Dragon's Teeth (61 page)

Then there are the people like me, trained in very small, very special schools. I won’t tell you where. I
will
tell you that every day from the time I was seven years old, I went to the regular P.S. 17 grade school, then came home, and spent another four hours in a very different school far, far from my home. It was not Hogwarts, let me tell you. It was more like Kiddie CalTech. I did that every day of my life, including weekends, right up to college. And then I went to college.
That
college, one that was
in
a university but . . . and I’ll tell you what it is. Merlin College, Oxford University. Good luck finding it. You can look at Magdalene College in the north corner of First Court by the Chapel all you like; if you aren’t in Merlin College, you’ll never see the door.

So, yeah, it was like that. I did this because my parents determined that I had a double dose of the family knack for the power, and knew it was either train me early and hard, or burn it out before I killed someone. Now, don’t get me wrong; I
wanted
this. There were very few times I rebelled, and the rebellion never lasted more than a day or two. You know how prodigies always are, math, science, letters, dance, music—it’s not our parents driving us into it, it’s us, charging in on our own, sometimes
against
the will of our parents. You punish us by taking away the music, the math books, the magic.

It was in high school that this magic school figured out I was one
rara avis
indeed, a technomage, as well as a geomancer. In short, I could magic machines, the more complicated and computerized the better. I had an affinity for them. Most mages . . . don’t. Catastrophically don’t. Some I know can’t even live in a place with electricity without starting electrical fires. The fact that
I
could use them the way most mages use an atheme and chants blew people out of the water. Now, actually I had known this for some time, I just figured it was no big deal, everyone else could too, and eventually we’d get to technomancy in the classes. When
I
realized that no, I was the only one and
they
realized what I could do—well—let’s just say I ended up with a bit of an ego which bit me in the ass . . . but that’s another story.

This only intensified my education. I’m a math whiz. And I do technomancy. Which means I can make shit up and know it’s going to work. Or to be precise, I know the exact odds of getting it to work. I can improvise
way
outside of the normal things that modern mages do—substituting components and the like. If I don’t have what I need for a spell, since I know the math and can deconstruct the original, I can make up a whole
new
spell on the spot that will use what I’ve got. I can, and do, run calculus in my head, though I always double check on the computer. This is because, at its root, magic is the ability to move energy in a way that gets things done that you want to get done. The tool for moving it is your will, reinforced by the energies of the stuff you use to make up the spell. Usually mathemagical diagrams in my case; I don’t need to use many components these days. That magical energy is all around you; conventional science just hasn’t discovered it yet. The energy
you
use to move that energy comes from inside you.

Yes, if you’ve made the intuitive leap already, I’ll confirm it for you. Luck is magic. Energy responding to will, changing reality to suit you.

But there’s always a price.
Always
a price. Part of my price to become the technomancer that I am was to have a mere sliver of a childhood. I understood, bone deep, very early in my life, that I was potentially juggling with nuclear bombs. I also understood, bone deep, what the consequences of failure were, because my parents took me on a visit to a ward full of people who had slipped while juggling.

Trust me, you never want to go there.

This is why, when I do the things that have less-than-perfect odds, they’re set up so I am the meat-shield between catastrophe and anyone else around.

There is no free lunch.
Most
of the time, the price is sheer, physical exhaustion. Sometimes you end up with a higher price than that. I did once. That is why I am a mass of aching, burning scarred tissue from my collarbone to my soles. Yet another story.

But I can no more give it up than I can give up breathing. It’s me. It defines me. I
need
it like I need air. I never realized how much until ECHO came knocking on my door post-Invasion, and I built Overwatch, and was operating at the height of my powers again.

I say, without false modesty, I am a Robert Oppenheimer of magic. And just as he, I understand the math, and the consequences of not understanding the math completely. He did not embark on the creation of the A-bomb in a spirit of anything other than full understanding of the consequences of failure. I do not embark on spellcasting in a spirit of anything other than a righteous dread of what might go wrong. Ever.

So this is why I see red—pun not intended—when the Djinni acts as if I was some street witch trying to hex her boyfriend’s ex with a supermarket spellbook.

Then we get into the fact that not only am I an exquisitely trained mage, I am a mage steeped in magical ethics until it oozes from every pore. Ethical magic is
hard.
You can do nothing without consent. You clean every speck up after yourself. You
think
, a lot, about all the possible ramifications that your alteration to the universe might have.

But I digress.

While I was thinking this over, my screen lit up.
Reading me, Overwatch?

That’s a roger.
Something occurred to me. I knew he had headed out without a lot of warning, and that he’d be there a while.
Jeet yet? Yontoo?

Mwha?

That’s southern for, “Did you eat yet? Want to?”
I glanced at Herb, who was peering at the screen in a way that suggested he was very eager. He had come back to me, just hours after Red’s words had sent me reeling. He was a mere pebble of what he once was, but he had clung to life. He was still with us and he liked Djinni, and . . . well, if Djinni was feeling guilt or remorse over what he thought had happened to Herb, it wasn’t fair to let him continue to feel bad.

Herb is an interesting barometer for bullshit. I have no idea how he does it, but he always
knows
if somebody is a basically good guy hiding behind the facade of an asshat, or scumbag hiding behind the mask of someone you can trust. He’s never been wrong. Not even when I thought he was.

And he liked Djinni. Go figure.

Yeah, I suppose I could do with something to munch on, why?

You’re likely going to be there a while. I’ve mapped you in the alley and it’s not paved.
Which meant, of course, that Herb could sneak in through the ground after I gave him a magical shortcut to a spot I knew nearby.

I think sending some Chinese delivery my way might be counter-productive to the nature of this stake-out.

I had something more discreet in mind. Provided you’re good with a little visitor of the arcane kind.
Herb was jumping up and down and clapping his hands.

Chinese . . . elves?
I took that as a yes. I went to the kitchen and packed up a small, hardened “lunchbox” of mil-spec steel. It was going to have to survive being hauled behind Herb through the dirt. Coffee in a thermos and a sandwich Bella brought me from the deli. She thinks I don’t eat enough. I used a little magic to make it hot and fresh—“go back to the way you were an hour and a half ago” basically. Reverse entropy. Normally I’d use the microwave, but I think Djinni’s taste buds are better than mine.

I gave the box to Herb. I had little arcane “landing zones” plotted all over the city these days, in case I needed to send someone—or something—there in a hurry. Without a landing pad, whatever you apport has 85% odds of ending up a smear on the ground. Or worse, embedded
in
the ground. Herb and the lunch were small, it wouldn’t take much out of me. Even better, Herb was magic in nature. Magic critters are easier to apport. He stepped into the diagram I drew on the counter with the box strapped to his back like a backpack. I’d ask Djinni to bring him home, later, unless he wanted me to apport him back, or to take the long way back. Sometimes he does. I think he’s exploring Atlanta underground. Literally underground.

I ran through the math, sketched more diagrams in the air, said the right sounds, and with a
pop
of displaced air, he was gone.

I went back to the keyboard.
OK, you hearing something nearby that sounds like digging? Check there.

You’re not sending gnomes at me, are ya?

What do you think I am, a travel agency? Naw, just a Philly cheesesteak and some coffee.

That works.
There was another long pause. I wondered what he was thinking as Herb pushed the box up out of the ground. Finally:
What the hell is that?

Take a good look. I know it looks like a walking lunchbucket, look who’s carrying it.

Another long pause, and I swear to you, the text looked angry.
That’s messed up, Victrix. Herb was your friend, wasn’t he? What is this? Some animated chew-toy look-alike?

Simpler was better.
Hold your horses. It’s Herb. It really is. Hell, go take your lunch and talk to him, you’ll see.

Another long pause.
The hell you say. How?

Well, now that was a tricky question.
Not sure, really. My guess? It wasn’t his time.
Simplistic and not my best guess. I don’t believe in fate; I’ve personally changed “fate” too often. Closer to say that Elementals don’t work like us. They have different rules.
He used up everything of himself for you guys, but something’s kept him here.
Like maybe his will. Earth Elementals have the most powerful will of all of the Elements. Herb just could have made up his mind that he was
not
going, and imposed that on the universe. Of course, there had to be a reason why he would have decided that—

Like what?

I dunno, our friendship maybe? Or maybe he just wants to see what shit you’ll get into next.
Could have been either. Could have been both. Could have been a reason I hadn’t even guessed at.

Captain Sarcastic had to put in his two cents on it, of course.
So now . . . what . . . he’s your delivery boy?

I didn’t rise to the bait.
He wanted to say hi in person. Other than that . . . he hangs out with Gray and does what he wants to do. Right now, that seems to be MMORPGs. He’s with the Horde.

Evidently I said the right thing.
Just shook his hand. Now he’s dancing.

I found myself reluctantly smiling.
He likes you.

I did not expect the response I got.
Yeah, everybody makes that mistake at the beginning.

Say what?
Bitter much?
I replied.

Again, a response I did not expect; not from a guy who, from everything I had seen, had an ego that almost left enough space in the room for some air to breathe.
Many hours of expensive psychotherapy have classed it as “acceptance,” thank you very much.
Yeah, right. As if the Djinni would ever come within a nautical mile of a shrink if he could avoid it.

I decided it was a good idea to switch subjects.
How’s action at the target? All quiet on the Western Front?

Immediate reply.
Nothing, I’m getting extremely cold vibes here. How solid is your intel on this one?

That part, I was sure of.
The DG sighting was a definite maybe. The bomb lab is a hard yes. But our little Nazi sympathizer might not be home.

Evidently his patience had been stretched thin.
Okay, I’m heading in. Breaking contact for a bit, keep Herb around, he might need to get back to you with a report if I don’t come out. Give me ten minutes.

What could I say? It was his op. The building was all artificial, I couldn’t even scry in there clearly.
Roger. Be as safe as you can.

And thanks, the coffee was good.

It was a very long ten minutes. My only comfort was that Herb was there. If the excrement really did hit the rotating blades, Herb could get through to me quickly. Though small, he still had enough power to do that.

And he did. Before I got a text, I got a message from Herb, as a bloodstone apported to my desktop. Not good.

I opened Bella’s freq. “Bell! Djinni’s hurt.”

“How bad?” was the instant reply. “I’m at ECHO Medical, I can add myself to any team that goes out after him.”

“Don’t know yet—”

I was about to open Djinni’s radio freq in defiance of the orders when I got another text.

Area’s secure, Overwatch. Send in the cleaners.

I pulled my little smoke-and-mirrors thing, and called ECHO dispatch using a CCCP freq. “Comrades, this is Upyr, of CCCP. You are to be havink man down, Comrade Krasny Djinni. He is to be sendink me at safe distance, and is to be tellink me to be havink cleaners and medic sent.” ECHO proper did not know about Overwatch. ECHO proper was not going to learn about it until Tesla gave it the official blessing.

“Roger that, CCCP Upyr.” They didn’t ask what a CCCP op was doing out of their neighborhood, and I broke the freq. When ECHO Medical got the buzz Bell would handle it.

All this took seconds. I texted back.
Herb says you need a Band-Aid. Scrambled ECHO Cleaners with Bell in tow.

Wouldn’t mind if they rushed a bit.

My heart jumped into my throat. OK, I knew he was able to heal himself crazy well, and I was still kinda annoyed with him but—
You okay?
I responded immediately.

The reply did not comfort me.
Not really, the guy knew how to use that machete.

My heart nearly stopped.
Shit Red! How bad?

Pretty bad, I can see . . . well, parts that I shouldn’t be able to see.

I wanted to swear and didn’t have time. Instead, I got on Bella’s CCCP comm. When she answered the thing, I could hear the siren in the background. “This is beink Upyr, Comrade Blue. Your man down is nyet good. Is being cut half open.” This was for the benefit of the others in the response vehicle.