Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles - eARC

  Wells blinked for a moment, adjusting to the sunlight, then the two men stood there, sizing each other up. It was hard to guess the age of someone that dirty, but the OCI’s file had said that Doctor Wells was thirty-five, so fairly close to the same age as Sullivan. Though right then the convict looked about ten years older. The hole had that effect on a man. The doctor had a widow’s peak, and rubbed one hand through his thinning hair, seemingly bemused when he discovered how matted with dried blood it was. “Please, excuse my appearance. The facilities leave something to be desired.”

  For some reason Sullivan expected the convict to be a twitchy one, since his OCI file had repeatedly used the term erratic genius, but instead Wells seemed cool, almost too collected. Sullivan nodded politely. “Let me introduce my—”

  “Wait.” Wells held up one hand, which was still scraped and raw from the altercation that had landed him in the hole in the first place. “Don’t tell me. I’ve had nothing new to keep my mind occupied for three days now. Allow me to deduce why you’re here.”

  Sullivan was in no hurry. The Traveler was on its maiden voyage, and Captain Southunder was still shaking her down and checking systems. She wouldn’t be ready to leave the Billings airfield for another hour or two. “Knock yourself out.”

  “I take it you don’t work here?”

  “Nope.”

  Wells glanced over to where the squad of guards were fidgeting. “You’re talking to me by yourself, and the Warden is far too thorough to not have informed a visitor of my capabilities, which suggests you’re not afraid of me, nor do you seem even the slightest bit nervous.”

  Sullivan let him have his fun. “Should I be?”

  “That depends.” Wells saw the discarded iron plate. Normally it would take three or four strong men to move it into place. “You’re obviously a Brute . . .”

  “An interesting hypothesis.”

  He went back to studying Sullivan. “No. Not a Brute . . . You have the morphology of a Heavy. All known Heavies are physically robust, big-framed specimens.”

  Sullivan nodded. “I prefer the term Gravity Spiker. It’s more dignified.”

  “And I prefer the term psychologist over the term alienist; however, most Heavies wouldn’t care. Statistically, Heavies tend to score rather low on the Stanford-Binet intelligence scales. They’re slow. You’re an oddity. More than likely a self-taught man . . . Don’t look at me like that. Your pronunciation of hypothesis suggests that you’ve read the word, but not heard it spoken very often, which means you’ve not attended school. It isn’t hypo-thesis . . . It’s hýpothésis.”

  Sullivan shrugged. “I’ll have to remember that.” He hadn’t had much schooling, and frankly, some of the dumbest sons of bitches he’d ever met had been the ones with the fanciest educations and the most degrees framed on the wall. Despite that, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who’d read more books in their life than Sullivan had. It helped that he could put down a fat tome in the time it took most men to read a newspaper.

  Wells talked fast. His brain ran faster. “Your clothing is new, expensive, but you seem unused to it. It would suggest that you make a good salary, but that isn’t right. Nice suit, but you didn’t care enough to shave today, nor does your hair reaching your collar suggest you care much for grooming. But I have been out of circulation for a year, so I may have fallen behind on what is fashionable. You strike me as a man too busy to care about his appearance. The clothing was purchased for you so you’d look presentable, perhaps by an employer?”

  “Close, but no cigar.” Francis Stuyvesant, knowing that Sullivan was going to be doing a lot of recruiting for his mission, had ordered one of his legion of functionaries to hook Sullivan up with a good suit. It was nice to have something tailored and not bought from a secondhand store.

  “But I’m close. It was a gift. Your shoes were not. Your shoes are too sturdy, picked for comfort and durability rather than style.”

  “A man never knows when he’s gonna have to chase somebody down.”

  “Chase, rather than run from . . . The choice of words demonstrates your mindset. Either way, they don’t match your suit.” Wells’ eyes darted back and forth, then he took a few steps to the side. “Though you don’t have it on you now, your coat has been tailored to hide a firearm on your right hip. Something rather large apparently. So you are in the habit of carrying a large handgun, not a little gentleman’s pistol, but a serious working weapon. The clothing is too nice for a policeman’s salary.”

  “Maybe I got a rich uncle?”

  “You don’t talk like a man with an inheritance. You have less-refined enunciation. You don’t strike me as nouveau riche. You have the face of a boxer.”

  “I’ve stopped a few fists with my nose.”

  “A fighter then. Your knuckles are scarred.” Sullivan unconsciously clenched his fists. “And you are a former soldier. You can always tell by how they stand when they are being made uncomfortable . . .”

  “I’m starting to see how you end up in so many fights around here.”

  “Yes. It’s a good thing I’m indestructible.”

  “Virtually indestructible,” Sullivan responded. “Everybody dies, Doc. Some folks, you just got to try a little harder.”

  “Great War, judging by your age . . . The most likely use for the common Heavy during the Great War was as manual labor. Heavies are a dime a dozen.”

  “Yeah. Lots of us around. Not so many of your kind.”

  “Odds are you’ve never met another like me,” Wells said with a bit of false modesty.

  He resisted the urge to smile. Wells was a smart man, just not as smart as he thought he was. Sullivan was one of the only Actives alive who’d learned how to blur the lines between different types of magic. He was no stranger to manipulating his own mass. “Naw. I met a Massive once. No big deal. They squish like anybody else.”

  “However,” Wells said sharply, “you were no laborer during the Great War. Your combative stance suggests the second most likely statistical probability for a Heavy, which was mobile automatic rifleman.”

  Wells was as astute in his deductions as the OCI file had suggested. “Machine gunner,” Sullivan corrected.

  “First Volunteer then,” Wells said, noting Sullivan’s surprise. He waved one filthy hand dismissively. “AEF used different terminology. Machine gunner there would suggest having worked on a crew-served weapon, but nobody would waste a Heavy in that role when they could be used as walking fire support on their own. General Roosevelt used Heavies as machine gunners. I’d wager you were no stranger to a suit of armor either.”

  “I should’ve said I was a blimp mechanic, just to see what you’d say then.”

  “Lying, and the types of lies the subject chooses, only help me understand the subject’s thought processes.” Wells was circling him now. “You’re not a Rockville employee, but you don’t have the nervousness that an outsider to Rockville would normally have. No . . . You’re used to this place, but for reasons—Convict!” Wells suddenly bellowed, using a command voice like a guard would have.

  Sullivan raised an eyebrow.

  “Hmmm . . . A slight reaction. Maybe I was wrong, or maybe you are just not the sort given to dramatic reactions. But I’m never wrong . . . I know who you are . . . Mr. Heavy Jake Sullivan.”

  That was impressive. “Very good, Doc. You do that trick at parties?”

  Wells gave a little bow. “It’s nothing. You’re a legend in Rockville.”

  “Beating a dozen men to death will do that.”

  “Only a dozen over six years?” Wells’ smile was utterly without emotion. “Why, I’m halfway to your record in only one.”

  It was only an estimate. In actuality, he’d hadn’t really kept track. “Congratulations?”

  “So, Mr. Sullivan, would you like me to figure out what brings you all the way back here to beautiful scenic Montana to speak with me? I will admit, I was expecting to reason out the why of this visit long before I reasoned out th
e who. I wasn’t expecting a celebrity.”

  “Save your parlor tricks. I’ve got a job to do and I think I might need somebody like you on my crew.”

  “A Massive? My type of Power is incredibly scarce.”

  “That could come in handy, but no. I need an alienist.”

  “Psychologist,” Wells corrected.

  “As long as you keep calling me a Heavy I’ll keep calling you an alienist.”

  “Why pick me, Mr. Sullivan? Sure, I’m the best, but I have many capable peers who aren’t incarcerated for the next twenty years. That could pose a logistical problem.”

  “You think you know about me? Well, I know a bit about you, too. I know you got bored, screwed over a bunch of gullible patients, and lost your medical license. Then somehow you wound up making a million bucks running cheap Mexican hooch across the border before you got caught. According to the Rockville doctors, you’re what they call a sociopath. I know you don’t give a shit about anyone other than yourself. I know that you’ll kill somebody the minute it’s convenient for you. You think life’s a game and everybody else is just pieces on a board. Normally, none of those things would sound like attractive qualities to an employer.

  “But the important thing, is I know you’re a genius at predicting folks’ behavior. Word is, as long as you think it’s a challenge, nobody is better at guessing an opponent’s moves than you. You come highly recommended in that regard.”

  “By whom?” Wells asked suspiciously.

  “A former colleague of yours had a file on you a quarter-inch thick.” That was an exaggeration, but there had been a few pages in the armful of evidence Faye had snatched before Mason Island had been sucked into a black hole. “Dr. Bradford Carr.”

  For the very first time, Sullivan was pretty sure he caught a genuine display of emotion from Wells, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. Wells quickly contained the hate and managed to give a pleasant smile instead. “So . . . how is the good doctor?”

  “Dead . . . Oh, that’s right. You boys don’t get to read the papers in here. Me and my friends ruined him. That’s how I got my hands on his files, and how I know that you’re one of the only men he ever actually feared. He committed suicide. Hung himself with a shoelace in his prison cell a little while ago.”

  “How delightful. Now I’m slightly intrigued. What is it you’re proposing, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “I’ve got paperwork from a federal judge releasing you into my custody. Each week you work for me knocks six months off of your sentence.”

  “I see.” Wells seemed to be mulling that deal over, but Sullivan knew that was just an affectation he’d adopted to make normal people feel more comfortable around someone whose mind worked too fast. Brain like that? Wells had already run the numbers. “And despite what you read about me in Doctor Carr’s files, you trust me not to betray you?”

  Sullivan snorted. “Compared to some of the folks I’ve got on this, not particularly. Look, I’ll save us both the time with the pointless threats. If you do anything to sabotage my mission, we both know I’ll kill you, or one of my extremely dangerous pals will kill you. You can make the same threat to me, but then we’d just waste a bunch of time, and we’re both too busy for all that posturing nonsense.”

  “Refreshing. And what happens if I try to escape?”

  “You won’t. You’ll stick around till we’re done, and after that I don’t particularly care what you do.”

  “Why would you possibly expect me to do that?”

  “A man who thinks life is all a big game needs a big challenge. Hell, you’re probably enjoying Rockville because at least surviving here takes some cunning.”

  “I’ll admit, it can be thrilling at times.” Wells looked down at his striped clothing. “Though it does leave something to be desired in the style and hygiene departments. Despite that, your offer of freedom isn’t as interesting as you’d think.” Wells glanced over at the nervous guards. “I’m confident that when I tire of this place, my next challenge will be figuring out a way to escape.”

  “I only know of one person that’s ever made it out of Rockville alive, and he was a Ringer.”

  Wells chuckled. “If any old schlub could do it, then it wouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

  “If you want a challenge, I’ve got a challenge like nothing you’ve ever seen before. I’ve got an opponent that even somebody as smart as you will have a hard time getting ahead of.” A little flattery never hurt.

  Now Wells did appear to have to roll that one over for a moment, and since he seemed to have a brain like a Turing machine, that was saying something. “And what would this challenge be?”

  “Saving the world.”

  Wells chuckled. “You must have mistaken me for an idealist, Mr. Sullivan. I don’t give a damn about the world. The world is filled with small-minded fools. If you’ve brought me some war or conflict or another, whether starting it or preventing it, that’s simply boring. I’d rather live out my days as a Rockville gladiator. If there’s some warlord or politician that needs killing, save your breath, that’s the sort of pointless manipulations Bradford Carr used that animal Crow for.”

  “Crow’s dead too. Long story.”

  “A deserving death, I’m sure . . . Best of luck, Mr. Sullivan, but I am not particularly interested in subjugating myself to the whims of another again. I’m going back in my hole now. The sunshine was nice, but solitary is where I like to recite poetry.”

  Sullivan had used his time in the hole to ponder on gravity. Turns out it had been time well spent. “Suit yourself, Doc.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to find a Reader or some other mentalist to outwit this opponent of yours.”

  “Hell, I’ve got a Reader, but I don’t know if their magic will work on a thing like this. If I wait until it acts, then I’m already too late. I need someone who can figure out how it thinks so that we can get ahead of it.”

  Wells paused at the top of the ladder. “It?”

  “Too bad even with all your fancy deductions you assumed the Enemy was human.”

  That got his attention. “I am now slightly more intrigued,” Wells admitted.

  “Our opponent isn’t from Earth.”

  “Another super-demon then? Even in here, I heard about what happened to Washington.”

  “Hardly. This thing is why demons exist. It eats magic and leaves dead worlds behind. It’s an entity that’s pursued the Power across the universe, and the ghost of the Chairman told me it’s on the way. If it ain’t here yet, it’ll be here any day now. We’re gonna stop it.”

  The doctor gave a low whistle. “And they called me crazy . . .”

  “The challenge is for you to help figure out how to track down this thing so we can kill it. The most advanced airship in the world is waiting for us in town. Once our captain’s feeling confident our experimental dirigible won’t just explode, we’re going to invade the Imperium. Want to come?”

  Wells let go of the ladder. “I’d like my own private cabin.”

  “Space is tight on the dirigible. You get a bunk like everybody else.”

  “Top bunk?”

  “Deal.”

  Art to come

  Faye in the rain

  Chapter 2

  “FDR can go to hell. I’m a man. Not a type, not a number, and sure as hell not something that can be summed up as a logo to wear on my sleeve. A man. And I ain’t registering nothing.”

  —Jake Sullivan,

  quoted in the San Francisco Examiner, 1933

  Washington, D.C.

  The chair of the Congressional Subcommittee on Active Registration was clearly furious. He was red-faced, with veins standing out on his forehead, and he kept blinking his left eye far too much. The man looked like he was about to have a stroke. Francis Cornelius Stuyvesant prided himself on being able to have that effect on statist bureaucrats, and they were only fifteen minutes into this particular hearing. If they managed to make it the full scheduled hour, he could almost guaran
tee that the chair would go into an apoplectic fit. “What did you say?”

  Francis banged his hand on the table. “You heard me right the first time, congressman, but I really should rephrase my remarks. Calling you and your OCI lackeys whores is insulting to hard-working prostitutes everywhere.”

  There were gasps of outrage from the gallery, though a few people laughed, including several members of the press. Dan Garrett was sitting to his right, and he just put his face in his hands. Poor Dan, but he should have known what he was in for when they had asked Francis to attend.

  “How dare you make a mockery of these proceedings, Mr. Stuyvesant!”

  “Mockery? Let me define mockery. The OCI taking innocent Americans to secret jails without any due process is the real mockery. Holding them prisoner without trial is a mockery. What Bradford Carr did made a mockery of the Constitution of the United States. I was kidnapped, beaten, and set up as a patsy while one of your employees tried to blow up Washington, and then a government demon rampages across the city, and you accuse me of making a mockery of your proceedings? How dare you? Keep your manure, Congressman. I don’t feel like shoveling.”

  Several people in the gallery cheered and began to clap. A smaller number booed Francis.

  “I am warning you. You will be held in contempt of Congress!”

  Francis turned and looked theatrically to Dan. “Is that even a real thing?” And then back to the panel. “Do I at least get a public hearing this time, or do you just throw me in a secret prison because I’ve got magic? How does that work?”

  “Please calm down, Mr. Stuyvesant,” cautioned another of the congressmen.

  “You calm down!” Francis shouted. Dan reached over under the table with his foot and tried to kick Francis in the shin. It didn’t do any good. “Any bum off the street can tell you what the OCI did was wrong, but then Roosevelt comes along and signs a law that says we should do it again, only bigger and more official, and we’re supposed to respect that? I say hell no!”