Accidental God -- Section 12a

[I just had a long conversation with some writer-friends, and I have discovered that I'm absolutely jealous of their rather inspired (and consistent) magic system. Sometimes I worry that Seven Cities is too much of a grab-bag of ideas and mythologies. Fortunately for Tuck and Paul, that didn't stop me from finishing this section. Something to think about more, but later.]


    Tuck and Paul put on their sunglasses as they stepped out of the blockish and modern building that housed the medical examiner's office. Tuck timed his movements to be in unison with his partner. He was sure Paul noticed, and was sure Paul didn't exactly like it, but his partner was patient, and it was the little things that kept Tuck going from day to day. He had known from an early age that the world was a frightening and confusing place, and his routines helped Tuck make sense of it all. In other words, it was a good feeling to put sunglasses on in unison. Like synchronized swimming, but without the swimming. Or the smiling.
    Except that Paul was smiling. "Dude, that was just like the scene from MEN IN BLACK," he said.
    "From what?"
    "The movie. You know, MEN IN BLACK? Where the two guys are like the police, but for aliens on Earth? Will Smith? That other guy?"
    "I've never seen it," said Tuck.
    "You haven't seen the part with the creepy, sexy medical examiner who flirts over dead bodies?"
    "I don't watch movies often. You know that."
    Paul's eyebrows were well above the tops of his mirrored lenses. "If you never saw MEN IN BLACK, why do you have us dress in the suits and shades? It wasn't inspired by THE MATRIX, was it? Because I don't want to be one of those Agents."
    "When did we start talking about mathematics?"
    Paul stared at him for a second, two, then turned and walked away.
    "But aren't you glad," said Tuck, stepping out to catch up, "that we were polite in there? Imagine the hassle she could have given us, especially considering that the next body in line was in the same room."
    "She wouldn't have given us trouble, because I could have done to her what we've been doing to everyone else who gets in our way: politely mesmerize them and move on. Sometimes that kind of politeness is exactly what we need."
    "But that would have been rude. Magical manipulation of the human faculty isn't polite. Also, it makes sense for us to conserve our energies. Especially given what we've learned."
    "Yes," said Paul, stopping abruptly. "What is up with your reading? The man was killed by three different people? At the same time?"
    Tuck shook his head. "Not exactly. At least, I can't say definitively. It's just that the signature following from our John Doe has split into three different places."
    "So which do we track down first?"
    "The closest one?"
    "And these guys didn't seem dead?"
    "I don't think so. There's a different feel, and I didn't get any signal on my CPS."
    "So how are you following them now?"
    "Surfer Dude's High Five Tracker.”
    "Am I supposed to know what that is?"
    "It's a spell this guy worked out for keeping record of all the people he'd had significant contact with."
    "Like a high five?"
    "Exactly like a high five."
    Paul grimaced. "Don't you just remember people? Wouldn't that work?"
    "This is more complete."
    "Right. So we're  using that to get a bead on the people who killed our Nordic friend?"
    "Exactly."
    "Fine," said Paul, looking around. "Let’s hop that bus."
    Tuck looked down at his smart phone and decided a bus sounded like a good idea. The pair had gone back and forth on the issue off a car. Paul had mixed feelings, since public transportation was always a rich way to meet new people, but hunting down creatures and baddies on the metro wasn't exactly the most dramatic way of doing things. Tuck was conflicted as the battle to preserve the environment and the battle to catch the right bus at the right time weren't always in agreement. In the end, the prevalence of bizarre beings and unexpected manifestations of malevolent magic on the Seven Cities Bus and Metro Lines was the deciding factor: just often enough to make it worthwhile, they could do extra work on their way to work.
    They jogged a few steps to catch the driver's attention before he closed the doors, ran their passes through the reader, and stepped toward the back.
    "Tuck," said Paul.
    "What?"
    "Does she look like a demon to you?"
    Tuck looked where Paul's chin jerk indicated. Brown hair, plenty thick but not disturbingly so, surrounding a mostly symmetrical face and brown eyes. The blouse and jeans were form fitting enough that it was unlikely she was hiding any physical abnormalities, so she certainly LOOKED normal enough. Also--and this was a matter of professional pride for Tuck--she didn't FEEL unusual. Of course, he wasn't one-hundred percent on this 'feel' thing, but he trusted his subconscious mind to put together the logical pieces in such a way that, whether he consciously noticed clues or not, he could still typically recognize the supernatural in the midst of the mundane.
    "No," he said. "She doesn't look like a demon."
    "Then you answer this," said Paul, handing a vibrating phone to Tuck. "It's my turn to flirt." He slipped off his sunglasses and slipped into the empty seat next to the girl who was reading a book. Within two seconds, the girl was looking at Paul and smiling, and Tuck was yet again amazed at his partner. It was like watching one of those dancing Santa Claus decorations: you don't know how it works, you're not sure you want to see inside those gyrating red pants, but you can't take your eyes off the entire fascinating process.
    The phone buzzed in his hand again, insistently, so Tuck looked at the caller ID, then sharply and somewhat desperately at his partner. Paul knew Tuck didn't like talking to the clients. Why, oh why, had he abandoned their implicit agreement now?
Tuck had no way of knowing how many rings he had before the call went to voicemail, and this was one that he really needed to take.
    "This is Tuck," he said.
    "Tuck, this is Belly." Surprisingly, the man's name actually WAS Belly. Porter M. Belly, head of the Divine Relations Division of the Fifth Agency. Why he had chosen to go by 'Belly' instead of using his first name was still a puzzle to Tuck, but he had valiantly resisted pointing out any of the possible wordplays. He had, once, nearly asked Mr. Porter Belly what his favorite kind of mushroom was, but he had squashed the impulse, only telling Paul later in their office, where he could laugh and laugh and laugh. Paul rolled his eyes, Alice, their kind secretary, had smiled indulgently, and Tuck had finally wiped his tears and gone back to work.
    "Yes, Mr. Belly. What can I do for you?"
    "You can tell me you're making progress." The man's voice sounded tired, maybe even a little desperate. "I'm getting serious pressure in here to cut you two loose. Someone wants the entire Agency to go agnostic about this god problem."
    Tuck's eyebrows drew down. "They want things left in doubt?"
    "At the very least, they don't want you two working on this. 'We should handle this internally,' they tell me. That, however, is the LAST thing I want. You know my concerns. It's why I hired you in the first place."
    Tuck did know Belly's concerns. The Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women were on the move, and the head of Divine Relations was concerned that they'd infiltrated the Fifth Agency, and deeply. When you're dealing with power along the magnitude of Forgotten Zed, you don't want to take risks it will fall into the wrong hands.
So Belly had hired Tuck and Paul. It was understandable. Tuck wasn't sure he'd trust anyone else with the problem, either.
    "Progress," said Tuck. "We've made some. I'm afraid things have become more complicated than we expected, though."
    He could almost imagine Belly smacking his own thigh with a bunched fist, a nervous gesture he'd had for years. "Not the words I was hoping for, Tuck. Explain?"
    "It seems that there's more than one killer involved." He counted quickly in his head. "Six, to be exact."
    "Six? Six people killed the god at the SAME TIME?"
    "No. Only one killed Zed. Then a woman killed him, and a man killed her, and, as best we can tell, three people were involved in that last man's death. A poisoning."
    "You're not ginger, Tuck."
    "Pardon?"
    "The things you're telling me aren't calming my stomach."
    "Does ginger do that?"
    "Yes."
    "I never knew."
    "Now you do."
    "Thank you."
    "Tuck!"
    "Yes?"
    "Where are the three men?"
    "We're following the first one now." He checked his phone. "Two more stops and we ought to be there." The bus rumbled to a stop, spitting out some passengers only to inhale a few more.
    "You're on the bus?"
    "Yes."
    Thump, thump, thump went the fist on the thigh, Tuck was sure. "Give me some good news," said Belly, his voice strained.
    Tuck thought hard. "The odds that someone could have followed the same track that we've followed are extremely small. The combination of skills and preparation that Paul and I bring to this sort of thing is, as far as I know, completely unique, and I doubt anyone could have tracked these patterns the way we have--at least not without leaving some signs that they'd been there. They may be behind us, but I can't imagine they're ahead."
    Belly sighed. "That is something. They couldn't just track the divine energy, could they?" Tuck didn't bother to saying anything and Belly answered his own question. "No, of course not. Tracking magical energies in this city? It'd be like trying to pick out a tree in the forest when you don't know what tree you're supposed to be looking for. Good. We have a head start then. Keep me notified?"
    "Of course."
    "And ONLY me. In an emergency, you can call Janine--no, she's on vacation, starting today. I don't trust Brock's secretary. Lionel is a possibility...." There was silence for a moment. "In an emergency, call Ms. Nishimura."
    "The security head?"
    "She's on forced leave at the moment, but she's our best bet. Call me paranoid, but I don't know who else we can count on. You have her number?"
    "I do," said Tuck. "Why is she on leave?"
    "She's too much like you two," said Belly. "Works outside of the system when she has to. Makes her great to work with, but a nightmare on record keeping."
    "We keep excellent records," said Tuck. "All encrypted, of course."
    "Of course. Call me with news, and please MAKE it good."
    "Absolutely."
    They said goodbye and hung up. Tuck glanced at the little sign at the front of the bus, names and times chasing their way across, then looked back at Paul. The woman had entirely forgotten her book--it was closed, not even with a bookmark--and they were laughing.
    "Paul," said Tuck, walking up next to them. His partner glanced up, a smile fighting with annoyance. "This is our stop."
    "Got to go," said Paul, standing up. "I'll call you. Really, I'd love to see your work."
    "It's a date, then," said the woman. "Come by the studio any time."
    "Absolutely." Paul took her hand briefly, pressing her fingers, then they slid their way through the standing passengers to the door as the bus lurched to a stop.
    "Did you know that we both end conversations the same way?" asked Tuck.
    "Tell me that's not true." They stepped down onto the pavement and Tuck looked around.
    "I think it is true. I said goodbye to Belly almost exactly how you said goodbye to that woman."
    "You were talking to Belly?"
    "I think you're missing the point. Also, you knew it was Belly, which is why you handed me the phone. Don't try to act innocent."
    "Fine. I knew it was Belly. I hate talking to him when he's stressed. It's like he wants me to be just as concerned and sincere about everything as he is, and I can't live that way. What did mister painfully concerned want?"
    "Good news."
    "Did you give him any?"
    Tuck held his hands up. "I told him what point we're at."
    "So...no."
    "I tried to put a positive spin on it. I've learned that from you."
    "I don't 'spin' stuff."
    "But you do talk about things with a positive perspective. That's what I meant."
    "Sure, but don't call it spin. Call it optimism. Aren't we close to that restaurant you had us try last week? The Thai place?"
    Tuck nodded, looking down at his phone. "It's just up ahead."
    "Cool. So where are we going now?"
    "Just up ahead."
    "The Thai place?"
    "Seems like it."
    That's when they heard the roar and the crash. In his hand, the screen of his phone pulsed, flashed, hiccupped, and gave an error. Paul leaned in and looked.
    "What does that error number mean?"
    "The system wasn't designed to track multiple layers of contact."
    "How do you mean?"
    "It only keeps a record of the people that YOU high five, not any additional high fives from those high fivers."
    "Confusing, but I think I get it."
    "It was clearer in my head."
    "So why 'Error 01221?' Why not just 'Error Two?'"
    "It follows a standard error classification system."
    Tuck and Paul were walking very quickly as they talked. Paul's hand was in his jacket, reaching for wherever he kept his large arsenal of offensive and very offensive weaponry. Tuck put away his phone and pulled out his toolkit. He flipped it open and pulled out three credit cards that he'd taken out in false names and under false pretenses, and slipped his case closed, hoping he wouldn't need anything more extreme. There was another crash and screams as customers and a handful of wait staff poured out the front door of the THAI FOR FIRST restaurant.
    "I think," said Paul, as they broke into a run, "that someone gave our friend one heck of a high five."