I awakened in what Johnny Parish knew to be a jail cell. A cage of iron bars, a filthy toilet and sink, everything painted off-white and flaking to reveal chips of underlying gray. A small television screen hung in one of the corners. According to my body’s memories, the small dark lens on the ceiling was a recording device.
At least the cot had clean linens and was more comfortable than what I was used to.
Six guardsmen stood at attention beyond the confines of my prison, guns pointed my way. Such weapons were something like perfected crossbows, capable of slinging lead-alloy pellets at a speed that would make even a legendary metal mage envious.
Another, larger camera was mounted on a stand off to the side, its little red indicator blinking.
Given this reception, I suspected I had not handled the Errata with a light touch.
Over time, prayers and meditation had calmed my unfortunate tendency to become a mindless hand of justice under distress. Whenever I did succumb, the casualties had dwindled as well, but humans tended to fare poorly in the midst of a magical storm.
Regret welled up in my stomach. I sat up on the cot and swung my legs until my feet supported me against the concrete floor. Pinching the bridge of my nose helped mitigate the crushing migraine squeezing between my eyes.
“You’re awake,” said one of the guardsmen, still sighting along his gun.
Johnny lacked intimate knowledge regarding the particulars of such weapons, but his memories identified this as an assault rifle.
Perhaps I could stop the bullets mid-flight, but given their velocity, such a feat would prove taxing. Better to mangle the barrels of the weapons, though that carried the risk of causing a significant backlash on the wielder if they fired in panic.
True analysis of such a complex machine might take an entire day to comprehend from nothing, but I could detect some intricate parts that seemed integral to its overall function.
The fight had drained most of my mana reserves. What remained was still more than enough to subtly misshape several of the tiny components in seemingly key locations throughout the weapons.
Just in case, I maintained a constant flow of power to keep the triggers locked in place. No normal human would be capable of generating enough force with their finger to overpower my resistance.
The presence of my elements in such abundance amplified my regeneration to such ridiculous levels they would be restored within the day. If only my own world had reached such a level of technology. The possibilities would have been endless.
My personal involvement in the conflict would not have turned the tides---not when I was born so late into the perennial war on Allara. Such a thought was ridiculously arrogant. But most of the known metal stores within my homeland had been exhausted long ago by past generations, turning practitioners of the element into something of a contemporary joke.
We could harvest trace minerals from the soil, from living organisms, and other scarce deposits. However, such sources yielded a few seconds of power in exchange for weeks of effort. A stone hammer and a little sweat often proved more efficient.
My dual affinity for lightning had saved me from being completely useless. As such, I was only considered a liability if there were no thunderstorms on the battlefield. Unfortunately, much of Arai, my country of origin, enjoyed the most mild climate imaginable.
Lost in thought, I only glanced back at my captors when the first man to comment began shouting.
“The chief wants to speak with you.” The man took a few steps forward, putting the barrel of his weapon between the bars of my cage in some silly threat display. Clearly none of them had noticed my tampering.
With a snap of my fingers I could have wrapped the iron around him, locking him in place. Responding to threats in such a manner, I had learned, rarely ended well.
I rubbed my forehead, attempting to calm the flare of headache from his unnecessary shouting. “Excellent. I had hoped to speak to the most senior member of your battalion. There is much to discuss.”
“An eager prisoner is a nice change of pace,” said a woman’s voice. The row of armed guardsmen parted to allow her passage.
The chief appeared to be middle-aged, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, with some evidence of a premature gray I sympathized with. A stout woman, her posture so impeccable her spine may very well have been made of steel. The nameplate on her right breast displayed the name HENDERSON.
“Unfortunately, you’re the one everyone’s talking about.” Her hand cut through the air in a sharp gesture directed at an officer. With a nod, the man raised a remote and turned on the television in the corner of my cell.
“---from this footage, you can see the aftermath of the terrorist attack on the 23rd and Potrero Beet’s Coffee shop,” said a man with coiffed hair, his voice soothingly professional. “Though first responders have cordoned off the area, our channel five news helicopter was able to record this from a distance.”
I clasped my hands together and rested my chin on them, curious like a mischievous child waiting for his parents to reveal the punishment this time.
The video footage in the upper right corner expanded, filling the display. The perspective came from the heavens, as if the Goddess herself were judging my work. And what a sculpture I had wrought.
Among the cluster of single-story buildings, the twisted remnants of the coffee shop stood out in sharp relief. From the ruins of the wood and stone emerged an intricate framework of metal, a variegated medley of brown and gray and copper from a fusion of every bit of internal wiring and appliance within. And apparently from the adjacent buildings as well, judging from their collapsed walls and precarious slanting.
From the image, I pieced together the intention of my rage-blinded instincts. The spire ended in one broad point sheathed in a cluster of thick wires. These cables had been neatly cut in certain points, leaving sections of the whole ensemble dangling like overgrown ivy.
I grimaced. How theatrical of me.
“Do you know,” said Chief Henderson, her voice low and deadly, “what you’re looking at?”
I glanced her way, nervously scratching the side of my stubbled jaw. “I can imagine. Most likely I impaled the Errata on the top of the edifice, um, so to speak, then I encased it in electrical wiring and electrocuted it with a significant---how do you call it, voltage?---of energy until its corporeal form could no longer maintain its integrity.”
She was silent for a moment, doing a remarkable job of keeping her emotions off her face.
“That is absolutely one way of putting it, ‘Johnny’,” she said, putting a peculiar emphasis on the name. “You overloaded the power grid for several blocks. From my understanding of the technical babbling in the bastard of the meeting I just came from, the damage to the infrastructure alone is estimated to be tens of millions. The city wants to take the funds from your personal wealth, though many of the more level-headed folk there argued against that. From what my contacts in some of the alphabet agencies say, you may not exactly be the Johnny Parish we all know and love, so the morality of such a thing is a bit fuzzy.”
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I stood up, once more suffering the familiar aches and pains of an elderly gentleman. Several ribs on my right side appeared to be fractured, based on the acute agony of moving about and taking deep breaths. Trying to maintain an air of nonchalance, I strolled closer to the chief until less than three feet (and the iron cage) separated us. The officer who had kept his barrel lodged between the bars withdrew his weapon, looking back at his colleagues as if seeking guidance on whether he should open fire. No one said anything.
“I must admit, the financial concerns of this situation matter to me not at all,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible. “Though I understand the livelihoods of many people are entwined in the…economy…my sole focus is on the safety of the people within. How many were killed in the conflict?”
Something about my response softened the hard creases of the chief’s face and the unbending steel of her posture. Not quite showing vulnerability, but relaxing just enough that she lifted her hand and nodded. At her command, the other officers lowered their weapons but remained at attention. My respect for her grew. Though Johnny Parish appeared to harbor an astonishingly low opinion of the San Francisco Police Department, this core group appeared well-trained and loyal.
Chief Henderson nodded. “No one was killed, besides the first civilian that the---what did you call it, the Errata? Besides the first civilian the Errata killed after entering the premises. Eyewitness reports claim that you flung yourself at the perp, pinned it down by manipulating one of the metal display stands into a bind, and kept it at bay long enough for everyone to escape. Apparently the perp managed to break free and your battle continued for approximately a minute afterward, though most of the cameras in the area were fried.”
“That is quite impressive,” I said, smiling despite myself. A moment later I realized the depths of my hubris. “Apologies. The Errata are considered the Goetia’s elite vanguard forces. In Allara, few mages of my generation were considered their equal. We would usually dispatch groups of five to suspected locations to minimize damage. If I am able to accomplish so much in this world, either they are weaker than they were in my homeland, or the esoteric potential of this world is exceptional.”
Henderson cast a sidelong glance at her fellow officers. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to keep your mouth shut for the time being. Everything you are saying is way above me, and you’re putting my boys here at serious risk by speaking like this in front of them.”
Chastened, I clapped my hands together and bowed over them. “My deepest apologies. I have often been told I am quick to speak and slow to think, as you no doubt have already gathered from this conversation. Such matters are best discussed in private.”
Henderson sighed and lifted one hand in acknowledgement of her defeat. “I suspect you’re too hard on yourself. Since you’ve already mentioned so many classified words, I guess it won’t hurt for you to tell us what your real name is. You obviously aren’t the infamous Johnny Parish, unless he’s a better actor than his TV appearances would indicate.”
Embarrassed warmth flushed on my cheeks. I bowed hurriedly over my hands several more times. “Truly, do forgive my delayed introduction. I am Ludo Edkeis of Urola Village, third-ring paladin of the Shining Goddess, dual-affinity mage of lightning and metal, at your pleasure.”
One of the officers coughed. A pair whispered to each other in hushed tones until their chief shot them a pointed look and shook her head.
“Well,” said Henderson, “I immediately regret asking. Some federal agents will be here shortly to talk with you. I’m afraid they’re going to make us sign some very, very serious nondisclosure agreements.” She turned toward her squad. “Tell your families you might not be home tonight. There’s a chance they’ll keep us locked up for a while to prevent anything from leaking.”
Despite their earlier professionalism, several of the officers raised their voices in complaint. Most of them shot baleful looks my way, which seemed rather unfair, but I am no stranger to derision.
“All of you, shut the fuck up,” said Henderson. “We can’t hide what we know. The feds will pull all the footage from this conversation. We’re dealing with something bigger than our own lives. You signed up for the job to serve and protect. Your families already know there’s some chance they get a phone call late at night bringing bad news. For now, all of you are dismissed, but do not, under any circumstances, leave the premises or give any specifics to your loved ones. Don’t use your personal cells. Call out on the landlines so there’s a record.”
More grumbling, but the officers stood down and started to slink away.
One of them, a redheaded fellow with an impressive mustache, lingered. “Chief, this guy is dangerous. You want us to just leave you here with him?”
She leveled a glare at him that would have been the envy of any master-of-arms I had known. “You saw what this guy is capable of. And right now he doesn’t look like he exerted himself at all.”
“I am far more inconvenienced than I appear,” I said, offering Mr. Mustache a reassuring little wave.
Henderson turned her glare my way. “I get the feeling you could have walked out of here and none of us could’ve done much to stop you.”
After a moment of concentration I nodded. “That reminds me. You may wish to tell your men not to discharge their firearms. Best to replace them altogether, I would think. I reversed the alterations I made to some of the components, but once something is broken it never does quite return to the way it used to be.”
“That’s for sure.” The chief sighed before glancing back at the remaining officer. “Get out of here, Turner. Don’t you have a little one that would love to hear daddy’s voice tonight?”
A wicked little smile spread beneath the glorious ginger mustache. “Only my wife can call me daddy.”
Henderson rubbed her forehead. “For fuck sake.”
”May,” I chimed in.
”What?” said the man.
”If you wish to speak properly, use ‘may’ in that sort of context.”
The smile died off a little. “I’m not going to say ‘Only my wife may call me daddy.’ I’d sound like there’s something wrong with me.”
”I have just always thought a man should make an effort to speak properly.”
“Who asked, guy?”
Shaking his head, Officer Turner made his escape, to all appearances rather pleased with himself despite my interference. The chief made sure he had fully departed before returning her focus my way. She strolled over to the mounted camera, waved a hand goodbye in front of the lens, then fiddled with a button. The red indicator died.
“They’re really not going to like that,” she said in a surprisingly light tone. “The overhead camera doesn’t record sound. So, just between us, can you be honest with me? The feds probably won’t let me listen in, so this might be the only chance for me to figure out what the hell is going on.”
“I will be honest with you, of course,” I said. “You are a fellow paladin. Perhaps a touch rough around the edges, but your men treat you with respect. In my world, we follow a code of etiquette with our brothers and sisters in the Order. We do not impede, coerce, or compete. The difference between the enemy and ourselves is far greater than any individual animosity.”
“Right,” said Henderson. “You called yourself a paladin. I don’t know what that means exactly, but I’ve heard it before. It’s some sort of holy knight.”
“Accurate enough.”
Henderson ran a hand along her hair and took a deep breath. “I guess the more important question is: what exactly is the enemy you opposed?”
An interesting query. In Allara, much philosophical discussion revolved around this topic. The demons had no particular need to reveal their thoughts and intentions. Some of them found pleasure in taunting, mockery, and riddles, but no true discourse had existed between our people for centuries.
I glanced up at the ceiling. An old habit of mine, as if I were searching for the Goddess’ comforting presence. “At first, they descended among my people in aesthetic forms, spreading prophecy and empty promises. We thought them to be the seraphim returned---a bridge between us and the divine after an era of silence from the heavens. They even renewed people’s Faith, restoring the Order to its former glory. By the time we understood their true nature, they had already spread through our world like a plague.
“Allara may never have been as advanced as your Earth. At least, not in the same ways. But we had radiant cities of legend that spread as far as the hawk sees. Poems and songs of unsurpassed beauty.”
“It sounds nice,” said Henderson.
I smiled sadly. “I think so, too. The histories likely exaggerate, but the world they describe is not like the one I was born into. My world was a wasteland, ravaged and bled of anything of worth. All we had left was each other. So you have asked me, what exactly is the enemy? They are a plague. Leeches. Conquerors and corruptors. They are evil.”
Henderson bit her lip and cursed under her breath. After a few moments she composed herself. “How do we stop them?”
I shook my head. “I have never been a great tactician. My people never found that answer. When I introduced myself earlier, I indicated that I was a third-ring paladin. That is---was--the lowest rank within the Order that still indicates some magical affinity. It would be blasphemous to insinuate the Goddess has ever made a mistake. So I believe there was a reason my soul was placed on Allara, even if I was rather useless at the time. Now She has sent me here as part of Her grand design. I will do what little I can, both to protect and unite mankind against this great evil.”
Henderson massaged her forehead once more. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”
“You did ask me to be honest.”