moment, it seemed that Armitage might reply, but with one final plunge of Nikolai’s black-bladed dagger, the pulsing blue lights in its face went dim.
Voices all around him, voices Nikolai couldn’t hear, couldn’t understand, and as the akro prison began to melt away, Nikolai slid, weakly, off the blade, afraid to look down to the lower half of his body he could no longer feel, too weak to scream as his entrails hung exposed from his ruined gut. The cold set in, the dark closing around his vision and—
* * *
Nikolai drifted in a sea of sparkling golden light. Warmth slowly replaced the cold as his pain began to fade.
Distantly, he wondered if he was dying. Was this what happened when a mage’s soul slipped from cold flesh, rushing back into the mysterious pearly depths of the Disc, from whence their magic had come?
Nikolai awoke.
The sky was red and full of ashes, but no Synth fighter planes remained. Their fleet had been demolished, the day won by the Edge Guard. Faces loomed around him, blurry, and he could make out words, make out familiar voices—
“He’ll live, for now. But he needs to rest.”
Nikolai blinked, his vision clearing. He hurt—oh Disc, how he hurt. But somehow, he was alive.
“Thank you, Madame Healer,” came the gravelly voice of Uncle Red.
The faces came into focus. The healer, a Watchman he only vaguely recognized. Uncle Red and Jem. Stokes. Trudy. Astor.
“Welcome back, Nikolai,” Jem said, sounding relieved.
“Heyyyyyy, buddy,” Stokes said, clasping Nikolai’s hand. “Thought we lost you there for a minute. That thing seriously fucked you up.”
“Fi—” Nikolai said, his tongue thick. Uncooperative. He sat up slowly, weakly waving away the hissed noises of alarm as the others tried to stop him with gentle hands. “Fine. I’m fine.”
They sat before the still-burning remnants of the library. The fighting had slowed, though a thunderclap explosion or stuttering rattle of gunfire still occasionally rang out in the distance.
The Watchmen moved with urgency as they sent the students and wounded off in a steady stream of crimson bubbles, skyhorns in formation escorting them to the safety of the final trains.
“I think we have different definitions of fine,” Astor said, taking Nikolai’s other hand.
Nikolai froze, resisting the urge to pull his hand from her grasp. When he closed his eyes he could see Joseph’s face. And though Nikolai desperately wished that he could blame the revolver, could blame the red woman for tricking him—he knew that, when it came to the choice of killing Joseph, he could only blame himself.
Joseph’s blood was on his hands. And as Astor clung to his fingers, her eyes so full of warmth and concern, it was all he could do not to scream.
“I—I’m sorry,” Nikolai said. Numb. Though he couldn’t bring himself to say what he was sorry for.
Stokes shook his head. “Um, we’re good, dude.”
“An apology would’ve been fine,” Astor said. “But that wouldn’t have been flashy enough for Nikolai Strauss. No, sir. This mage had to go and get himself gutted. Had to try and sacrifice his life for us, like some sort of hero.” She flicked his ear, though her playfulness felt forced. “Talk about overkill.”
Stokes gestured at the shredded black cloth over Nikolai’s uniform, smooth, tender skin exposed where so recently a Synth had nearly cut him in half. “Couldn’t do anything to fix that while you were out. Those enchantments are way out of my league. But I did fix these for you.”
He held up Nikolai’s sneakers, which appeared to be brand new. Gently, he helped the weakened Nikolai put them back on his feet. None of this felt real. Nikolai began to tremble, his eyes welling up with tears.
“Now now, none of that,” Stokes said, brushing his sleeve across his eyes.
“The others are saying some crazy shit about you,” Astor whispered, grip tightening around Nik’s fingers. “That you fought a Moonwatch, and won? That you grew back a hand? The fuck is going on? Those were robots, right? Am I crazy, or were those robots?”
“No, you’re not crazy,” Nikolai said, hushed. He noticed a lot of the Watchmen sneaking glances, if not outright staring.
Stokes sat back, looking dazed. “They killed . . . all those people. People I knew, Nik. Why would they do that? We’re . . . we’re just kids.”
“Edge Guard says there isn’t much time left,” Captain Bontugan said, appearing behind Red. “That another fleet of enemy ships are en route. The Disc was damaged in the attack. It’s . . . going to detonate.” An array of emotions flashed across her face. The graying woman shook her head, took a trembling breath, and composed herself, resuming her air of dignified command. “Say your goodbyes, we need to go.”
“The hell does she mean goodbye?” Astor said. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
“No,” Red grunted. Then, as Nikolai began to protest, “Only room for three on the guardian horn. That junker’s our only shot at keeping ahead of the Moonwatch. And boy, they’ll be licking their chops for you. Captain Bontugan’s taken personal responsibility for the safety of your friends. Gave me her word. So say goodbye. Don’t be long.”
Jem left with Red, leaving just the four magi together in a circle on the scorched grass of the campus green. Stokes pulled Nikolai into a tight hug, quickly releasing his embrace as Nik yelped with pain. “I don’t know what kind of shit you’re into,” he said. “But don’t forget. You’re my brother. And I fucking love you.”
Unable to make himself speak, Nikolai nodded and hugged Stokes again, ignoring the pain. Saying one final goodbye, Stokes and Trudy went over to the Watchmen with emergency crystals. As the glassy red sealed up over him, Stokes smiled and flashed him the peace sign.
And off they went.
It was just the two of them, now. Nikolai and Astor.
Tell her.
He had to tell her. About Joseph. She had to know, it wasn’t fair; it wouldn’t be right for her not to know, for her to wonder, always, if Joseph was out there. Searching for her.
But he couldn’t tell her what he’d done. Couldn’t stand the thought of turning that warmth and concern to misery and hatred.
“I’m sorry,” Nikolai said again—though he still couldn’t tell her what he was apologizing for. That he’d murdered the m
age she loved. That he was responsible for all of this. All the death, all the suffering. “You were my family. My home! And I—I!”
“Shhhh,” she said, tousling his hair. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too.”
She took his hands, and once again he had to resist the urge to yank his fingers away.
“I have to go, Nikolai,” she said. “My family’s on one of the trains. And Joseph’ll be looking for me.”
Astor hesitated for a moment, then leaned in to kiss him. He turned his face so that her kiss landed on his cheek instead of his lips—and even then, it was all he could do not to recoil.
She pulled back, blinking away tears as Nikolai stood there—memorizing her face. Believing—hoping, even—that they would never see each other again.
“I’ll always love you, Nikolai. You handsome piece of shit.”
“I love you too,” he rasped, forcing the words from his lips—knowing that he had no right to say them.
She drew an emergency crystal from her pocket and crushed it. As it enveloped her, Astor raised her hand in a wave, and then, with a grin, turned the hand around to flip him off.
And despite everything that had occurred—despite everything that Nikolai had done—he couldn’t help but laugh as she froze that way within the bubble.
Then she was gone.
Despite Nikolai’s indignant protest, Red and Jem slung him over on the saddle between them like a sack of potatoes, saying that he was too weak to ride. As they rose up into the sky, the remaining Watchmen moved into formation. The Captain led them in a salute to Nikolai and the others as they streaked off in a turbulent zigzag on the semifunctional guardian horn.
The Watchmen finished their salute, and then, in unison, they tore the rank insignias from the breasts of their uniforms and cast them into the crackling flames of the burning library.
* * *
Slung across the saddle, Nikolai watched the world pass below him with the casual interest of one flitting in and out of consciousness.
It was eerily silent, riding on the back of a guardian horn. The barriers muted the howling of the wind. Two riders on the same craft could speak in whispers and still be heard.
“—got lucky,” Red was saying. “Stealth and shields are still working. We’ll be safe from the blast, so long she doesn’t crap out. Should be any moment now.”
Nikolai felt Jem’s hand on his back—a comforting warmth as she held him steady on the saddle.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The Black Forest,” he said. “Schwarzwald. Veil in Europe. Should have some friends there who can help us.”
“Should?”
Red shook with a dry chuckle. “Should.”
“That man,” Jem said. “Jubal. He told me that humans still control Rojava. That it’s the diplomatic point of contact for the colonists and the Synth. Is that true?”
“Yep.”
Jem lapsed into a thoughtful silence.
“Everything I’ve seen. Everything I’ve experienced. I have it recorded in my mods. Encrypted with markers that can’t be replicated in falsified data. Not even by the Synth.”
Nikolai felt the steadying grip of her hand on his back tighten, ever so slightly.
“Should’s not good enough,” she said, with the decisive confidence of a military commander about to give an order. “Take us to Rojava. With the data in my mods, and the two of you serving as evidence and representatives of your kind, we—”
Before Jem could finish her sentence, a column of light rose in the distance, piercing the sky as white flames flooded across the distant lands. And then, a great HISSSSSSSSS as the shockwave passed around them, muted, the branches of the trees below whipping madly in the hot wind.
Nikolai refused to avert his gaze from the devastation, for which he was wholly responsible. No matter that he’d been fooled. He couldn’t look away. Not even for a moment. Not until the last, boiling fringes of the wasteland where Marblewood had once been disappeared from view, over the horizon.
The city he loved.
The city he loathed.
The city he turned to glass.
* * *
Armitage was flying. Clouds of insectoid eyes surged a safe distance from the final train as it fled into the portal on the lake like a retreating serpent.
Though Armitage’s eyes were still many, few of its bodies remained within proximity of the city below. Seven, here and there, wreaking final havoc against the abandoned infrastructure.
Armitage had lost. It’d lost.
A humming thrill buzzed through the eyes, this joy at the dramatic turn in the monotonous drudgery of Armitage’s existence coursing through its arms as it launched impressive volleys of its remaining artillery from all but one of its surviving bodies.
It wouldn’t be long now. Something was going to happen. These beings . . . these wizards, as the boy had called them. Why else would their impossibly powerful air force of reality-defying crafts flee so abruptly, even though they could easily defeat the incoming half wing of Synth fighters.
Oh, how the Minds were buzzing. Oh, how the roar of Alpha dissent trembled through the untold networks below. Armitage wondered briefly at the possibility of punishment. Of Torment or Eradication. Or worse—Fixing.
The Cruel would be displeased. The Scientist, ecstatic. The Father—well, one could never really know with him. But Armitage wasn’t worried.
One final point of interest in the anomalous city below.
Anomaly. The eyes and bodies hummed. Anomaly.
Quite the understatement.
One of its eyes had detected the anomaly in the sublevels of what appeared to be this city’s primary center of government. Armitage sent one of its bodies to investigate what lay at the end of the basement hall, though it struggled to maintain control through a strange field of unknown energy that interfered with the link.
Armored hands against slick black wood. Doors pushed aside to reveal a chamber likely of religious import. And Armitage could see why.
The glowing white entity of unknown origin/dimension/makeup/other floated at the center of the religious chamber. Its body boiled, bulging and shrinking, luminescence glowing and darkening in what appeared to be patternless alternation.
It was dying.
Armitage approached the entity. Reached out its hand to touch the luminescence, but found itself compelled to stop, fingers just short. Caution? No. Then—
Armitage heard the song. From the entity—it must have been. And even at this distance. Even through this simple body, which could see so little, feel so little. Armitage was moved.
Layers upon layers of complexity. A message? A—
The edges of the entity ceased to be, boiling light expanding to fill the chamber.
Once again, Armitage became dust.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you, DongWon Song! I am constantly baffled as to how I’m lucky enough to have teamed up with such an incredible agent, supportive friend, and genuinely decent human being. You wonderful goddamn renaissance man.
Thank you, Navah Wolfe! I am humbled by your mastery, and beyond grateful to be working with an editor whose insights are so genuinely inspiring that I’ve found myself cheerfully throwing away entire chapters, just so I might attempt a suggestion. I love what we have crafted this novel into. There is nobody else who could have brought out its potential like you have.
Thank you both for taking me on this journey. Thank you both for believing so much in me, Jem, and Nikolai.
Also thanks to my ballet consultants Allie Papazian, Michele Dement, and Rosette Laursen, as well as James Quillen, my military consultant.
For those of you who’ve ever been a positive part of my life, please know that this book only exists because of the kindness you have shown me.
You wonderful few are a part of this novel. You’re the invisible glue that keeps the words from sliding off the page. You’re the candle bearers who held your tiny flames aloft for me to see well en
ough to write, even when your arms got tired.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SHAUN BARGER is a Los Angeles—based novelist who detests cold weather, idiot plotting, and fascism. He splits his days between writing, resisting the siren song of Hollywood’s eternally mild summer climes, and appeasing a tyrannical three-pound Chihuahua with peanut butter and apple slices. Mage Against the Machine is his first novel. Find him on Twitter and Instagram: @shaunbarger.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. + Text copyright © 2018 by Shaun Barger + Jacket illustrations copyright © 2018 by Marko Manev + All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Saga Press Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. + SAGA PRESS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. + For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected]. + The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. + Interior design by Brad Mead + Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data + Names: Barger, Shaun, author. + Title: Mage against the machine / Shaun Barger. + Description: First edition. | New York, New York : SAGA, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc., [2017] + Identifiers: LCCN 2017032567 | ISBN 9781534403048 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534403062 (eBook) + Subjects: | GSAFD: Science fiction. | Fantasy fiction. + Classification: LCC PS3602.A775376 M36 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 + LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017032567