"Ross!" Martin waved him over to his terminal. "My algorithm found decent footage of The Slayer leaving the landing area."
"Fantastic. Show me." Ross crossed the control room to hover over Denver's lead programmer.
Martin magnified the corner of the Fortress wall's security camera that had caught a long-range glimpse of The Slayer after Garcia's aircraft dropped him at the southern edge of the Rocky Mountain Arsenal National Wildlife Refuge.
The tall green figure was barely visible in the moonlight as he watched the helicopter to make sure it left visual range.
"Don't we have night vision?"
"The perimeter cameras are very basic. Bruce down in Fabrication trying to make some with better capabilities."
A chubby dog-sized creature with a dark muzzle shuffled out of the tall grass toward the supersoldier, who stopped to look at it.
"Poor little thing. I hope The Slayer didn't … wait, is he … feeding that raccoon a cookie?"
The trash panda retreated to the trees with a large cookie clutched in its hands, waddling on its hind legs like a child in too-tight pajamas.
"Looks that way. Where the hell did he get a cookie? And how did the raccoon know that The Slayer would –"
"Whoa," Martin interrupted. "His suit's changing colors."
The camera had a hell of a time compensating for the constantly-moving target in the dark, but he could see Martin was right; as the supersoldier moved farther away from Denver's walls, the suit was shifting to darker hues. The camera auto-focused in the nick of time to show a final section of tiny octagons flipping from green to black, like one of those weird sequined pillows.
"That is wild, man," Martin said admiringly. "I need to know how it does that."
"Black makes sense," Ross said. "But if he's trying to blend in with the shadows for demon-hunting, why is the trim bright gold?"
"No clue. It looks badass, though. Maybe that's what he's going for."
Ross shook his head with an amused huff. "I don't think he needs to rely on intimidation. Over the last couple weeks I've seen several demons actually run away when they see him coming. They must have recognized him from somewhere else, and realized their ticket's about to get punched."
"Demons running away? I like the sound of that."
Ross's mouth curled up at the corners. He, too, was beginning to like the sound of people's voices when they heard about The Slayer kicking ass. It was a morale boost right when they needed it. And they needed it more than ever this evening.
Indochina had bombed the mega-city of Agra in an attempt to stop the demons from advancing any further toward Nepal, where the empire's elite were holed up in the Himalayas. The ARC estimated the concussive downblast had killed the 5.5 million survivors of the initial attack, along with the 100,000 demons that had been hunting them down. Agra had once been home to fifty million people. Now they were all gone, and the Taj Mahal was a pile of marble dust.
Catherine, Denver's satellite communications expert, touched her earpiece and announced over the link, "Dr. Oppenheim, I re-established our connection to the California geo-sat. You're going to want to see this." She nodded to herself when she got an affirmative answer.
Ross was tapping his fingers against his chin thoughtfully when Oppenheim arrived to push through the small crowd staring at the blazing lines carved into the surface of their planet.
"My God," the director said. "Is that a demonic symbol?"
The lava-filled trenches were hundreds of miles long, arching and lancing across the West Coast in a distinctly non-human pattern.
"Looks that way," said Vera, their elderly linguistics researcher. "The runes on the exterior ring mean this one is for demon-summoning."
"Why would they need a giant summoning circle?" Oppenheim asked. "They already have plenty to transport their troops. Some are even big enough to let the Titans through."
"I don't know, sir," Catherine responded, "but there are similar trenches being dug on the East Coast and Baffin Island in Canada. And that's just North America. The others are nowhere near as complete as this one, but they're popping up all over the planet."
Ross said slowly, "Us. They're summoning us."
"Friedmann?" Oppenheim asked. "You have a theory?"
"Maybe. Catherine, can you put up a 3D model of the whole planet, and estimate where each finished symbol will be?"
"Sure."
A translucent hologram popped into existence over their heads. Catherine added the symbols and Ross used an augmented-reality glove to draw lines connecting them through the planet's core. When he'd finished, no matter what angle you viewed the globe from, you saw a pentagram.
"Shit," Martin breathed. "They're making the whole planet a summoning circle."
"I think they've realized how difficult it will be for their troops to get at humans in the higher elevations, so they're moving us somewhere that has more oxygen: the atmosphere of the Hell dimension."
For a full minute Vera was the only one who could still speak. "Dear God in Heaven. We're doomed."
Everywhere Ross looked, he saw his own fear reflected in their faces. If Earth were pulled into the Hell dimension, the war would be lost. There would be nowhere to run.
Finally the director got his voice back. "That's how the Cultists opened portals on Earth to let the first demonic troops through; mass human sacrifices inside summoning circles. But the soul-to-energy equations Hayden provided wouldn't be enough power to move a planet, not even with all the humans they've taken." Oppenheim stared at him with intensity. Ross got the feeling this was his make-or-break moment with the director. Time to prove he wasn't just an annoying tag-along.
"Dr. Oppenheim," Ross explained, "I think this is some sort of computer code."
"What on Earth are you talking about? It's nothing like binary or even trinary. It's a written language."
"Mathematics is a language," Vera informed him. "Summarizing Galileo: 'Mathematics is the language in which God has written the universe.' "
Ross pointed at her in agreement. "Yes. Thank you, Vera. My point exactly." He gestured to the symbols again. "This is simply a programming language that we don't understand. Code that alters the fabric of space when it is executed. They wouldn't need Hell energy or Argent to transfer Earth to their dimension; the planet's own gravity well interacting with these symbols will provide the power. It will probably crack the planet in half, too, but that would only make it easier for them to bring the pieces down into a more oxygen-rich atmosphere. No one would be safe from Titans that have enough breathable oxygen, not even up on the summit of Mount Everest." Ross's voice trailed off. His parents were in Lhasa, twelve thousand feet above sea level. Nearly two and a half times the altitude at which the demons began to struggle for air. They were perfectly safe in Tibet … as long as the devilish symbols didn't work.
"How could a written symbol affect spacetime?" Catherine asked incredulously. "That sounds like magic or something."
"You've read Arthur C. Clarke, surely. 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.' This is just alien technology, closely related to how they make Hell Gates work, but powered by the energy of spacetime instead of souls." He turned to Oppenheim. "Sir, if they finish these symbols, our entire planet is going to fall through a portal into their dimension. Then we really will be doomed."
"I hope you have a suggestion, Friedmann."
"I do. May I borrow Martin for a moment?"
"All right, Ross. Don't think this makes you a project lead or anything, though."
"Understood." He used the AR glove to grab the most complete symbols from the map and flick the line of pentagrams over to display on Martin's monitor.
"Martin, what do you think?"
"Just seeing them makes my skin crawl. They look … horrifying."
"Disturbing," added Vera.
"Demonic," said Catherine.
"Delicate." Ross finished their list with a grin. "Very delicate."
"What do you mean, delicate?" Oppenheim asked eagerly.
"See this?" Ross pointed to the most complete symbol.
"Yeah." Martin shuddered. "Gives me the creeps."
"Look closer. It's almost impossibly precise for something so huge. Why would they need it to be so perfect?"
"Ohhh." A change came over Martin's face, shifting from quiet dread to a professional interest.
"I want you to insert some kind of flaw in this code. I don't care if they fix it almost as fast as we can mess it up. Keep it from functioning, Martin, for as long and as often as you can. If they can't get the symbols to work, they can't pull Earth into their dimension."
"Change the code so it doesn't compile," Martin realized.
"Exactly."
"Explain, please, Mr. Friedmann." Oppenheim was being more patient than usual.
"Think of each curve in this symbol as a line of computer code. Raw code has to be perfect or the computer doesn't understand what you want. The demons have got to make perfect lines that are hundreds or thousands of miles in length, or the fabric of spacetime won't recognize the code and open a portal. We only have to screw each symbol up in one spot, and it won't work at all. Doctor, my crew from UAC Switzerland should be arriving tomorrow. Darren's the best drone pilot you've ever seen. If Martin can find us a sneaky location to mess up each symbol, Darren will make it happen. Even if we see them trying to fix it, we'll know the plan is working."
Oppenheim's hand tightened on the back of the programmer's chair. "Can you do it, Martin?"
"Hell yeah. Screwing up programming is a lot easier than making functioning code in the first place. I could write bad code in my sleep. The trick will be messing it up in places they won't easily notice."
"Martin." Ross pointed at the floating globe with its half-formed demonic sigils. "Please fuck that shit up."
"Fucking it now, sir." Martin cracked his knuckles and got to work.
"Oh, thank God," Vincent breathed when he heard the chime from his security monitors that meant someone was approaching the external ramp. Lizzie wasn't going anywhere, so Vincent shouted for Harry to stay in his room, then hit the button for the outer doors and took off for the entrance.
At the decon chamber Vincent waved the mercenary inside.
"Thank God you're here. Maybe you can help."
Ayers's head tilted curiously.
"Lizzie's having an episode," Vincent babbled as he keyed open the next vestibule. "I don't know if you can call it a panic attack, because she's nearly catatonic."
Ayers crowded Vincent, practically pushing on his arm.
"It's my fault. She was looking through the music database to make more playlists. I should have remembered that black metal is usually about demon worship."
Ayers's head rocked back in surprise.
"I know, I know. I don't get why bands make that their gimmick, either. Doesn't seem entertaining to me, especially these days. I had set the computers here to auto-download music off the internet as it became available, and that was years ago." Vincent shook his head in angry self-reproach. "Should've remembered black-metal lyrics would upset her. Lizzie's been through some shit. I should have known better than to assume all music was safe for her. Especially Slayer songs about sacrificing people to the devil."
The merc's back straightened in alarm, and he stood frozen for a few seconds as Vincent rushed through the opening doors to reach the last keypad.
"I know, all right? I'm an idiot for not setting a filter to remove shit like that from the database, especially Slayer. I don't listen to the stuff, so I kind of forgot it exists."
Vincent's clumsy fingers slipped off the keypad, which buzzed snootily and refused to open the pressure doors.
Ayers smacked the steel with a fist that made the whole thing vibrate like a bell.
"I know, I know!" Vincent protested. "I'm trying."
He got it on the next attempt, and Ayers turned sideways to slip through as soon as there was enough room. He tossed his helmet and gauntlets onto the lawn, looking to Vincent for directions.
"In the house. Under the dining room table, against the wall."
Vincent ran ahead and opened the front door.
Ayers had never been in the house before, so Vincent pointed him toward the kitchen on the right. The mercenary walked more softly than such a big guy should be able to do, and crouched to look under the narrow table.
Lizzie was still there, of course, with Charlie squashed to her chest by her drawn-up legs and the arms she had locked around them.
The little dog grunted hello to Ayers, unable to move anything but his tail, whose enthusiastic wagging could have propelled a submarine.
Vincent crouched too. "Look, Lizzie: Ayers is here."
Her wide brown eyes were glazed over, unblinking and unfocused.
"Do you want to talk to him?"
Nothing.
"Maybe we could play poker?"
No response.
"Does Charlie need to go for a walk?"
She blinked once, but only because her eyes were drying out.
Vincent sighed. "See? I don't know what to do." He twisted around to sit against a table leg, facing Ayers. "You said you were in the marines before becoming a mercenary. At least a few of your buddies must have gotten PTSD. Know anything about treating it?"
Ayers stood and looked around until he found the refrigerator. He strode over to it and yanked open the freezer compartment, rummaged around for a moment and then brought something back to the table. Crouching alongside Lizzie, he gently pried one of her hands off her knees and then placed an ice cube in her palm and folded her fingers around it, holding her fist closed in his own large hand.
For about thirty seconds, nothing happened. Then she began to blink more frequently and her breaths came in a normal rhythm instead of that worrying, too-slow cadence.
Finally her head nodded forward and then snapped back up, like someone who'd fallen asleep in class.
"Shit, that's cold!" Lizzie exclaimed, and Ayers released her hand so she could drop the cube. "Woo." She shook her fingers to bring the heat back into them, and seemed to notice Ayers for the first time.
"Oh, hey. You're back."
Ayers gave her a little wave.
"I, uh …"
Vincent could see she was searching for a way to explain why she was huddled under a kitchen table with an ice cube in one hand and a dog in the other. Charlie wriggled free of her embrace and pounced on the ice like a cat with a mouse. He was a fairly uncoordinated dog, and the ice cube went sliding around the kitchen like a hockey puck evading a canine goalie.
"Uh, yeah," Vincent pretended to lie for her. "Charlie likes to chew on ice, and it's not good for his teeth, so we were trying to catch him. Right, Liz?"
"Yes! Yes, that's it. Oh, looks like he's swallowed the whole thing." She smiled unconvincingly. "He's a very naughty dog sometimes."
Ayers nodded like that was perfectly understandable and gave Lizzie a hand out from under the table.
She tilted her head at him curiously. "How did you get in?"
"Oh, uh …" Vincent lied for real this time. "I gave him the codes for the inner doors so we don't have to go through the whole song and dance every time he visits. Nobody likes an escort mission."
The mercenary played along with a confirming nod.
"Anyhow," Vincent clapped his hands together. "Now that you're here, Ayers, we should give the new picnic table a whirl. I figured we play cards so often that we might as well have a real table for it. Five Card Stud or Texas Hold 'Em?"
Ayers held up two fingers to indicate the second choice, a binary system they'd found worked fairly well for communication.
"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," Lizzie agreed, seeming glad to have the focus off of her. "I'll get the drinks. Hot cocoa or ice water?"
Ayers held up one finger.
"Cocoa it is. A hot drink does sound good right now." She rubbed her still-cold hands together.
"For us, too," Vincent said. "I'll go get Harry."
Harry was a very sweet child, so when Vincent instructed him not to ask Lizzie anything about the events of the last hour, he chirped, "Yes, Grandpa. Can I go see Mr. Ayers now?"
"Sure, kiddo. Go show him the picnic table and tell him about how you helped varnish it."
"What's varnish?"
"That clear paint we put on it yesterday. Go on, now, and Lizzie will make you some hot cocoa."
"Yayyyyyyy…!" Harry's ecstatic voice faded away as he descended the stairs like a stampeding buffalo.
As intended, Harry dragged Ayers outside so Lizzie could have a few minutes to herself.
"He didn't see any of that, did he?" she asked anxiously as she stirred the cocoa powder into a saucepan of hot milk.
"Nah," Vincent lied again. "Came in right after I put the ice cube in your hand."
"Where did you learn that trick?"
He shrugged as he pulled out the betting candies and playing cards. "One of those military podcasts I used to listen to. Something they do for soldiers having a flashback. Works like a charm for some people."
"I've lost hours like that sometimes. Something random will … remind … me, and then I'll come to, crouched in the back of my closet and it'll be morning already. So, thank you." She gave him a genuinely affectionate smile. "You're the best friend I've had since I was little girl, Vincent."
Invisible pepper flakes stung the corners of Vincent's eyes and he had to turn away and blink rapidly to get rid of them.
"Same to you, kiddo." He grabbed the serving tray and gave her a grin. "Except for the girl part. And the little part."
She smiled back at him.
Outside, Harry was explaining how Vincent had set each of the table's four feet in a small block of concrete.
"So your weight doesn't flip the table and send us all flying, Grandpa said."
"I mean that in the nicest possible way, I assure you," Vincent added in response to Ayers's raised eyebrow. "You must be three hundred pounds in that rig."
Ayers hooked a thumb skyward to indicate Vincent should increase that number.
"Three twenty?"
Higher.
"You're joking."
Higher.
"Three forty?"
Higher.
"Three sixty?"
Yes.
"You're shitting me."
No.
"I bet you barely have to lift weights at all. Just running around in a hundred-plus pounds of armor would be its own workout."
Yes.
"What's shitting, Grandpa?"
"Oops. Uh … something grown-ups say when they're surprised. It's actually bad language. The polite version is 'you're kidding me.' "
"Which one should I use?"
"Definitely the polite one, Harry. You can swear when you're older."
"How much older?"
"When you're not going to school anymore."
"I'm not going to school. The demons burned it down."
"I meant when you're twenty."
"Awww."
"Think of it as something to look forward to."
Ayers patted the boy's head in consolation.
"Here we are: four hot cocoas," Lizzie said brightly, still overcompensating with cheerfulness. "Who's the little blind this time?"
"I am," Vincent reported as they all sat. "Which makes Harry the big blind."
"Okay, Grandpa, so I put in how much?"
"Twice what I do. Ante, Lizzie?"
She checked the score sheet. "Four butterscotches."
"Twice four," the boy said to himself. "Twice means 'two times,' so two times four is … eight butterscotches."
Lizzie and Vincent praised him, but it was the congratulatory clapping he got from Ayers that really made his day.
Harry played much better than usual, and his serious, focused expression was adorable when accentuated by the cocoa mustache he developed from his drink.
None of them ever saw Ayers consume what he was given, although his snacks always disappeared and Charlie didn't get any fatter. Vincent figured that the merc waited until no one was looking to eat and drink because his damaged throat made swallowing difficult.
Lizzie constantly swapped which hand was holding the cards so that the other could be wrapped around the warm mug. It seemed like she was still very cold even though the temperature here underground was always a constant 70 degrees Fahrenheit.
"Your turn, Liz."
When Vincent's call didn't get a response, they turned their heads to her.
Lizzie was staring down at her cards. Or through them, to something beyond. Her cheeks were very pale.
Ayers rapped hard on the table, and her head came up abruptly. She smiled for a brief second when she saw his face, but it faded immediately.
"I fucking hate Slayer," she declared.
Ayers looked almost shocked.
Vincent said under his breath, "Language, Lizzie," and flicked his eyes at the fascinated Harry.
"Oh!" She made a sheepish face. "Pardon my French."
"What's French?" asked Harry.
"It's what people speak in France, son, although when somebody says it like that, they mean, 'I'm sorry I swore in front of you.' "
"Sorry," Lizzie apologized. "Don't swear like I do, Harry. It's rude."
Harry grumbled something about turning twenty, and dealt this turn's cards.
Lizzie kept putting her cards face-down to rub her hands together for warmth after her drink had cooled. Vincent was about to say something when Ayers also put his cards down and took Lizzie's left hand. Before she could finish asking What?, he had placed her palm against the curved plating that protected his upper arm.
"Oh!" she said in surprise. "Harry was right, the black parts are very warm." She drummed her fingers on the back of his arm nervously. "You're sure you don't mind?"
Yes.
"Well … okay then."
For the rest of the evening Lizzie alternated hands on Ayers's arm, for which she had to sit closer to him than usual. Vincent was pretty sure that the pink spots on her cheeks weren't due to her hands warming up, so he did his best to keep the smiling to a minimum and not embarrass her like some dad at graduation.
Vincent decided he really would give Ayers the codes to the inner doors.
###
