Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

The more we progress the more we tend to progress. We advance not in arithmetical but in geometrical progression. We draw compound interest on the whole capital of knowledge and virtue which has been accumulated since the dawning of time. Some eighty thousand years are supposed to have existed between Paleolithic and Neolithic man. Yet in all that time he only learned to grind his flint stones instead of chipping them. But within our father’s lives what changes have there not been? The railway and the telegraph, chloroform and applied electricity. All before the invention of magic. In the span of my own life what has man not accomplished? Telekinesis, teleportation, pyrokinesis, biological manipulation, communication with spirits. Ten years now go further than a thousand then, not so much on account of our finer intellects as because the light we have shows us the way to more. Primeval man stumbled along with peering eyes, and slow, uncertain footsteps. Now we walk briskly towards our unknown goal.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,

The History of Wizards, 1926

New York City, New York

There was a knock on the apartment door.

Sullivan was already awake and waiting by the time the visitor made his presence known. He’d been a light sleeper his whole life, a trait that had only been reinforced during the war. The deep sleepers hadn’t lived through the nighttime poison gas barrages.

The echo of a man’s footsteps in the hall had been enough to rouse him, and the fact that those footsteps had stopped at his door had been enough to clear his head and put the big Browning .45 automatic in his hand. There was a bit of yellow city light around under the curtains, just enough for him to make out the hands on his watch. Nearly midnight.

Odd time for a caller, but if it had been the Imperium, they probably wouldn’t have knocked.

The apartment was tiny, in a non-descript old building half-a-mile’s walk from the library. He lived there under a false name. He associated with no one, had no friends, didn’t even hit the bar downstairs. Nobody, not even the Society, knew where he was. He checked the black and gold ring on his finger, but its spells weren’t warning him of anything. Flexing his Power, he let his senses adjust to the world of pulls, mass, and density to get a sense of the surroundings. There was only one man in the hall.

The knock came again. A muffled voice called out. “Sullivan? You in there?”

He always left his clothes where he could find them in the dark. You never knew when you’d have to leave someplace in a hurry. “Who is it?”

“Sam Cowley. Can I come in?”

Cowley was from the Bureau of Investigation, one of Hoover’s men. Unexpected. Technically, he had violated the terms of his parole by bailing out last year, but Pershing had set things in motion to clear Sullivan of his obligations and Francis’ lawyers had made sure that everything had been signed, nice and legal. For all he knew, he should have been in the clear.

Besides, if the G-Men had come to haul him in again, they would’ve known better than to send a lone agent. It would have been a crack team and a whole lot of guns. Sullivan had cultivated a bit of reputation over the years. Throwing his shirt on, he kept the .45 behind his back and opened the door a crack.

He kept his voice flat. “What’re you doing here, Sam?”

“Looking for you, obviously.” Cowley stood there politely, hat in hand, obviously waiting for an invitation inside.

Sullivan stuck his head into the hall and looked around suspiciously. “How’d you find me?”

“Modern law enforcement has all sorts of scientific resources . . .” As in, none of your business. “We need to talk.”

Agent Cowley was a soft looking, plain spoken, but hard working cop. They had worked together on several cases and Cowley was about as scrupulous as a government employee could possibly be, but Sullivan had been burned by the BI before. The list of people he trusted was a very short one, and he wasn’t about to start putting any of J. Edgar’s men on it anytime soon. “Time’s served. Hoover’s jobs are done. I’m square with the BI.”

“The director didn’t send me. Can I come in or not?”

Sullivan stepped out of the way. “Not much to look at, but have a seat.” He gestured at one of the two ratty chairs beside the round table in the kitchen. There really wasn’t much to the apartment other than the kitchen and a closet with a bed squeezed into it, but at least the rats were small, so he’d lived in worse. With Society money, he could certainly afford something nicer now, but nicer wasn’t low profile.

They shook hands. Sullivan was careful not to squeeze too hard. Cowley was a paper pusher, and Sullivan had a grip that could make boilermakers flinch. The crumbling old building had been wired for power, but it seldom worked right, so Sullivan lit an oil lamp on the table. As expected from a criminal investigator, Cowley immediately took note of the several mirrors hung on the walls and the items on the table: a notebook, a package of marking pens, a blood stained towel with several scalpels and picks arranged on it, and some corked vials filled with a black liquid. “Whatever have you been up to?”

Casting spells, something that nearly everyone thought was impossible. After he’d figured out how to carve a healing spell into his own chest last year, he’d had a few of his fellow knights volunteer for the same treatment. Since he’d managed not to kill Lance or Heinrich, he’d started experimenting with some of the other designs that he remembered from his viewing of the Power. Since this was uncharted territory, he had stuck to drawing them on himself. It was terribly painful, but since he hadn’t died, he called that real progress. It was terrifying work, but the next time he went up against a magically augmented Iron Guard, he’d be ready.

“Nothing important.” Sullivan swept the containers of demon smoke off to the side, covered them with the towel, and sat his pistol on top.

Cowley pulled out a chair and sat down. He didn’t bother removing his overcoat. Apparently he wasn’t planning on staying long. “Well, Jake. Good to see you again. Been awhile.”

“Since Chicago . . .” It had been after his initial encounter with the Grimnoir. Cowley and the other BI Agents had been easily defeated by Dan Garrett’s team, but Sullivan had tried to chase them down on his own. He’d managed to fight his way through most of them, thereby impressing Black Jack Pershing, and the rest was history. “When your boss chewed my ass for getting tossed off a blimp.”

The G-Man sighed. “You know, Mr. Hoover’s not a bad man. He just has a very stressful job. We put a lot of bad characters away.”

“He told me I was a slave.” It was still a sore spot. Cowley had no response to that. “How do you think he’d react if he knew that you could do even a little bit of magic?”

“Got me there . . .” Cowley said slowly. He was a passive Torch, with just the barest glimmer of ability to create and control fire. Hoover’s distrust of magic and dislike of its users was well known. It was a growing and popular sentiment in positions of authority, especially since the destruction of Mar Pacifica. “Times are changing. Probably going to get even tougher on magicals too, I imagine, after what happened today.”

Sullivan hadn’t been close to a radio all day, hadn’t seen the paper, and his only human contact had been beating the hell out of a gang of hoodlums, so he had no idea what Cowley was talking about. “What happened today?”

“You don’t know? An Active tried to assassinate President-Elect Roosevelt.”

This was not what his people needed. “How bad?”

“I don’t have any details yet. My superiors did send out a cable that he’s alive. I hear it was bad. Big crowd of admirers there when it happened. The police in Florida are still collecting body parts, so they don’t even know how many people died yet. It’s a real mess down there.”

“They sure it was magic?”

“Don’t know what kind, but he was making the air explode with his bare hands.”

“Hmmm . . .” That sounded like the descriptions of a Boomer, though he’d never actually met one. “Imperium, anarchist, communist, or nut on his own?”

“Nobody knows yet.”

“This is a nightmare.” Sullivan rubbed his face. “Absolute nightmare.”

“Poor Roosevelt,” Cowley agreed.

“Poor Roosevelt, hell. Poor us. I saw a mob try to lynch a little kid once because they thought his magic was scary. What’s gonna happen when they’ve got a reason to be scared?”

Mar Pacifica had been his brother’s doing. His big brother had been a genius, an evil genius, but a genius nonetheless. The Imperium had drawn first blood, weakened its enemy, and gotten away with it. That same attack had cost Delilah her life. Matty, I hope you’re slow roasting in hell.

“Whole place is going to blow up now. Good thing it’s too cold to riot tonight,” Sullivan muttered.

“Not down south it’s not. I’ve heard some awful things have happened already. Business burned, random Actives gunned down . . .”

He’d have to get in contact with the Society quickly. They would be doing damage control, and hopefully, if the assassin belonged to some group, making the rest of them go away permanently. This kind of thing was exactly why the Grimnoir existed, protecting Actives from Normals, and vice versa. He’d gotten rather good at communication spells, and that was much cheaper than a telephone call, but first things first. He needed to get rid of Cowley. “So why the visit?”

“Listen, Jake, this isn’t Bureau business. I’m on loan to another agency tonight. Things are a little chaotic right now. I can’t talk about it. You need to come with me right now.”

“Where?”

“New Jersey.”

“Why?”

“A matter of national security.”

As a straight-forward man, he had no patience for evasion. “No.”

“Look, I can’t tell you until we get there. It’s top secret.”

“I’m going back to bed.” Sullivan stood up.

“Well . . .” Cowley relented. “Fine. I don’t know what’s going on, exactly. I said I would ask you because I reasoned that you seemed to like me more than anyone else that works for the government.”

“That’s not saying much, Sam.”

“This place is surrounded.”

Sullivan went to the window and pulled back the curtains. Sure enough, there were police cars parked along the street. NYPD uniforms and plain-clothes overcoats both, five stories below the men were huddling for warmth beneath the lamps. It was a modest show of force, but he wasn’t impressed. Sullivan had fought through everything the German army could throw at him and the Chairman’s personal Iron Guards. The hardest thing about getting through the bull’s perimeter would be not accidentally hurting any of them. “Why all the law?”

“There are some new rumors about you . . . Things that made my . . . colleagues nervous. In particular something about you fighting the entire Japanese Navy by yourself.”

How did the BI know about that? None of the Grimnoir would have talked, because that was one bunch that could keep a secret, but it could have come from one of Southunder’s men or the UBF volunteers from the Tempest. “That’s just crazy talk . . . It was one ship with a skeleton crew and there were about fifty of us.” It had still been ten to one odds, but there was no need to exaggerate.

“Who is us?”

Cowley, being a man of integrity, would probably make an excellent Grimnoir knight. However, that wasn’t Sullivan’s place to decide. Though, he would suggest the possibility to John Browning the next time they spoke. “Just some friends of mine.”

“I just know what I’m told. Orders are clear. You are to be driven to a certain location in New Jersey as soon as possible. You’re not under arrest. This is not to send you back to Rockville or anything like that. You have my word. This is a request from your government, but you absolutely have to be in New Jersey by morning.”

“And if I refuse, those cops down there pump my guts full of lead?”

“No. You have to be alive. That’s orders. I volunteered to come up and talk, because I told them you can be hard headed, but you’re basically a decent sort. However, even if we have to shoot you down with tranquilizer darts and throw a net on you like some sort of wild jungle cat, you’re going to Jersey.”

Sullivan let the curtain fall. “Well, hell, Sam. Now you’ve got me all curious. And they do say that curiosity killed the wild jungle cat. Let me get my coat.”

There was one of the new Ford V10 Hyperions waiting. The engine was running and the exhaust formed a cloud in the chilly winter air. Cowley opened the passenger door and gestured for Sullivan to climb in. “Nice ride.”

“That’s why we’re taking mine. Government cars are garbage scows in comparison,” said the driver.

He looked over to see who it was. “Well, that figures.”

“Evening, Mr. Important,” the woman from the library said.

“You left off the Nobody.”

This time she was wearing a cold-weather dress, and her hair was light-brown rather than bright red and tied back neat and plain. “Let’s take a ride.”

“A wig . . . Too bad. I fancy red heads.”

Cowley got into the backseat and closed the door behind him. The Hyperion featured a state of the art interior heater, and that made the night slightly more bearable. The girl put it into gear and took off entirely too fast. One police car got in front and turned on its siren while another pulled in behind and did the same. Wherever they were going, they were planning on getting there quick.

“How long you been following me?” Sullivan asked her.

“Found you yesterday. Watched you all day today,” she answered, all business, eyes on the road. The socialite accent was gone, replaced with one that sounded vaguely East Texas, and he had no idea if it was real either. “It was easy to do, what with your nose in a book the whole time. You know normally men tend to notice me sooner when I’m all dolled up like that. It makes tailing men challenging.”

“I can imagine. Sorry, been preoccupied. Ms?”

“Hammer.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance, again. Ms. Hammer.” Which probably wasn’t her real name either. There weren’t any females that worked at the BI other than clerical staff, and judging by the way she had played him like a sucker earlier, she was no stenotyper. “I didn’t know Hoover had started hiring lady agents.”

“He doesn’t,” Cowley chimed in. “Ms. Hammer’s a—”

“Freelance consultant,” she said. “I don’t work for the government. I take care of odd jobs. I’m assuming you’re not offended by a woman in the work force.”

“Can’t say I’ve given it much thought. The mugging?”

“Oh, nothing I couldn’t handle, but I provoked those boys on purpose. Boys like that are rabbit dogs. They see something run, they’re going to chase it. Can’t help themselves, poor things. It’s in their nature. So don’t get feeling blue for hurting them. Only way a rabbit dog learns not to chase something is to beat the chase right out of it. You did them a favor. Maybe next time they smell fear, they’ll think twice.”

Got played again. “Did you get a good show?”

“I was fairly certain it was you from the descriptions, but I needed to make sure. My clients pay me to be thorough. I learned all about your history, Sullivan. Up until you dropped off the face of the Earth last year.”

She knew quite a bit about him, he knew nothing about her, except for an impression that she was crafty, and therefore dangerous. “Why are you here?”

“I’m protecting my current employer’s interest. You knew some mobsters . . . Well, the mob’s got nothing on big companies when it comes to protecting what’s theirs, and we can play pretty dirty too.”

“The Bureau calls it industrial espionage,” Cowley said.

“I would never participate in anything illegal like that, Agent Cowley,” she said. Hammer was a superb liar. “Your name came up at my client’s and it became very important to find you. That’s why they called me. I tracked you down. My client had already asked a favor from the BI so they were looking too. My client suggested I work with them in order to expedite matters. So here we are.”

Sullivan had done his best to cover his tracks, and his ring was spellbound against Finders and Summoners. Whatever Hammer was, she had talent. He should probably get her card and pass it on to Francis. UBF might be able to use her, and Francis certainly loved the industrial espionage angle of the business. “Your client must be an important man.”

“Was. Passed away last year. I work for Edison General Electrical.”

Thomas Edison? Why was EGE, founded by one of the greatest super-genius Cogs of all time, be interested in him?

“Have you heard of the Shelved Projects Branch?” she asked. “We’ve managed to keep it out of the papers, but it’s where we store . . . Well, you’ve probably never worked with a Cog before . . .” Actually, Sullivan had, and now considered two of them friends, but she didn’t need to know about his Grimnoir associates. “Cogs are very rare. Heck, even low level Fixers are hard to find. What most people don’t realize is that sometimes those bursts of magical inspiration can take a Cog down some very strange paths. Shelved Projects is where EGE stored those experiments. Some of them are downright unnerving.”

“What’s this got to do with me?”

Hammer nearly left some of the Ford’s paint on the bumper of a truck that hadn’t heard the sirens. The driver honked and shook his fist at them. “It’ll be easier to explain when we get there.”

Menlo Park, New Jersey

They arrived in one piece, though there had been a few close shaves. Hammer drove like an unhinged maniac. The Hyperion was said to be the fastest factory car ever produced. Safety advocates had declared that the Cogs who had designed such an infernal machine must surely have been driven mad with a desire to kill other motorists. After this particular ride, Sullivan was inclined to agree. Hammer had decided that Cowley’s police escort had been too slow, and had zipped past them once they got out of the city. It was the fastest that Sullivan had ever ridden in an automobile, and that was saying something, since there was an inch of snow on the ground.

There was a faded EGE sign and a No Trespassing warning on the fence of the industrial park. “This is the place,” Hammer said as they coasted through an open gate and came to a stop in front of a rather plain warehouse.

“Where’d you learn to drive like that?” Sullivan asked.

“Riding horses. Same fundamental principles.”

“No. No they’re not,” Cowley said, a little green around the edges and glad to be alive. “I can assure you.”

“Sure. Give it the spurs when you want it to go faster; Close your eyes and hang on for dear life when you need to stop in a hurry . . . Same thing.” She shoved her door open. Come on.” Sullivan shrugged and followed the strange woman into the night.

The warehouse was bland and innocuous. For something that was supposed to be housing a bunch of wild Cog inventions, it didn’t look like much. Maybe that was the best protection of all. There were a lot of automobiles parked under a nearby cover. The place was busy tonight.

There were two men in thick coats waiting at the entrance and both had new Pedersen auto-rifles slung over their shoulders. Their hard faces told him that they certainly weren’t regular security guards. Cowley stopped. “This is as far as I go. I’m not cleared for this particular conversation . . . And believe me, I’m glad about it.” He held out his hand and Sullivan shook it. “Good luck, Jake.” The agent turned and walked away like a man who was very glad to be going.

That was ominous. The guards nodded at Hammer as she passed and gave Sullivan the once over. “This the guy, Hammer?” one guard asked.

“That he is, Arthur.”

“Thank goodness. Every time that thing rings, it scares the piss out of me.” Arthur shivered. “I’m telling you, it’s the work of the devil.”

The other guard spoke. “Unnatural, I say. Mr. Edison should have burned the evil thing when he had the chance.”

Hammer took a small automatic out of her coat and handed it to Arthur. “You packing, Mr. Sullivan?” she asked.

“Of course,” Sullivan said.

“You’ll have to leave it here. Company policy,” Arthur said.

“Your policy stinks.”

“Trust me, buddy. It’s for your own safety. There are some things in Shelved Projects . . . Well, let’s just say that you don’t want to have any big metallic objects on you in case the alarm goes off. Some of our other guests disagreed, too, only they had fancy badges that told me to mind my own business.”

“They’re going to feel mighty stupid if the alarm goes off,” Hammer stated.

“That’s what I told them, but what do I know? I just work here. I’m not a top government man.” Arthur snorted. “I promise I’m not just yanking your chain. It really is for your safety.”

Sullivan pulled out the enchanted M1921 .45 that Browning had given him and passed it over. “Careful. It ain’t loaded with sofa pillows.”

Arthur put the pistols in a lockbox next to the door and closed it. “Well, come on in.” Arthur opened the door for them. “You don’t want to keep Satan waiting.”

They entered the dark warehouse. The door closed behind them and locked. “What was that about?” Sullivan asked.

“You believe in ghosts, Sullivan?”

“I don’t rightly know.”

She groped around on the wall until she found a switch. “Well, apparently they believe in you.”

“You’re making me nervous.”

“Good. Nervous is healthy. Nervous keeps you alive,” Hammer said. The lights came on, revealing a wide space, filled with shelves covered in dust and cobwebs. “This way. We keep it hidden downstairs. Safer that way.”

“I’m not moving another foot until you tell me what’s going on.”

She folded her arms. “Why, Mr. Sullivan, we both know that’s not what’s going to happen. You’re an intensely curious man. You try to hide it. You may act like a palooka, but you just can’t help yourself. You’ve got a dying need to know what’s going on, so you’re not fooling anyone. Now that we’ve lost our Bureau chaperone, I can give you the straight scoop.” Hammer didn’t even wait for his response before she started walking across the warehouse.

The EGE woman certainly had his number. Sullivan sighed and trailed along.

“Have you ever heard of Edison’s spirit phone?”

“Who hasn’t? He said something in passing once, some reporter took it out of context, so a bunch of spirit mediums and frauds started claiming to have one so they could swindle suckers into thinking they were talking to their dead relatives.”

She just smiled and shook her head. “That’s what we want the public to think.” Hammer stopped at the back wall and opened an innocuous fuse box. “Now which one were you? Ahh, there you are.” She played with a few switches and there was a loud click. She placed her hand on the wall and pushed. A secret door hinged smoothly open. “After you.”

There was a flight of steep metal stairs disappearing into the floor. Sullivan climbed down until he found himself at the end of a plain concrete hallway. Two more men were stationed there, and they just nodded politely. Apparently the first guards had called ahead. He noted that these were only armed with wooden truncheons instead of firearms.

Hammer grabbed the rails, slid down like a sailor, and landed lightly.

“Lots of security around here.”

“And you’re only seeing the first layer. People would kill to get their hands on the things behind these doors.” Hammer led the way down the hall. “Mr. Edison was a skeptical man, you know. It started as a lark, an experiment to silence the quacks and charlatans. The reasoning was that if he built a machine sensitive enough that a ghost could talk through it, then surely, if ghosts were real they’d make themselves known. Then that Cog magic got fired up while he was working on it, and he ended up fiddling with it for three straight weeks, hardly stopping for food, sleep, even water. When he finally dropped from exhaustion, it had nearly killed him, and his Power was burned out for a year afterward, but it worked.”

“How?”

“Science isn’t my area of expertise. The thing is, it worked, and we could call out, but nobody ever called in. It was a one way street. EGE’s best minds don’t know why. We could make a call and occasionally get . . . something from the other side, but it usually didn’t make any sense. Edison had done it. He’d found a way to contact ghosts.”

“Ghosts? Not demons, like from a Finder? They’re bringing in spirits from another dimension all the time.”

“Nope. These were actual dead people from Earth. Many of them didn’t even know they were dead and couldn’t figure out who they were talking to. Edison brought in teams of interpreters and even a Babel, because obviously, just from pure statistics, most of the ghosts who picked up the other end of the line didn’t speak English.”

This was a lot of information to take in. Hammer kept talking as she took him down the hallway. They passed many heavy steel doors, each with a black roman numeral painted on it. Uniformed security, workers in coveralls, and lab-coated staff passed them, all of them glancing suspiciously at Sullivan. The secret underground lab had far more workers than its outside appearance indicated. The tunnels went off in directions that showed that this facility was much bigger than the building above it.

“Lots of money and work went into running the spirit phone, but they never met George Washington or Julius Caesar or anyone interesting. It’s not like there are switchboard operators in the afterlife. We were spending a million dollars a pop to make a call to some random somewhere, and most of the time nobody answered.”

“Must be busy in heaven.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t think we got heaven. When it did occasionally work, we weren’t getting happy people, and there sure weren’t any choirs of angels singing. After a bit, most people thought that Edison had built a phone line to hell.”

“Oh . . .” Sullivan scowled. “That could be awkward.”

“Try explaining that to the shareholders. We don’t know where we connected to, just that the spirits of some dead people end up there. The conversations were usually screaming gibberish, angry ranting in Chinese, that kind of thing. It didn’t help that a couple of researchers went crazy and there was a rash of suicides on the EGE team. Plus, it was sucking up too much of EGE’s capital to keep it running and it wasn’t like Edison could tell the board that calling hell was a sound investment. The Coolidge administration decided that it should be kept secret because news of the spirit phone could cause . . . what did he call it? Anxiety among the public.”

The theological implications of such a device were . . . troubling. “I can see how people might get a little upset. Might get some folks to behave nicer though if they thought they really would go to hell.”

“Or have the public go ape-shit and bananas . . . Pardon my French. Coolidge played it safe. He asked that the project be shut down, so EGE powered down, quit making calls, and just gave it enough juice to keep the connection live in case we ever decided to fire it up again. They were worried that if we shut it down completely, we might not ever be able to reconnect.” She stopped at a large steel door labeled XIII and removed a ring of keys from her coat pocket. Another guard stepped aside so she could unlock it. “Three weeks of Power fueled Cog madness from the greatest mind of our time and . . .” the heavy door swung open, “we got this.”

Sullivan stepped inside a room that was nearly as large as the warehouse above. A dozen men in laboratory coats were wandering about, checking panels of gauges and flashing lights, while in the very center of the room, cordoned off by protective railings and metal safety cages was a twenty-foot by twenty-foot glass box filled with crackling lines of electricity and another, slower, blue energy that could only be the visible manifestation of raw magic. It was a thousand lightning strikes imprisoned in a big fish tank. The air hummed with violence as fat power cables fed the hungry box.

It was frankly awe-inspiring.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Hammer asked, already knowing the answer. “A one minute conversation uses more electricity than Newark does in a week. The big partition was leftover from the elephant electrocuting days back when he was trying to prove that direct current was safer than alternating current. The room is reinforced, because if that containment was to break, it could flash fry Menlo Park.”

The last time he’d had anything to do with Cog super-science he’d nearly been vaporized by a Tesla weapon He wasn’t exactly fond of this sort of thing. “You know, the way you were talking, I was kind of expecting . . .” Sullivan held his hands out about a foot apart, “a telephone.”

“The original hypothesis was that it needed to be sensitive. Turns out it just needed to be bigger. And it is like a phone; look closer.” Hammer pointed at the base of the massive, flashing, death-box, where there was an older two piece telephone unit, with separated microphone and earphone, sitting on a small metal cradle next to a folding chair.

“Somebody has to sit next to that thing?” The amount of energy running through the machine was staggering. “What’s in there?”

“All sorts of stuff.” Hammer waved her hand dismissively. “Half the periodic table, including some things that are theoretically supposed to annihilate each other on contact. I don’t know. It’s way over my head.”

“I thought you said that they’d barely kept it running?”

“It was on standby mode for years. This is not standby mode. After what happened a few days ago they restarted the project.”

“What happened?”

“The phone rang.”

Before Sullivan could digest that the crowd had seen them enter and was swarming. A man armed with a large clipboard reached them first. “Mr. Sullivan?”

“Yeah.” He could hardly take his eyes away from the spirit phone. “That’s me.”

“Oh, thank goodness. We’ve been looking all over for you. Come right this way. He should be calling very soon. The check ins have been exactly every seven-hundred-and-seventy-four minutes. I have no idea how he can tell such precise time without any physical instrumentation.”

Another man, this one in a uniform, pushed past the scientist and pumped Sullivan’s hand. “Captain Ellis, Naval Intelligence. Thank you for coming. I just need to confirm that you are in fact, Sergeant Jake Sullivan, formerly of the 1st Volunteer Active Brigade.” Sullivan nodded along. “Very well. If we had more time we’d conduct a proper security check, but as it stands the Navy appreciates your assistance in this matter. Your conversation will be recorded. Anything you can get him to say concerning the make-up of their forces would be greatly appreciated.”

“Since this is the first time the dead have ever endeavored to speak with the living in a scientific environment, I’d suggest asking more valuable questions,” interrupted another man in EGE coveralls. “This is a monumental occa—”

“That’ll be all, Doctor,” snapped the captain. “We’ve got no time for your frivolity. See if he’ll divulge their attack plans in the Pacific, Sergeant.”

The brain side of the group was eager. The military side of the group was nervous. There were four men that stood back a ways that didn’t seem to fit with either side. They smelled like enforcers, and the way that they kept looking nervously at the spirit phone told him that they were also new here.

“Right this way, Mr. Sullivan,” coaxed the first scientist as he glanced at his watch nervously. “We only have a few minutes. Please do hurry.” He reached out and took Sullivan by the sleeve.

Sullivan smacked the hand aside. The EGE scientist put his fingers to his mouth and slinked away, surprised. “Who’s calling?”

The crowd exchanged glances.

Hammer spoke. She seemed to be enjoying the general discomfort of the eggheads. “Three days ago the spirit phone rang and for the first time ever, the dead called us. The thing on the other end claimed to be the ghost of Baron Okubo Tokugawa, Chairman of the Imperial Japanese Council, and he asked to speak to you.”