Crossover Earth '98

Suicide in the Cathedral                                         Christopher Shea

Another day, another dais. This one was set up on the rolling green lawn in front of the state capitol in Sacramento, and the politicians crowding it were a higher order than those Milo Tagelohn was used to greeting: members of the California legislature, a couple of bright young people from the governor's office, and a Colonel Somebody from the state police. But otherwise, it was the same as always. The gawkers and the press gathered on the grass to watch (prominent among the latter was one Lynette Evans-Tagelohn, with reporter and cameraman in tow) as he shook hands and accepted tokens of goodwill. Then he'd have to show off a bit (what would his family have said, to see him using the knowledge handed down over fifteen hundred years to act like a circus animal?) and make the dreary speech Lynette had written for him, about how his responsibilities spread farther than just one city. He believed *that*, at least, but when he tried to put into words it always sounded as phony as anything a politician could come up with. Well, that was some time off, at least -- they were still in the hand-shaking part of the afternoon.

Milo's hand was currently being pumped by one of the bright young people when Colonel Somebody let out an almost embarrassed grunt, slapped his hands to the front of his dress uniform, and did a half-spin on one toe before collapsing to the platform. Milo barely had time to register the gaping entrance wound in the back of the policeman's jacket when the senator from Modesto fell on his face, blood oozing from a suddenly mangled shoulder. Something whined over Milo's head and clipped a limb from a sycamore just beyond the dais. All around him, people were dropping flat or fleeing for cover in the trees or beneath the dais. There had been no sound of gunshots, but the bullets seemed to be coming from behind. Milo scanned the facades of the buildings around the lawn, looking for some sign of an attacker as he reached for his belt case.

"Over there!" someone shouted. Milo turned to see fingers stabbing toward a tall white structure, topped with a cross, visible above the surrounding rooftops -- a cathedral's bell tower. A spark of light flared in one of the dark windows at the top of the tower, sunlight striking a gun barrel. Milo reacted instantly, flipping open the case at his belt with the speed of practice and easily finding the item he sought among the clutter within -- a small silver butterfly. He clasped his fist around it, said three words in a language not designed for human larynxes, and the wind took hold of him and hurled him into the air. "Keep the camera on him -- and the tower!" he heard Lynette shouting. "This is going to be great!" Milo's eyes closed briefly. He wished he had been spared hearing that. His wife's dedication -- both to her work and to his own image -- was remarkable, but she took both to lengths Milo did not want to consider.

It took the snipers in the tower a minute to notice the dwarf soaring up toward them. When they did, the air around Milo was suddenly alive with bullets. One struck his shoulder, another his back, but both rebounded harmlessly from the shirt of steel-hard pilema cloth he wore. Milo barely slowed, not turning aside from his headlong flight toward the cathedral. If they had him to fire at, they wouldn't be tempted to shoot at anyone else. Speed and his armor were his best defenses just then -- those, and one other thing.

The man in the nearest window was drawing a bead on him, his rifle barrel again flashing momentarily in the sun as he steadied it. Even at a distance, Milo could see the utter lack of expression on his face, as if he were only preparing to step on a cockroach that had unwisely wandered across his path. The pilema shirt might deflect the shot, but it was best not to take chances. Milo's eyes narrowed and a sharp prickling ran over his skin as he reached out with his magic. Sometimes, when he used this power, the chemist in him wondered how he was actually doing it, even trying to construct a mental model of electrons shifting orbits, merrily jumping up and falling into a totally new formation in a way the laws of science forbade. O2 + ? = Fe. The enchanter in him, however, knew it worked and that was all that was necessary. A dull red corona sizzled in the air around the gunman for a second as oxygen condensed into iron, sealing the man and his weapon into a gray block from which only his head and the tip of the rifle protruded.

At Milo's mental direction, the sylph dipped him below the level of the tower windows momentarily, bullets whining overhead, and then the winds drove him straight up to hover in front of one of the openings. He reached out a hand to touch the window frame, peering into the dimness and seeing two other snipers inside the little room. They saw him as well and reacted instantly, rifle barrels coming up in swift unison toward him.

But the hand that Milo rested on the side of the tower was the one that wore the earth gauntlet. The entire room, like the cathedral itself, was of stone, and through the gauntlet Milo could feel its essence flowing through the great structure. Volcano-forged granite from when the Rockies were new, hard enough to weather the elements, or to stop a bullet. Fingers tightened on triggers, firing pins snapped -- and two bullets smashed into sheets of stone that rolled smoothly down over the windows. The stone beneath the snipers' feet rippled and bunched like dough being kneaded, crawling over their shoes and up their ankles. Finally one of them said something -- a brief, almost frightened "Hey!" Rock scraped over rock as Milo, his fingers spread wide, willed great slabs of granite out of the walls and floor of the tower, forming a stone vault that encircled the two men. It was as if the cathedral itself, angered at the use to which it had been put, was moving to seize its defilers. Milo heard the faint pop of a silenced shot from within, then another, then just silence. Had they decided to give up, or ...?

"I don't believe there's anything you can -- " he began, and then the vault exploded. The blast sent him tumbling backward, contrary winds screaming in his ears as the sylph struggled to ride the shockwave and level his flight. He had a confused glimpse of the cathedral tower with clouds of gray dust and smoke billowing out of every window. He kept a death grip on the little butterfly; if it were jarred out of his hand, he would be a mess on the street in short order.

Milo quickly slapped his gauntleted hand on the tower wall once more, feeling out the damage. The structure was cracked, and blast vibrations still rippled within the stone, but there was no immediate risk of collapse. He rose until his feet were level with the window sill and stepped inside the room, absently tossing the expended quicksilver butterfly over his shoulder as he concentrated on sealing the cracks and strengthening the weakened spots. The tower quivered, groaned, and then settled down again in a way that suggested a sigh. Milo gave a sigh of his own. He was weak and shaking with the aftermath of an adrenalin rush, and a ringing in his ears and flying-rock scratches on his face and hands were beginning to make their presence felt. He closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, sighed again, and then started looking around what was left of the room.

His improptu vault had been shattered like an eggshell, the interior liberally painted with red. He turned to where he had left the third man, only to see that his head had been sheared off flush with the top of the iron cube by a shard of rock. Milo slowly made his way over to the window and looked out and down, seeing the small mark on the sidewalk where the head had landed. A crowd was already gathering around it.

Milo turned away from the window and started toward the stairs. As he passed by the wreckage of the stone shell, he caught sight of something fastened to the wall. It was a sheet of plastic, slightly torn and covered with rock dust but still readable: "This pest control action has been taken by Apocalypse Now as a service to the citizens of California and the world." He read the words three times before their meaning, or lack thereof, began to register. What sort of insanity was this? What sort of human being would throw away his life, and the lives of others, for garbage like that? He would be furious later, at the irrational cruelty and waste of it. But now he merely said "No" to the poster and started down the stairs to where the police, the cameras, and Lynette waited for him.

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