Taidine
RYAN MCKORMICK
Meanwhile,
back
at
the
lab
...
A new piece of equipment had been rigged up in Abelia's office. It looked like it had been thrown together out of bits and pieces. The metal edges were rough, and colorful wires spilled from it like eviscerated guts. A circle had been drawn around it in gold paint, limned with jagged, arcane symbols. In the center of the device, partially exposed by the incomplete bits of metal and random protruding connectors, a small glass vial was held in a test tube clamp. It contained a liquid, red and viscous. A single cable snaked out of the circle, the uneasy symbols parting around it, attaching the messy equipment to an old computer monitor. An ancient cathode ray behemoth, obsolete even before the war. It sat at the far end of the bench and displayed graphs and blips in multicolor.
Three metal folding chairs cluttered the room further. It was a cramped cubical at the best of times. McCormick didn't care much about personal space, but Abelia looked a little put out. As for the third in their circle... well, it was very hard to tell what she was feeling. She hadn't shown her face in his lab, not during this visit any more than the first time McCormick had encountered her. She concealed herself in an illusion of mirrors, a human form reflecting back bits of the surroundings so the precise planes of her features were impossible to determine. Only the short dress she wore hinted at her mood. It was also a conjuration, and seemed to shift color according to her subconscious whims. It was an unreliable gauge at best, though. McCormick wouldn't believe that one of the best illusionists in the Organization couldn't exercise any control at all over something as simple as her phantom attire.
The girl had introduced herself as Mirage when she first reported in here, a formality when her quarry lead her to Valhalla. The barest hint of self-consciousness in her tone as she said it suggested she hadn't selected that call sign herself, and was aware of how melodramatically absurd this mummery was. Ryan had recognized the designation, of course. She had enough of a reputation that he treated her cordially, despite her near-insubordinate attitude. That was before her irresponsible actions had caused one of his men to die, though.
She was conversing in low, alto tones with Abelia when McCormick entered, glowering at the world in helpless fury. “Marcus is dead,” he announced without pleasantries or formalities. His voice was flat and cold with anger. “Silverstien was too late.” He had just come from the infirmary. This was news to Abelia. He could tell when the telepath's dark eyes widened, but she didn't ask any questions. “And you, Mirage, have the temerity to come in here and demand our help tracking your canis. Because you didn't keep him on a short enough leash. You let him have his head, and now one of my people is dead and you can't even find the man responsible.”
She was not cowed. Her dress went livid green, and she looked straight at him, his own face reflecting in distorted pieces from her mirrored skin. “Grayson didn't sway that battle,” she declared, almost calm, but indignation colored her tone.
“He released Kanapima too early. When she joined-”
“This is your fault, and has nothing to do with me or mine,” Mirage cut in. She didn't yell, merely adjusted the volume of her voice so it overwhelmed his. Her words flowed smoothly, brooking no interruption. “You decided that instead of killing Kanapima, you would toy with her. You knew you were playing with fire when you decided to interrogate her. I can't believe you're surprised you got burned. She has no information. What did you want with her? Did you think she was pretty? Think you could add rape to your list of state-sanctioned crimes?” Her dress went deeper and deeper green as she spoke, until it was nearly black. “Don't blame me for your stupidity, Dr. McCormick.” Her last sentence was a whisper, and she emphasized his title as if it were an insult.
The sheer gall of her accusations made McCormick draw a sharp breath. “You...” he began, rehearsing several ways to kill her before she had a chance to strike back with her element. No. It wasn't worth it. He choked down his rage, and after a moment managed to reply evenly to her. “She has more information on the Council than anyone imagined. But I guess if you haven't been stationed outside of Valhalla, trying to find a c***k in that city's defenses which can be used to bring it down, you might not understand how important that is.” He forced himself to sit, and loosen his hands so they weren't clenched into violent fists.
“There's something more important than the fall of Valhalla at work here,” Mirage told him, her dress shifting to a more pleased violet shade. “I had to set Grayson loose because I knew he'd be drawn into the center of it. His breaking the link between us was a small setback, but easily reconcilable. Find me my canis, Doctor, and I'll kill any one of your loose ends for you, but it needs to be done quickly.”
“Why?” McCormick asked, leaning back in his seat with a great effort of will. “What is so ******** important, Mistique?”
His reference to a pre-war comic was probably lost on her. At any rate, she was not the one who answered. Abelia did.
“That was what I called you here for,” the telepath said. Her brisk words implicitly reproached him for wasting her time arguing with Mirage. She tapped the outdated computer monitor with long, manicured nails. “I've been monitoring Pheonix since shortly after she was released. Since she and the others made their escape, they have encountered three other elementals: two benign earth wielders, and an air wielder who attacked them.” She looked up at McCormick, her shining black hair ruffling about her chin and neck in a breeze only she felt, a manifestation of her element which indicated her excitement, although her professional demeanor gave no other hint. “I'm sure you are aware of the probabilities involved, Doctor. The area outside Valhalla is very sparsely populated.” Her attention returned to the lab bench. She reached under it to produce several sheets of paper. “So I used Kanapima as an anchor point and did a reading on the ambient magical currents.” She handed the printouts to McCormick, and he looked at them dutifully. Wormy, incomprehensible contours wound across the pages. This was not his field, so he waited for Abelia to explain. “They're all curling towards the group who attacked our lab. One of these people, or some combination of them, is a Nexus.”
“A Nexus,” McCormick repeated, feeling the capital letter. “Goddess.”
“Which is why Jeremy was pulled into that group like a leaf being sucked into a whirlpool,” Mirage elaborated gleefully. Her dress shimmered pink, then darkened to a rich carnelian. “He was bred for sensitivity. He couldn't stay away from a convergence like that if he fought it.”
McCormick ignored her smug self-satisfaction, as though her canis were a child, or a prized pet. “We are the agents of the magic,” he said, parroting one of the basic tenants of the culture he had been raised to. “If some of them are being used by Hecate...”
“Then, ultimately, their ends are our ends,” Abelia completed for him. “Yes. But we serve a fickle goddess and a careless force. The means by which the magic intends them to meet that end may disagree with us. In the meantime, if we oppose them, fate will be against us. The ambient magic will shape probability, so that they accrue allies like a star pulls in space dust, and every elemental of significance on the continent will be drawn towards them to some degree or another. If we want to use the Nexus that's forming, we have to strike now, before they become too insulated against us.”
“I take it you've got some sort of plan then?” McCormick asked. He had to hand it to the smug illusionist – this was big, bigger than anyone here had thought.
“We know Tabor will fight us to his last breath,” Abelia said. “As will Pheonix. They still need to be removed from play, before we can do anything else, and before the Nexus has pulled in so many people they can't be reached.”
“We can recall our forces from the city,” McCormick began, feeling a wrathful eagerness rise within him at the thought of leading an attack, of having his revenge on those interfering bastards who had killed Marcus. Pheonix, especially. It was a shame he wouldn't have the chance to break her spirit before she died, but the image of her tiny frame sprawled broken on the ground in a pool of her own blood made him shiver in a pleasurable anticipation that was almost sexual – but Abelia was shaking her head.
“We can't strip everyone from the city,” she said. “Valhalla is still our primary mission, and we're very close to the Council now. We can recall maybe half of them. And I have another thought for a recruit. As I mentioned, the group was attacked by a hostile air wielder. Highly unstable, from what I could see of his aura through the link to Kanapima, but more powerful because of it. He has his own reasons for wanting to kill them, and if we enlist his help, I believe our current fighters will be sufficient.”
McCormick nodded, reigning in his lust for vengeance at her cool logic. Having a free entity attack the group first would soften them, use up their resources so his own fighters were in less danger. “How do you intend to contact him?” he inquired. “Is he a telepath? Otherwise he's surely too far away to be reached by a thought sending.”
“I think he is not a specialist,” Abelia replied, “but I can send a dream. People are more susceptible to telepathic communication in their sleep.” She paused, noted McCormick's impatient look; of course he knew that. “I can tune it to air wielders above a certain power threshold.”
“Won't Grayson...” McCormick began. He was cut off by Mirage, and had to bite his tongue to keep from swearing at her delighted tones.
“Doctor, surely you know the canis don't have dreams.” He did, but of course she continued, grinding his nose into his mnemonic stumble with each saccharine word. “We ward their minds from it. Otherwise they might be able to heal from their conditioning. And the wards on his mind had nothing to do with the resonance of his magic. They're all still high and strong.” There seemed to be a smile hinted at by shadows on the quicksilver illusion that clung to her skin. Her dress was cat-ate-the-canary yellow.
Bottling his fury, McCormick simply ignored her, petty revenge though that was, and spoke only to his telepath. “That's an excellent idea, Abelia. Consider it green-lighted.”
She nodded, once. “As for the second part of the plan, if we want to guide the Nexus we should be as subtle as possible,” she continued. “Get someone on the inside that they trust. There is, of course, one obvious candidate.”
Mirage's shift blinked bright red on and off, a warning sign or a call for attention. McCormick looked at her for a long moment, appraising the girl hidden behind the illusory mirrors. “Perhaps,” he said carefully, “we can make use of the illusionist we have at our disposal.”
This time her grin was visible even through her glamour.
