Mystic Wonderful : A Hell Theory Novella Read online

  MYSTIC WONDERFUL

  A Hell Theory Novella

  by

  Lauren Gilley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are all the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is coincidental, or meant to serve as entertainment, rather than fact.

  Names and characters are property of the author and may not be duplicated.

  MYSTIC WONDERFUL

  Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Gilley

  Cover design copyright © 2020 by Lauren Gilley

  HP Press®

  Atlanta, GA

  All rights reserved.

  The Hell Theory Series

  King Among the Dead

  Night In A Waste Land

  Mystic Wonderful

  So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:

  But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm

  Clothed in white samite, mystic wonderful,

  And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him

  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.

  And lightly went the other to the King.

  ~ from “Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur”

  By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  Contents

  i.

  ii.

  iii.

  iv.

  v.

  vi.

  vii.

  i.

  Francis knew he wasn’t brave.

  His father had been. A Rift Walker during the first Rift; one of those knights who parachuted and rappelled down into the unknown, equipped then with only twenty-first century tech and gear. No Wraith Grenades, no silver, no obsidian or iron ore. No fireproof body armor. Word had come of his company’s demise while Francis was nine months in his mother’s belly, the last of five children, the last one ever, now that Dad was dead. Burned to a crackly crisp, as Ethan had said, sneering, wiping the tears from his eyes.

  The shock of the news sent Mom into labor, and Francis was born in the bathtub, his sister Annie serving as midwife, because their city was on fire, and there was no one else to do it.

  Francis’s first memories were of their apartment: one bedroom, sad furniture, greasy windows, and Mom’s hair always falling down out of her bun, tidy first thing in the morning, and frazzled by evening time.

  Ethan was the oldest; he signed up first, while the war was still raging. Julius wanted to follow, but wasn’t old enough. By the time his birthday came around, word had already come from the front that Ethan had been killed in action. Julius went off to training with his jaw set at a stubborn angle, determined and grieving; he was shot for treason three months later. Mom put tattered black curtains over the windows.

  Food was scarce, growing up, medicine scarcer.

  Mom succumbed to pneumonia when Francis was eight. His sisters, Annie and Sandra, looked after him as best they could. Annie cleaned houses, and took in laundry and mending; Sandra went out to work at night, wearing tight, homemade dresses, and lots of makeup. She would kiss his forehead on her way out, before she and Annie shared a long, silent look, both their faces etched with sadness.

  Francis was twelve when Sandra didn’t come home one morning. They never saw her again.

  Annie got sick when he was fifteen, and didn’t get better.

  On his seventeenth birthday, he bought a badly forged fake ID, and marched into the recruitment office. The officer at the desk gave it only the barest of glances, and slapped a clipboard down in front of him. “Fill this out. Don’t lie.”

  He didn’t. Mostly.

  The army was uninspiring; it was hard work, long nights, lots of sitting, and politely shaking his head every time a fellow soldier offered him a cigarette. The Rift had closed, but in the shakeup after, he and his unit were left policing streets: hunting for missing persons, suppressing gang violence, even offering medical care for those who couldn’t afford it. The world was a wasteland: dark, wet, ash-coated. Public figures and politicians took to TV screens nightly to encourage humans to come together in the wake of the conduit-wrought devastation – but they didn’t. Humans never did. And so Francis worked; he served, and defended, and he saluted, and he dreamed, too. He dreamed of becoming a Rift Walker, like his father. They still existed, near-mythical in their prestige and secrecy.

  Their identities weren’t secret within the military, though. He knew it was propaganda, the magazine articles and posters, the military trying to entice young men and women to join the most dangerous program in existence. He didn’t care. He wanted to be like his father.

  Until a certain poster caught his attention one day, and the idol of his father tipped sideways beneath the weight of a new idol: Sir Tristan Mayweather.

  He was in the mess, carrying his tray of gray-brown meat and potatoes to his seat, when he passed behind Smith and happened to see the magazine he was reading. Not the cheap, recycled paper that dissolved the moment it got wet, nor the clear plastic sheets becoming more and more common. These were old style, glossy pages: a full spread. Nearly a centerfold. Smith had turned it on its end so the fatigue-clad figure with gold wings pinned to his lapels could be viewed in all his glory. His stern-faced, hawk-nosed, steely-eyed, salt-and-pepper glory.

  Francis stared – and stared, and stared. When Smith started to turn the page, he said, “Wait!” And his face heated, when he realized he was standing there slack-jawed, his heart pounding, his skin buzzing. Because that was a man. That was a hero. And he was enthralled, and a little bit in love.

  He cleared his throat. “Who is that?”

  “Sir Mayweather,” Smith said, tone bored, and he turned the page, dimming the sudden burst of light and heat in Francis’s chest. “He’s one of those Walkers.”

  “Do – do you know which company?”

  “The top one. Gold Company.”

  ~*~

  You could buy the magazines at the on-base depot. Most of the soldiers snorted and called them bullshit, but the officers were encouraging. Knights died; Knights needed replacing. It was better to keep the young recruits starry-eyed and wanting to transfer.

  Francis thought maybe he should have felt manipulated, but he’d always wanted to be a Knight. Access to a few magazine spreads wasn’t going to change his mind about anything.

  But when he got to the depot, he found out there were posters, too. And post cards. And action figures. Small, ugly, crudely made things, with photos of their real-life counterparts on the boxes.

  He bought three posters, his face on fire, and tucked the rolls inside his jacket to keep them dry on the walk back to the barracks.

  If asked, he thought anyone would have agreed that it was Sergeant du Lac, the leader of the Gold Company, who stood out as the most handsome. The dark hair and eyes, the square jaw, the broad shoulders and narrow waist. In all his photos and posters, he wore the tiniest smirk that managed to radiate confidence and competence, but not arrogance; he’d been newly reinstated to active duty after a long, successful stint doing undercover work, the magazines said, and Francis had heard more than one of the girls sighing over him.

  Then there was Sir Gavin. Dirty-blond hair tousled, cheeks stubbled, grin sharp and sly, eyes a glittering blue. He was the bad boy; the sex-on-legs Knight with a reputation for breaking hearts – but leaving the girls physically satisfied beforehand.

  Key word being girls.

  Tristan Mayweather probably liked girls better, too.

  But Francis didn’t have much choice in the matter. He was hooked, more or less. All three of the posters he’d bought were of Mayweather. He hung one, but put the other two in his footlocker, for some sense of p
ropriety.

  He looked up at it, at night, in the red glow of the dull bulb on the wall, a nightlight designed to allow him to dress in a hurry, should the call to arms come in the small hours. But until then, in the long, sleepless stretches between, he could roll over and look up at the stern visage of his idol – his crush, he could allow – and feel his heartbeat quicken with something besides the usual fear.

  Sometimes…sometimes in the privacy of his tiny quarters, he would slip a hand beneath the thin blankets and touch himself, while he gazed up at Mayweather. He imagined the corded steel of his biceps; the rough scrape of his stubble. It was hopeless and dumb, but he knew well enough that life wasn’t guaranteed. This sort of innocent indulgence wouldn’t hurt anyone. Only him. The hurt of unattainable longing.

  ~*~

  Rose was the first person who’d felt like a friend since…well, in a long time. Dangerous, probably. It didn’t bode well to get attached to people. Not in general, and especially not in his line of work.

  She repelled the other potential recruits. Walker Boot Camp was full of young, bubbling, boastful Soldiers and Airmen and Marines all more than convinced that they would be the next great generation of Knights. All smirking and show-boating to cover their nerves. Rose could put all of them on their backs. Francis heard the ugly whispers, saw the nasty looks aimed her way; Rose didn’t seem to care. She kept her head down, her gaze flat. If she wasn’t sparring, or trying to break a treadmill, or listening attentively in lecture, she was sharpening a knife – personal weapons were allowed in the Knights, even among trainees, due to scarcity – or staring off into space, eyes glassy, totally removed from the moment. Shock, he thought. Trauma. He’d seen that look on his sisters’ faces growing up.

  The others called her stuck up, though. Bitchy. Cold.

  “Why does she think she’s better than us?” Martinez asked, too loudly, at dinner one night.

  Because she is, Francis thought.

  And in being better, she had no friends, nor sympathy. She clearly didn’t want to make an effort in that direction, and if Francis had been smart, he would have left her alone.

  No one had ever accused him of brilliance.

  “Hi.” He stood at the edge of the sparring mats, as the rest of the recruits filed out, and Rose Greer sat with her legs stretched out in front of her, unpicking the tape from around her knuckles. Wilson left muttering under his breath, jaw already puffy and red; Rose didn’t have a mark on her, as usual.

  Her hands stilled: capable hands, he thought, deceptively slender and delicate-looking. She tipped her head back and looked up at him guardedly through her lashes. Her face was impassive; she didn’t greet him in return.

  Francis had the sense he would get only one shot at this, and he chose his words carefully. “I’m Gallo,” he said. “That is: Francis Gallo. Frankie. My friends call me Frankie.”

  What friends? a nasty voice asked in the back of his mind. He had acquaintances, at best.

  “Or Frank,” he added. “I guess that’s more – mature, or something.”

  She stared at him.

  Might as well get on with it, then. “I know you probably think I’m an idiot – most people do,” he said in a rush. “I’m too soft.” He couldn’t help but grimace. “But you’re good. Really good. And I was wondering if you would help me get better.”

  She kept staring – but her brows twitched, once, and he chose to view that as a good sign.

  “Help you?”

  “Yeah!” Too enthusiastic, but oh well. “I mean – if you had the time. If you had some pointers.” He lifted his hands and struck a pose. “I’m all ears.”

  She stared another moment, then tilted her head, examining him. He felt like a butterfly pinned to a board. “No, you’re all thumbs. Don’t tuck them in like that. That’s a good way to break one.”

  “Oh.” He glanced down at his hands. His thumbs were tucked inside his fists. “So that’s wrong?”

  “That’s very wrong.” She stood; seemed to unfold herself from the floor, impossibly graceful. She was shorter than him, by at least a head, but her aura was tall as she pinned him with a gaze. “You’re asking for my help?”

  “Well…yeah. You’re the best.”

  She waved, a dismissive gesture, and snorted.

  “No, you really are,” he insisted. “They wouldn’t hate you so much if you weren’t.” He winced, after the words had left his mouth. You didn’t just go around telling people they were hated. “Sorry.”

  But to his surprise, she met his gaze again, and the ghost of a smile touched her lips, briefly. “No, you’re right. They hate my guts.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “Neither do they. They’re just petty and jealous.”

  She studied him again – he had the sense, judging by the line that formed between her brows, that it was through a new lens. Like she was trying to really see him this time, rather than tabulating his potential as a fighter.

  “What do you say?” he asked. “Will you help me?”

  The line smoothed, and her expression slid one tiny fraction toward amused. “You’re determined, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been told it’s a real character flaw.”

  That earned another bare flicker of a smile. “Alright, then. I’ll help you, Francis.”

  “Frankie,” he reminded, “for my friends.”

  “Frankie.”

  ii.

  Their instructor pinned their wings on begrudgingly, Francis thought, on the day they graduated the Rift Walker training program. Rose looked like she was holding back a smirk.

  Francis had to pause in the act of packing up his footlocker, securing all his meager belongings for deployment. His breath came quick, and his head spun, and he felt full of sparks, half-nerves and half-elation. He stood up, and braced his hands on his hips, and his gaze went to the poster on the wall – to Tristan, the lines of him familiar now: his folded arms, and his stern brow, and the firm set of his jaw.

  “Admiring your boyfriend again?” Rose’s voice asked behind him, and he jumped.

  He could feel himself flushing red as he whirled to face her, and protested, by rote, “Not my boyfriend.”

  “Not yet.” She offered one of her rare, fleeting smiles. “You getting all packed? We’re set to leave in a few hours.”

  Something in her tone tightened his nerves; there was an almost sly glint in her eyes. “Leave for where?”

  “Deployment,” she said, shrugging.

  “Yeah, but deployment where?”

  The grin came back, only a little diabolical. “I did some name-dropping. We’re headed for R Base, to join the Golden Knights.”

  His heart stopped.

  And then started up again at a gallop. “That’s not funny.”

  “When have I ever told a joke?” she countered, expression growing serious again – normal, for her.

  He let out a suddenly shaky breath, scrubbing now-damp palms down his thighs. “How did you – why would you – Gold Company? Really?”

  “Gold Company is the best,” she said, matter-of-fact. She was obsessed with being the best – which, he reflected, was the reason she’d become the best. She’d graduated top of the class, no contest, and he was still stunned to have been right behind her. Competent, he’d been called. Teachable.

  He knew he lacked Rose’s – well, her killer instinct, if he was honest. But he was proud of his proficiency; one that every one of his instructors had found to be a shocking contrast to the sweetness of his face.

  Rose would have looked small and sweet, he thought, if the grief and anger hadn’t burned so brightly in her face. A beacon of ruthlessness, one that drew every eye, and pushed most away again. He’d caught glimmers of a softness, even a sweetness beneath the surface, but he thought he might have been the only one. She’d been kind to him, in her matter-of-fact way, and he’d been kind and supportive in return; he’d wanted, though impossible, to
offer her some sort of comfort. When she’d finally told him about Beck – and he’d sensed he was getting a heavily-sanitized version – he’d told her of his own losses. She’d nodded, and he’d felt an unspoken closeness tighten their bond. He knew she was never going to cry on his shoulder, though.

  “Get ready,” she told him, rapping her knuckles on the doorjamb on her way out. “We leave in an hour.”

  He turned to contemplate his poster again. Tristan Mayweather, stern, strong…beautiful in his rough-cut, gray-shot way.

  Butterflies filled his stomach, and he berated himself as he resumed packing.

  ~*~

  By the time their transport – one of the ugly, boxy new ten-seater Workhorse helos – touched down at their new base, the butterflies had become hard, snarled knots in Francis’s belly. “Idiot,” he muttered, his voice thankfully lost beneath the steady thump of rotors as the Workhorse settled roughly on its struts, on the ground at last. Rain splattered the windows, and came peppering in as the door was rolled open from the outside. The whine of the motor shut off, and the rotors began their slow chug to a halt.

  He and Rose had been the only Walkers onboard. The other passengers, unfastening their harnesses and gathering bags, were all lower ranking personnel: a blend of infantry and med staff.

  “Come on.” Rose elbowed him as she stood – her face looked almost eager in the fading twilight – and Francis climbed up on nerve-weak legs and followed her.

  The base, when they were on the tarmac and walking toward it, resembled the one they’d just left: low-slung, unadorned concrete with blue-white lights set at intervals along the roof, cones of light beaming down onto the ground. But the landscape was different.

  The base sat on a hill that looked like it had been scraped flat by earthmovers, long ago, an unnatural plateau. The land sloping down away from it on all sides was treeless, muddy, and, he noted, squinting against the rain, studded with dark mounds. He noted sticks at the heads of each. A few crosses…