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 shoulder 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’?”
“Did ye think I’d only one purpose in mind for this attack?” Pinkerton spread his hands, grinning once more. “I knew Rook would move against Missus Love directly, sooner rather than later; this is a man used to congregations, knowing full well the value of a God-chose leader. Let slip news of a town meeting wi’ all the leading citizens present, and I thought it likely he’d try for a decapitating strike — which would, in turn, open the way for our train. The opportunity to test your devices under fire was icing on that verra same cake.”
Asbury straightened with effort. “Sir,” he rasped, “I do not appreciate being treated so . . . disposably, exigencies of war notwithstanding — ”
“All you need
appreciate
is
what I tell you
, ye daft old gaffer,” Pinkerton snarled, all humour abruptly gone. “Now get back to your tent and rest, for I want your faculties clear for tomorrow’s work —
entirely
clear, d’ye grasp my meaning? I smell so much as a wisp of gin on you, Professor, and I’ll sober ye up
my
way, the which you’ll not enjoy at all.” He snapped his fingers, setting sparks a-crackle. “Now go.”
The doctor stared at him one moment more, then left, without further word.
Morrow thought about how much he owed Chess Pargeter, and how little of that debt he’d been able to repay, thus far. At the same time, meanwhile, he thought about exactly how hard Chess would’ve laughed at the idea of anyone owing him anything, before pointing out that most of the danger he’d “saved” Morrow from had been danger Morrow’d only gotten into on account of travelling with Chess, in the first place. Hell, he could almost hear that little red-headed bitch-bastard’s voice, a sharp hint of laughter between every word:
Why ex-agent Morrow, you sad sentimental; don’t be an idjit, Ed. ’Cause fine a ride as we might’ve took on each other, a time or two, we’re neither of us so nice as to be worth gettin’ killed over.
Pinkerton turned back, grin once more in place. “As for you, Ed — I’ll see you off to
your
rest soon too, no fear. There’s just one last . . . service . . . I require of ye tonight, beforehand.”
Silence stretched out, uncomfortably unbroken, ’til Morrow made himself ask, finally: “And — that would be?”
Led at a quick clip by the man himself, Pinkerton, Ludlow, Carver and Morrow made their way past Camp Pink’s primary fortifications: palisades, trench lines, reels of that strange new “barbed” wire with its diamond-shaped points, ordered wholesale from Ohio. For he always did have to be at the forefront of invention, did Mister Allan, even with hexation left entirely aside — and this was but one more innovation in the repertoire, same as the painstakingly compiled surveillance files, the “rogue’s gallery” of photographic arrays, or the forays into long distance crime-cracking by telegraph and pony express. Hell, the man probably even considered Fitz Hugh Ludlow’s presence just another arrow for the legend-building quiver, each wordy observation waiting to be tamed into yet another brick for the Agency’s public façade.