to buy. If you're useless, leave now; if you're willing to go kick some Imperium butt, come with me. This is going to be dangerous and most of us will probably die, but if you do… Grandfather was bound to bring an accountant. Which one of you is the accountant?' A tall man raised his hand. 'Any volunteer who dies. Make sure his family receives double, no, triple his salary every year for the rest of their lives.'
'Can do,' the accountant promised.
Francis scowled at the group. It would have to do. 'Let's go… And take those stupid masks off.'
After telling his story, Heinrich had gone back to his stony morgue vigil. Faye watched him quietly. She had not liked the German at first, but she decided that that was just because he had shot her to death. He was nice too, in his own way.
Each of the Grimnoir had his own burden. All of them had been beaten by the world, but rather than give in, they'd committed to making that world a better place. She really did fit in here, and she amended her promise accordingly. She would kill the Chairman, not just for revenge, but because as long as he was around, the world was going to stay a bad place, and maybe even get worse. She was sick and tired of mean people hurting others, and she was going to put a stop to them.
It felt good to put everything into black and white and to pick a side. It filled her with a sense of purpose.
Heinrich shifted imperceptibly in his seat. He was listening to something. 'What?' she asked, but Heinrich rose quickly, Luger in hand.
'Faye, Travel away. Right now. You do not need to see this.'
'What? Oh, Heinrich, no. It can't be.'
'Please, just go, Faye. Leave this to me.' He approached the table, gun extended.
She slid off the edge of the porcelain and prepared to Travel, her heart heavy. She felt hot tears rushing involuntarily to her eyes. Delilah had always been so good and beautiful.
A pale hand shot out from under the sheet, grabbed Heinrich's wrist, and Faye screamed.
Chapter 21
The white men were roused by a mere instinct of self-preservation. The negro during Reconstruction was threatening enough, but negroes with powerful magic were an inconceivable threat. At last there had sprung into existence a great Ku Klux Klan, a veritable empire of the south to protect the Southern country, to keep the magical negroes in check. Active Magicals, because of their chaotic nature, must be kept under constant scrutiny, especially those of untrustworthy races.
– Woodrow Wilson
History of the American People, 1910 Banish Island, Micronesia The PBY Silverado landed right on the ocean. The water thumped against the pontoons and water splashed rainbows over Sullivan's window. The propellers kept on turning, dragging them through the crystal waves.
'We've arrived,' the Engineer shouted, touching him on the shoulder as he moved down the aisle, apparently unsure if he was awake or not.
Sullivan lifted his hat from where he'd been using it as a makeshift pillow. 'Thanks,' he responded, stifling a yawn. His ears had popped on the way down. 'That was a nice flight,' he lied.
'Whatever, pal. Looks to me like you're vacationing in tropical paradise, and we've got an extra five hours ahead of us to swing around a bad storm front that's coming in.' It had been a terribly long flight. Sullivan had managed to sleep through most of it. His dreams had consisted of strange geometries, pieces of Power stacked and fitting together over and over in an endless procession like some sort of children's game, and in each dream, he still did something wrong, and Delilah still died.
After they'd dropped the other passengers off in Hawaii, they'd landed at two other islands to refuel, one of which had been flying a Dutch flag. He had no idea how long it had been since they'd left the Presidio, but he'd slept a lot. When he was awake, his thoughts would drift back to the Power, trying to remember it all. Looking at the surface of the being was like looking at a map divided into millions of shapes that were all locked together. He used a grease pencil to draw the strange geometries on the fuselage next to him, wiping them away each time as he decided they weren't quite right.
The Grimnoir had thought of them as words, the Imperium as kanji. They were both wrong. They were constructs. Avatars of the Power. If he could just learn how to make them perfect, to meet all the unknown requirements, then he could tap into those spells too.
The part of the Power he'd paid the most attention to was the section relating to his own, one end of an almost hexagram. He'd tried to draw that bit during the flight, and he must have gotten something almost right, because at one point outside of Guam, just as he finished the shape, gravity's pull had shifted, and the Silverado had dropped several hundred feet in one violent jolt. He'd quickly wiped the mark away while the crew struggled to keep them from falling into the sea. There were probably smarter places to experiment with physics-altering magic than on an airplane.
Now he was here. 'Well, maybe not a nice flight, but it sure was long.'
'Big ocean, slow plane. Meet me at the back hatch once we come to a stop.' The engineer moved on and Sullivan tried to rub the feeling back into his cramped legs. The seats hadn't been designed for a man of his stature.
A few minutes later, the only motion he could feel was the rocking on the gentle waves. The tingling had subsided in his legs enough to move, and he slung his backpack over one shoulder. The Browning bullpup was still disassembled inside as well as over a hundred pounds of gear. He used just enough Power to carry it easily with one hand. It was burning hot inside the Silverado, so he'd stuffed his coat in the bag.
The entire rear of the plane was a ramp that lowered with a mechanical clank. Brilliant sunlight reflected off the ocean and the distant sand. He slid a pair of round sunglasses from his shirt pocket over his eyes. One of the departing soldiers had forgotten them when he'd gotten off at Pearl Harbor.
The engineer kicked a tiny rubber raft off the ramp and into the water. 'It ain't got no style, but it beats getting wet.' Sullivan climbed down into it, and nearly toppled over as it flopped about. 'Don't fall in, buddy. I hear these waters is filled with sharks.'
'Good. I wondered what I was gonna have for lunch…' he said as he took up the little oar.
The engineer spooled out the rope that was tied to the raft. 'I'd wish you good luck, fella. I don't know what kind of secret type mission you're on, but we saw a mess of Nip vessels out there. They ain't supposed to be out this far, so keep your head down.'
'You too, and tell the major thanks.' Sullivan started paddling. The ocean was so clear that he could see fish swimming around the oar every time it bit the water. The beach wasn't very far, but it was hot, and his shirt was clinging to his back by the time sand ground against the bottom of the raft. He climbed out, managed to not get his boots too wet, tossed his bag onto land, and waved at the engineer, who immediately started hauling the raft back. Between the incoming storm and the Japanese navy, they didn't want to stick around to admire the view.
And it was a nice view. If he hadn't been on a mission of revenge and murder, all those funny trees swaying in the wind would be downright peaceful. But he hadn't traveled halfway around the world for peace. He'd come to smash the Geo-Tel and then wait for his brother to come looking for it, even if he had to call Madi up and give him the coordinates himself.
Behind the trees the land rose into black rocks. The whole east side of the little island was an old volcano that had fallen in on itself. According to Pershing's memory, there was a little village in the cove created by the volcano, and that was where he'd find Southunder. Supposedly the natives were friendly enough. There were some missionaries, and traders used this place to refuel and tie up in bad weather. That was about it. So he didn't figure he'd end up on a head-hunter's necklace like what always seemed to happen to the folks who wandered the South Pacific on the radio serials. On those shows there was always a hero to come along to rescue the damsel from the cannibals' stew pot.
Too bad I ain't no hero. If I were a hero, then my leading lady wouldn't have died in a hole in the ground. He scowled, picked up the backpack, wished he'd bummed a smoke off the crew, and started inland. The Silverado revved up its engines and headed back out to sea, driving up a plume of salt mist as it leapt into the air. The trees
