Broken: A Plague Journal

possible by the author and shaped by the wounded god.

Following them through the Timeline was a nightmare armada.

“What is—”

enemy.

“Jesus fuck.” Hank instinctively stroked his handlebars. “You runnin’?”

varying phase to lose them.

“S’it workin’?”

no.

“Shit.”

There were hundreds, thousands, an incomprehensible number of vessels reaching toward them, an undulating mass of black edges flashing with silver, a school of embodied hate and desire. At its center, something horrific and laughing. They could feel the reach of fury.

Whistler dug deeper into Hank, tapping the pattern for something, anything that would throw the Enemy off their trail. His nacelles glowed with the effort, leaving a veil of desiccated lifetimes in his wake. The howling fleet lurched closer, smashing the fragile fabrics of reality, clawing toward the soul cache hidden away in Hank’s marble.

“Uh, Jim?”

quiet, hank.

“We ain’t getting out of this, are we?”

The vessel dived and shattered as an Enemy gained hold. Hank fell to the floor of the command chamber, his cardiac shield sputtering an alarm.

you are, old friend.

“Jim, don’t—”

Hank flashed from the Timeline in a burst of static and dust.

come now, maire. show yourself.

The Black tendriled over his surface, piercing and stroking, merging and solidifying. Absorbing. Whistler felt a scrape across his pattern, dislodge, reformation. He found himself shifted back into human form, alone in an echoing cavern of burnt mercury, a blinding light lasering down to scan his image.

“Bravo, Whistler. Bravo.” The ruined child walked from the shadows.

He smoothed his cloak and stood defiant.

“You,” she poked his thigh with one taloned, tiny finger, “were supposed to be on my side. Our side.”

“He made a better offer.”

She snarled. “I could have given you everything, James. The universe. History.”

He scoffed. “What possible use could I have for all that, poppet?”

“I trusted you.”

“You’ve a lot to learn, child.” He adjusted the tips of his gloves.

“Why’d you do it?”

“I’m tired.” He bent to her level, put his hands on her shoulders. “I was meant to be gone a thousand years ago. To be with Jo again, wherever that might be. When you tore me from that slumber, you ruined my heaven. Paul offered me a chance to sleep again.”

“Tired of bouncing around in his head, huh?”

“Your head, too.”

She nodded a smile. “You were good to me, bringing Lilith in. I can forgive this transgression. I’ll let you rest.”

“Dear child,” his eyes glinted, “thank you.”

“Just one more thing.” She took his hand, gently, tenderly. “Who does his maths?”

“Hmm?” Whistler frowned.

“You can tell me, or I’ll just take it from you. Who’s calculating the bleed? Who’s zeroing in on me? He’s no good with numbers. Can’t be his brawn, West. Is it Benton?”

Whistler’s lips opened over clenched teeth.

Maire’s tiny fist punched through his chest and closed over his silver projector. He gurgled with blood and shattered bone as silver laced through the mash of his heart and lungs. She yanked her arm out, leaving his dusted form to fall in a flop of grit and glitter to the floor.

Her fist shuddered over the marble, absorbing everything that Whistler had been. One more crack in the author; one more influence torn away and consumed. She looked through the folds of memory and saw that everything hidden from her echoed through the heart of one Hope Benton. The modular calculus that equaled her undoing, the intricate lattice of defense around the author’s fading mind—it would be hers.

Her dimples deepened.

Said while walking through a door: “Paul, Hank’s—”

West cut himself off.

Paul sat on the edge of the silver pool, his legs dipping in. He turned around slowly, and West saw something horrible flash behind his eyes.

“They’re back?”

West just shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to bury a wash of confused emotion. The author hadn’t been the same since Hope’s murder. He’d been spending more and more time in the silver containment chamber, that cache of machines gathered during their various engagements of Maire’s forces. “Hank’s back.”

“Just Hank?”

West nodded.

“And Whistler?”

West inhaled. “Get out of there, and we’ll talk about it.” He turned and left.

“Shit.” Paul’s hand went to his temple, kneaded.

Hank scooped another nervous pinch of chew into his already-dribbling mouth. The old cowboy’s face was more wrinkled, stubblier. The downward slopes of the distinct halves of his moustache only reinforced the image of his broken heart. “I didn’t—I would have stayed. We could have fought, but—There were so many of them. I would have stayed.” He blinked over glistened eyes.

The newly acquired Jean Reynald baritoned the chamber. “No. That would have solved nothing.”

“It’s for the best that Whistler sent you back, Hank.” West leaned toward the shaking man. “If she’d gotten your pattern—”

“Hope could have changed the math.”

Nobody knew how to tell him.

“She’s dead.” Judith.

He chewed faster, brow furrowing, squeezing out two distinct lines of wet. “But—What the fuck next? Hope’s…?” He let the question fade away.

“Maire’s getting better at this.” Jud curled deeper into her chaise. “With Whistler’s pattern—”

“I’m going back in.” Paul stood and walked toward the door.

“Where?” Jud frowned.

He hesitated. “Back into the silver.”

“Paul, please.” West couldn’t look him in the eyes.

“I have to. Maire’s—I have to.”

“Paul—”

He whirled, fangs bared, his eyes swirls of black and metal. “Don’t.”

As the door cycled shut behind the author, the assembled remnants of Judith Command sat through a heavy silence.

Hank spit tobacco juice to the floor. Whistler’s chair was empty next to him. “What next?”

Nobody answered.

“Jean?” Judith rose and walked to the window. “I want you to take over operations for the time being. Paul’s… You know.”