Hammer of the Witches Read online

  “Or they could be transitioning to a new set of tactics.”

  “These guys are pros. Does Eve strike you as a pro?”

  “No,” Pete and O’Connor said simultaneously.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “You’ve only seen Eve,” O’Connor said. “This could be the A team. We just don’t know enough about Hexenhammer to say for sure.”

  “Fine. But I don’t think Hexenhammer did this. It’s not like them.”

  O’Connor shrugged. “Jury’s out on that.”

  The killers continued killing. I accelerated the video to normal speed. They carved a bloody, smoking swathe through the camp, leaving ashes and corpses behind.

  “Any survivors?” I asked.

  “About a dozen,” O’Connor said. “They’re still in surgery.”

  “Those sons of bitches are gonna get what’s coming to them,” Pete muttered.

  The massacre ended. A black van pulled up at the far end of the camp. As the shooters boarded, one of them dumped a baggie on the ground.

  “That’s the end of the video,” O’Connor said.

  “Smooth extract,” Pete said. “They’re good. We haven’t seen this kind of professionalism before. They’ve got to have training and combat experience.”

  O’Connor fiddled with the slate. “These are the primary shooters. We’ve got isolated footage of other shooters. There are at least two more two-man teams. They set up security positions around the camp before the shooting began.”

  O’Connor ran us through a few short clips and isolated photographs. People running and bleeding and dying. A police car disintegrating under a concentrated hail of 7.62x54mm fire. Giants dressed in black clutching weapons. One photo showed two of them going low and peering around a corner, one with a GPMG, the other with an AK.

  “A gunner and his assistant,” Pete said. “That AK is an AKS-74. See the folding stock?”

  “Again, World War Three kit,” I added.

  The venerable PKM, the AK-74 and their variants had been replaced decades ago. Even in Rhosia, only reserve troops still used them. The terrorists’ weapons were worn and scarred, but they still ran like champions. The Rhosians knew how to design guns that last.

  “Is it just me, or are these terrorists also the same height as before?” O’Connor asked.

  “It’s not just you,” I replied.

  “It’s like… they’re all clones or something,” Pete said.

  “Cloning is banned around the world,” O’Connor said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”

  “No proof of clones anywhere.”

  “Clones, robots, covenanters, whatever. Something is going on,” Pete said. “I don’t like the smell of it.”

  “Me neither,” I said.

  O’Connor closed the window. “You’ve got your work cut out for you. The rest of the materials here are profiles on known Hexenhammer members. You can read them later; for now we need to arrange a meeting with Eve.”

  “Already done,” I said. “If I catch the airship out to Columbia, I could be in Amarantopolis by this time tomorrow.”

  “All right. I’ll prep travel packets for you and Pete.”

  “Actually, I have a better idea.”

  Pete snickered. O’Connor raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh?” O’Connor said.

  “I’ll meet Eve myself. Pete, stay here and monitor the airship’s progress. When it’s ready, if I need something, I’ll call you and let you know.”

  “Seriously, what’s the deal with you and the airship?” O’Connor asked. “And don’t give me that line about testing emergency procedures again; that’s not what you really want, is it?”

  Telling him an archangel told me to prepare Kalypso wouldn’t go down well. I improvised.

  “Eve says she’s got a list of ‘persons of interest,’ and she wants to pursue those leads–”

  O’Connor interrupted. “You should have told me that earlier.”

  “Doesn’t change things. She invited me to tag along. I think she wants to build bridges with us, and I can use the opportunity to perform my own assessment. As for the airship, we can stage weapons, munitions and manpower aboard the Kalypso. If we develop actionable intelligence, we can–”

  “No way. One, I am not authorized to release weapons in the absence of a clearly defined threat. Two, you are not authorized for direct action. This is an assessment, not a kill. Leave the terrorists to the authorities.”

  “I can do an assessment solo. Pete can stay here and run support.”

  O’Connor crossed his arms. “I’m your handler; that’s my job.”

  “Okay, so the two of you can stay here. You don’t need two people for an assessment, right?”

  Pete shook his head. “What he’s saying is he needs someone to babysit you.”

  O’Connor frowned and said nothing.

  “Let me guess: Eve, right?” I asked.

  He sighed. “We know you two are close. We need… objectivity.”

  “Eve and I are not close in the way you’re thinking. And she doesn’t like Pete.”

  “Hey!” Pete protested.

  “C’mon. She’s closer to me than to you, and we know it. If you’re around, she might clam up. She’ll be more willing to talk to me. Alone. Besides, there’s one more thing we need to consider.”

  “What?” O’Connor said.

  “Pantopia’s gonna start hunting for everyone associated with Hexenhammer. We might need a hot extract. If they lock down the airports and borders, it’s going to be tough. But with Kalypso, we can make a pickup in the field. Kalypso doesn’t need a ground crew or airstrip to land, just open ground.”

  Pete nodded. “I can help the crew with logistics, equipment, that sort of thing. And if there’s mission creep—if you need more men and materiel—I can liaise with everyone involved.”

  O’Connor sighed. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But understand this: if you go solo, Luke, our bosses are going to view the intelligence as tainted. They’re not likely to believe you.”

  “Even if Pete comes with me, they’re going to think it’s tainted anyway,” I said. “At least this way, he can do something useful instead of sitting around and twiddling his thumbs.”

  “I’m always doing something useful,” Pete said.

  O’Connor shrugged. “Fine. We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s go.”

  5. Our People

  In the Program, cover identities are manufactured with an eye toward long-term use. In an age of routine biometric collection, perpetual data storage and under-the-table information dealing, once you use a passport, there’s no way to tell who else knows about your identity. If I screwed this job up, building a new cover would be a hassle and a half.

  Once again, I was Jens Anderson, angel investor from Copenhagen. He was an idealistic businessman who enjoyed investing in new and emerging startups that served social causes. Even after a terrorist attack in Hellas, he was adamant on meeting a new client. It was his shot at breaking into the Hellenic market, and he was not going to pass up that chance.

  I caught an overnight flight from Columbus and tried to contact Hakem Dunya again, but all I got for my troubles was a dream I couldn’t remember. Just impressions of sharp knives, gnashing fangs and red eyes. When I arrived at Thessaloniki Airport, jet lag left my head swimming. Coffee didn’t help much.

  Agency-provided contact lenses and fingerprint pads fooled the biometric machines at Customs. In Hellas, DNA collection was limited only to visitors from “high-risk countries”; as a Dane flying in from Hesperia, I didn’t fit the profile.

  On the train to Amarantopolis I studied maps, tourist guides and Hexenhammer profiles on my holobuds. It was mid-afternoon by the time the train pulled into the Unfading City.

  Eight hundred years ago Amarantopolis was the capital of the world. The Amarantine Empire had outlasted even the Romans, succumbing only when the Turks finally breached the gates of Amarantopolis.
Four centuries later, the Hellenes won their war of independence, pushed the Turks across the Bosphorus and restored their ancient capital.

  The weight of that history echoed in every street. Westerners chattered in Hellenic and Anglian while dark-skinned Asians and Turks silently swept the roads and gathered the trash. Nestled between soulless skyscrapers and concrete buildings, gleaming Eastern domes rose above dull Western brick. Down the major roads, holographic advertisements shouted Hellenic from every corner and bus stop while the ancient stone around them remained silent.

  There was something… different about the city. The air was sharper, the sounds clearer, the colors brighter. Everybody seemed to walk with vigor and purpose. A kind of subtle current flowed through my body, carrying away fatigue and recharging my bones.

  Amarantopolis was home to the Great Paling, a legendary Phosterian treasure. Housed in the Hagia Aletheia, it had allegedly defended the city from daimons since the days of the Amarantine Empire. It was the reason no Void powers could be used in the city—and the reason Hellas took a hard-line stance against covenanters.

  I ducked into an alleyway and tried to roll down my charagma. Nothing happened. I could still feel it coiled up in its pocket dimension, but it would not respond to my orders.

  I couldn’t count on the Void here. I needed more mundane means of defense.

  I found a local equivalent of a dollar store and browsed its selection of aethertools. The most cost-effective one on offer was a plastic out-the-front design with a working mass of ten percent enriched aetherium. It didn’t have a pocket clip, but neither did any of the other aethertools available.

  Inconvenient, but you worked with what you had. I paid for it in cash, stuck it into my pants pocket and moved on.

  As Anderson, I caught a taxi to my hotel and checked in. Safely inside my room, I fished out my wallet. Nestled within the card holders was a slab of metal the dimensions of a credit card and about thrice as thick. It was a radio frequency detector, courtesy of the Agency’s Directorate of Science & Technology. When switched on, the device would vibrate in the presence of an active bug or wireless camera. I swept the room, checking every nook and cranny. The room was clean, so I called Eve.

  “Just arrived in Amarantopolis,” I said.

  “Great,” she replied. “Me, too.”

  “Let’s meet at your hotel, and we can talk over dinner.”

  “I’m staying in a backpackers’ hostel. It’s just a place to sleep. There’s no food inside, not even vending machines. How about your place?”

  “Fine then. I’m at the Four Seasons Hotel.”

  “Fancy.”

  “Thanks. I’ll meet you at the entrance. Say, nineteen thirty?”

  “Sure. How will I recognize you?”

  “I’ll be wearing a floral headscarf with a beige dress.”

  “Got it.”

  With an hour to kill, I tested my aethertool. This one could only be used by psions; there were no manual controls for mundanes to operate. It was dead simple: the aetherium was programmed to flash into specific tools when the operator visualized a number it was tied to. I imaged a bright bold 1, and a screwdriver snapped out of the opening. 2 yielded a can opener.

  On 3, the aetherium turned into a knife. It was a poor excuse for a blade, a thin, fragile-looking piece of metal about two and three-quarters inches long that terminated in a spear point. But when I tested it on the newspaper the hotel had so thoughtfully provided, it cut and punched through the paper just fine.

  It wasn’t ideal, but I didn’t have the time to mod it the way I wanted to, and it was good enough for me.

  I spent a half hour getting used to the tool, running through knife drills and transitions and mixing them up with calisthenics. When I was done, I hit the shower and headed downstairs.

  In the lobby I settled into an easy chair, discreetly positioned myself to watch the entrance and fired up my holobuds. Set on privacy mode at twenty-five percent opacity, the device projected a blank yellow screen across my eyes, preventing people from seeing what I was doing: observing them through the buds’ cameras.

  Eve was uncharacteristically late. At 1930 there was still no sign of her. Tourists passed through the door. Businessmen and women in formal wear came and went. No sign of a single white female, much less Eve.

  Ten minutes later, a woman entered. She wore a bright headscarf emblazoned with stylized flowers and a flowing beige dress that covered her arms and knees. Beneath the dress she wore black tights and matched them with low-heeled shoes. She had a long, sharp nose but submerged cheeks, and her clear skin was a pale olive shade. As she passed through the door, she scanned from left to right, right to left, her body going still.

  Her eyes locked on my face, and she approached.

  I maintained my composure and swept my eyes in both directions, scanning other people, scanning for tells. My right hand was still comfortably near my aethertool. As she approached, I scanned her again. The way she swung her arms, the sway of her hips, the length of her stride, was hauntingly familiar.

  She stopped in front of me.

  “Hey, Luke.”

  She hadn’t changed her voice.

  “Eve,” I said. “Almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s not a compliment. You’re not working solo anymore. I need to know what you look like. Beyond your clothing, that is.”

  My RF detector remained silent. At least she wasn’t bugged.

  Sighing, she sat across from me and crossed her legs. “I thought it was obvious I had to change my appearance. Times like this the last thing you want is to look like a Westerner.”

  I shook my head. “If you change your face again, I need to be able to recognize you. The last thing we need is a case of mistaken identity. And friendly fire.”

  She pursed her lips. “Fine. I’ll let you know next time. All right?”

  “All right. What’s your cover for action?”

  “I’m a traveler from Anglia. I heard about the terrorist attack in Hellas, so I came here to check up on my relatives and see how I can help out.”

  She spoke Anglian in a clean, crisp London accent. Much better than mine, come to think of it.

  “And who are your relatives?” I asked.

  “The man we’re here to visit. He’s my uncle on my mother’s side.”

  “Good enough. Let’s go.”

  As we headed upstairs, she asked, “Where’s Pete?”

  “He’s busy with other projects.”

  “You’re here alone?”

  “Yes.”

  A complex expression passed across her face. It started as a simper, graduated into a smile and then flatlined into a studiously neutral face.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Once inside my room, we ordered room service. She stayed in character, choosing grilled lamb keftes with a side of turkey pastrami and another of hummus. Infidel that I was, I chose slow-baked lamb with a glass of Pinot Noir.

  We made small talk until the food arrived, each probing the other’s state of mind. She seemed outwardly calm, but her posture was too tense, too still. For my part, I remembered to breathe deeply and regularly, keeping my lungs oxygenated and my face flat.

  After room service arrived, we placed our dishes at the coffee table and sat on soft pleather sofas facing each other.

  Gazing into my eyes, she said, “Luke, I want you to know that Hexenhammer is not responsible for the attack in Chios. None of us authorized it. None of us would have.”

  Her eyes were now the color of dark chocolate, her pupils dilated. Likely due to the room’s dim yellow light.

  “I know you wouldn’t have,” I said. “But the fact remains that someone committed the attack using your group’s name. A name that only insiders know. And you have an idea who did it.”

  She shifted her weight ever so slightly. “I won’t say I know who did it. Rather, there are a few suspects I want to elimina
te before I can definitively pronounce our innocence.”

  “That’s a far cry from what you told me over the phone.”

  “The situation within Hexenhammer is… complex. I didn’t have time to tell you over the phone.”

  “We have time now.”

  She chewed a morsel thoughtfully, taking a few moments before she spoke.

  “We are in the midst of a reorganization. Previously, we didn’t confine ourselves to geographical boundaries: we traveled across Pantopia and operated as we saw fit.

  “It was necessary at the beginning; there were only a handful of us at first. But now, our numbers have grown so large that we could organize ourselves into independent national-level cells. Such a configuration would enable increased operational security and shorter operational processes and give our more geographically limited members room and opportunity to act.

  “However, during this expansion we had to recruit several… you would call them ultranationalists. These are second- or third-generation members, who may not necessarily be in full agreement with our founding ideals.”

  “In other words, you don’t trust the ultras to not act independently.”

  “Few of them hold both extreme views and positions of authority. I intend to audit their records and interview them and see if they might have organized the attack. I’m not saying that they did or didn’t do anything. Not without proof.”

  “They’re just going to open their books to you?”

  “As a founder of the group, I have every right to demand that they do. These suspects are leaders of local cells or facilitators with access to the resources necessary to execute a strike.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” I said. “They might have cooked the books to preempt an audit.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Have you heard of blockchains before?”

  I nodded. A blockchain is a distributed database used to maintain an ever-growing list of records, called blocks. Each block builds upon the previous block and requires the approval of most of the nodes in the network. Cooking the books requires a consensus from most of the nodes to reapprove not just the current database but its entire history from the first change until the present. Unless most of Hexenhammer were in on the conspiracy, record fraud was impossible.