Behind the Bitmask Read online

  Suddenly, I heard sirens in the distance and tensed up like a condemned criminal. On one hand, I think I had my alibi set up pretty well, and if the police were to come upon my hacking rig, I did have enough of a story that I could probably talk my way out even having to answer questions. After all, I wasn’t exactly in the jurisdiction of Minneapolis anymore, and once you get too far outside the big cities, the average policeman’s understanding of magic plummets.

  On the other hand, if I blew my cover, the coven would disown me and I’d have to deal with Sigmar all on my own. Or at least, that’s what I think would happen. I don’t take sirens well! They were getting louder, too. My fingers hovered over the power button on my laptop; I wasn’t at a point of no return just yet, but I really didn’t want to go through all of this hacking a second time if I could help it. Then, I realized this wasn’t the right type of siren! I saw a fire truck and a cavalcade of ambulances pass by one of the library’s windows. I breathed a sigh of relief and decided to finish up quickly before I drove myself insane.

  Now, before you ask, I went into this knowing that a million dollar heist was going to draw some serious legal heat – hence all the security measures I’d set up. Besides the communications spoofing, I also was planning to cook the books to “reimburse” whoever funded me. There were a few possible outcomes I was favoring: they noticed they still had money and conveniently “forgot” to inform the police, or perhaps they got framed, or perhaps they went on a wicked witch hunt and someone more corrupt would take the fall. After that, I had to string the money through some fake transactions, and only then could I send the final product to Terminal, where it would be immune to legal scrutiny for terrifying reasons. I was probably overcomplicating the process, but I don’t mind giving myself a bit of an extra mental workout.

  In the process, I ended up sending the money on a tour of the world, including a sketchy corporate account in Ecuador, a German farming cooperative, and the personal account of an old lady in Florida, before it eventually ended up in Terminal’s account. I spent fifteen minutes more double checking to make sure I hadn’t left any unwanted traces on the system before I closed my connection. I sent an email to Terminal informing him that I’d made my payment. Once that was done, it was only a matter of time before Sigmar would breathe his last.

  “Did you get the money?” I asked Terminal on the Monday after my bank robbery. I was certain I’d sufficiently covered my tracks. I didn’t see anything about bank robberies in the national news, and I can hardly be expected to get Nebraska’s news on Minneapolis television. Furthermore, if the feds did find out that Terminal was the recipient, they’d probably close the books and give up very quickly, lest we find ourselves without a national government.

  “Of course, I got it,” he responded, pulling out a wad of cash that, despite clearly not being an entire million dollars, was clearly easier to justify waving around when you did have such funds in your bank account.

  “I also used my own funds to pick up some cannon fodder for you to command as you see fit,” I informed him, pulling out a photocopied scrap of paper with mugshots of my new minions and the terms of our contract.

  “Sure, that’s nice. When do we start?” I didn’t know if Terminal was actually going to use the goon option, but it was worth a shot.

  “Why don’t you set the date? I’m ready to go whenever.”

  “It’s going to be next Tuesday, then. The megaparty is on Saturday, I expect to be hung over on Sunday, and Mondays are bullshit. You’re invited, by the way.” We exchanged some more information, mostly on the underlings I’d acquired for Terminal, before we parted ways for the rest of the week.

  Even with a million dollars, how was Terminal going to throw such a huge party on short notice? Odds were that he’d throw a shoddily-planned party that ended up getting someone killed... Which, now that I thought about it, seemed like the sort of thing he’d enjoy doing. I decided that I was going to be there. I suspected Terminal would kill me on Monday if I didn’t go.

  With that in mind, you can understand why I was staring so intently into my closet at 5 pm. on Saturday. When you own as many dresses as I do, any social gathering carries a risk of fatal information paralysis. You know the story of Buridan’s ass? I have a walk-in closet. One time, I stood in the very middle, trying to decide what to wear for a girl’s night out, and I found myself literally frozen between all my choices. Seventy two hours later, I died of dehydration. I made sure to set up a robust organization system for my wardrobe once I’d resolved the ensuing logical paradoxes. When I was done, I could pull out a random item from the section corresponding to the occasion and then build an outfit around it. If I ever failed to keep the closet organized and maintained, though, the entire system would break down.

  While I usually like to wear something fancy to a party, I decided explicitly against it this time. If I was going to be hanging out with Terminal and his social circle, I couldn’t risk ruining something nice. I chose a loose gray t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Hopefully he wasn’t planning a fancy dress party. I also skimped on the cosmetics (God only knows what might happen there), so at least from an appearance stance I was ready to go in a fraction of the time it usually took me to prepare. The idea of doing that more often was admittedly tempting, but as far as I’m concerned, if you’re going out in public, you really ought to show everyone your best, and an extra 10-15 minutes of twiddling your thumbs is not worth people thinking you’re a slob.

  It was time to drive. Terminal had rented out a warehouse on the northern edge of Minneapolis. I pulled into a nearby parking lot and walked towards the entrance. Something felt off – my body was vibrating for no apparent reason, and my stomach was beginning to churn my dinner into what could eventually become a djinn of vomit. Was this one of the much ballyhooed ley lines? No. Just incredibly loud, butt-pounding house music. Terminal wasn’t going to miss me if I arrived fashionably late, would he? I remembered seeing a Wal-Mart a few blocks back, so I drove back, purchased a cheap pair of earplugs, and returned confident in my protection against the elements.

  My fellow partygoers hadn’t bothered. As I entered the warehouse, I couldn’t help but feel like I was about to be swept away by waves of bass. I couldn’t afford such heights of ecstasy tonight, not with Terminal involved – I needed my wits about me. So I surveyed my surroundings: Terminal had set up three raised platforms throughout the warehouse – one to host a clearly enthused DJ actively remixing and recontextualizing tunes I’d never heard and would likely never hear again, another where a bartender was doing her best to inebriate the huge crowds that had come for this party, and the final one to draw our attention to a menacing portal to some unknown corner of hell. If Terminal was inviting chthons to join him, this was going to be one hell of a night to remember.

  A cacophony of shouts and jeers cut through the wall of house, and I sensed a wall of human flesh backing towards me. Something was going on in the dance pit (as much as this could be a separate and discrete location in a party like this). Instead of trying to ram my way through, I made for the bartending platform, where I could hopefully get a good vantage point. It worked.

  Down on the ground, two chthons were locked in what looked like a life and death struggle. The one on top was repeatedly punching the one on the bottom in the face, but at the same time was being stabbed by the bottom one’s enormous, serpentine tail. A few free spirits were still trying to dance or drink in the distance, but this spectacle had drawn the attention of everyone else. Even four years out from Y2K, most humans still haven’t seen a chthon, much less two of them. Perhaps it’s that they’re usually stuck in the realms of titans who haven’t heard the good news about the parallel paradise one portal away. The music had changed to fit the occasion, and the DJ was now improvising something on the fly with choirs and synthesizers. Maybe this was more appropriate? The chthons rolled and tussled on the floor for a little while longer, but eventually
, the tailed one managed to entrap the other in its manifold coils and immobilize it. Our species’ cheers managed to drown out the DJ yet again.

  “You have proven your dominance, wench! I am at your mercy,” snarled the entangled loser chthon after it stopped trying to escape. The tailed chthon seemed confused by this for a moment, but then regained its composed and pulled itself up to as imposing a height it could, while still retaining some control over its victim.

  “Well, humans, what should I do with this laughable specimen of daemonkind? Should I grant him my clemency, or should I tear him to pieces?” Based on the high pitched, crystal clear voice and the strangely human breasts I suddenly noticed it had, I was guessing this one preferred feminine pronouns. The audience was undecided on what she should do with her victim, but then I saw Terminal had made his way to the DJ’s stand. After mouthing a few words to the DJ, he picked up a microphone and spoke.

  “Show these godless freaks how you make love in the daemon world!” shouted Terminal. The chthon(ess?) shrugged, but after a minute, brought her victim close and tore the remaining clothes off its body, driving the crowd completely insane even before she began touching its naked flesh. Was this pornography? I felt uncomfortable and vaguely aroused watching. If it weren’t for the fact the party host was a crazed murderer, someone probably would’ve called the cops. The DJ took this all in stride and went from composing his own little martial arts mix to playing some booty bass. At least, I assumed the lyrical content of the music was pornographic; I could barely decipher what I was listening to beyond that it was bassy. I noticed Terminal suddenly had joined me at the bar.

  “Glad you could make it, Charlotte. Don’t worry about the chthons. They’re a married couple, and they like to roleplay. I spent some of your money convincing them to entertain us,” he said. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but that was strictly better than some of the alternatives if it was in any way true.

  “Hey, do a guy a favor and buy me a drink,” continued Terminal, flashing me a disarming smile. Hadn’t I already given him enough money? I had no idea what he wanted in terms of alcohol, and I wasn’t exactly ready to ask, so I arbitrarily went with a Heineken. He gave me a thumbs up and chugged it.

  “Looks like the chthons are wrapping up their act. There should be DVDs all over the country by tomorrow,” Terminal said after downing half the bottle; he pointed at an unpleasant, viscous-looking liquid on the floor that I hoped I’d never see again.

  “You’re awfully quiet tonight, Charlotte. What’s the deal?” Answering that was going to be a minefield, but I had to try.

  “Well, Terminal... I wasn’t expecting you to go all out at the very beginning of your party. Where do you go from here?” He laughed at this – never a good sign, but honestly, was there ever such a thing as a good omen with this guy?

  “Don’t worry! I’ve got plenty of great events planned for the rest of the night. As you said, this is just the beginning. You should relax, drink a little, maybe try and pick up a nice man...or woman...or really anything that suits you so long as I can get it into this warehouse.”

  “You sure the pressure of planning a party isn’t getting to you?” I quipped.

  “Oh, definitely not! Hell, if I hadn’t become an assassin, I would’ve almost certainly been an event planner. Keeping people entertained is a worthwhile career.” Talk about hidden depths.

  Over the course of the next few hours, I became aware that I had no idea how to party, at least not in the way Terminal intended. I drank a bit of alcohol, danced a little, tried to have a conversation with a guy who turned out to be completely out of his mind on hallucinogenic drugs, and in the end, concluded that to understand partying, I needed a deep delve – perhaps a bacchanalian party cult. Maybe this just wasn’t the kind of party I was into. Aux had occasionally permitted me to attend low-key suburban parties where the goal was to schmooze, gossip, and eat as much shrimp cocktail as possible. I missed those.

  I was about to cast some sort of privacy spell when something prodded me in the ankle. It felt like a trident, but for once I didn’t immediately collapse and lose all muscle control, so it couldn’t be…but of course it was Sigmar. He was looking exactly the same as usual, and I expected he’d be his usual hellion self.

  Did he know how soon we would kill him?

  “Hey, Charlotte! Pay attention to me, or the next jab’ll send you to the ground again!” he said, since I hadn’t turned to face him quickly enough.

  “I swear, this is not how I usually spend my weekends,” I blabbed. I did not need Sigmar’s watchful gaze on me in this place.

  “Well, maybe you should get out more often! It’s good for you. Wouldn’t want to work yourself to death, am I right?” Maybe Sigmar did know of my murderous plans and was a few seconds away from bloodily preempting them. Maybe another Charlotte in another reality could negotiate some vacation time out of her titan overlord.

  “No, Sigmar. Is this how you unwind after work?” I responded.

  “Usually I prefer chthonic company, but Terminal extended a personal invitation to me. I considered making it a workplace outing, but your subordinates are a bunch of losers, so I decided against it.” Sigmar paused for a moment, before he cracked his knuckles and grinned maniacally.

  “Want to see something really hilarious?” He gestured to a man who’d commandeered the dance floor to show off his (rather pedestrian) moves. A few ladies were staring reverently at this specimen of mediocrity; I was guessing that they were so sheltered they’d never seen a man try to impress them. Sigmar waved his hands around haphazardly and then gestured at the dancer. I heard and smelled a very loud fart. The man jumped and made a beeline for the bathroom, holding his hands to the back of his pants as he ran. This seemed like garden variety cruelty from Sigmar, but the women apparently thought it was funny.

  “Hey, girls! Why waste your time with a man who can’t even control his bowel movements? Why not try your luck with a platypus?” Sigmar shouted at the ladies. As a pick up line, it was a disaster, but it was enough to draw their attention. After they briefly convened to discuss their new suitor, the ladies surrounded Sigmar, and they disappeared into the crowd. I think that I heard one of them saying she wanted to see what he could do with his tail. To this day, I don’t know or care what became of those girls. I was about to fade back into the same state of awkward when Terminal came up to me again and pressed a cell phone into my hand.

  “If I want to call on you, I’ll do so at work,” I snarled at him. Honestly, I was beginning to get fed up with the concept of partying and was on the verge of leaving.

  “It’s not just a phone. It’s a Blackberry. You’ll understand why I gave this to you in a few minutes,” he responded, taking my frustration in what appeared to be good humor and vanishing just as suddenly as he’d appeared. I guess I wasn’t leaving any time soon. I took a moment to open it up and finagle with it just in case, and I was immediately overawed by the sheer number of occult programs Terminal had loaded onto this thing. This wasn’t just a phone, it was the Swiss army knife of spellcasting! I wouldn’t expect to need such a versatile weapon unless he was planning to jump the schedule...

  “Take this earpiece, as well. I might have to tell you to do other things,” he said, appearing again and forcing a small one-eared headset microphone into my hands. In my confusion and mounting anxiety, I put it on.

  I estimated I had about thirty seconds to weigh my options, since Terminal apparently liked to move and kill his targets as quickly as possible. What would become of our plans? Why’d Terminal give me a souped-up Blackberry? Perhaps he actually needed my assistance this time? I hoped we could make this work. I had the vague sense that if we killed Sigmar, it’d bring fresh new problems, but that could wait.

  The music stopped in the middle of some forgettable bubblegum pop song aimed at a younger demographic than the one attending this party. My fellow partygoers were sur
prisingly distressed by this turn of events.

  “We have a very special guest tonight!” shouted Terminal over the DJ’s speaker system. “Please give a warm welcome to...Sigmar the Conqueror!” Cue a spotlight near the portal. Sigmar bowed and then levitated about three feet into the air – all the better for him to whistle and wave at the audience. Sigmar had been carousing with some of the guests, but for the rest, this was one hell of an introduction. I would’ve expected more people to recognize him by now, but in their defense, you don’t want to look at the floor too often when you’re at a megaparty, lest you be reminded of your fallen comrades who couldn’t handle the music, or the drugs.

  Sigmar was so preoccupied that he didn’t see the shadowy figures in the portal that were drawing ever closer and about to burst through. I was hoping the audience didn’t notice either, or at least that if they recognized that something was about to enter our realm, they’d think it was all in good fun. Something shot out of the portal with blinding speed and grabbed Sigmar before his eyes could even so much as bulge out in surprise. A ghastly silence fell on the audience, replaced by a low murmur as rumors began to foment about what had happened. Were the shadows from beyond the dark portal enough to deal with Sigmar?

  Nope.

  About half a minute of anticipation passed before something that clearly wasn’t Sigmar came flying out of the portal, slamming into someone at the back of the warehouse and turning them to pâté. A trail of vaporized blood remained in the air to mark its passage. That set the partygoers off. They immediately formed into neat little stampedes aimed at all the exits. If one goon was already down, then I no longer had time to prepare.