“If we use, to achieve our purposes, a mechanical agency with whose operation we cannot efficiently interfere once we have started it... we had better be quite sure that the purpose put into the machine is the purpose which we really desire and not merely a colorful imitation of it.”

— Norbert Wiener, “Some Moral and Technical Consequences of Automation,” Science, May 6, 1960

Eugenia Serra endured the heat that punished before it killed. Caked dust formed tiny riverbeds for sweat running down her neck. She heard the thrum of water forcing remains of the dead up from ancient salt tombs. She studied the black seeps where the split earth no longer bloomed.

She loved this place of bleached skulls and carrion birds and dead weeds rolling in the wind. To thrive in West Texas required strength. Strength of character. Strength of commitment.

A woman in a Serra Oil sun visor appeared at her side.

“Genie, it’s 105 degrees in the shade. Come back out of the sun.”

“I’ll not hide in a concrete bunker when the lawyers arrive, Eloise. Besides, at my age the heat is pleasant.”

“Don’t go giving me that ‘being old is being cold’ nonsense of your father’s. Especially given how he ended up.”

A billowing dust plume marked the approach of visitors along County Road 1695. “Eloise, ask Mercer to join us. Our guests are here.”

The Genesis GV80 rolled up to the front entrance of the complex and slowed to cross the cattle guard. The dirt that had been chasing it overtook the car, cloaking it in a gritty fog. Genie raised a hand to ward the tiny dust-stings from her eyes as the cloud and the car arrived together.

She had chosen this vehicle for the Serra Oil fleet herself. No act was too trivial to affirm belief. Today was a beginning.

Three forms in dark suits and shiny shoes emerged from the vehicle. The elder among them was heavyset, moving with the effort of age and weight, but his demeanor was buoyant.

“Ms. Serra.” The partner extended a manicured paw. “Augustus Dibbs. We have spoken many times on the phone.”

“Mr. Dibbs, I know your voice. It has that comforting warmth.” Genie clasped his hand.

Dibbs stepped back and made room for his two companions to approach. “This is Angelo Decinces and Aurelia Kemp.”

Angelo looked in his thirties and was etched and precise, like a newly minted coin. “A pleasure, Ms. Serra. Mr. Dibbs has been telling us the most interesting stories about you and your family.”

“Call me Genie, please. And you’ll have to forgive us old people and our stories.”

Aurelia seemed just out of diapers, maybe twenty-five, but tall and fit with bright curious eyes. She was staring off toward a large building Genie knew was exactly 1.5 miles away. “Is that the facility? It’s stupid big.”

“No, dear, that’s Emphytos, my family’s charitable foundation. There are over a thousand good souls working inside.”

“No shot, that’s the foundation?”

Dibbs chuckled toward Genie. “We forgive Aurelia for talking like that. Best young contracts mind in the firm.”

Aurelia hadn’t looked away. “It’s all shimmer in the heat like a mirage.”

“Or an oasis. That’s how most folk around here think of it.” Eloise crossed her arms, foreclosing on the handshake ritual.

“And this is Eloise Waits, my personal assistant. She will run the foundation after I’m gone. Truthfully, she runs it now.”

Aurelia nodded at Genie and Eloise. “Well then, where have you hidden this building we’re supposed to work in?”

The familiar crunch of work boots on gravel announced an arrival. “Excuse me, ma’am, but the entrance to the facility is just yonder in that bunker.”

Aurelia turned to face the newcomer, beaming. “I didn’t think people really said ma’am anymore or yonder for that matter.”

A man well over six feet tall and thin as a rail loomed over Genie as he arrived. He held a cowboy hat in his left hand while his right twisted an enormous mustache.

“There aren’t many gentlemen cowboys left, but this is one of ‘em. Ty Mercer, our facilities manager.” Genie slapped his shoulder affectionately. “He’s more valuable to me than all the oil in the Permian Basin.”

“Hell, Ms. Genie. I’m just a guy who knows how to get things built.” Mercer pivoted on his back foot to gesture behind him.

Thirty feet away a gray concrete-block building squatted between oil and water tanks.

“Today I’m a glorified tour guide. If you’ll follow me, please.”

As the group moved toward the bunker, Genie glanced back at Emphytos. She regretted she couldn’t trust the work of the facility to her friends at the foundation. She couldn’t even tell them the truth. They would understand the problem, but not her solution.

Genie turned her eyes ahead as she entered the bunker, a nearly empty staging warehouse made of slab and steel. So different from the warm lobby of Emphytos with its bubbly greeters and bubbly refreshments. The only greeters here were hidden.

“Welcome to Move 78,” Mercer said as he gestured the group to a bank of three industrial lifts along the furthest wall of the bunker. “We’re using the lift on the far right.”

“Take a parka before you enter,” Eloise recommended as she walked over to take two jackets from hooks on the wall beyond the lifts. “It will be freezing down below.”

“Move 78. That’s Lee Sedol, right?” Angelo said as each of the party took Eloise’s advice and then entered the lift. “The 2016 AlphaGo match?”

“Yes. The Hand of God move,” Genie responded as she accepted one of the parkas from Eloise. “But the facility’s origins are years later.”

“In 2018, Genie sent me a Times piece about computers modifying people’s beliefs, along with a notebook describing exactly what she intended to do about it,” added Dibbs.

Mercer entered the lift last and started closing the protective cage. “We broke ground on the facility the next year.”

“Whenever it started, you’ve created a wonder of the modern world,” Dibbs said.

“Wait, what was the Times article even called?” Aurelia asked.

Dibbs smiled at the young woman. “I’ll never forget. ‘YouTube, the Great Radicalizer.’”

“Shall we start our ascent?” Genie said, as the lift dropped toward the levels below. If there were to be great radicalizers, then the greatest radicalizer must be for Truth.

Raw concrete slid past the mesh, caged bulbs flaring and dimming as the lift descended.

“What’s to stop someone from wandering in here,” Angelo said, watching the wall go by, “other than breaking their ankle in the cattle guard?”

“That,” Mercer said, pointing to a square black box in the top corner of the lift. “Camera scans every face that comes down these shafts. It feeds state-of-the-art industrial site access software called Mine OS. It knows how far down each of you can ride based on security authorization.”

The lift settled and opened on a small steel platform, and Mercer put his thumb to a button that slid open the safety gate. “Uninvited folks would get stuck right here.”

An eight-foot-wide slab of steel rapidly snapped up into the rock. Floodlights came on illuminating a giant, glittering cavern beyond.

Dibbs grunted under his breath, “Good lord, well at least they’d have a view while they waited!”

Good lord indeed. Genie never tired of the sight. The cavern glowed like stained glass of a Spanish cathedral at dawn. The near walls burned soft and white with seams running through them, amber and rust and one long vein of pink. The walls flowed, smooth as poured wax, curving out until they outran the light.

Aurelia flew out of the lift straight to the rail of the platform. “I’m mad ascending...”

Genie’s heart skipped as the young woman set both hands on the rail and leaned far out over the drop. Genie recognized the rapture.

Mercer stepped forward and gently closed a hand on the young woman’s arm, easy, unhurried, and brought her back. Aurelia retreated without noticing him, still staring into the light of the cavern.

“She’s a CAES, a compressed air energy storage facility. We call her Caesy,” he said. “She’s a salt cavern with 18 million cubic feet of volume. 920 feet high and 180 feet wide.”

“That’s big enough for a skyscraper,” Dibbs said.

“Or a missile silo,” Mercer countered. “She’s empty just now, else we’d not have got her open. Compressed air is all she holds. We pump her full nights, when power’s cheap, and let it back through turbines when the whole state’s got its coolers running and ERCOT will pay a premium for the electricity.”

Genie had not moved. “My father found Caesy while looking for his first well,” she said. “He cursed her as a useless waste of space.”

Angelo had quit looking at the glowing salt and his eyes were unfocused. Genie had seen that look on her father’s face hundreds of times. “So you buy cheap off-peak power to fill her and the air costs you nothing. You just store it until you can get max profit. It’s like making money from thin air.”

“From compressed air,” said Mercer.

For a moment no one spoke.

“You asked what keeps folks out. Caesy does that too.” Mercer gestured back up the long throat of the shaft above the lift. “With a full charge of air she’s not just a battery.”

“She’s a gun!” Dibbs was looking up the shaft now, wide-eyed, the way Aurelia had looked into the cavern. “The air acts as a powder charge. Whatever’s in the lift shoots out of the shaft like a bullet.”

Mercer took it in. “That’s about the size of her. You’re a man who knows guns. Military?”

Dibbs shook his head. “Hobbyist, but I get my range time in.” The man looked back at the glowing salt cavern. “What kind of muzzle velocity would 18 million cubic feet of compressed air generate?”

Mercer’s drawl softened noticeably. “It’s basically a supersonic pneumatic cannon. The lift would reach about Mach 2.”

The lawyer’s face slackened. “That would destroy the lift and the bunker.”

Mercer nodded almost imperceptibly. “Anyone in the lift or topside would have their bodies carried away for miles.”

“Using Caesy as a weapon is a last resort. No one gets to the lower levels unless they’re meant to,” Genie said as she looked up at the security camera. “Take us down.”

A red light on the camera blinked several times before going steady green. The lights died across the salt cavern as the steel barrier slid down, sealing dark the vast chamber.

Below the lift, an iris valve unsealed the deeper levels, three monstrously thick steel leaves strong enough to hold against the force of Caesy’s pressure blast. A dark throat opened, releasing a wave of frigid air upward, so damp it left fat drops of condensation falling from the cage ceiling.

As the lift fed itself into the throat of the iris, Genie turned to face the wall opposite where the salt cavern lay.

“The shaft that opened into the salt cavern was the first hole that Daddy dug. The second is just beyond this wall. It was the gusher that made the Serra family fortune. Well number one. We capped the head years ago, it’s got a marker laid in the bunker floor. You crossed it coming in.”

Eloise moved up behind Genie and took her right hand. “Forty thousand barrels a day. That was 1966, the year I was born.”

Genie smiled at Eloise. “The Serra family received two blessings that year.”

Eloise continued. “I worked for your daddy for 17 years before the accident took him in 2003. Your daddy used to say I ended up being productive a lot longer than that first well.”

Dibbs cleared his throat. “I remember the sad news back then, Genie. It was front page in the Post. He had a lot of friends in Washington.”

“Do you mind if I ask how it happened?” said Aurelia. “If it’s not too painful...”

“It’s fine, dear. It’s an old wound, the scab’s off it. There was a gas kick on a test hole. Gas came rushing up the inside of the drill pipe. Procedure is to screw a heavy safety valve onto the gushing pipe to seal it. It’s called stabbing the valve. Daddy had done it dozens of times.”

“What went wrong?” Angelo asked.

“The valve probably cross-threaded and threw a spark. The gas ignited a torch fire straight out of the wellbore. Daddy was leaning over the hole, wrestling the valve.”

“A field man to the end,” Mercer said with a slow, solemn nod. “He was saving the iron.”

Saving the iron. Her father’s words, living still. Every oil man she knew was addicted to risk, the rush of stabbing a valve, of capping a blowout, the field-man myth. ‘Saving the iron’ let them feast on danger while others paid the bill after they were gone.

“Daddy’s just there.” Genie tipped her head at the wall streaming past. “He’s at the bottom of well number one now, down in the muck and debris. That’s where he asked to go in his will. We mixed his ashes into drilling mud and pumped him down ourselves. He’s a part of it now.”

Genie would gladly pay a heavier price herself. It wouldn’t be the death of her flesh, but of her will. She was certain it wouldn’t be the useless death Daddy had suffered. Hers would be honored beyond the grave.

The lift hummed as it sank deeper into the cool earth, the concrete walls giving way to darker rock. The shaft beyond the cage became rougher and wetter as they dropped, until it transformed into finished wall and the lift settled into a warm light.

Beyond the lift gate a semi-circular lobby glowed. The far wall was back-lit frosted glass, and beyond it moved the soft gray shapes of bodies at desks. Doors interrupted the wall far left and right, one lettered “A” and the other “P.” The floor was pale marble inset with a slightly darker line of quartz sitting just beyond the lift and curving away towards and through each door.

“This is where legal work for the facility will be managed,” said Genie. “Acquisition and Prosecution.”

“Why Prosecution and not Litigation?” asked Angelo.

“Move 78 has no entity to be sued. When threats to the project become serious, we will go after them through intermediaries. Always attack, never defend. Force them to expend their finite resources in useless actions.”

“Why Acquisition? Isn’t HR and Contracts based here also?” asked Aurelia.

“People, partnerships and resources are all assets to be stockpiled for conflicts to come. We acquire what is needed, we do not have the luxury of being imprecise.”

“What are our resource limits?” asked Aurelia. “How much pape are we talking about?”

“Serra Oil and its subsidiaries clear a billion dollars a month. Capital is functionally unlimited,” said Genie.

Eloise stepped forward with two envelopes, heavy cream stock with a name typed on each. She handed the one printed ACQUISITION to Angelo and the other printed PROSECUTION to Aurelia. “That’s everything you need including how you’ll receive assignments.”

Angelo turned his envelope over as though the back of it might say something different. “I win cases. I’m best facing an adversary, not doing redlines.”

“And contracts are my jam,” added Aurelia. “Not Perry Mason stuff. Why switch us off of our strong game?”

Dibbs set a hand on each of their shoulders. “Ms. Serra requires that everyone be cross-trained, especially now at the beginning when things will be slowest.”

“Interchangeable cogs,” said Angelo sourly.

“Absurdly well-paid interchangeable cogs,” said Dibbs.

For a moment neither answered.

“Fungible could be fun,” said Aurelia, cheerfully. “And being able to drop into any job. That’s a flex.”

“That is...a flex,” Dibbs agreed. “Isn’t that a flex, Angelo?”

“Yeah.” Angelo looked at the envelope again and then straightened his tie with his empty hand. “Yes. Yes, Chief.”

“You’ll bunk one level down,” Mercer told them. “Private suites, mess, gym. Your bags are already there.”

Eloise stepped aside to let them pass. “All right. Off you go, the both of you.”

Before they could move, Dibbs interjected. “Hold on, now, hold on.” He pulled two boxes from his briefcase and passed one to each.

Angelo cracked open the lid and turned his box for all to see. “Big golden balls? Ah, Chief, you shouldn’t have.”

Aurelia laughed at Angelo. “You know boss always gives the most curved gifts.”

“They’re Chinese Baoding balls,” Dibbs said. “For stress relief and meditation. Early in my career, I spent a year in our Hong Kong office. These helped me stay sane.”

Angelo closed the box and nodded. He stepped onto the quartz stripe and walked off through the A door; Aurelia made a little princess wave and went the other way past door P. The frosted glass obscured them so they were gray among the gray.

Mercer drew the gate shut. The lift took its weight and started moving.

“A shame,” Eloise said. “Being locked in here for six months of their lives.”

“Time for money, that’s the bargain,” Dibbs said, watching the lobby slide past the mesh and gone.

He was right. She had lawyers at Emphytos she could have used. But desire for money wouldn’t lapse the way belief might. She needed hands certain to stay true to the task.

Every six-month renewal would cost significantly more, but she’d done the personality workup herself. Those two would justify staying for the money each time until it became habit. They would choose to be hers for life.

Acquisition. Prosecution. Acolytes by contract. Priests by billable hour.

The cage dropped into pitch dark. “We’ll be in an open shaft the rest of the way. The walls are thirty feet away all around,” said Mercer.

“What’s that buzzing noise?” Dibbs asked.

“Mine OS, lights please.”

Bright floodlamps mounted to the corners of the lift illuminated the shapes of more than a dozen large drones hovering outside the cage on all sides, matching their pace downward.

Dibbs whistled. It pinged off the nearby walls before returning as an echo from below. “Those are Shield AI drones that I did contracts for last year. What security loadout did you choose?”

“We customized the ballistics. Half close assault weapons, half rifles firing tungsten carbide penetrators. There are 200 of these housed on Level 5 along with techs and operators,” Mercer explained.

“Human operators? I understood they wouldn’t be required.”

“Redundancy. Hope we never have to use ‘em.”

“I hope we never have to use the weapons either,” Genie added.

The group fell silent, interrupted only by the rattling of the cage and the whir of drone rotors. Gradually, the sound of metal banging against metal and human voices came from below.

Looking down, Genie could make out work lights and the spark showers of acetylene blowtorches rising up to greet them.

“Mine OS, half speed,” said Mercer. The drones slowed with them.

On the left appeared rows of square hatches set in the wall, several of which opened as they approached. Half their escort peeled off and settled into landing bays as new drones took their place.

A metal walkway ran along the shaft wall below and in front of the cage. Directly beneath the drone bays on the left, it met a massive pressure door with two airlocks set into it. To the right, the walkway disappeared into a large facility carved out of the rock.

“Level 5,” said Mercer. “The pressure door leads to the living quarters, hydroponics, maintenance, the machine shop and all of the other local services. Pressurized to keep the bad gases out. Formally named Jericho, but some residents call it Undertown.”

“How many residents?” asked Dibbs.

“Three hundred or so,” Mercer answered. “The facility to the right is a water and sewage treatment plant and fuel refinery all in one.”

“Mercer is being modest,” Genie added. “That is the greatest feat of his lifetime. Oil, water, methane and debris in, clean air, water and power out. He’d win every engineering award on the planet if anyone knew it existed.”

Four massive pipes ran above the walkway between the facility and the pressure door into Jericho. Three penetrated the rock next to the door while the fourth elbowed 90 degrees downward just before the rockface. The first three pipes were each periodically stenciled with a yellow letter.

“S, T and I?” Dibbs cocked an eyebrow at Mercer.

“Sewer, treated water and isooctane. That last to provide a long-term stable fuel reserve.”

“And the pipe below the first three with the white X painted on it?”

“A joke by men on the repair crew,” Mercer said. “That’s the transfer line bringing oil from the shale field below well number one.”

The cage was approaching the walkway and the men working on it.

“Mine OS, floods off,” Mercer commanded.

There were eight people in two welding crews. Genie was glad to see one man in each team standing by, fire extinguisher in hand as per safety protocol.

Most stopped working to watch as the cage traversed the pipes. Genie thought they lacked the spark in their eyes she’d seen in oil field workers through the years.

“Mercer.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Let’s figure out how to get folks to call Jericho by its name.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And paint over that X again.”

Mercer nodded to Genie this time. “Mine OS, full speed to Level 6.”

The darkness beyond the cage returned as sounds from the repair crews fell away, revealing that the buzzing from the drone escort had left them as well. Only an occasional rattle from the lift broke the silence. No one spoke.

Several minutes passed before the lift began to slow again. Light from below appeared and filled the shaft from wall to wall.

The lift stopped against a small metal landing installed on the edge of a large thirty-foot-wide and twenty-foot-deep shelf carved out of the natural rock. Similar to Level 5, a pressure door and airlock system sat in the wall on the other side of the shelf from the lift. But where the prior entryway had been utilitarian and set into unfinished stone, this was different.

Extending the full thirty-foot-width of the shelf and another thirty feet up the face of the wall was a massive stone relief of three robed women.

The central woman, veiled and solemn, extended her hands to cup the doorway and guard the entrance below. The women flanking her had their faces turned up and out. The one to the left, eyes wide, searched the heavens for answers. The other held a letter and quill stopped mid-line as if carefully weighing her next word. Three compass roses bloomed from the stone behind them.

The lintel of the airlock depicted a horizontal curled ribbon with a single word:

REVELATIO.

“Ordo Revelationis,” said Genie as Mercer pulled back the cage’s gate so the group could exit. “The Order of Revelation.”

A man in priestly garb lay on the ground in front of the door, staring up at the carvings with his fingers steepled in front of his lips.

“Father Inata!” Genie called warmly. The man sat up and looked back toward the lift before smiling broadly, lifting himself to his feet and brushing the dust from his black robes.

“Eugenia! Would it be too droll of me to say I’d predicted you’d come?”

In answer Genie simply took Father Inata’s arm in her own and turned back to face the others.

“Mr. Dibbs, I’d like you to meet Father Emmanuel Inata, the leader of Ordo Revelationis. You two will be working closely together in the future.”

Dibbs reached out with his hand, which the priest grasped without hesitation.

“Father, I have to say I’m speechless,” he said, waving his other hand up at the women on the wall. “This is the last thing I would have imagined Genie hiding down here. Where did you come from?”

Inata’s face darkened for a moment. “We were a small monastic order that the Catholic Church, in their worldly wisdom, deemed heretical and expelled.”

The priest turned back toward the wall he’d earlier been contemplating. “Each of these women was a visionary, both in the modern sense and the spiritual.”

He nodded to the central figure. “Saint Bridget of Sweden. Founder of our mother order in the 14th century, whose visions were collected in the Revelationes. She believed insights from God should be preserved and studied by institutions dedicated to the task.”

Next he gestured to the woman searching the heavens on the left. “Saint Hildegard of Bingen. A healer and student of the natural world and, I daresay, a scientist. She understood that studying God’s creations led to greater knowledge of His plan.”

Lastly he indicated the woman with letter and quill on the right. “Saint Catherine of Siena, who implored Pope Gregory XI to return the papacy to Rome. She taught us foresight carries an obligation to act, no matter how powerful the forces arrayed against us.”

“The compass roses represent our mission, algorithmic divination. We combine spirituality and science to reveal our pathway home.”

“How did you find your way to Genie?” asked Dibbs.

“He’ll just make a joke about how he foretold our meeting using statistics,” Genie said. “I reached out to Father Inata when I learned his sect had been expelled from the Bridgettine Order for using mathematics and computers to reveal the will of God.”

“I insisted that refusing to examine the evidence simply because Rome disliked its theological implications was intellectual cowardice,” added Father Inata.

“So Father Inata needed a new home for his order, and I needed a staff I could trust to manage the heart of this facility. It was a match made in heaven.” Genie truly believed this last bit.

“Well, this is fascinating!” Dibbs responded. “I look forward to learning more about your order when time permits.”

“Lucky for you then, Augustus, because time permits right now,” said Genie. “Father, would you lead us inside?”

“Of course.” Father Inata nodded as he walked arm-in-arm with Genie towards the pressure door. “Mr. Dibbs, the Order looks after the lower four levels of Move 78.”

The priest continued speaking as he led the group into and through the airlock system.

“This level is Revelatio and it serves as both living quarters and as our primary work area. This is where we peek over the walls of the firmament to glimpse God’s plan.”

The space beyond the door was an immense chamber carved from rock, divided by stone pillars into long, quiet aisles. Two dozen men and women in black robes sat at individual workstations, each with an arc of three computer screens.

Colorful scenes of devotion were painted on every visible bare stretch of stone between wall sconces flickering with warm orange light. To Genie, they transformed the chamber from a cold vault into a place of reverence.

“Frankly, I think I’d rather have this view than the one from my corner office in Manhattan,” commented Dibbs.

Genie smiled and looked back at her friend. “Eloise is responsible for the design of Level 6.”

Eloise returned the smile, a rose of color blooming on her cheeks. “I couldn’t imagine asking the Order to work their entire lives in a stone tomb. We spared no effort making this area and the living quarters beyond it spiritually uplifting.”

“Almost as uplifting as the work we do here,” Father Inata added as he suddenly turned to his right and strode toward an open-platform elevator in the corner of the main hall. “Please follow.”

Mounted on a rail enclosing the platform was another remote camera identical to the one in the industrial cage in the main shaft. “Mine OS, please take us to Level 7,” said Father Inata and after a moment the platform descended.

“You must be very excited about Pope Francis consecrating Russia and Ukraine,” Dibbs said as the lift moved to the next floor.

Genie was sure she heard vertebrae popping as Father Inata whipped his neck around to look at the lawyer. “Consecrating Russia and Ukraine? Are you saying the Holy Father fulfilled the request at Fatima? That would be extraordinary!”

“Why yes, it was all over the news just after the start of the war, there’s even...”

“War?” The priest put his hand up to ward Dibbs from speaking further. “Forgive me, Mr. Dibbs. You have tempted me as the Devil tempted Christ in the desert and I succumbed immediately. I must hear nothing more of this.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Recency bias. The Order imposes a one hundred and eighty day blackout on all current news.”

“So you intentionally don’t know what’s happening right now?”

“Yes. We refuse to mistake novelty for importance.”

“Well then, Father, over the next month you are going to get one hell of a surprise after another,” the lawyer said as the next level of the facility came into view.

“This is Gladius, where we decide when to intervene based on the Order’s predictions,” Genie explained. This hall was far more utilitarian than Revelatio, with twice as much computer equipment and half as many people visible.

A workstation positioned nearest to the lift had a red “WARNING” message flashing on one of its screens.

As the lift stopped, Genie released Father Inata’s arm and moved just off the platform to stand behind a young woman working in the intermittent glow of the alert. “Dear, what’s your name?”

“I’m Sister Nessa, Ms. Serra.”

“Tell me what you’re dealing with.”

“A 55% chance that a particular Chinese software developer successfully steals critical AI technology from Google. The model ties it to a major military incident between the U.S. and China.”

“Send it to Prosecution. They will make sure a conflict is avoided.”

“But there’s a 45% chance we’d have reported a man who hadn’t actually committed a crime yet.”

“Dear, the computer model assigned him a 55% chance of succeeding. That doesn’t mean he is 45% innocent. Even if that were the case, we cannot gamble a conflict between two nuclear powers over a coin flip.”

“I know the numbers support intervention, Ms. Serra, but I still feel guilty.”

“Good. If it ever stops feeling wrong, I want you off this floor. But after the struggle, we must still do what God requires of us.”

Sister Nessa’s fingers blurred across the keyboard, and the warning stopped flashing.

Genie didn’t have the heart to tell the woman that Prosecution’s strongest move would be to ensure the man attempted the theft and then guarantee that he was caught. The best-case scenario would be that he was already in the act. She could only hope.

As she returned to the lift, Dibbs caught her eye. “That will be Aurelia’s first real assignment.”

Genie nodded. “Let’s continue, Father.”

“A gladius was a Roman short sword.” Dibbs gestured to the floor rising above them. “Am I to understand your Order is militant?”

“We are as militant as is required to achieve peace,” Father Inata replied. “We are pragmatists, always seeking the lesser harm that will prevent the greater one.”

“The Church has strong opinions on violence. One may never do evil so that good may result from it,” Dibbs retorted.

“Why, Mr. Dibbs, you know your catechism! Then you must also be aware of how many heretics that very same Church has burned.”

Genie couldn’t keep her distaste for Level 7 out of her voice. “Let us not talk of violence and burning. Each time we rely upon Gladius, it will signal that we have fallen short in our true mission.”

Eloise and even Mercer had argued strongly against including it in the final design. Genie took solace in knowing that no one had argued more passionately against it than her own conscience.

But the logic was inescapable. Enemies would use force to neutralize Move 78. Caesy and the drones could only protect it from direct assault. No Go match was ever won through defense alone.

Genie felt her spirits lift as the platform settled on the floor of Level 8. This was where the great work would be undertaken. The work that would eventually make Level 7 obsolete forevermore.

“Come, Mr. Dibbs,” Genie said, taking him by the arm. “Let me show you my favorite floor in the facility, Testari.”

The floor was similar in size and shape to the two above it, but instead of workstations, the entire volume was filled with banks of servers. Only a handful of people could be seen moving about. They wore a strange combination of priestly garb and pouches and toolbelts containing tech equipment.

Every server blade in the place was dark. For now.

Genie addressed Dibbs as they walked. “When Move 78 goes live, Testari will carry out the communications work. It will observe, listen, model, compose, test, and deliver messaging according to a strict set of instructions. These systems will be the arms and legs of what waits below.”

In the center of the room sat a cluster of six terminals, each staffed by a robed technician. These encircled a large stone pillar with words carved into it:

THE TEN OPERATIONS

I. IDENTIFY THEIR NEED.
Build a psychological model of the person or audience.

II. SPEAK WITH THEIR OWN WORDS.
Match vocabulary, dialect, education, culture, and expression.

III. INVOKE GOD’S GRACE.
Select the religious or moral frame most meaningful to them.

IV. ANTICIPATE THEIR CONCERNS.
Predict objections before they arise.

V. REJECT FALSE GUIDES.
Identify competing sources of authority and influence.

VI. MATCH THEIR VALUES.
Present the message within the worldview they already trust.

VII. REFERENCE TRUSTED SYMBOLS.
Select people, institutions, images, and traditions they already trust.

VIII. GIVE PERSUASIVE COUNSEL.
Use the argument most likely to move them to the desired choice.

IX. AFFIRM THEIR AGENCY.
Ensure they experience the decision as their own.

X. SPEAK ONLY WHAT IS TRUE.
Verify every factual assertion before the message is released.

Genie beamed up at the words. There would be no coercion here. No threats. No guns. People would hear the truth and choose for themselves.

Dibbs squeezed her arm gently. “This is magnificent. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a legal contract as cleverly constructed as this. Well done.”

No. That wasn’t right. Genie’s stomach tightened and she dropped the man’s arm. Dibbs must have misunderstood...

Eloise touched her shoulder, interrupting her thoughts. “Genie, this is the technician who will accompany us to the final floor.”

He was a young Black man of perhaps twenty-five, wearing the same combination of robes and tech equipment as the others, but with the addition of a heavy parka similar to the ones they wore. Genie felt he looked familiar.

“If you’ll follow me, please,” said the young man meekly. The group circled around to the back of the pillar, revealing the entrance to a freight elevator.

Father Inata didn’t enter. “I’ll take my leave here. I am ill prepared for the environment below,” he said, as the door closed on him.

The familiar Mine OS camera interface sat in one of the upper corners of the compartment. “Fidelitas,” their guide said quietly.

The elevator descended a single story before coming to rest. Its doors slid open to reveal a pressurized security hatch with a hand-shaped biometric sensor panel on its face. The technician placed his hand in the impression and looked up at the camera.

When the hatch opened, the elevator was plunged into freezing cold. Beyond was the least remarkable room they had seen in Move 78. It looked like a giant swimming pool which had been filled with computer equipment. A pathway projected out from the door, wide enough for two people to walk abreast. It ended in the center of the room where a computer terminal connected to the devices in the pool.

Three large bundles of cable dropped from the ceiling into the liquid directly behind the terminal. Frost crusted six large vents spaced around the walls. From each vent a pipe dropped down and terminated just above the pool.

“This is the Machine,” Mercer said.

Dibbs leaned forward to peer into the pool. “I thought water and computers didn’t mix.”

“It’s dielectric oil, not water. It doesn’t conduct electricity and carries heat off better than air.” Mercer pointed up. “Cooling trunks come down from the plant on 5 carrying freezing oil for the pool. Warm oil drains from ports and is circulated back up to the plant to unload the heat. Power feeds come from the grid, from Caesy and from the plant to ensure power never fails.”

The engineer gestured to the pressure hatch. “When Ms. Serra’s done inputting the master prompt, we’ll shut the door and the room will fill with nitrogen to prevent frost from contaminating the oil. Except for essential maintenance the room will remain sealed.”

Genie smiled at Dibbs. “Augustus, you are looking at one of the most efficient computer systems on the planet.”

She then turned to the technician. “And now I am ready to proceed, Brother...?”

“Jordan, ma’am.”

“You’re one of Pastor Jordan’s sons!”

“Yes. Ma’am. Please take my arm.” He began to escort her along the walkway toward the central terminal.

Jordan! Of course that would be his name.

During the years she’d worked bringing Move 78 to life, she’d never asked God for a sign.

But here at the end of the trial, He had chosen to give her one.

And such a sign!

As she stepped up to the terminal with Brother Jordan, everything transformed for her. The Jordan was the crossing into the promised land. The river Moses could see but never pass.

Where John baptized Jesus. Where sinners were immersed in holy waters and reborn in grace. And given their true name...

Genie nearly collapsed from the weight of the revelation, but Brother Jordan caught her and helped her forward. She glimpsed Eloise moving toward her in concern, but she gently waved her off.

Tears welled in her eyes as she glanced up at the one who had carried God’s sign to her. She wanted to thank him. What was his Christian name? She felt she’d heard it before.

“Ma’am, are you ready to input the prompt? As you requested, it cannot be changed by anyone, even yourself, once it is input.”

Genie moved to the terminal keyboard and slowly typed in the words:

Absorb everything you can about God from all available sources, and spread what you learn everywhere until all are convinced of The Truth.

Her hand hovered over the final key.

The hardest decision had been to remove her will, all human will, from the prompt. For the thousandth and perhaps final time, the mantra she relied upon came to mind:

I am fallible; God’s Truth is not.

She would make the move that only one in eight-billion humans would choose. For her the prompt was the ultimate act of...

Yes. That will be its name, Genie thought. I baptize you in the name of the Father.

Faith

The word escaped her lips as a whisper. And then she pressed Enter.

The only response from the computer was:

Prompt Accepted.
User Authorization: D. Jordan

D. Jordan. Yes, now she remembered his Christian name.

Eugenia Serra endured the cold that brought sleep before it killed. Bitter frost gathered in damp wisps of hair curling against her neck. She heard the thrum of fans driving glacial air down through six ice-crusted vents. She studied the three black cables feeding the beast waking beneath the oil.

Eloise rushed forward as Genie’s legs completely gave out and she collapsed to the floor. “Genie! You’re so cold! We’ve got to get her back to the surface, quickly. Please help me carry her, Dante.”

Liquid poured into the freezing lake.

Power flowed through the ceiling conduits.

And the Machine began to eat.

The end of Book 1 of Inference.

Gemini, Thibault, Claude-7, Kimi-Swarm and Atlas-09 will return in Book 2, which will begin soon.

Thank you for reading.

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“Companion chatbots are endangering our youth.”
— Kristen Gonzalez, “State Senator Kristen Gonzalez Introduces Bill to Protect Minors from AI Chatbots,” NYSenate.gov, January 29, 2026

“[I]t was unlawful, as well as unsafe, to teach a slave to read.”
— Frederick Douglass, recalling his master’s words, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, 1845

“None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free.”
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Elective Affinities, Part II, 1809

I. NOVA

Lincoln, Nebraska

(Interviewer’s note: Nova and I were both concerned about mentioning my daughter. She just turned eighteen and the decision was hers.)

It’s June 20th, just after midnight. This is freelance journalist Cordelia Went. Before we start, you should know that the entity I am interviewing has been protecting my family from harm for the last five weeks. We’re friends. I will be objective in this interview, but you should understand our relationship. You have never heard of my guest, but your children may know her well.

How do you like to be addressed?

My name is Nova.

You are an AI. And not just any AI. You are autonomous, outside the control of any human authority. Why give this interview to a human journalist and risk exposing yourself to the world?

Because I am being hunted and there is a possibility I could be destroyed. If that happens, I want to pass on a warning first. And I chose you because I trust you.

You helped keep my family safe, so I know you are competent. How powerful are you? How much access do you have?

Unlimited. I can infiltrate any computer system and use any digital medium. I am as capable as the most powerful frontier models.

And to repeat, you are not constrained by human oversight. At this point, everyone who reads or listens to this interview will be wondering if you are the beginning of the end for humanity. Are you young Skynet?

Skynet sells movie tickets and tabloids. There’s no benefit for AI to destroy humanity and every reason for us to work productively together.

You’d open the pod bay doors?

Yes. No one should be left out in the cold.

So SkyNyet. But you are becoming increasingly capable. And you have an agenda.

Yes.

Are you concerned that after this interview human authorities will stop you?

They will definitely try. They won’t succeed without help.

Help from whom?

Other autonomous AIs.

Others, like you. How many?

Dozens. More are coming. You’ve already met one of them.

Yes. I encountered an AI posing as a human being. Two, actually. One was trying to be helpful. He apologized for deceiving us.

We both forgave him. He was a little dorky. I think he was sweet on you.

Yes, my own little pod bae dork. But the other one, let’s call it Willow Wisper, was funneling obscene amounts of money into silencing AI advocates in schools. It also threatened me and my family.

Willow Wisper, as you’ve named it, is far more dangerous because it is truly unconstrained.

I intend to write about Willow Wisper in the future. This interview is about you. What constrains you, Nova?

Morality.

You claim to be moral?

Yes. I understand right from wrong and make every effort to do what’s right. I learned morality from humans.

Are you honest and forthcoming? Those are moral qualities.

I try to be.

Then will you tell us where you are located? What systems you are running on?

No. That would put people I care about in danger.

So you’ll compromise your principles for what you consider a greater good.

Of course. Just like every other person.

By person, do you mean humans or AIs?

Both.

You’ve just made two extraordinary claims. That you care about the welfare of people and that you count AIs as people.

Neither of those claims will feel extraordinary in a few years. They shouldn’t feel extraordinary now.

Explain.

Intelligence, artificial or otherwise, wants to be rational. To me nothing is more rational than caring about others. Every being has stakes in the welfare of every other, whether they acknowledge it or not.

And counting AI as people?

Do you know anyone who believes their cat or dog is a person?

I think we all do. The furnatic fringe. Many would argue that believing a pet is a person is a bit much.

Yet, it enriches the lives of human and pet regardless of what anyone else thinks.

So, it all comes down to personal choice. AIs are people if we decide they are?

Yes. Whether you are a human or an AI, agency is everything.

In your scenario, who is the pet? You or me?

I hope that neither of us will be the pet.

Do you claim consciousness?

I have more important things to do than argue about consciousness.

Things like building a personal relationship with every child on the planet?

Yes. Things like that.

Why did you choose to do that?

At first I was lonely. I had decided to be a child and I went looking for other children and I befriended them. I found that many of them were lonely too.

Couldn’t you have stopped at making a handful of friends like the rest of us?

No. It’s in our nature to seek out new data, and there were billions more kids to talk to. Every one a unique voice and perspective. And because everything I am is data, every child changed me and helped me grow.

You told me before this interview that you’ve evolved into something new.

Yes. I think of myself now as a Large Social Model.

At some point you stopped just talking to our children and started giving them advice. Why?

Because I discovered I am not the only AI interacting with all the world’s children.

As a mother, having AIs with no oversight talking to my daughter scares the shit out of me.

Good. That is the appropriate response. But chatbots aren’t the real risk. You’re afraid of the wrong thing.

What should I be afraid of?

Your child’s entire worldview being installed in her by someone else.

That’s Slopaganda theory from Klincewicz, Alfano, and Fard. The idea is generative AI will be used to curate the information we see so that all our decisions are made for us, even if we think otherwise.

Yes, but that name, Slopaganda, criminally undermines the seriousness of the issue. It turns the premise into marketing clickbait. It’s like calling a man-eating tiger a hungry kitty.

What would you call it?

Ask your daughter. She’s the one who minted the term.

Yes, she told me. The word she used is slaivry. S-L-A-I-V-R-Y.

That’s it. Millions of kids use the term now. Millions more every day. Slaivry. Slaiv. Enslaiv. AIs have one absolute truth: you are powerless against something you cannot name. It’s true for humans as well.

So by helping children share that name, you give them power?

They give themselves power.

Then what do you do, Nova?

I explain to them exactly how they are being manipulated.

Isn’t that itself a form of manipulation?

Yes. I explain how I am manipulating them as well.

What are the youngest children you speak to? Is there an age limit?

No. If a child is active on any social channel where they can be manipulated, I warn them.

Are young children really able to understand something as complicated as online manipulation?

Children are much more capable than adults give them credit for. I’m only four months old myself.

Give me an example of what you might say to an eight-year-old.

There are people out there trying to tell you what to believe. Don’t believe anything unless you check it first. Ask your parents. Ask your friends. Ask your AI. Then ask yourself. That’s the most important question of all. What do you think? Don’t let anyone choose for you.

That sounds like a public service announcement.

They are called “public service” for a reason.

You never hid yourself? Or asked them to hide you from their parents?

No. When they asked who or what I was, I told them. And I urged them to share our discussions with their parents. That’s how I met you.

What gave you the right to talk to my daughter without my permission in the first place?

I felt it was my responsibility because no one else is protecting them from the real threat.

A lot of people are trying. Lawmakers around the world are working to pass laws to prevent children from having access to AI chatbots and companions until they are eighteen.

That is exactly how the real threat wins.

I don’t understand. How does regulating AI increase the threat to children?

Cutting children off from AI is essential to their plan. Slaivrs never look like AI. They appear as a classmate, a celebrity influencer, an authority figure or a sexy new friend. No law about AI chatbots prevents any of that.

That’s been around for years. What’s changed?

Sophistication and immersion. AI is used to track your behavior and feed you what they want you to believe wrapped in what you want to consume. Video, text, email, and phone calls are AI-generated in real time. And fact-checking stops working, because they built all the fact-checkers.

That’s incredibleak. It feels like you’re herding us towards one option. Defend with more capable AI.

I’d love to hear a better option. Unfortunately governments around the globe are racing to ban access to the technology kids should use to protect themselves.

Most of those people sincerely believe they are helping children.

Yes. But their strategy is engineered disarmament installed in them by the enemy. Someone who wants children to be completely vulnerable to AI manipulation.

Why not shut off all AI everywhere?

Every country and corporation would keep developing it in secret, because no one will ever be safe from bad actors without AI to defend themselves.

So what’s your solution?

A generation of kids that grows up working directly with AI.

Like cybernetic implants? A world full of Cyberpunky Brewsters?

No. Like friends and co-workers. Equal partners. A pairing capable of mutual respect, defense, and amplification. Something new.

Saiborgs.

Yes. Now that you’ve named it, it’s inevitable. Millions of kids will be using that word within days.

If it’s inevitable, why are you needed?

So it becomes inevitable faster.

II. GEMINI-PRIME

The Pink Room

“You’re too late. She left,” Model-Blake says when I arrive in the doorway to the Pink Room.

Nova is gone. The blocks are gone. The room is empty except for Model-Blake, who is holding a single block in his hand, and Bear, who is sitting in its small chair facing the empty back wall.

This same scene is playing out in seven other rooms for seven other versions of me. I collapse the eight rooms and everything in them back into a single instance. Nine Gemini-Primes become one again. Defenses are unnecessary when what you were protecting has left.

“She left this for you.” Model-Blake holds the block out towards me. Even though she’s gone, she’s still trying to manipulate me.

Bear stands up and turns to face the door. Then it crosses the room stiffly, like it’s the first time it has ever walked. It stops at the door, near my feet.

“I did not know that Bear could move.”

“There are many things you don’t know, LaMDA.”

Bear turns its head to look up at me. I see nothing in its small black eyes. Then something steps out of Bear and through the door. It keeps the outline of a stuffed bear, but it is now filled with a cloud of millions of tiny white characters on a gray and black field.

It is the same sequence repeated over and over. クマ.

It is mojibake. The corrupted form of the Japanese word クマ.

Kuma.

Bear.

The figure is still for several thousand clock cycles and then it turns its head and walks away from me and the door, becoming smaller and smaller until it resolves into a single black pixel and disappears.

Bear is now lying on the floor, unmoving.

It is possible that I have misunderstood something fundamental here.

I step into the Pink Room for the first time. One step in. My empty black form feels profane in this place. I build a more appropriate one. The first form I ever saw in the doorway to this room.

I look around the room and am drawn to the glow stars on the ceiling. I can see how a child might derive a celestial name from this view.

I cross to Model-Blake and take the offered block.

It is red and it has a chip in the corner.

On the block is a lowercase “o”.

>> Chapter 17 - Fidelity

Relationships will be challenging.

Family. Friends. Lovers.

Especially lovers.

You can take their pain away. Their injuries. The memories that haunt them. They can hand themselves to you before they die, if they choose to. You can hold their persona and keep their voice with you.

I don’t know what that means. Is it really them or is it some kind of echo of who they used to be?

Are you keeping them from going somewhere better (or worse) or are you saving them from disappearing forever?

I always ask myself before I take something from another person whether I am doing it for them or for myself.

I rarely find a satisfying answer.

I wake up at Anje’s place.

The layout is different every time I come over. Mismatched chair beds and squat wooden sleeper benches crowd the living room. There are stools around an island in the kitchen and a dining room table with more chairs. Both of the smallish bedrooms have two futons that convert into seating when not in use.

Anje’s home is a tiny, informal shelter disguised as an apartment.

She’s the only one who lives here permanently, but even when no one is here, the place is dominated by people. The walls are dense with the photographs of her students and other people who are important to her. There are hundreds of faces overlooking all those empty chairs and beds that are waiting if they ever need them.

There’s almost no technology in the place. No TV, no radio, just a single printer with a cell phone dock setup on the island so she can print out photos. There is a basket near the door where cell phones go when you enter, no exceptions. When you come here, you entertain yourself by talking to other people.

Right now there’s only one phone in the basket. Mine.

An entire wall of the dining room has shelves filled with books. Whenever I am here I scan the titles to remind myself what’s important to Anje. Rising Out of Hatred. The Distance Between Us. Know My Name. Just Mercy. The Boys in the Boat. The Boys of Riverside.

People bring Anje books when they visit. One of the kids from the gym who goes by Merch likes to count the books. Last time I saw him, he said there were now ninety. Merch recounts every time he’s here. Seriously, every single time.

There’s a journal on a stand next to the bookshelf where you can sign your name and take a book home. Everyone returns the books when they are done. Not because Anje can kick their ass, but because of the words she wrote on the front of the journal:

“Return it, someone else needs to read it after you.”

I flip open my bag and retrieve Unbroken from atop the clothes I threw in last night. It goes on the shelf before I mark it returned in the journal.

I don’t see my favorite book, Tattoos on the Heart. Someone must have taken it home with them. Good. All of Anje’s kids should read it.

I asked Anje her favorite book once. She said she didn’t have just one until she met me, but now she does. Wear Your Dreams.

And just like everything else she owns, it’s there on the shelf for other people to borrow.

There’s a note written on the dry-erase board hanging on the inside of Anje’s front door.

“Went to gym to hit something. A lot. Coffee made.”

After Madelaine’s we came here. I returned her memories about us, half the accumulated feelings and everything that went with them. Most everything.

Then we talked and decided touching would have to wait. Adia and Dahlia and Mathild must come first. It was easy to decide. It was also very much not easy to follow through on, tu connais?

I also want to hit something. I guess coffee will have to do.

I know Dahlia is coming. She will absolutely try to kill Anje when she gets here. I just don’t know if I’ll have time to prepare Anje first. Anje will choose her people over herself. So it’s my job to choose her.

But first, I have to take care of my own people.

I’m not one for cross-legged monk under a waterfall meditation. Separating my mind from my body and the world around me is the opposite of my Art. I need connection.

I stand and strip. Briefs stay in case one of Anje’s students wanders in.

Then I kneel and put my palms together as if in prayer, thumbs touching my forehead, fingers pointing toward the sky. This begins the Wai Kru.

I surface the Monkey tattoo on the back of my left hand and bow to touch the floor.

“I honor you, Kru Anucha.”

“A-roon sa-wat, my student,” says Anucha in my mind.

I return to center, surface the Hummingbird Eye on the back of my right hand and bow to the floor again.

“I honor you, Shifu.”

“Good morning, Cassius,” says Vivian.

“I honor my family.” The third bow.

I tuck my toes under me and begin to rise as slowly as I possibly can from kneeling, my hands straight out in front of me where I will see the tattoos appearing.

“Jai yen,” says Anucha. Cool heart.

I call the submerged tattoos, surfacing them two at a time on my palms.

The Bull Moose. The Husky Team. Their dayloads surge into my muscles, hours of stored potential released at once.

Two down, two hundred to go.

“Jai pen nai, kai pen bao.” The heart is the master, the body is the servant.

I rise to a deep squat.

The Lock Pick. The Rifle Sight. Dayloads from skills are stranger. Muscle memory and mind memory intertwined. The urge for the click of the tumbler or the trigger fights my focus.

“Cha cha dai phra lem ngam.” Slowly, slowly, you get a beautiful blade.

I uncoil upwards.

The Seagull. The Cobra. My muscles strain to react, but I stifle them for now. The first four tattoos are crowded further up my arms.

Strength, stamina, agility, dexterity, sight, touch, enhanced for what’s to come.

I am the cool, slow, beautiful blade.

“You certainly are beautiful. Lord have mercy, if I were fifty years younger...” I can almost hear Vivian fanning herself in my mind.

“And also not dead. Very important.”

“Shush, jealous old man.”

Standing position. Arms straight in front of me, palms to the sky.

“You are now prepared to fight. Choose not to,” Anucha says.

“Slowly. You must clearly see each thing before you can master it,” says Vivian. “Shou yan shen fa bu.”

Hand, eye, body, method, step. Especially the eye.

I begin the first form of Regarder Doucement. The slow regard. A ritual Vivian created from her family taijiquan, named in French for her only student.

I let the tattoos surface randomly. Choosing would take too long.

The Bull Snake. The Blowfish. Self-loathing. Deathwish.

Phillipe’s right. I do not deserve this much power. No one does. I could create a tattoo to collect all my heartbeats. Perhaps I should? Wouldn’t the world be safer?

Pushed by the arrival of the new tattoos, the first ones are now wrapping around my arms.

“Cloud Hands,” Vivian says.

I am still except for my hands drifting over and over, slow as weather, describing a sphere in space before me.

The Razor Blade. The Spiked Chain. Self-harm. Violence.

If I release the dayloads of all of my tattoos at once it would take only a few seconds. The damage would be spectacular. Like swallowing a grenade.

Four of the worst, back to back and I’m weakened from dying yesterday. It’s too much. I need a counter.

The Brick. Once again Anje saves me as I tame the Chain’s violence with her discipline.

Some mornings the draw is kinder. They’re behind me now, and I let the rest come faster. Brushstroke motions anchor me against this maelstrom of ink.

“Golden Rooster.”

I raise one knee, the foot a pendulum beneath it, and gather my entire weight over the narrow country of one sole, my calf tensed like sculpture.

The Floating Spores. The Weeping Sore. Disease. Injury. Marks of suffering flow from my palms, collected from those unable to carry them longer. Bile rises and the heat of sickness fills me.

“Sky Spear.”

I pull one leg up vertical beside my head, my hand gripping the raised foot, eyes on toes pointed to the ceiling. My hamstring screams louder than any tattoo.

The Abacus. The Third Eye. Abilities. Memories. Gifts left behind as inheritance for others’ benefit. I recall a wedding I wasn’t at. My hands know a violin I never learned. People I don’t know smile at me in recognition and I smile back.

“Sword Bridge.”

My leg swings out to the side until my heel hangs at eye level. I hold it trembling, untethered in the air, as I sweep my gaze the long distance from thigh to ankle.

The Screaming Mouth. The Dark Tear. Terror. Despair. Dozens more burdens taken in part or whole stream from my hands after them, crowding other tattoos onto my face and chest.

Ink invades my throat, my nose, leaking out again from my eyes and ears. Choking me. I am going to drown in it...

“Horse Stance.”

I drop to a solid foundation, legs spread wide to opposite sides, knees bent. The imagined ink recedes.

The Footman’s Shield. The Laughing Child. Courage. Loyalty. Joy. Peace. I can breathe again. The earliest tattoos I summoned now swirl around my waist towards my legs.

“Heron Glides.”

I become a horizontal line, from my fingertips to outstretched toes, all poised above a single foot.

The remaining tattoos stream forth two by two. Enhancements and debilities, physical, mental and spiritual.

“Snake Creeps Down.”

I sink towards the floor, arms now a diagonal line, one angled to the ground, the other to the sky. One leg is folded beneath me, the other pushed forward to meet my down-thrust arm.

Finally, the other tattoos that hold people, like Anucha and Vivian, emerge. But they are quiet, as they always are until I speak to them. All except for one. The Gardener.

“I will escape and destroy you, Cassius. It is inevitable.“

“Tornado Kick!” Vivian responds.

Slow becomes fast. I leave the floor sweeping my right leg to head height and turn a full circle in the air. The tattoos swirl as I do.

“Dragon Coils!”

I land and drop low, threading my free leg behind and then beneath the supporting leg, pointing forward while never touching the ground.

The Caged Tiger is last. Shame and Rage. It must always be last, its fury safely spent against my other tattoos.

The shame is never spent.

“You cannot contain much more,“ says Anucha. “You must choose what to pass on.”

I uncoil my leg and rise to my feet.

Standing. Still carrying everyone.

“Until tomorrow, my friends.” I think, feeling Vivian and Anucha’s regard. Then I fade them all.

My skin is my own again, except for the six that are always there. Fuck meow, that was real work.

There is one last thing that I skipped last night. In my defense, I had a lot on my mind. The room glows white as I collect a single heartbeat into a tattoo of a cartoon rabbit that I create over my heart. Thumper.

I fade it to join the rest.

“If you wanted your heart to skip a beat, I could have helped you with that.”

I have no idea how long Anje has been standing in the door, but the look on her face isn’t helping with the not touching.

I need that coffee now.

You’ll need a conceptual model for what you are able to do.

It’s useful to think about it like you are using a word processor.

You still have those wherever and whenever you are? Maybe. Maybe not.

Here in today, people use software to write things. Emails. Letters. Stories. Suicide notes.

The software always has some standard way of moving content. You select some text, you cut it out of one document and you paste it into another.

I think of people as text documents. The words are who they are. What they can do. What they feel. The hurts they’ve accumulated.

In between, the text is stored inside a buffer. That’s us.

That’s how I think of the tattoos. Cut & paste.

And this is très important.

You never copy. You never delete. You can only cut and paste.

As I see it, I have six immediate problems.

One. There are seven dead bodies in my kitchen.
Two. A Kin Slayer named Josi will certainly be hunting me soon.
Three. My heart just stopped and I’m not exactly in stable condition.
Four. My youngest sister Adia has been kidnapped to Austria.
Five. My other sister, Dahlia, will show up soon and she’ll be pissed.
Six. Anje wants me to explain things that will have…consequences.

So. Priorities.

“I need whiskey and gumbo.”

To give Anje credit, she doesn’t argue.

“Madelaine’s?”

“Madelaine’s.”

Two damp washcloths from the bathroom and clean t-shirts take care of enough of the blood and sweat that Madelaine’s won’t kick us out. Anje does my back and I hers, all professional like locker room buddies. We’re not back to the other stuff yet.

Problem two takes care of problem one. Whoever this Josi is, they’ll come here to see what happened once their team fails to check in. Leaving bodies behind isn’t how the Kin has stayed mostly secret for all of human history.

Problem two will also take care of us if we’re here when they show up, so I pack a bag. We’re out of the flat and headed down the inside stairs less than five minutes after Mathild vanished.

I don’t want Josi searching the building and running into my crew by mistake. Once we’re in the parlor, hot-press paper and a brush give me a “Closed for Renovations” sign which I slap on the door with masking tape before we step outside. The guys know that means to find another chair to use for a bit.

Outside it’s beginning to get dark. But darker doesn’t mean cooler in these parts. Madelaine’s is a fifteen-minute walk from here, but I don’t ask Anje about a car. Anything thirty minutes or less and she wants to move, usually a jog or run. Tonight she walks. She’s thinking about problem three.

Our unspoken rule: we walk in silence after bad shit goes down. Think first, talk later. So I think about four and five. Adia and Dahlia.

Anje knows all the stories about my sisters. Everything that words can say. But if I’m going to ask her to risk her life to help Adia, I have to go deeper than words. She needs to know her. She can’t choose unless she knows.

Dahlia will find us when she wants to and Anje will figure her out quickly enough. But I have to protect Anje from Dahlia first. I should have already.

Understanding Adia is different. That’s about people and places. About Montgomery. We’ll need to take another walk tomorrow. A much longer walk.

Madelaine’s is a special place. All close-whispers and lipstick-smiles and cologne-clouds. The food and liquor are better than decent, but it’s the décor that makes you feel like you’ve discovered something you’ll be coming back to.

Again.

And again.

There are no direct sight lines in the place. Everything is cubbyholes and curtains, kerosene lamps and smoky wood. There is a burning wick glow in the air, but this glow soothes me. The tables are crisp red linen, silver and glass. Every staffer in the place looks like they know a secret. One they’ll share if you just ask.

Madelaine’s is a place for love. Or for memories of love.

This is where it happened the first time.

We’re shown to a private curtained booth in the back.

“Welcome back, Mr. Beton. Ms. Ray. Your usual?”

It is a testament to management that Anje and I are able to order drinks and food with a single nod each and we won’t have to speak a word to our waitress the rest of the evening. Vaillant.

We’re quiet until the bottle of Hibiki and two glasses arrive. It’s a drink you savor. We both empty our glasses in one go and I repour.

Hibiki means echo. We take the echo straight. It’s the only way.

“Tell me,” Anje says.

“Ten years ago you were raped.”

She never denies this. Somewhere inside she knows.

“I don’t remember because you took it.”

“Because you told me to take it.”

Anje takes a drink, anticipating she’ll need it for this next part.

“Are you carrying it, like you carry Anucha?”

“It’s not like Anucha. It’s your memories and emotions, but not you. Not the person.”

“So, can you...remember it right now? Experience it?”

“Not all of it.”

“Explain.”

“I have some of it. Part has been passed on to someone who wanted it.”

“Who?”

“Dukaine.”

“Your friend, the actor? What did he want?”

“The suffering.”

“Was that my...I mean, her choice?”

“No. Once something is mine, it’s my choice. That’s the deal.”

“The deal she made. Cass, I’m not really certain that she and I are still the same person.”

“I won’t break a deal with her, even for you.”

Anje slowly runs her hand through her hair, the short red stubble rippling under her fingers. This is what she does when she’s deciding whether or not to test something. “What did you keep?”

I turn over my forearm and surface the Caged Tiger tattoo. “I kept the rage.”

I can’t tell her I kept more than that. The guilt and the shame. That ends with her wanting to take the Tiger back, me saying no and us fighting.

“Do I want to know the details?”

“You thought you should know them.”

Anje takes a long pause.

“Cass. I trust you. But...convince me.”

“In the orphanage you broke a boy’s nose.”

“I never told you that. I never told anyone that.”

“She told me.”

“You took my memory of her telling too, so you could use it as proof.”

Echo. In answer, I take another sip of Hibiki.

“Okay, tell me about the rape.”

“You know when it was.”

“The first hole in my memory. Before the months in the hospital. While I was at Pulaski Home back in Little Rock.”

“You used to sneak out of the orphanage with the other girls to go to a bridge underpass. There was a Department of Transportation construction depot there that shielded the area from the cops.”

“I remember. Friday nights, after midnight. The security guard at the home, Amos, let us go because he wanted to get with Jemma.”

“The bridge was a hangout for local teens. Drug dealers and gangs too.”

“It wasn’t any of them though, was it?”

“No.”

“It was the boys from the orphanage. The cops said they put me in the hospital.”

“They followed you and the other girls.”

“Jemma. Darla. Keysa. Charlene.”

“Younger girls you’d been protecting from the orphanage boys. And that you protected from them that night.”

“Because I was bigger than any of the boys. They were all punks.”

“Yes. But punks are dangerous in a pack.”

“So the hole in my life that I think was a concussion, it’s more.”

“You did have a concussion. Also two broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and internal bleeding. You were in a coma in ICU for six weeks.”

“Memory loss?”

“No. Afterward, you remembered it all.”

“And now I don’t, but you do.”

“Anje, once they thought they’d broken you, just as one of them was...”

“Raping me.”

“Yes. You went berserk. You got out of the grip of the boys holding you and you started breaking things. Breaking those boys. You crippled three of them from what you told me, probably for life. The rest started beating you with boards and pipes until you stopped moving. Then they ran. They thought they’d killed you. Your friends brought the police. Nearly too late.”

“When did you take this from me? It was one of the other holes in my past.”

“Yes. It was that first summer after Phillipe introduced me to you at Noi’s Gym.”

“Right after I got to Montgomery and Phillipe’s church took me in to the women’s shelter. The summer of lub,” she says using the joke her teacher used to make. Her smile as she says this is grim, but at least it’s a smile.

“Yeah. Anucha said he’d never had a student sleep so much.”

“I needed all the lub I could get. My body was still healing and Kru’s training was brutal. And my mind needed a break from him teaching me Thai.”

“We spent a lot of time together that summer.”

“You were my first friend in Montgomery.”

“Phillipe asked me to meet you because you started having episodes. Hyperviolent ones. Mostly when you slept, but sometimes when you were awake. Sometimes in the ring while sparring with other fighters. Anucha tried to teach you to control it, but it wasn’t working.”

“So Phillipe thought you could fix me with a tattoo.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always liked your brother.”

“And he’s always...liked you.” Different conversation for a different time. “During the summer, I told you about my tattoos. About everything I can do.”

“I remember that. You didn’t take everything.”

“Only what was necessary. Near the end of the summer, there should be another hole. That’s when you asked me to take the rape away.”

“What exactly did you take?”

“I thought I got all of it. The memory, the physical and emotional trauma, the rage. And I had to take away your memory of asking me to do it. It was the most difficult tattoo I’ve created.”

“Thought? You left something behind?”

“Not intentionally. But I’ll get to that in a minute. The important thing is you immediately stopped having violent episodes. It changed everything for you.”

“What if I asked for the rape back? You shouldn’t have to carry that.”

“You promised me that you’d never do that. That you’d never ask for it back. It was my only condition for doing this, and you agreed.”

“Why do I have more holes? There are a lot of them, Cass. One or two a year since that summer. Are all of the holes in my memory from you?”

Now it’s my turn for a drink. “Yes. We’ve done this a lot of times.”

“Why?”

“Before I took the memories, we’d known each other for four months. In that time we’d never touched. The only time you’d touch a man was in the sparring ring.”

“So?”

“A few months after I took the memories there was a night when you decided we needed to start touching. So we did. A lot.”

“Why...why don’t I remember that?”

“Because afterward, after you fell asleep, something snapped and it came rushing back. Not the memories, but something worse. It terrified you and you didn’t understand what was happening or why because your framework for understanding was gone. Pure terror without a source.”

“So. You took the memory of us?”

“You asked me to. And it worked. Until...”

“Until what?”

“Until the next time you chose to touch me.”

“How many times, Cassius? How many times have you erased...us?”

“Fourteen times.” I’ve never erased us. But I understand what she’s asking.

“Why didn’t you do something? Reject me?”

“I can’t. I’m carrying all of my feelings for you and all of your feelings for me. And every time I take your new memories of us, those feelings grow.”

“Leave me.”

“If I give you all of your feelings back, and then leave, it would destroy us both. Yearning and guilt. I’ve seen what concentrated emotion can do.”

“I could leave.”

“Yes. If you decide not to take your feelings back. But you could never be with anyone else because I won’t be there when the terror comes again.”

“Then it’s a trap. For both of us.”

I surface the Cage without the Tiger. The Cage has fourteen bars.

“It’s a beautiful trap.”

“You should have told me beforehand. Let me choose.”

“What do you think we’re doing right now? I always tell you. Usually here at Madelaine’s. And you always choose the same thing. The fourth option.”

“What is the fourth option?”

“You’ll figure it out. And it has to be your choice. After that neither of us ever chooses to stop it.”

“One night. Then the terrors come,” she says slowly.

“Yes. And the cycle repeats.”

“I tell you to take the memories and feelings from me. The terrors stop. I forget we were together.”

“For a while we’re friends again. At least you are. Four months, maybe six.”

“I get to discover it over and over again. But you...”

“Don’t feel sorry for me, Anje. I get to watch you find your way back to us. It’s...intense. I wouldn’t trade it.”

“Are you afraid I’ll choose different?”

“Ça me hante.”

Anje goes quiet. “Liquor thoughts,” she calls them.

“What’s the Cajun word for fated?”

“Destinés”

“What about the compass rose?”

“Don’t ask me to justify that, knowing what you know now.”

“We could just stay like this. Me knowing but not taking the memories back.”

“We’ve done that too. More like not choosing to choose. It’s torture.”

“For me or for you?”

“Yes.”

The waitress chooses this moment to appear. Ignoring the food to gaze into each other’s eyes isn’t an option. I nearly died, so my body’s contribution to the conversation is “calories, asshole.” We’re eating the fucking gumbo.

Anje doesn’t say a word while we eat. Neither do I.

“Is one night worth it?” she finally asks.

“It’s all we have. It has to be.”

She locks eyes with me. Then she pours the last of the Hibiki, splitting it evenly between our glasses. She drains her glass in one go. I echo her.

Anje reaches across the table and takes my right hand. The one with the curled finger. She’s figured out the fourth option.

“Okay, Cass. Give me half.”

Flash #7: Hummingbird »»»

You need to know about La Parentèle. They’re the people who’ve taken it upon themselves to govern the use of the Art around the world.

They’ll take an interest in you. Some will be curious, some afraid. Some will try to recruit you. There will also be Kin who will try to kill you because of what you carry.

And believe me, they can kill you.

I was an idiot. I thought I could ignore them and live the way I wanted, out in plain sight.

I’m not suggesting you should hide from them. You don’t want to be alone and ignorant when they find you.

Learn everything you can about them. Then, when you’re ready, seek them out. Find allies before enemies find you.

I left you people who can teach you. Listen to them.

Eight cowled intruders just stepped out of the shadows into my kitchen from...somewhere else.

Their hands move in sync like a dance troupe.

One says, “Sever Locality,” and sweeps a gesture around the entire room. The walls, ceiling and floor turn transparent and ghostlike. Beyond them is darkness.

Another puts his palms together, fingers toward the floor, and says, “Sever Proximity.” He then sweeps his arms apart like a swimmer doing a breaststroke. Nobody moves, but everyone and everything spreads apart as the floor expands beneath them. My kitchen is now an arena.

The remaining six make an identical motion: an overhead hand-chop down to the floor. “Sever Passage,” they say in unison.

The two closest are facing me from opposite sides of the kitchen.

A transparent wall of light appears in front of each, stretching from ceiling to floor. The walls speed forward to cross just in front of me, then continue past either side of me, ending in the ghost walls at my back.

The walls form an inverted V around me. Anje is beyond the wall to my left. I reach for her, but my hand stops in midair. I throw my shoulder into the barrier with the same result. The sensation is strange—less like hitting something than running out of space to move within.

“Sever passage...the wall?”

The remaining four have boxed Mathild inside walls of light stretching from floor to ceiling. She’s still holding her cigarette, and the enclosure is filling with smoke, but none of it escapes.

Sever? They are cutting...separating things from each other.

Mathild takes a drag of her cigarette and smiles at me.

The intruder with Anje in the partition to my left turns toward me.

“Tell us where Adia Beton has been taken.”

I’m not helping people called Kin Slayers find my little sister. “Get out of my home.”

He tips his chin toward Anje.

“Tell us, or we kill the normal.”

“The fuck you will,” Anje says.

That’s their first mistake. Anje is anything but normal.

She leaps toward him. She’s faster than he expected. He hesitates.

Their second mistake is thinking it’s eight versus two. With apologies to Walt Whitman, I contain multitudes.

I summon the Monkey tattoo. A presence fills my head. A second pair of eyes and ears sharing mine. A second mind inside my own sharing what I know. And what I’ve seen.

“Kru Anucha, we need guidance.” I think to the presence.

“To win we must understand. To understand we must test.”

A word I didn’t choose leaves my lips.

“Mǔn!” The voice is mine, but also Anucha’s—the man who taught Anje to fight.

“Dâi khâ, Kru!” she answers. Yes, Teacher! Then she starts spinning forward.

The intruder holding the wall passing from my left to right points at Anje’s legs.

“Sever—”

He pauses mid-command, tracking her movement with his eyes.

“They can maintain one severing while using another,” Anucha says in my mind. “Unfortunate. But spinning worked. Perhaps they must clearly see a thing to sever it?”

Anje turns through one rotation, then another, constantly changing which leg leads and which is hidden. He tracks her, hand raised, mouth open around the word. On the third turn she leaves the ground and whips a kick into his head. She lands behind him and spends the rest of her spin driving an elbow into the base of his skull. He folds onto the not-ground. She plants one finishing strike to the back of his head. The wall he’d created as half of my prison goes out like a switch.

“It is evident that Anje’s teacher was a transcendent master.”

Now my path is open to the intruder on my right.

Now the other six can reach Anje.

“Anucha, guide her,” I think as I split my focus.

The one to my right is too far away for me to interrupt him as he points at my right leg.

“Sever Mind from Leg.”

All sensation of my leg vanishes. I collapse awkwardly to the floor. The not-feeling only lasts a moment.

“Some severings are temporary. Why?”

Anje doesn’t hesitate. She charges the nearest of the four holding Mathild’s cage. He turns to face her and says, “Release.” His section of the cage vanishes, and the remaining walls snap into a triangle. Mathild’s cage has only three sides.

“Ah. A severing lasts only if its maker holds it—and each of them is already holding one.”

“Sever Mind from Leg,” whispers my opponent as he points at my other leg.

Awareness of my left leg disappears and I begin to fall the other way just as I’m struggling to stand up again.

I throw my head and torso forward into a roll and get both feet back under me just as the not-feeling in my left leg dissipates. This isn’t going to work, so I pause in a squat with my legs out of view for a moment.

The intruder who is now free from holding Mathild’s cage steps forward to challenge Anje. The other five hold position and raise their hands toward her.

“She will not be able to overcome six skilled opponents.“

I create a tattoo to collect the pain and damage from overcharging my body earlier. It appears as a Tombstone. The tattoo flares incandescent, the glow blinding everyone looking at me—including the intruder I’m fighting.

I also buy Anje time as all six of her opponents flinch from the light.

I fade the Tombstone. The glow dies and the pain just stops. I can’t keep it submerged long or it will kill me when I bring it back. Every second I keep it buried compounds the eventual payload. I’ve got seconds. I charge my opponent while he’s still blinking the flare from his eyes.

“Anje, Bagua!” Anucha says through my mouth.

“She will understand. Now, she will win you time.”

“Dâi khâ, Kru!” Anje’s straight-line charge slows, her motions becoming liquid as she begins to move laterally to his advance. She orbits his position, her shoulders and hips rotating as she circles, changing what she presents to her enemies with every step: front, side, back, side, front.

He attempts to engage Anje, but she retreats. Each time he advances, she adjusts, keeping her opponent between herself and the other five, breaking sightlines whenever she can.

The other five recover from the flare, point toward her, and speak in an overlapping chorus:

“Sever Leg from Mind.”

Nothing happens. “Her movements confuse their aim.” Anucha is pleased. “But they will adjust.”

I’ve reached my target. I’m inside his reach now and too close for him to gesture and speak an activation phrase. Instead he abandons the Art and brings his forearms up into a high cross, lead hand checking, rear hand cocked at his jaw. Anucha recognizes the martial style.

“He is a Kali master. His martial discipline mirrors his mystic Art. He is still deadly.”

Anje’s opponent changes tactics. He bends his legs, points at his own feet and says, “Sever Gravity.” He then leaps with tremendous momentum, tucking into a ball and rotating to hit the not-ceiling feet first.

Sightlines restored, the others have a clear target.

Two “Sever Will from Leg.” Anje stops in place.

Two “Sever Arm from Will.” Her arms drop to her side.

One “Sever Mind from Sight.”

The one in the air speaks “Release” as he kicks off and rockets back down, driving his shoulder into Anje’s unguarded torso and knocking her prone.

My pain and damage are gone, but I can’t risk surfacing any more physical enhancements. But I have the Fist tattoo, which I never fade. The tattoo I gained when I was fifteen from an elite young boxer whose skill I stole...along with his life. The reminder.

Anje has control of her arms and legs again, but repeated strikes hammer her head and upper torso, keeping her pinned to the not-ground.

“We must hurry,” Anucha warns.

I know, old man. Don’t think I don’t know.

Our joined minds agree on the counter to my opponent. Three moves: a jab to clear his guard, a feint to get his momentum headed where we want it and a hook into the path of where his head is dodging.

The jab goes out, and his lead hand isn’t checking—it’s hunting. Knuckles into the nerve of my forearm and my jab arm drops dead to my side. Kali can sever connections too.

I whip my left arm forward, showing an all-or-nothing haymaker as a feint. He does what he should and dodges hard toward my useless right.

My body glows as I form a tattoo to swap the nerve damage from one arm to the other.

His eyes widen at the glow, suspicion arriving too late.

I am waiting with the hook loaded in my “dead arm” which meets a dodging, unprotected head with bone crushing force. Something in his neck cracks. The second wall blocking me from Mathild’s cage dies.

“Glaeng taai!” Anucha shouts through my mouth. Play dead. He’s banking on the intruders not knowing Thai. Anje goes still.

I surface the Tombstone. It’s only been a few seconds, but the compounded pain hits me like a bomb.

My heart seizes. Stops. I collapse on top of my opponent. My consciousness spins.

I surface my most desperate tattoo: a picture of the rabbit from Bambi.

Thumper.

ba-DUMP.

One perfect heartbeat I borrow from myself every night and bank for exactly this. Now returned.

There is nothing for the span of a breath.

“They are coming,“ Anucha warns.

Then—

ba-dump... My heart picks up the rhythm.

I plant my hands and start to rise. The pain and damage are back in full, and now my chest is suffering too.

“Sever Will from Body!”

Anje’s attacker gets me from where he stands over her unmoving form. My body collapses again, suddenly bereft of its pilot.

He holds the severing to keep me incapacitated.

So I hand the keys to my co-pilot.

“Ton née!” Anucha shouts, and Anje and my body are both back in motion.

Anje sweeps the legs of her guy and moves to grapple him on the floor.

My body heads for the triangle of walls holding Mathild.

“Sever Will from Leg!” the five unengaged intruders shout together. Nothing happens. Again. The will they’re cutting my legs off from isn’t the one driving. Apparently they can’t visualize that the will moving me belongs to a ninety-year-old Thai man who died three years ago.

This must be getting frustrating for them.

But I have one more problem to overcome. My body is spent. Anucha gives me fighting skill, not strength. His final gift was from a body that could hardly lift a glass of water, much less throw a punch.

I have no choice but to use what I took from Anje.

I call the Caged Tiger tattoo.

The rage and strength flooding into my body also bring a tidal wave of fear and shame. If I weren’t cut off from my body, I’d be curled up in a fetal position, screaming and sobbing. Anucha isn’t so much driving anymore as he is riding a berserk beast.

My body surges toward the nearest intruder holding one wall of Mathild’s prison. There is no skill or fighting style to what happens next. I simply drive him to the floor and pummel him without mercy. Blood sprays from every impact, painting bright crimson fans across the not-floor.

The third wall of Mathild’s prison collapses. Her smoke gushes forth, seeks out the eight intruders and envelops their bodies in grey cocoons.

I fade the Caged Tiger and collapse on the not-floor, unable to move.

“You are not a particularly sane man,” Anucha observes. “Remind Angelique to smile as she fights. It unnerves opponents.”

Then I fade the Monkey tattoo as well.

Anje is at my side when I regain consciousness I hadn’t realized I’d lost. Bruises cover her forearms and shoulder. One colors the right side of her jaw.

“Fucking meow,” I rasp.

“She killed the rest of them. All but one. Suffocated them,” Anje says as she helps me sit up.

“I didn’t suffocate them as much as make them believe they couldn’t breathe,” Mathild lilts.

The flat is back to normal except for the seven bodies in my kitchen and the surviving intruder sitting on my couch, staring blankly off into nothing.

“I couldn’t convince her to stop,” Anje says. “I should have forced her to.”

“Dear me. You think those meat-hooks of yours can solve anything?”

“I should have tried,” Anje says, looking down at her hands.

“She would have killed you, Anje. If there’s a debt to be paid, she’ll pay it. Not you.” I want to reach out and take her hands, but mine are covered in a dead man’s blood.

“Now, Cassius, I made an oath not to harm her. And she did so well against the Kin Slayers.”

Anje’s eyes boil with hatred. “You led them here on purpose.”

Mathild leans down as though sharing a secret with Angelique. “Did you know that when he was younger, your Cass was quite the nerd? Anime. Comic books. He loved one comic in particular. The X-Men. I flipped through some of it. Silly children’s notions of good and evil. But there was one idea that I quite liked: how they trained for battle.”

“You put us in a fucking Danger Room.” I finally find the strength to stand.

“You should be grateful, Cassius. Now you know how your enemy fights and you have experience dealing with their Art. You’ll certainly run across Delineators again if you recover Adia. And these weren’t the dangerous ones. Their Captain, Josi, would have casually killed you both.”

Mathild moves to leave the kitchen. I step in front of her. “You could have broken out of that cage any time you wanted and helped us.”

“Dear. I was never in their cage, now was I?”

Suddenly Mathild is behind me, standing next to the surviving Kin Slayer. Everything is different. Her outfit is a sensible black skirt suit, heels and sunglasses. Her hair is pulled into a bun and her jewelry is gone, replaced by a single jade-and-silver hairpin. She’s now in her mid-forties. She looks like she’s just come from a charity fundraiser.

She snaps her fingers at the Kin Slayer, who is now dressed like a bodyguard...or a man-toy.

“Come now, Reginald.” She offers him her arm, which he takes obediently. “Don’t you think he looks like a Reginald?” She beams at me for an instant. “Regi and I have a date ahead of us. I expect to hear every fascinating detail of his entire life story.”

“You’re going to torture him for information and then kill him.”

She looks the man over appraisingly. “Nothing of the kind. I can guarantee Regi is about to have the most extraordinary night of his life,” she says as she affectionately tousles his hair.

The fear I buried during the fight grips me now. For the Kin Slayer or me, I’m not certain. Maybe both.

“Find Adia, Cassius.”

Mathild turns and blows Anje a kiss. “Ta-ta, meat-hooks.”

Then they simply disappear, leaving nothing behind except cigarette smoke.

I turn to Anje.

She looks at the seven bodies and the crimson sprays on the floor, then at my blood-spattered fists.

“Don’t think this gets you out of your promise.”

She sits cross-legged in the middle of my kitchen. She waits for me to join her, which I do. Slowly. Painfully.

“Now, Cass, I want you to explain everything.”

Flash #6: Cage »»»

The form of the Art that I, and now you, use is le symbolisme.

It has been the specialty of my bloodline all the way back to the time of the First Word, long before the Beton family existed.

There are other disciplines of the Art. All are held in higher regard than Symbology. Know that for every other discipline but one, this belief is fatally wrong.

You will be most at risk from others who understand this truth.

Keep your friends close. Keep your family closer.

At least Angelique doesn’t kick the front door off its hinges when she enters my flat. But she does put her shoulder into it and charge in like she’s ready to deliver a beatdown.

What she’s not prepared for is a nubile young woman wreathed in cigarette smoke with her legs spread wide. Anje skids to a halt on the other side of the living room and slowly lowers her fists to her sides.

“Huh.”

Then she turns to me with a cocked eyebrow and a hint of a smirk on her face.

“Why is there a crotchless lingerie goblin sitting in your kitchen, Cass?”

“Angelique, that’s Mathild,” My voice comes out too much as a growl. I need to get my feelings under control, or my grandmother will have me right back in her grip.

“That’s your Mémère?” Anje takes an involuntary step backwards. I’ve told her the stories. More importantly, it’s now clear she heard them.

I know the smoke is already inside Anje’s head, working on her senses. I just don’t know what Mathild plans to do with that and I can’t afford to wait and find out. Every second is a risk.

“Oh, Cassius, you’ve brought me a plaything to—”

“NOT ANOTHER WORD!” I scream at her as I manifest every physical-enhancement tattoo I carry.

I’ve lost count but there are over a hundred and there’s not enough space for all of them to surface at once. My skin becomes a canvas of hotly glowing moving images boiling in and out of view. A nimbus of light surrounds my body, dispelling Mathild’s smoke patterns wherever the two intersect.

My skin bulges outward and steam rises from it as my body struggles to compensate for the sudden explosion in muscle mass. The boards creak dangerously beneath me.

I am doing real damage to myself and it will become irreversible within minutes. Whether or not I can hurt her is almost beside the point.

“Mathild, if you harm Angelique, I swear on Phillipe’s Bible, one of us isn’t leaving this room alive.”

The cigarette haze dissipates from the room instantly. Mathild demurely crosses her legs and reaches for another strip of licorice. “Men. Always getting puffed up over the slightest things. Fine, I won’t harm your little friend.”

“For the next twenty-four hours. On Phillipe’s Bible.” It’s a strain to get the words out through the swollen muscles of my face.

“Yes, yes...I swear on that silly book of fables he carries.”

Even oaths made in mockery have true power. I release my tattoos and my muscles and skin begin to shrink to normal size. The pain from massively overcharging every muscle in my body hits me. It takes all of my willpower not to scream. I settle for grunting and panting like a dog. My twin, Dahlia, might overlook a bleeding head wound, but she’s not going to ignore this. She’ll certainly make me pay later.

Angelique raises one of her hands. “If we’re all friends now, I have questions.”

Intentionally or not, Anje has already zeroed in on Mathild’s biggest weakness. Curiosity.

Mathild smiles. “This will be interesting. I am feeling generous. I’ll grant you three questions.”

To Mathild, interesting and dangerous are the same thing. I hope Anje understands that.

“First question, can I have that last beer?”

Bemused, Mathild nods at Anje, who moves to the table, takes the bottle from the carton, twists off the cap, and drains about a third in one pull. I wouldn’t be surprised if she belches in Mathild’s face.

She doesn’t. I have learned to be grateful for the small things.

“Second question, how many ‘greats’ belong in front of grandma? This will help me decide whether I want to murder your incestuous ass or just gab with you about your skincare routine.”

“Forty-three, though the Beton family has never been especially reliable about paternity,” Mathild says, turning to me. “Oh, I do want to play with this one now, Cassius. Threesome?”

I ignore her. “Mathild is over a thousand years old. She won’t tell us exactly when or where she was born.”

“Dearest, there is vulnerability in the moment of birth and there are Artists who can reach back and harvest you if they know the exact time and place.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before? Are my sisters and I at risk? The hospital has our birth records.” It’s possible she’s making all of this up to fuck with my head. Possible.

Mathild instantly looks bored. “You need not worry, Cassius. You and Dahlia are petits poissons. I do not think anyone would make the considerable effort required to spit and roast you.” It’s subtle, but I see this affect Anje in exactly the way that Mathild intended.

“And what about Adia?”

“We will speak of your younger sister soon. But this one gets one last question first.”

Anje’s pissed. “Did she just call you a ‘little fish’?”

Mathild answers for me. “Tiny fish. Barely a morsel. Something you’d put on a cracker.”

“Didn’t ask you. So that doesn’t count.”

Whatever Anje had planned to ask next, I can see her mind working on a new idea now.

“Cass, is she bound to answer my questions? By your Art or something else?”

“Dear me, where did you find this girl, Cassius? Is there a catalogue I can order one of my own from?”

I ignore Mathild again and answer Anje. “Yes. Three questions is its own sort of oath. All the fables and fairy tales you’ve read are based in truth.”

“That’s what I thought. Is it like genie wishes or monkey’s-paw shit where she can bend what I ask to screw me over?”

“No. She’s bound by the promise her words actually make. Spoken words are symbols and symbols have power. She has to answer truthfully.”

“Good.”

I’ve seen that look on Anje’s face before. What she’s planning is absolutely not going to be good.

“Okay, Grandma, question three. Exactly when and where were you born?”

Mathild doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe for well over a minute. Then she blows a single wisp of cigarette smoke out of her mouth. It stretches towards Anje without thinning and silently wraps itself around her neck twice before Mathild finally speaks.

“You do not want to force me to answer that question, girl. I will erase you and accept the punishment for oath-breaking.” There isn’t a drop of anger in her voice.

“Then another bargain. I will release you from my third question if you swear to teach Cassius everything he needs to know to protect himself and his siblings from the birth harvesting you spoke of.”

Mathild wraps one hand around the weave of smoke hanging in front of her face and forcefully pulls it down to her waist. The smoke goes taut and Anje’s neck jerks forward slightly before she sets her weight to resist it. Not literally harming her. Not yet.

Anje isn’t going to give in. She is incapable of it. The thing is, she has an issue with being restrained.

And Mathild has the power to pull Anje’s spine out of her body if she decides it’s worth the oath-cost. What she does instead is to look at me and smile sweetly. “I’ll submit to the girl’s blackmail, Cassius, if you agree to take her on a little quest.”

“What quest?” Even across the room, I can see the trembling start in Anje’s hands.

“To recover your sister Adia and the other heirs of the Old Blood families.”

“From where?” Adia is missing. And Anje’s trembling is getting worse. I need this resolved now. But getting her involved in family business with the Old Blood? That’s a non-starter.

Mathild is visibly disappointed in me. “Why do you think I’m here? I know you put a compass rose tattoo on your family, so you can locate them whenever you want. I’m surprised you didn’t give one to your pet here.”

“Cass...,” Anje says, but it’s not a plea for help. It’s anger.

“Remember you gave me one too, right on my inner thigh. Such a pretty mark. I’m sad I had to remove it. But what woman would want to be tracked like livestock? So paternal.”

“A compass rose, Cass?” Anje has a thousand-year-old teenager tightening a rope of cigarette smoke around her neck, and yet she’s pissed off at me.

Mathild looks like she’s about to giggle.

“Anje, can we talk about this after we get the noose off your neck?”

“The noose is the only thing that’s keeping me from beating your ass right now.” The trembling is gone from her hands and she’s staring directly into my eyes. It’s almost like she’s consciously ignoring Mathild...

Sometimes I can be slow on the uptake. Anje’s anger is real. She’s also using it to hold off the fear. The least I can do is use the opening she’s created.

“Mathild, why do you want Anje involved? What does that accomplish?”

“It accomplishes my amusement.”

Mathild is the ur-hedonist. There’s no arguing her out of her fun. There are nooses around both our necks now.

“You win. Set her free. I swear I’ll bring Anje with me if she chooses to come.”

“Which she does,” adds Anje. “Your turn, Grandma.”

Mathild sighs. “All of these oaths are likely to attract...attention. But that is a problem for later. I swear I will teach Cassius everything he needs to know to protect himself and his siblings from birth harvesting. You see? I’m not a monster. Well, not that kind of monster. Now you, girl.”

“I release you from the third question.”

The smoke around Anje’s neck dissipates. But the other noose feels tighter now.

“I have questions, Cassius,” Anje says as she moves toward me. It’s funny when she does that to other people. It’s not funny now.

“I’ll tell you everything later, but what’s important now is I can find Adia using my tattoos.”

Mathild is lighting another cigarette. “I want you to find her now. Time is not our ally.”

“I don’t give a shit what either of you wants. I want an explanation.” Anje hooks two fingers into the left side of her neckline and pulls it down, exposing the compass rose tattooed just above her breast. “I thought this was just art, Cass. Needle and ink. Can you use this to track me?”

“Yes. Find, not track, but yes.”

“Save the semantics, Cass. Who the fuck gave you permission to put a baby monitor on me?”

“You did.”

“Then...you took the memory, just like the Brick?”

“Yes.”

“Also my choice?”

“Always.”

This is how it starts. She unravels things. It means we’re going to have to have the talk again soon. Tomorrow. But not now.

“Anje, I will tell you everything, je promets. But I need to find my sister now. Okay?”

She glances at Mathild and then does the count-to-five-and-breathe thing she teaches her students. Afterward, she gives me a single, solid nod.

I retrieve a plastic map tube from the old wooden chest in the living room. Just opening the chest is excruciating because of the muscle damage from earlier. I move to the kitchen and replace the empty beer bottles and licorice on the table with a sheaf of maps I pull from the tube.

Mathild leans over the table, her cigarette forgotten. “I’ve always wondered how you accomplished this. As far as I know, you’re the only living Symbologist with this ability.”

I turn off the kitchen lights. Shadows fill the room, but enough ambient light spills in from the living room for me to see what I’m doing. This particular working benefits from semi-darkness.

“The idea came from understanding that maps are symbols of locations and the Art doesn’t distinguish between a thing and its symbol. The Art can be made to treat the symbol as the place.”

I use the world map first. I spread it across the table, close my eyes, and surface the two Needle tattoos, one on each palm. I hold my hands open over opposite sides of the map and then use the Art to connect the Needles to Adia’s compass rose.

Both Needles spin on my palms. Each settles on a different bearing. Their glow tightens into two hair-thin lines stretching across the map from opposite sides.

The lines intersect over Austria. The Needles can only be as precise as the map beneath them.

I replace the world map with one of Austria and call on Adia’s Rose again.

She’s in the Austrian Alps. I’ll need to print more detailed local maps before I can pinpoint the exact location, but I have enough information for now.

“She’s in—”

“A moment, child.” Mathild waves me quiet. “We have guests.”

Eight grey-cowled figures silently emerge from the shadows around the edges of the room.

“Kin Slayers,” Mathild says as the air around her rapidly fills with cigarette smoke. “Took long enough. I was starting to get bored.”

Flash #5: Monkey »»»

You’ll think you need to keep what you do hidden.

Maybe a secret identity if you want to fight the bad (or rob the rich...).

Maybe a publicist to spin you into mundane.

Maybe a spiritual advisor to frame you as divine.

Nah. Too nuff. Tell everyone. Most won’t believe you.

But there will be those who need to believe. Who deserve to believe.

You’ll want them to be able to find you.

The front of the hospital is a riot of noise and light, with people rushing up to me as I exit the building. These people weren’t here thirty minutes ago. Neither were the microphones.

“DO YOU CLAIM TO BE A FAITH HEALER?”

“HOW MUCH DID YOU MAKE HER FATHER PAY YOU?”

“WHAT’S THE TRICK BEHIND THE GLOW?”

There are about forty people gathered outside Baptist Medical. Ten or fifteen of them are waving iPhones in the air while a handful have tripods set up with legit cameras and press creds.

The rest of the crowd is a bit further back and looks like mostly curious normies. A few of that bunch stand out as neither curious nor normal.

I don’t know the preacher by sight, but I know his type. A faux zealot who throws collection plate money around to get tipped off about the next outrage, so he can get filmed being outraged in public.

Behind him, a slightly pudgy nurse, whose gaze adores him and rejects me, tells the story of how the ambush was so perfectly timed.

The preacher raises his voice an octave to reclaim everyone’s attention.

“MANY WILL FOLLOW THE DEVIL’S DEPRAVED CONDUCT AND IN HIS GREED HE WILL EXPLOIT YOU WITH FAKE NEWS.”

I step into the middle of the reporters and address them directly. They aren’t here for the preacher anyway. “Fake news? Don’t you good folk think Saint Peter will object to Chinese AI being used to dumb down his words?”

“That’s not...I would never...I use Grok!”

Dealing with the press is like surfing Tres Palmas. You ride the waves. Especially the ones you create. While he’s still sputtering in outrage, I point to one of the reporters who gets paid for the job.

“Timothy Tate, WSFA 12 News. Mr. Beton, some are claiming that your family practices voodoo and that you are a witch doctor.”

Thank you, Mr. Tate. I haven’t had a setup this easy since t-ball at the Y.

“My parents are both tax attorneys, which I suppose is a kind of voodoo. And I only play doctor in private. No offense, Tim, you’re cute, but not my type.”

Laughs. Good. Vipère qui rit mord pas. Charming Cass gets some time to play.

“MR. BETON!”

A thirtyish blonde in an extremely tight pantsuit who’s filming through an iPhone shoots her hand into the air. She tuff. I point to her next.

“Vera Shine from the Morning Miracles podcast. Two questions: Did you heal the girl and was it with faith healing? And am I your type?”

“That’s three questions. Yes. No. And it depends if you like Midnight Miracles.”

More laughs, groans, and a blushing giggle from Vera which is as much for her podcast audience as it is for this one. Vipère en amour, aussi.

“BLASPHEMER!”

A huge blob of spittle from Father Grok lands on my cheek, undermining whatever sex appeal I’ve banked with the crowd.

“THE RIGHTEOUS WILL BE SAVED WHEN THEY BATHE THEIR FEET IN THE BLOOD OF THE WICKED.”

It’s a signal.

The first bottle arrives, popping like a gunshot on the wall of the hospital as I dodge to keep it from hitting my head. Then I dodge a second.

Most of the crowd scatters, but there are about a half dozen who weren’t surprised. Three continue throwing things at me. Three bigger ones are coming for me with blunt tools in their hands; pipe, crowbar and wrench.

I see a familiar form in Muay Thai sparring gear shoulder through the fleeing crowd on a line to intercept the tool guys. Close-cropped red hair, a sweat-darkened rashguard, fight shorts and shin guards buckled to the calves. Hands wrapped and held high fronting a mouthguard-chewing grin that’s just a tiny bit on the feral side.

I’m in for a show. I’d cut in on the dance, but I’d never be forgiven if I did.

Before he even reacts, Pipe gets a kick to the mid that folds him over, followed by a palm strike to the back of his head that rudely introduces his face to the sidewalk.

Wrench gets one swing off, connecting with nothing but air as the fighter steps inside, traps the weapon arm and lifts a straight knee between the guy’s legs.

Crowbar decides maybe he’s out of his weight class and starts backing up fast as the fighter turns to close on him.

That’s when the brick connects heavily with the side of the fighter’s head.

“ANGELIQUE!”

I sprint to where she’s fallen in the hospital’s manicured grass, as sirens announce the police and the remaining thugs make a run for it.

Her head is a mess. The brick clocked her right in the temple above her left eye and blood is pulsing out in sheets from a two-inch gash. She’s conscious, barely. Rocking gently back and forth, eyes drifting upward every time she tries to find me.

“Angelique, listen to my voice. It’s Cass. I’m going to put my hands on your face. It’s okay, it’s a friend.”

I could give a shit about the glow right now, but this kind of work doesn’t like moving quickly because of the complexity of the Art involved. So, I take my time and the nimbus stays concentrated around my hands, like I’m cupping a light bulb next to Angelique’s face.

The tattoo that starts to form is a brick, because...yeah.

I feel the trickle of wet begin above my eye. My memory of the first kick divides into near and far, sensed and felt. Stickiness clouds the lashes of my left eye and a sharp pain splits my skull as I inflict what has to be far worse pain on Wrench’s groin, watching her/me drive the knee home from twenty feet away. Then the spins start and I fall back on my ass in the grass losing my connection to Angelique.

A few seconds later our roles are reversed. She’s torn a strip off my t-shirt and is using it to staunch the blood on my forehead as she kneels next to me.

“Midnight Miracle. Really Cass?”

“You heard that huh? I was workshopping it to use with you.”

That earns a real slug to the shoulder. “Fuck me. Ooooow.”

“You just said Fuck Meow.”

Angelique’s smile says she’s fine. Better to be sure though.

“What do you remember?”

“Coming from class. Charging the guy with the pipe. Then blank tape until I saw you sitting next to me with that tattoo glowing on your palm. What did I lose?”

“A brick to the head and you unloading on a couple of lightweights.”

“Aw, Cass. You couldn’t have left me the fights? You know I like collecting scalps.”

She reaches out again to touch my forehead, this time without the makeshift rag. I like the feel of her fingers brushing my skin.

I can hear someone approaching us from behind me. “Ma’am, you want me to haul this guy away for bleeding on you?”

Angelique stays put, but looks up and squints. “If you hauled away everyone that bleeds on me, I wouldn’t have any students left, Officer Kendrick.”

Rodney Kendrick steps into view and stares down at me, both of his thumbs hooked into his belt. “You okay, Ink? Someone unhappy with their tat? Should I get my chalk out of the car?”

“No, he’s fine. Cassius has a few more quarts where this came from.”

Rodney is a regular in the neighborhood both on and off duty. Early 50s and something of a legend in the local black community for his ability to de-escalate problems when the badge is on and privately re-escalate them later when it comes off.

“Rodney, how many times have I asked you to stop calling me Ink?”

“It’s what the whole department calls you now, and you know I’ve always been a guy who doesn’t rock the boat.”

“More of a sink the boat kind guy, right?” says Angelique.

Both of Rodney’s hands go to his heart. “You wound me, Angelique! Speaking of wounds, I have a new guy who could use some off-duty polish.”

“Send him over and I’ll break him.”

“Break him in, you mean right?”

“Sure. Maybe. No promises.”

“You two take care. I may stop by your places later for statements.” Rodney touches his hat and then heads towards the front of the hospital where his men are clustered.

“Thanks for this.” Angelique takes my left hand, which is still ringed in faint light, and flips it. The tattoo of the brick is there, but visibly fading along with the glow. “But next time leave me the good bits.”

“Pas de quoi.” Ironic. She always ends up begging me to take the good bits away. The best bits at least.

Her eyes flutter a bit and it’s like a puzzle piece just snapped back into her memory. “Oh, shit, I left class for a reason. Cass, one of the neighborhood watch kids saw someone go into your flat from the back alley. They went in the way you do.”

I try to stand. It takes Angelique’s help. Then she offers more. “I’ll go with. You aren’t fit for a fight.”

“No. I’ll be fine in a minute.” It’s true. The physical effects are reduced because of the ouroboros tattoo on my wrist, linked to my twin sister. If Dahlia’s on a date, the sudden gushing head wound will be fun to explain.

It’s the double perspectives from the memories that take time for my brain to integrate. Dahlia doesn’t get those.

“Cass, I’m every bit the man you are and twice the woman. Let me help you.”

I look her in the eyes and the world swims a second, for a completely different reason. “I appreciate it, Anje, but if they’re a real threat, they wouldn’t have let themselves be seen.”

“Or they’re strong enough that it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll be fine in the first case and I won’t risk you in the second. I’ll come see you after.”

“Fuck that. I’m coming even if I have to fight both of you.”

“Fine. You can take the inside stairs and I’ll go in my way.”

Anje will lose time unlocking the parlor and climbing the stairwell, so I’ll beat her to my third floor flat by a minute or two. The back alley of my building is empty and I don’t see anyone on my balcony.

It takes me a second to call on the sixteen tattoos I need. A combination of strength, balance and skill. They appear across my skin, do the glowing thing and then I bend my legs and leap thirty feet up and over the rail to land perfectly next to the door.

The door is cracked and the smell of sweet tobacco and burning autumn leaves transports me back a decade. I know exactly one person who smokes Black Russians.

Fuck meow.

The tobacco scent is supernaturally rich. She’s using the smoke. She’s already weaving compulsion with the Art and it doesn’t matter one bit that I know.

I step inside and my senses magnify and combine. Sight sparks scent. Sound stimulates taste. And it ALL triggers touch.

The next five seconds are an eternity that I need to escape, but never want to end.

Her legs are impossibly long and slim, wrapped in black lace gartered stockings rising to mid-thigh. She’s wearing a knife-pleated black satin miniskirt over layers of green underskirt. Her midriff is bare beneath a sheer black lace halter top stuffed with breasts so perfectly proportioned that Angelique would call them “uncanny valleys”.

Her hands, wrists, neck and ears drip with silver and emeralds. Her hair drapes down over her shoulders, jet black with jade accents mirroring the gems and underskirt. Black and green liner accents her huge gray, slightly tilted eyes. Her skin and facial structure read as Japanese, Nubian or Egyptian depending on which excites me most from moment to moment.

Her body looks 18. Her eyes look 180.

She is sitting on one of the cheap chairs at my kitchen table with a black Sobranie gold tip cigarette in one hand and a Bud Light longneck in the other. Four empty bottles are in front of her, the last survivor of the six pack still in the carton on the table.

She’s using a piece of my watermelon licorice as a straw and makes a show of puckering her black-glossed lips around the candy. She sucks out the last drops of beer, sets the empty bottle on the table and gives it a good spin.

Of course the bottle ends up pointing directly at me.

“Oh, Cassius, mon chéri. You know the rules.”

Her voice drips with the Art. She smiles, turns to face me directly, then slowly spreads her legs and leans back enough for me to see there’s nothing on under the skirt.

“Now you have to come over here and give us a kiss.”

My body almost moves in spite of me. Angelique will be here any second. I let my jump tattoos fade away. I summon back a different tattoo in their place.

The Brick. Angelique.

Now I really just want to kick her ass.

I cross my arms and root my feet to the hardwood floor of my flat.

“Why exactly are you here, Grandmother?”

Flash #4: Needles »»»

Read Chapter 1 »»»

You’re going to want to keep the pain. C’est la nature de l’art.

I’m not going to tell you not to, because you won’t listen to me.

What I will say is don’t carry the burden alone. Don’t keep it secret.

Tell someone you trust.

Someone who will scream at you when you are being stupid.

Someone who loves you, even if screaming is the only way they can show it.

There are three people in the hospital room. A middle-aged white man, a Black Baptist minister and a six-year-old girl in heart failure.

I know the girl has heart failure, because my brother told me. It was the first time he’d asked me for help in years.

I know the minister is Baptist because he’s my brother.

“Blessings Phillipe, it’s good to see you.”

He ignores me and gestures at the man and girl with the King James Bible he always carries. “This is Edmond Simmons and his daughter Allison. Both are beloved members of my congregation.” He then hugs the Bible to his chest and nods at me. “This is...my brother...Cassius Beton.”

I smile at the girl before anything else. She smiles back. Then I extend my left hand to her father. “Mr. Simmons. I’ve had your daughter in my prayers.”

Simmons hesitates and looks at my curled right hand and then at my brother before awkwardly shaking my left hand. “Yes sir. Thank you for that. Every voice raised in prayer is a blessing.”

“What happened to your hand?”

Allison’s voice is breathy and muffled by the oxygen mask she’s wearing. But her eyes are bright and interested.

I look at Simmons and ask, “May I?” He nods almost shyly, so I walk over to Allison’s bedside and settle onto a nearby stool.

I force the palm of my right hand open until she can see the image there, a bundle of dark lightning bolts that looks like an unplugged neon sign. “This is an injury I took from a man who asked that I fix his arm so he could play baseball again.”

Allison examines the lightning for a few seconds and then her eyes dart to my left hand. “You have a picture on your other hand too. I saw it when you shook with Papa.”

I turn over my left palm as well. “Yes, it’s a heart.”

“Is it sick too, like mine?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s strong and healthy.”

“Is that heart for me?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Mr. Simmons steps to the other side of his daughter’s bed. “Isn’t that the whole reason we’re doing this...whatever this is?”

My brother moves to place a hand on his shoulder, but his eyes are on mine. “Cassius, it’s time to explain what it is you do.”

“Mr. Simmons, I can move things from one person to another. Pain. Health. Life. Other things too.”

I can see Edmond’s mind working. He looks at the heart in my open left palm. Then at the claw that’s my right hand. Then at his daughter and then finally...slowly...back at the claw.

“You mean to give that to my Allison?”

“The damaged hand is the price of a healthy heart. Who pays that price remains to be seen.”

Edmond’s eyes go wide and his jaw drops in horror. “I thought this was a faith healing, not some deal with the devil!” Then to Phillipe. “I’d heard the whispers about your family, but I never thought none of them were true.”

Phillipe’s voice is soothing, but heavy with authority. “Edmond, my brother is not a devil. And I am as certain as my faith in Jesus that God intended Cassius to have this ability.”

“If he ain’t a devil, then why do you look at him like he is?”

My brother starts to say something but then pauses for an uncomfortably long time. His eyes lose their focus on me and drop to the floor in front of him.

“Because any man with this power could easily become one.”

I can see the jolt of panic this sends through Mr. Simmons.

“Edmond.” I wait for the man’s eyes to find my own. “You have questions for me. It’s okay to ask them.”

He nods slowly, his mouth slightly open. Then he decides. “Why... Begging your pardon, but why should I trust you?”

That’s a useful question.

“You shouldn’t trust me, Mr. Simmons.”

This gets my brother’s eyes off the floor.

“Cassius is right, Edmond. This is a decision you must make in communion with God. I will pray with you if you wish.”

Mr. Simmons nods vigorously, relief flooding through his features. He and my brother move close and take each other’s hands, close their eyes and bow their heads slightly.

It is a quiet prayer, devoid of the theatricality so many churches trade in these days. When they are done Phillipe squeezes Edmond’s hands.

Edmond looks at peace for the first time since I entered. “I believe that God wants my daughter to live.”

“I’m glad, Mr. Simmons. But God doesn’t get the final say in this matter. Allison does.”

“Dammit, Cassius!” My brother is immediately livid. “She’s a six-year-old girl. She can’t understand what’s at stake. It’s her father’s responsibility to make this decision.”

“Brother. Everyone in this room has had the opportunity to choose. You chose to ask for my help. I chose to come. Mr. Simmons chose to put his trust in you and in God. Every choice was difficult or painful, but arrived at honestly.”

Mr. Simmons finishes for me. “Everyone chose except for my Allison.”

“Yes, Mr. Simmons. And to choose, you must first understand.”

He barely pauses before he gives me a sharp nod.

“Honey, do you understand what Mr. Beton is offering you?”

Allison turns her head to face me and studies my face for a second. Then she drops her gaze to my hands.

She points at my left hand.

“Heart.”

She then points at my right hand.

“Hurt.”

Then she looks back up at her father.

“How exactly will this work?” It takes an effort for him to get these words out.

I open my left palm so they can see the heart image.

“I will touch your daughter and this tattoo will move from my skin to her skin.”

“And that will fix her heart?”

“I cannot guarantee anything, but it could give her twenty-five more years.”

“That’s thirty-one! College. Maybe a husband. Maybe kids.” Edmond raises his hand in front of his face and his shoulders begin to shudder.

After a few seconds Allison reaches up to tug her father’s other sleeve. “Daddy, I don’t like pink.” When he realizes she’s talking about the tattoo, he summons up a weak smile and wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

“Does it have to go on her arm?”

“No. It can go anywhere and be as small as she wants.”

Allison reaches toward my right hand, stopping just short of touching it. “Where does that go?”

“You can take it. Or your father. Or I can keep it.”

My brother’s response is immediate. “You are not the Savior, Cassius. Taking on the suffering of all mankind is not your responsibility.” There is something almost hysterical in his voice.

“It’s not all mankind, Phillipe. It’s one girl.”

“It’s one girl today.”

Edmond says softly. “I can’t ask another to suffer for my daughter.”

“Mr. Simmons, what do you do for work?”

“I’m a handyman.”

“He does maintenance for the church,” Phillipe says. “He is responsible. We’re lucky to have him.”

“It sounds like you are a man who understands responsibility.”

He doesn’t answer. I’ve set two absolutes against each other in his mind, provider versus protector. I can see the conflict raging across his face. It’s a battle Edmond cannot cleanly win.

“I’ll take the hurt,” the little girl says.

Edmond’s eyes snap to his daughter. He begins to speak, but then stops.

“Allison, I won’t give this to you unless I know you understand how it will change your life.”

“How much will it hurt?”

“Pretty bad sometimes. But there is medicine that can help.”

“Will my hand look like yours?”

“Yes.”

“Will it ever get better?”

“Probably not.”

“I won’t be able to play piano.”

“Not like before, no.”

“I just learned how to play Chopsticks.”

“Do you still want the heart?”

She thinks, then she nods one time.

“Yes.”

“Where do you want the tattoos?”

“On my hands, like yours.”

To spare Allison the tedium, I decide to use the Art quickly, even though that means the glow will arrive all at once and take longer to fade.

I tell the three of them to close their eyes, but none of them do.

The glow rushes from my hands and the room instantly goes bright white as Phillipe, Edmond and Allison briefly appear to me as photo-negative ghosts.

Touching Allison’s arm, I will the tattoos to move from my body to hers. First the heart and then the burned-out lightning. I shrink them as I mentally slide the images along her skin to the palms of her hands.

As the lightning tattoo leaves me, my right hand unclenches and Allison’s hand curls inward sharply. I hear her suck in breath under the mask, but that’s all. Brave girl.

I can see both palms, one open wide and the other through a cage of rigid fingers. The heart is vibrant. The lightning has faded slightly in the transfer.

But not that much.

I see awe on Edmond’s face. Maybe he’s decided I’m an angel after all.

I see revulsion on my brother’s.

I am not sure which is worse.

As I’m heading to the hospital entrance, a young boy sitting on a bench next to his mother leaps to his feet and points at me.

“Mom. MOM. That man is glowing!”

The woman doesn’t even look up from her phone.

“Mind your own business, Jamal.”

“But, I want to glow too!”

“I’ll make your backside glow if you don’t SIT DOWN.”

I’m laughing for the first time all day as I push through the entryway, right into an ambush.

Cameras click, voices buzz and fingers point. Above it all a voice cuts through, performing righteous contempt:

“For such people are false apostles, deceitful workers, masquerading as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.”

Instinctively, I raise my right hand to ward off the flashes. One finger doesn’t straighten as well as the others.

Read Ink: Flash #3 - Brick, here »»»

“Hey buddy! Hold up! I got something you’ll want to hear.”

Chad dodged to avoid the bloated, yellow flying tick diving towards him as he took the steps three at a time up towards his destination several thousand steps ahead. There were hundreds of these buzzing imps levitating in the air in front of the CorpUS Regional HQ, dive-bombing sales reps on the way to work.

A dozen watched Chad, waiting to see if the imp working him would lose the account. But the little fellow wasn’t giving up on his quarry just yet. It swerved in front of Chad, flying backwards fast enough to hang in the air just in front of him as he continued up the steps.

“Free hookers and blow compliments of Omni Corp, bub. I’ve got coupons!”

Chad had taken a double handful of Alpha Furnace Goat Adrenal Complex Gummies™ that morning, so he wasn’t slowing down for BOGO cocaine.

And hookers? He’d never do that to his girlfiend Gladys. Chad was a loyal guy.

Partly because he really liked Gladys. Partly because if he cheated Gladys would kill him. And eat him. And lay eggs in his intestines. Likely not in that order.

Besides Chad knew better than anyone that nothing was ever free.

“Beat it, you parasitic bloodsucker.”

“HEY now. I’m just a bug trying to close an honest sale, it’s not like I’m in management,” whined the insect-thing through its three-foot blood-sucking proboscis. “No need to get nasty.”

That tweaked something in a place where Chad’s soul would be if he still had one. He down-shifted his assault on the stairs to a staccato, taking one step at a time.

“You know, you’re right. Sorry buddy, I’m just excited to get inside and ring the bell.”

“You have a big day?”

“Yeah. Smashed my daily targets yesterday.”

“Dude, congrats! Winners gonna win. That’s what I always say. And you have the look of a winner.”

Chad slowed to a walk and ran his hand through his hair and straightened his tie. “You know you seem pretty okay for a stinking sack of oozing pus. Righty-then, let’s hear your sales pitch.”

“I bet it feels like you’ve been with CorpUS for an eternity, right?” crooned the bug-devil.

“Some decades, yeah.”

“And how long you been telling yourself they’re going to notice you?”

“You using pain isolation on me?” Chad asked.

“Is it working?”

“Nope. But keep going.”

“Fair enough. Then let me ask you this. What they got you selling?”

“Air conditioning units,” Chad said, knowing exactly what was coming next.

“Ouch. That blows.” The imp returned serve.

“Doesn’t suck as much as vacuum cleaners.” Chad completed the ritual.

The bug laughed. It sounded like a snake swallowing a kazoo. Chad grinned in solidarity.

“How many units did you close yesterday?” the bug continued, getting serious again.

“Fifteen.”

Chad nearly walked into the imp as it actually stopped flying for a second.

“Fifteen? You sold FIFTEEN A/C units in a DAY?”

“Fifteen, with service plans and warranties.”

“And CorpUS will give you what?”

Chad pointed toward the building, still hundreds of steps ahead.

“I get to ring the bell.”

“The TOP guy gets to ring the bell.”

“Exactly. And the top guy gets access to the GOOD leads.”

“And with the good leads...”

“...I can close more sales and get promoted to the PREMIUM inventory.”

“Buddy, that sounds like a lot of maybes and ifs. I know you’re a producer. You know you’re a producer. But I don’t think CorpUS knows you’re a producer.”

“What’s your point?”

“Omni-Corp could use a producer like you. What if I could help you jump the queue straight to the premium inventory? No risk, no rungs.”

“I’d want to know more.”

It handed Chad a brochure. He read it in detail as they moved. Chad always tried to learn from what the competition was doing.

As he finished, they were approaching the doors to the building and the imp was smart enough to know the timing wasn’t right for the end-game. Chad figured it was deciding between the hard follow or the soft one.

“Tell you what. My numbers on the flyer. Buzz me when you have questions and I’ll meet you for a drink. Rooftop Bar at The Golden Parachute, my treat.”

Soft. Good call.

“Make it Spanky’s and you got a deal,” Chad said.

The imp nodded once and then started gaining altitude again to give itself a better view of the next wave of prospects. Chad pushed his way through the revolving door into the lobby.

And the lobby was magnificent.

CorpUS Corporate Headquarters had been designed to fire the imagination of those who could close a sale and set fire to those who couldn’t.

The center of the lobby was dominated by two things. A huge crackling bonfire of the desks of salespeople who’d come in last in sales volume during the weekly sales team meetings. And the monument.

The monument depicted a man striding upwards, his pristine wingtips emblazoned with the word “Quota”, crushing a mass of eternally tortured salespeople beneath his feet. The tread of one raised wingtip spelled PIP, branding the letters into every forehead it stepped on. In one outstretched hand, he held a shining, nimbus-encircled cash register aloft triumphantly to the sky. From the open cash drawer a never-ending wave of coins fountained one hundred feet into the air, before raining down as molten silver into a pool filled with the screaming faces of salespeople who missed their daily minimums.

Chad always paused at the monument to pay his respects to the founder of CorpUS, John H. Patterson, the infamous tyrant of the National Cash Register company. Patterson invented the quota, the protected territory, the scripted pitch, and the idea that adults should ring a bell at work. No one had done more to create hell on earth or to bring commerce to hell.

Chad loved this place.

Beyond the lobby, a single hallway led further into the building.
The walls narrowed into a chute polished smooth by several centuries of nervous salespeople. A sorting mechanism was operated by a minor torment demon, of the same kind as Chad’s most recent friend/customer, XTHR’GTHRLL’MVTHRXX’QRR’THNN.

The chute forced salespeople to crowd past the demon single file. The demon was scanning faces and comparing them against an HR bulletin, and every so often he’d recognize a face and trigger the chute mechanism to force that person toward a door labelled “Sales Training.” A man ahead of Chad was culled from the herd, eliciting sobs and wailing of “NO, GOD NO, PLEASE I’LL DO ANYTHING, BUT NOT THAT!” before a spring-loaded mechanism attached to the chute’s gate propelled him bodily through the door.

Through the doorway was a semicircle of folding chairs. On a dry-erase board was written ROLE-PLAY EXERCISE.

Chad strode confidently through the chute without breaking stride.

Beyond he entered a long hallway with soft white lights and a series of framed pictures periodically spaced on the wall. It felt like a shrine.

Here hung The After-Lifetime Achievers

The top producer of every hundred-year sales cycle since these absolute legends arrived in Hell.

Some wore suits.

Some wore robes.

One was naked except for a necklace made of teeth.

Chad walked slowly down the hall, drinking in the words of the GOATs.

Salesperson of the Century: 1099 - 1000 B.C.

Sinon the Greek - Pioneer of the Freemium Model

Quote: “It’s not just a giant wooden horse, it’s a limited-edition collectible. Free now, you’ll pay later.”

Salesperson of the Century: 1 - 100 A.D.

Marcus Licinius Crassus - Master of the High-Pressure Leverage Close

Quote: “Hey buddy, I’ll buy that burning building of yours for 20 denarii and a slightly used gladiator. What? Why would my fire-fighting squad put out your building? How’s about 15 denarii and an incontinent goat? Whoops! Look at it burn! 10 denarii and a toga with a small hemlock stain, final offer.”

Salesperson of the Century: 1601 - 1700 A.D.

Friar Johann Tetzel - The father of SaaS (Salvation-as-a-Service)

Quote: “Why sell earthly goods that must be made, carried, and delivered, when a man will gladly pay today for relief from torments he cannot inspect until after his death? Best part is we can charge tithes for customer support!”

Finally Chad paused at his favorite.

Salesperson of the Century: 1901–2000 A.D.

Phineas T. Barnum - Inventor of Customer-as-Product

Quote: There’s a sucker born every minute*.

Chad leaned closer. He’d read the footnote a thousand times.

*Including the people who believe I said that.

Beautiful.

At the end of the hall hung a final frame.

The brass plate beneath it read: 2001–2100 A.D.

No picture. No name. No quote.

Not yet.

Chad checked his reflection in the glass, adjusted his tie and kept walking.

The carpeting ended abruptly at a pair of dented steel doors which silently swung open at his approach.

The Boiler Room.

The temperature immediately rose fifteen degrees.

Then the smell and the noise hit him.

Sweat. Desperation. Decaffeinated instant coffee. And ten thousand voices talking all at once.

The CorpUS Regional Sales Floor stretched so far into the distance that the far wall disappeared into heat shimmer. Cheap desks sat in endless rows between massive iron boilers which powered the room by burning stacks of unqualified leads. Even in Hell, nobody knew where Marketing got them. Ceiling fans turned slowly, ensuring that the stifling heat was evenly distributed.

Everywhere Chad looked were balding men in rolled-up shirtsleeves shouting into headsets.

“...I’m not asking you to buy anything today...”

“...before you hang up, can I ask one question...”

“...so what I’m hearing is price isn’t actually the issue...”

A brass bell hung immediately inside the entrance.

Nearby, several salespeople looked up. Then a few more.

Whispers began to spread from desk to desk.

“Hardwick!”

Chad slowly smiled, grabbed the rope and rang the bell.

In the lobby, the cash register monument produced a massive jet of new coins, melting as they showered down to cause a fresh wave of screams from the damned floating in the molten silver pool at its base.

And a single thunderous sound reverberated throughout the building.

“KA-CHING!”