AEGIS Tales 2, page 13
part #8 of Airship Daedalus Series
Graves had just turned onto West Kinzie when he glanced in his rearview mirror, the same black LaSalle sedan that he'd seen for the last four blocks was still behind him. This wasn't completely unusual in Chicago traffic but he'd developed a healthy case of paranoia over the years. He made a few random turns and backtracked two blocks. It was still there. He had often wondered how long it would be before Bianchi got tired of hiding under a rock to seek some payback for their last interaction. He sped up and the following sedan did as well, making their intentions a certainty in his mind.
The first bullet struck the window Edna had cracked, completely blowing it out. Graves didn't wait to find out where the next one would hit as he viciously twisted the steering wheel, the Ford fishtailing with a shriek of tortured rubber onto a side street. He needed to find someplace where he could exit the car. There was no way he could shoot and still maintain control of over 2900 pounds of hurtling steel.
That mass, however, served him well as he burst through a wooden fence and a row of trash cans, into a tenement block. A dog and some kids playing stickball scattered as the sound of splintering wood behind him told him the pursuit vehicle hadn’t given up. Graves cursed as the far-too-close pow pow of gunfire reached his ears. He was on residential streets and it was obvious his pursuers didn’t care about stray bullets. He needed to get out of there.
The suspension of his car screamed in protest as he hit the trolley tracks far too fast, went airborne and came back down with a slam on the other side, barely maintaining control. He heard a metallic plunk as a bullet hit somewhere. Better metal than me, he thought.
The Gunshade tore through crowded streets, frantically weaving the Ford to avoid other cars and pedestrians. This was too much. He needed to get off the road again and find a less populous area for their inevitable confrontation. He jumped the curb and obliterated another section of fence, launching into an abandoned lot.
It was one indignity too much for the Ford. A geyser of steam erupted from the punctured radiator, and his speed slowed. Graves swore under his breath. He'd hoped to find someplace with cover but that wasn't going to happen. The dead DeLuxe was going to have to suffice. He turned the wheel again, skewing the vehicle lengthwise to give him as much cover as possible and yanking the hand brake to stop.
He rolled from the vehicle and his lone Colt Army revolver cleared leather as he heard car doors slam on the other side of the demolished fence. The Gunshade took stock of his situation. He had cover but they had numbers. On the other hand, he had a clear field of fire.
With a staccato hammering sound the first man stepped through the gaping hole, spraying bullets from a submachine gun in his direction. But they have more bullets, he mentally amended as another man stepped through, similarly armed. Douglas Graves found himself missing the simpler days of pistols and rifles, ones where not every two-bit thug had a machine gun.
It only took a glance for him to realize that these were not Bianchi's goons. They had on military-style uniforms but nothing like he'd ever seen before. He snapped off a snot to keep them honest as two more men entered the fray, followed by another man wearing the flowing vestments of an occultist. It wasn't until he saw the iconic four-pointed star emblazoned on the robed man that he realized this was the Astrum Argentum, the Silver Star, the group his AEGIS contacts had told him about—and that he was to immediately report if he encountered any evidence of their activity.
Well, too dang late for that now. He'd be sure to let them know if he was still breathing after this.
Lead hammered against his metal shield, preventing him from doing much return fire. The Gunshade set his jaw and prepared to return fire when the two machine-gunners stopped to reload. He saw an opening and fired a shot that hit one of the second group of men. He watched almost in disbelief as the man vaporized, leaving only a crumpled uniform on the ground. This distraction cost him noticing the robed man making strange hand gestures and incantations.
Graves had only a moment's notice of the scent of rotting flesh before he felt something grab him from behind. He instinctively slammed his elbow into whatever it was, thus loosening its hold. In this bought moment he whirled to face the abomination that'd been surely summoned by the man the robes.
The Gunshade hated necromancers even more than machine guns. The bloated corpse lurched forward, remnants of its burial clothes shredded and reeking of death. Graves pressed the barrel of his revolver between the undead thing’s hollow eyes and fired, killing it...again.
Ultimately, his tussle with the ghoul cost him his awareness of the Silver Star troops, several of whom tackled him in a rush. He struggled valiantly as until one of them got lucky with the butt of their rifle to his head, and everything went black.
✽✽✽
Edna Haskell came slowly back to reality, staring at the ceiling until she could get her bearings and remember where she was. She must have moved because a nearby voice said, "you're safe. Don't worry.” Edna opened her eyes to see a young Asian man in a uniform that looked vaguely military but nothing she could place. She did take notice of the winged sword patch on his jacket.
"My name is Kim, Miss Haskell. I'm with...well, a group who helps The Gunshade here and there when our goals align. Sorry about Graves knocking you out but he didn't want to put you in danger and figured that you'd be safer here than out in the streets.”
Edna swung her legs and sat up on the side of the cot with a sardonic grimace. “Mister, I have a long history of men thinking they know what’s best for me.” She spied her purse on a chair and reached for it. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked. "And is Kim a first or last name?”
"No and yes,” her guard said with an enigmatic smile.
The reporter sighed. He was going to be one of those enigmas—nothing he said would give anything away that she shouldn't know. Her hand dipped into her purse and, instead of finding her cigarette case, her touch was one of cold metal. Unthinking, she drew out the Colt pistol, realizing that The Gunshade had never taken it back after handing it to her outside the drug store.
Kim's suddenly very serious voice drew her attention back from the gun. "Miss Haskell, put the gun down—now,” he commanded, his hand resting on a holster at his hip that she hadn't noticed earlier.
Edna started. "Hold on! The Gunshade gave it to me and I forgot it was in my purse.” She dropped the pistol onto the cot beside her, breathing a sigh of relief as Kim removed his hand from his own holster.
Her solace at avoiding being shot was short lived as the gun on the cot began to violently move of its own accord.
✽✽✽
Unlike Edna's relatively easy return to consciousness, The Gunshade had no such luxury. He awoke to find himself spread-eagle on a thick wooden platform with his wrists and ankles bound. Darting his eyes to either side, he could see more Silver Star soldiers moving strange looking pieces of some sort of machinery closer to him. That couldn’t be good.
He must have made enough movement to draw attention because a moment later the robed man was at his side, looking at him like he was some prized zoo animal.
“You have no idea what an honor this is,” the hooded figure said, although his voice hinted otherwise. “It isn’t often that one gets to meet a man that straddles life and death…and you have so, so much death attached to you. You reek of it.”
The man fished a spent bullet cartridge out of his robes and mockingly held it in front of The Gunshade's face. "You didn't even make it hard for us to find you, you left your calling card all over the place. With the right amount of blood magic I can attune myself to your own unique signature. I'm frankly disappointed that, given how you make these, you hadn't even considered someone using sympathetic magic against you. So short-sighted, but I shouldn't be surprised at someone with such power squandering it on street ruffians.”
Graves looked at the cultist with a disinterested air. “Everyone has their hobbies. Now that you've got me, are you going to keep on questioning my life choices or are we going to get down to brass tacks here?”
“Yes, lets,” the man agreed. “After all, there is a certain amount of pride in efficiency. You see, we need souls for our master. World domination isn't easy or cheap. After a recent...setback...on an island that you needn't know about, it became painfully obvious that harvesting bodies was, again, inefficient. Mass murder tends to attract unwanted attention, but why should we have to result to such crude efforts?”
"And what makes you think killing me is going to help?”
"Oh, you misunderstand. We don't want you dead. We want you mostly dead, Mister Graves. Or do you prefer ‘The Gunshade’? A fine moniker for striking fear into the hearts of common criminals, although slightly pretentious otherwise. We've heard about your rumored ability to cross over into the realm of the dead. We want that door opened wide and held open.”
"You're crazy,” The Gunshade exclaimed. "You'd unleash the spirits of the dead here?”
"I assure you I am not, and those vengeful specters will not be running amok.” The man gestured at the bulky mechanisms around them. "They're going to come through, likely howling for your untimely demise, and we're going to capture them like dirt in a vacuum machine. Can you imagine the untapped power of legions of the damned?
"I won't let you.”
Ivan Semenov raised an eyebrow. "You seem to believe that you have a choice in the matter. Now, ordinarily I'd use a knife, but, in your case, we don't want you doing something as careless as bleeding out on us.” The man rolled up the sleeves of his robes revealing a pair of heavy brass knuckles on his fist. "In this case, the added suffering will be a bonus. Shall we begin?”
Graves was no stranger to getting hit, having the memories of three generations of gunfighter housed in his soul. As much as he preferred a gun fight, sometimes things got up close and personal and good old-fashioned fisticuffs were the order of the day. However, at least in a back alley brawl, he could dish it out, but, here, he was the proverbial punching bag and Ivan took particular relish in working him over.
As much as it played into the necromancer's hand, Graves knew he needed to stay conscious—if Ivan would even let him pass out. His options were few. He couldn't move his arms or legs, calling out for help was a waste of breath, and his pistols had been stripped from their holsters and lay on a folding table too far away to reach...Wait. There was only one revolver on the table. Had they taken only one of his guns? And to what purpose? No. He knew that wasn't right. Why would they only take one?
Then he remembered.
Edna. He'd forgotten to take his other gun back from her but he couldn't see how that'd help him in any way.
So Graves did the only think he could do—try to block out the pain and think.
Time was of the essence. The Gunshade knew he was tough, but there were limits. No matter how strong his will was, the body would react to the punishment sooner or later. Which, in this case, meant involuntarily going incorporeal. That's what his torturer wanted after all. He needed to make sure that didn't happen.
The thought hit him suddenly. It was incredibly risky, but no more than the dire situation he was in. His captor's comment about sympathetic magic had got his brain working on an idea. If they could find him that way, he might be able to interact with his soul cylinder in the pistol Edna had. After all, who was more in touch with himself than himself?
Graves closed his eyes, ignoring the beating as it slowly continued, stretching his consciousness out into what his mentor, Ghost Singer, called the Great Hunting Grounds. For a place so vast, his astral body shown like a beacon among the drab environs of the spirit realm as he called for it to attend him.
✽✽✽
Edna lunged as the pistol gave a small bounce on the taut canvas of the cot and threatened to drop to the floor. The moment her hand closed over the cold steel she could feel him, almost as if they were staring at each other across a busy restaurant. Only in this bizarre situation she could faintly sense his distress and his one overwhelming desire. Edna adjusted his grip and her finger effortlessly curled around the trigger, slowly placing the barrel of the gun against the side of her head. She heard Kim's shout for her to stop as if he were miles away but she knew what needed to be done.
✽✽✽
Douglas Graves could feel his body disengage from the material realm. By all appearances, it was the usual “become incorporeal to scare the gangsters and avoid physical violence” move. The very thing Ivan desired.
He only used the ability in times of dire need, as a way to “shift” out of phase with the material world, unharmed by physical violence. Yet every time he used it, he paid a spiritual price.
This time, his most noteworthy stunt had a purpose other than to prevent him from being shot. He felt a sense of completeness as he made contact with the other shard of his soul, something both familiar and alien to him but there was more, another soul in contact with his second one.
He pushed a bit more. He got the feeling that is was vaguely feminine and he stretched his power out to probe more. Gentle resistance met him, but he persevered and suddenly he was in control of an unfamiliar body.
The Gunshade looked down at hands holding his gun and he raised the barrel to who he assumed was Edna’s head. She was going to hate him for this. He needed her in control, rather than him being a puppeteer, but at the same time, he needed to bring his soul fragment closer into contact with her.
Edna, he thought. I need you to help me. I am held captive. I can get you to me but I need you to trust me.
Her agreement wasn’t verbal but he could feel it. He turned and faced Edna’s guard who was looking very distraught at his charge holding a gun to her head.
“Stanley Randolph Kim,” Graves spoke but Edna’s voice called out. “This is The Gunshade. I am in control of Miss Haskell’s body. I am being held by the Silver Star and need to be rescued. I need you to come with me.”
Kim took longer than Graves would have liked but eventually agreed. Edna took his hand and The Gunshade stretched out his already depleted soul power to encompass the two bodies before opening a second passage into the realm of the dead and guiding them through.
✽✽✽
Ivan Semenov looked up from his captive to see the air across from him begin to undulate and shimmer with a pale light. A pleased smile briefly graced his countenance. “Activate the—”
Before he could complete his command, a man and a woman stepped through the portal and began shooting. They had surprise on their side and two of his men dissipated before they knew what had struck them. But he had more men, men who had been through the fires of battle and were willing to die for their master.
Kim dived for cover behind some shipping crates, but Edna did not. The Gunshade was in the driver’s seat and had her fear and uncertainly firmly locked away. Lifetimes of experience and deadly accuracy flowed into her as the headstrong reporter became an instrument of death.
The clatter of return fire appeared as the Silver Star guardsmen rallied a counterattack. MP-18s spat nine-millimeter destruction, but Kim was behind heavy cover and Edna was a whirling dervish of vengeance, her body twisting and twirling as if it instinctively knew where not to be. All the while, her M1917 barked when it was certain that it had a man dead to rights, it was rarely wrong.
Edna snatched the second pistol from the folding table as she whirled by his shimmering, transparent body. The soul bullet in Edna’s gun was the only thing allowing him to stay in the fight so he needed to give her another weapon. It wasn’t like he could use it strapped down anyway.
Between Kim and Edna, Silver Star soldiers were mowed down like tall grass in a deadly unrelenting wind.
The necromancer rose up from where he’d been crouched and began to shout strange, alien words. Kim fired and the man dropped, screaming and clutching at his ruined hand. Silver Star men moved to protect the fallen mage, heedless of the fatal price in doing so. Despite the absolute chaos they danced through, The Gunshade and Edna became vaguely aware of the lessening of resistance and spared a glance at the heaps of empty clothing that littered the battlefield. Even in death they fed the insatiable lust for power of the master, The Great Beast. It was as tragic as it was senseless.
It was over in a scant few moments more. Of the necromancer, they found no trace. Kim assured them that he did not suffer the same fate as his soldiers, skilled mages to the Silver Star were too valuable to just be sacrificed. He’d be punished for his failure but they’d see him again.
The Gunshade pulled his influence out of Edna, back into his soul bullet, and then back into his own still-restrained body. He watched her standing still, blinking, trying to make sense out of what had happened. Her dress and mohair jacket sported numerous bullet holes and he had no doubt he’d never hear the end of that. Kim made his way over to undo the manacles binding him.
“Uh-uh! You hold it right there, mister!” Edna said, daring him to free Graves.
Kim and The Gunshade looked at her in disbelief as she fished a battered notepad and pencil out of her ruined coat.
“Nobody is trying to burn you alive or otherwise kill you by…whatever this was,” she said. “So you’ve got time to answer a few questions for our readers…and, for once, you’re at my mercy.”
Douglas Graves strained at the cuffs and shot Kim a desperate look. “Dear God, Stanley, kill me now.”
A Valkyrie in the Desert
by Colin Fisk
The perpetual, thick haze of smoke clustered over the few tables placed close together inside of Harold’s club was no bother to me as I quickly made my way through the long, narrow building toward the back.
I gave a short nod to the owner, Harold Smith, who was dealing cards to the only patrons of the club at the moment. Two middle aged gentleman dressed in sweat-stained, wrinkled suits were seated at his table playing twenty-one.
“Good evening, Alyssa,” Harold stated as he returned my gesture with a congenial smile.
As he should have. He was well aware that his club’s license had been expedited by a local AEGIS representative explicitly on the condition that he keep his ear to the ground and report anything of note to our organization.
