Chapter One: Weather Economics and Magery
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Part 1
It wasn’t the first time someone spat on me but it was the first time blood accompanied it. I reached into a drawer of my desk, retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the spittle that had punctuated Rachel Hawthorne’s statement from my cheek. Across from me Hawthorne glared, as if to bore a hole through my skull with her hatred. That, too, was not a new sentiment. I tossed the tissue into the trash then leaned back in my chair to regard her.
“I don’t consider myself a villain, an evil person or an asshole,” I replied, keeping my voice soft, slowing the pace of my words. She was angry and I found at times like these a slow, even tone was required. “I am a businessman, Miss Hawthorne. I deal with industrial technologies, not human lives. Certain news media outlets would suggest otherwise, but…” I trailed off and and watched as her cheeks flushed with fury. In a way, it was somewhat amusing – for me at least. “Now, what would lead you to believe that I am, in any way, evil?”
“You sold your soul to the devil for power and wealth,” she hissed. There was such fury behind the statement that she trembled. I tell my employees that stress kills and I bring in expensive speakers and motivators to make sure that they have the tools available to them to keep the stress in their lives low. I worried about the young woman’s heart.
I would like to state that I hated this office. The desk was some sort of mahogany monstrosity and the walls covered with a rather useless bit of art. There were pieces of non-functional things everywhere. Behind me, a wide expanse of rolling green which gave way to the Chesapeake in the distance. There were no other buildings between my view and the water and the roads that cut through the forest was only noticeable by the subtle gaps in forest foliage. I had to turn around to view it, of course and I found this particularly irksome. What is the use of a beautiful view that cannot be seen while working? Aside from that, the office was far too large. The interior designer I’d hired said that it conveyed power and intimidation.
I’d just wanted someplace to do my work.
This devil accusation was such a part of my life – every interview, every conversation – that to bring it up to me, even now, causes my mind to wander. Better that, I suppose, than cutting back with an inappropriate response. “Contrary to popular belief perpetuated by the media: as far as I know, I still have my soul. With that aside, I think it’s important that we focus on the issue at hand. Why did you try to kill me?”
Her plan, I gathered later from videotape and records, had been to infiltrate the administration and get close enough to shoot or stab me. She’d been working in the company to that end for three years. She’d been at the company picnic that past summer. She sat before me wearing a dark power suit – the type that women wear that simply results in them looking overstuffed and awkward. Her hair, which had come loose in struggle with security, hung around her face in pale strands.
“Central Africa,” she said.
And of course I knew where the conversation was headed, and retrieved a disk from another drawer. “There’s drought in Africa, hundreds of thousands are dying and you’re doing nothing.” She tensed and I could see the conviction in her eyes. If she hadn’t been restrained, I would not have been over surprised if she tried to attack me. Again.
I twirled the crystal flattened sphere of the computer disk and set it on the desk. It spun slowly, casting prysmatic shards of light about the office. A particularly bright shaft of light hit me in the eye. I didn’t appreciate that. “I donate millions to the affected areas of the world, Miss Hawthorne.”
“But you can do more,” she shot back. “Damn you, Valentine, you’re a fucking mage!”
I raised a hand as the disk’s spin increased. It threw light upwards into the air above the desk and displayed a shimmering sphere, Earth. “These are the affected areas, yes?” I pointed out, then steepled my fingers. “This is a basic weather simulator. Change the weather in any part of the planet and move forward. Say 50 years. Oh, yes, sorry.” I released her from her invisible bonds.
Hawthorne glared at me for several long seconds and, again I thought she might leap the two meter wide desk to tackle me. She worked her arms tentatively. Finally, her eyes swept up to the globe and she reached out a hand. I watched as she manipulated data and rainfall, watching the consequences with a quiet, seething rage. She grew more frustrated with each passing moment as the world would not relent to her will.
I raised a hand and took the controls from her, manipulating data. “If I were to divert and direct reasonable weather to Central Africa.” The area of the world pulsed a bright blue. “As time wore on,” I set the timeline in motion, I’d done this before. “Monsoon season in Asia is brutal. Hurricane season everywhere else is stronger. Trillions of dollars in damages, hundreds of thousands dead, drowned.” The areas indicated darkened.
“You can’t put a price on human lives,” she began hotly. I could see that she didn’t want to believe me or the computer. Doubtless she thought this a trick or ruse.
“With water diverted, other parts of the world face drought. More dead. The Atlantic and Pacific oceanic current engines will be disrupted. Jet streams realigned. The world’s weather in chaos,” great swaths of the globe dimmed until only the narrow band of Central Africa remained alight. “Ten billion men and women over fifty years. The end of human civilization. Given the choice, Miss Hawthorne, would you make that decision?”
I watched her eyes, they still resisted, did not believe. I offered her a smile when we were interrupted by a gentle tone from my desk’s telephone. “Excuse me.” I pressed the intercom button and the chipper, over excited voice of my intern-assistant piped through the speakers, “Mr. Valentine, the police are here for Miss Hawthorne.”
“Thank you, Charlene. Send them in.”
As they bore her away, she stared at the globe. The narrow strip of light slowly dimmed as they timeline below the holographic globe progressed. It was a scenario I had been through on my own countless times. There was little I could do that the people could not do themselves. Hence the reason for my yearly eight figure donations. I couldn’t put a price on human life, misery or death, but hopefully some of my money could help.
There were far more dangerous issues that I had to handle.
As the door shut behind the police and Hawthorne, a demon sat in the chair that Hawthorne had just vacated, staring at the globe.
Part 2
“Demon.” The statement was as much a question as it was a reiteration of fact. The Writer looked up from his document where he’d been taking notes. The interactive nano-ink stopped displaying audio-wave form and the text beneath halted its transcription. Warm brown eyes met the Writer’s and the Mage smiled.
“Not demon in the biblical sense. Or any other religious sense. I imagine that their appearances have started such mythologies, but yes, demon.” Valentine folded his hands as he regarded the Writer across the table. “I understand that much of what I will be explaining to you will be difficult for you to understand – as difficult as it was for the world to accept the Event as it occurred. Though, I ask your patience as we proceed.”
“Alright,” the Writer said slowly. He reached out and took up the glass to take a sip. It gave him an opportunity to consider his thoughts before asking his question. “So, this demon. If not, you know, fire and brimstone, what exactly is it?”
The Mage frowned slightly as if in thought. He glanced at the ceiling. “Let’s see… Well, in layman’s terms, they are extra-dimensional beings. Sentient creatures from an alternate reality than the one we currently inhabit. They possess qualities and abilities that we do not and, I suppose understandably, they do not possess the same moral senses that we do as humans.”
The audio wave-form began again and the nano-ink on the Writer’s slate began transcribing once again. The Writer produced a stylus and began jotting notes next to the transcription. He felt the beginnings of disbelief well within his mind, a sort of cold tension in the pit of his stomach. Denial. But this was what he did. He sought these truths and recorded for them for the world to see and to, ultimately, understand.
Even now, fourteen years later, news programs regularly speculated on The Event. They brought in experts of science and technology, philosophers, religious theologians and government officials all in an attempt to understand what exactly occurred that day when the stars winked out and the sun turned blue. When the ground opened up beneath the capital city of the United States and swallowed half the buildings and structures there. When Valentine rose from that fissure and set things as they were before.
The image graced the cover of all newspapers and magazines for the next twenty-four months. Floating, arms outstretched to either side. Dark, sinuous symbols crawling along his skin. Eyes and mouth opened impossibly wide in a silent scream.
“Abilities? What do you mean by that?” The Writer asked.
“It is widely believed that the average human only uses ten percent of his brain. Which, as you should know, is complete rubbish. The human mind is a immaculately designed machine capable of sorting through terrabytes of data each moment to focus on what we deem important. This is because of the nature of our universe and of our evolution. Demons, similarly, are capable of many astounding things. For example, there is one sort of demon that can withstand direct impact from our Navy’s experimental railgun projects.” The Mage shrugged lightly. “There are some whose concept of time is so skewed that they can only communicate in the past tense but they are incredibly fast. Those sorts of things.”
“And the demons think that the human ability to sort through information is remarkable?”
“In some respects, yes. Mind you, while there are demons that we consider as gifted with celerity, there are others who think the same of us. There are some realities that are very near parallel to our own in which the only difference is an overall global temperature of fifteen degrees warmer. They have gills.” The Mage explained. The Writer must have shown perplexity in his expression because the Mage continued. “This is all beside the point. There are very, very few realities that actively interact with our own. Many aren’t aware of the others or simply don’t care.”
“Why did the demon appear in your office that day? What does that have to do with The Event?”
The Mage tapped his lips thoughtfully, then nodded. “The demons were part of the Event. Also, this will begin to explain the world that I live in. The world that I try to protect the general public from.”
The Writer paused in his note-taking. “Why do you do that?”
“Because, I am this reality’s last Mage.”
Part 3
“Homeland security wants to talk to you.”
As you will no doubt find, I have many pet peeves. One of which is appearance. Especially in my place of occupation. I have human resources send out a notice every third Thursday informing my employees of my meticulously crafted dress code. I enjoy jeans and a t-shirt as much as the next fellow, but I try to cultivate a professional culture in my offices. If things appear professional, people tend to act in a professional manner.
The demon, regardless of its startling appearance, irked me in that it wore a tie-dye t-shirt and jeans frayed just below the knee. The red, orange and blue shirt clashed horribly with the demon’s pale, near-white skin. It regarded me with over-large solid blue eyes and gave me what was, approximately, a smile. I returned the expression. “Charles, I must stress the importance that you arrive as all my other appointments do.”
Charles shrugged with bony shoulders. While his head was about that of a human’s its limbs were longer, slimmer. “They said it was important.”
Charles, of course, is not his real name. His true name is unpronounceable by human inflection. Charles’ native language utilized echo and two sets of vocal chords. Charles was the best approximation that we could achieve. “Then why didn’t they call me?”
Again, Charles shrugged. “Dunno, they don’t tell me very much.”
“That is because you have no concept of secrecy or tact,” I explained. Which is true. It took three months for us to impart the concept that clothing was not an option, but necessary. “Do you at least know what they want?”
“No, but they seemed fearful. I think you should hurry,” Charles said.
I reached over and pressed a button on my phone – It had far too many buttons – and called Charlene. “Please cancel my appointments for the remainder of the day. I have to deal with an urgent matter.”
“Yes, Mr. Valentine.”
Homeland Security. I understand it’s purpose but I do wish it was a little more organized. I pay taxes as well, a goodly amount, and I like to know that my funds are being utilized properly. Properly is not the ridiculous tower that the government commissioned just outside of Washington D.C. to house the umbrella organization of the Department of Homeland Security. Unfortunately, whomever they hired to design the interior of Victory Tower – and that name also leaves much to be desired – did not have the sense of mind and taste to distance themselves from the old, fifties sensibility of decoration.
Still, though, the place was and still is impressive. Charles, of course, did not accompany me, he does not enjoy our methods of transportation. After clearing security I waited in the lobby for several minutes before someone met me. ‘A hurry’ indeed.
The woman who met me was someone I recognized only vaguely. She offered her hand as I stood and I shook it, trying to figure out just who she was. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, it came to me. “Officer Williams! How pleasant to see you again. I do hope you were able to sort out the details in your report on those Deva-bats.” Michelle Williams, clad in the female equivalent of the Fed Look, offered me only a slight smile. Her eyes, though, tightened. She had been frightened, but determined during that ordeal in the Catskills. To see that she was here, obviously promoted and not insane, gave me heart.
At least they knew how to pick them.
“Yes, Mr. Devon, Johnny Devon,” Williams replied easily. Her words gave me pause.
“Outstanding,” I said finally, “You remembered my false name.”
Williams smiled again gesturing towards the bank of elevators. As we walked across the large marble floored hall, she glanced at me. “I remembered you when I was handed this assignment. I’m now Director of the Office of Special Investigations.”
“Special, meaning internal affairs?” I asked.
Williams fixed me with an even look, I’d forgotten how beautiful her eyes were, but she waited until the elevators doors were closed. The car did not move. “Special meaning magical or supernatural. Anything extra-dimensional. The President decided it was time that the agencies worked together rather than separately.” She leaned over and touched the badge around her neck to a sensor, then pressed a button.
“And you thought of me, why?” I asked. Well, of course they’d call me. Who else would they have called? But I wanted her answer.
“You were seventh on our list. The others are either dead or we determined to be frauds.”
“Seventh?” I am a prideful man. To be cast as seventh amongst those individuals the government would call upon for aid truly wounded me. I was on the cover of Time even before The Event. “Why did you find yourselves needing to go down a list?”
“We need someone of your apparent ability to aid us,” she explained. The elevator moved downward, which surprised me. The tower was over fifty stories tall, surely plenty of space for whatever it was they needed to do. Williams turned away from the door and set her hands to her sides. “This will be uncomfortable.”
The lights in the elevator flickered a bit, then they became hot. The sort of hot you get when you stand under studio lights in front of a camera. Then the elevator stopped. The red numbers read fifty-five. “That wasn’t so bad.”
Well, that’s what I intended to say. Instead I froze as the elevator walls began to simmer and sizzle with heat.
I’d been cooked once. A great many years ago in Greece and I was not keen to have it done to me again. I was preparing to remove myself and Williams from the elevator when the sizzling abruptly stopped. “What was that?”
“Scanner. It’s to detect extra-dimensional beings to prevent them from entering the offices,” she explained easily as the back wall of the elevator slide open to reveal a, disappointingly, fifties decorated lobby area.
“I’d expected something more…”
“Yes, we all had the same reaction, but this place has been here for a little over seventy years and we don’t have the budget to hire someone to make it look imposing. There’s no point – here,” she gestured for me to sign in at the unmanned front desk.
“This is truly disappointing, Williams.”
“What’s more disappointing is that we only have four offices down here.”
“Four? What are the others for?”
“Black ops, CIA, covert things. Obviously you won’t be able to access those areas.”
“Why am I even able to access this at all?” I asked. I noted that there weren’t very many people around in the hallways. I heard none of the usual bustle and conversation that other similarly organized offices possessed. From the open floor-plan and low cubicle walls I saw that there were others in the office and even some on phones, but I could hear none of their voices.
“Like I said, we need your help.” she led me to a group of flimsily built cubicle offices, the sort with wooden paneling walling that rose a foot short of the actual ceiling. Williams pushed open a door to reveal a riot of papers and files and office equipment. In the midst of it a young man spoke on a telephone. By his expression he was not pleased. He ignored us as we entered.
The office was larger on the inside than it was on the out, but only barely. I sensed the discrepancy with many of the empty cubicles we passed, but I wondered at why the difference was so small. If they had the ability to do so, why only a few inches? Why not turn every cubicle into a palace for all the effort it would have taken. Michelle and I waited in the door for the man to finish, which he did moments later by slamming the receiver several times into its cradle.
“This is Lorenzo Strathmore, he’s the field ordinator. Lorenzo, this is Elijah Valentine the-”
“Contractor, yeah,” Lorenzo said. His voice was far lower than I expected it to be. He held out his hand over a stack of brown folders and I shook it. Lorenzo was the sort where you weren’t too sure if he was genius or insane. Many people talk about walking that fine line between genius and insanity and, I must admit, I’ve toed it a few times, but this man perhaps straddled it. His green eyes barely focused on me, instead the were fixed on a point past me and even the wall behind.
“He uses that term loosely,” Williams replied, leading me out of the cramped, but too large, office. “Consultant is probably a better explanation.”
“Contractor, consultant, it doesn’t matter. I would be delighted to meet the rest of your team,” I stopped her just as we approached the next office. “What do you need my help for? And why are you showing me all of this? Don’t you need clearance and the like?”
Williams fixed me with a solid, even gaze. “You wrote a letter a long time ago to the President pledging your help whenever this country needed it. Whenever this world needed it. Have you since changed your mind?”
I blinked and shook my head slowly. “Michelle, George Washington never got back to me on the matter.”
She was good. They really did know how to pick them.
I’ve forgotten how I found this, but I’m extremely glad I did! It’s very well written and very interesting!
Saw your ad on the Whateley forums and was intrigued. So far, I have to say, this is an enjoyable piece of fiction. I look forward to more!
Claire,
Thanks! I really appreciate your compliment — doubly because it was the first one! I’m glad you enjoyed the stories and I hope you come back to take in more.
Joe,
Thanks! I thought the ad might have some legs on that forum. Stay tuned for more! There is an update today and tomorrow.
Finally, I found a good piece of original, well-written fiction on the web. I found this through Weregeek. At first, I thought it was a web-comic(most links on Weregeek are) but i was gladly surprised when i found this.
Lewi,
I really appreciate the compliment. I don’t often click on banner ads myself so when I decided to make some I wanted to be sure they were compelling and relevant — especially considering how much they cost. Feel free to stick around and read up, I’m adding updates all the time!
Wow, this is really great so far <3 You keep hinting at how old Valentine may be and now I'm quite curious. Really glad I found that banner to click, haha.