A cultist couldn’t accidentally make a wish, nor could they make the wrong wish. The system wasn’t cruel or ironic. It demanded strength of will and clarity of intent, saving many fools from regrettable impulses. Psychotropic drugs, heavy drinking, and strong sedatives disabled many inexperienced cultists entirely. If a wish was impossible or could only be granted partially, the gods ensured that the wisher knew their limitations, and they priced the wish accordingly.
The only uncertainty that crept into the system was designed. The gods never set a consistent price for anything. Except for a few very old, traditional wishes like the penny wish or speaking with the dead, a wish today under one circumstance might be vastly cheaper than a wish tomorrow under another. Subtlety and privacy led to discounts. If the wish could be explained by coincidence or freak occurrence, that was even better.
This inconsistent pricing allowed the gods to be flexible. Sometimes, they granted wishes that should’ve been slightly too expensive. Often, they demanded fatal debts for highly crafted, technically affordable wishes that would overtly change the course of history.
Nobody could ever wish for a series of coincidences and failures ending in a nuclear launch. The required changes would be small, but the intent would be too grand for any man to afford. Nevertheless, a fatal wish could be made, a suicide by prestige with no result.
Wishes were never granted for the dead—even if they died in the sanctuary, waiting through an impossible debt for the rest of their life.
Because wishes could change in value over time, they were only priced at the moment of the wish itself. One couldn’t plan ahead for a specific amount unless the goal was stable, like Piazzi’s wish to heal his leg. Then and only then, the cost was unlikely to change.
One of the most bizarre outcomes of this system was the close relationship between knowledge and prestige. When people were ignorant of the strength of a miracle, it was hardly a miracle at all. When people learned enough to recognize the impossible, even small changes could become truly astounding. This meant that belief affected the price of a wish through its relationship to coincidence and subtlety. Some tricks that used to be affordable were now impossibly expensive. Other outcomes, which had seemed impossible, were now slight modifications to an existing science. For this reason, the cults tended to value ambiguity over well-defined ideas and ignorance over knowledge. It was a deplorable attitude but understandable, for a dire discovery or two might behave like a Fall in its own right.
Despite the role that belief played in pricing wishes, the system of prestige didn’t operate on belief alone. The will to wish had to thrive below conscious thought. It had to be unshakeable like a zealot’s faith. A cultist had to know the gods were real and ready to intervene, just as they knew that the sun rose in the morning.
Only the Baron was an exception to this rule. He disbelieved in the gods, but he failed to believe so specifically and willfully, that the system itself was given a new rational framework in his mind. Once he’d lived long enough, this kind of connection had become inevitable. He could work the system without being a cultist.
#
The pressing question was, could Marco make a wish? The answer was almost certainly a resounding no, but the Baron hadn’t tested him for occult induction yet, and Phyllis would have to cooperate. She was the only one at hand with any available prestige.
The Baron was staring at his leather shoes, considering their resources and their limitations. There weren’t many options that didn’t forfeit the secrecy and security of their mission or leave Marco to the mercies of their enemies. There were hardly any options at all, now that CPUSA had boxed them in on the subway.
Phyllis was standing over the fare checker, arguing with him about the many things they could and couldn’t do. The Baron wasn’t paying much attention, but he thought the checker must be winning the argument.
The woman was red-faced with frustration. “We could kill you here, stop the train, and run back to Clark Street. What do you say to that?”
The checker replied promptly: “Clark Street will stay covered. We’ve got enough secular authority back there—”
“We could kill you under Manhattan, stop the train, and find a side tunnel.”
“What—you think it’s a maze all the way up to the banks of the East River? We’ve got enough men to blockade the tunnels. We’ll root you out.”
“We’ll break through them!”
The checker made a motorboat sound with his lips, breathy and bored. “Too many threats, lady. If you want to kill me, get it over with. When I don’t radio in, they’ll assume the worst, and you can add a city employee to your body count.” He sniffed and waited for her to respond. She just glared at him, an expression he actually shied away from by looking at the inset lights in the train’s ceiling.
“We have the invincible man,” Phyllis said, genuinely exasperated. “Don’t you understand that? You can’t win.”
The Baron didn’t like this direction, if only because it forced him to deploy the Zombie as an assassin. “We can’t just start murdering people,” he said quietly.
Phyllis swept around, all but shouting Benedict Arnold. “Why not?”
“I understand your frustration, but the Zombie is my nuclear weapon. People accept me because I’m with him and he’s with me, but if they think he’s no longer safe, or they think that I’m a threat to the peace, they’ll exile me. They might even kill me.” He looked over at the Zombie, who was swaying with the train, relaxed, trusting the Baron to come up with a plan. “It’s mutually assured destruction. If I ask him to tear the world to pieces, then I’ll be punished. Justifiably so.”
“So you’ll surrender?” the checker asked him.
The Baron scoffed. “Not to you. I’m talking about principles.”
“Tsch.” The checker took out a handkerchief and wiped his damp face. “I heard a bullet passed through you today. That true?”
“Maybe,” the Baron said.
“Jesus, everyone has so much goddamn prestige these days. You’ve got to be spent.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, maybe,” the checker mocked. “You’re empty, or you’d have dodged already.”
That was mostly true, but easily solved with a quick word to Phyllis. The real reason they hadn’t dodged was simple—Marco probably wasn’t a full-blown cultist. He couldn’t wish and thus couldn’t dodge to a temple. Until he was fully inducted, Marco could only escape on foot.
Unfortunately for them, the average induction period was nearly a month. For someone with only a copy of Apostasy and a deep desire to make a wish, it might be upwards of a year. Marco had been listening to stories for a handful of hours, and even with the Cat in his belly, the Zombie at his side, and the sights and sounds of the occult fresh on his mind, it wasn’t enough. At absolute minimum, it’d take hours more to make him believe down to his bones.
Nevertheless, they were running out of options. “We have to try,” the Baron said to Phyllis.
“What’s that?” Phyllis asked him.
The Baron rose to his feet. “Would you mind staying where you are?” he asked the checker.
“I ain’t moving unless you try to leave.” The fare checker pointed towards the front of the subway car. “Lots of innocent civilians on the train. You can hide among them if you want a lot of bloodshed.”
“It’s nothing like that. If you’ll respect a little privacy?”
The checker snorted, then laughed briefly. “Whatever.”
The Baron rounded up everyone, and they huddled together at the rear end of the subway car, with Marco against the emergency door, still wrapped up in the Baron’s forest-green jacket. “Assume he can hear us,” the Baron whispered to the others.
“He’d wish for that?” the Zombie asked quietly.
“After enough time, yes. He’ll try to save his prestige, but we need to keep this brief or he might get nervous enough to listen in. Phyllis, I need you to give me a half-day of prestige. I’ve already got some coins in my pocket. Trust me, I’ll pay you back.”
Phyllis furrowed her brows. “What, are you planning to dodge without Marco?”
“Just trust me.”
Phyllis touched the Baron’s wrist. “I wish you had a half-day of my prestige. What now?”
The Baron felt the warm relief of new prestige settling at the back of his conscious mind. It wasn’t much, but the smallest dose felt rewarding when he’d held nothing beforehand. “Thank you. We’ll use this in an emergency.”
“What do you mean, an emergency?” She glanced over at Marco; she knew the same things the Baron did. “We can’t leave him here.”
“I know,” the Baron muttered. “The prestige might have other uses.”
“Like what? Buying into debt for something big?”
“Not that. We’ve tested it. I can’t ask for more than one week in debt.”
“Then what else?”
“If I’m made a hostage, dodging could let the Zombie off the hook. Honestly, I don’t know yet. This is precautionary.”
“Okay,” she said dismissively. “Fine.”
The Baron stole a glance at his watch. It was far past thirty-seconds since they began talking. “Okay, if he was listening in, he’s probably run out of time on his wish. Or I hope he has. Here’s the second step. Phyllis, I want you to pass a half-day to Marco.”
“Are you going to mule him?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “He can’t use it.”
“It’s an experiment. I need to be sure he can’t make wishes.”
“How will I know?” Marco asked.
The Baron answered: “If you’re inducted, you can feel prestige. If you aren’t, you can’t. It’s like a drug, very addictive on your first try. You’ll know if this works. Phyllis, if you would?”
The Artemisian sighed but touched Marco on the shoulder. “I wish you had a half-day of my prestige.”
He looked at them questioningly. “Was that it?”
“I’ve lost the half-day,” Phyllis said grimly. “He’s muling it.”
“What does that mean?” Marco asked.
“Mule, like a pack animal. You’ve got prestige, but you can’t spend it or give it back until you’re a cultist. It’s an incredibly stupid way to hide prestige. Some very large pools were lost forever when they were handed over to someone who was too stubborn for induction.”
“Some people can’t be inducted?”
“More or less.” The Baron licked his lips. “Here’s the rub, Marco. We know you can’t dodge. We’ve got to come up with another plan to get you out of here.”
“Is anything coming to mind?” Phyllis asked.
“Not yet, no,” the Baron admitted.
“Not much time left!” the checker called. He was seated beside the doors that would open onto the train platform. He leaned over and rapped them with a knuckle. “Surrender, and you can just walk away. We’ll remove the Cat on the station floor, heal him up, and you can enjoy the rest of your lives.” He waited for them to respond.
They said nothing but cast dreary faces at him.
“Give it up, damn it,” the checker said. “I heard you talking. All of it!”
“Of course he did,” the Baron muttered.
“The boy can’t dodge!” the checker finished. “It’s over!”
“I’m a man!” Marco shouted.
“For Christ’s sake, this is your life!” The checker was sweating harder. He daubed his brow with the kerchief. “Do you think this is a gag? If you don’t surrender here, there’ll be hell to pay. There’s not a CPUSA member who won’t be ready to die—for their families, for their loved ones. If you give up, they all go home!”
The Baron turned towards the checker. “If we give up the Cat, the Soviet cult will change. You know that, don’t you?”
“I don’t care,” the checker replied.
“Stalin will have power, real occult power. There’ll be assassinations, inevitable secular bleedthrough, a war—maybe even the bomb someday, the end of the world.”
“Slippery slope bullshit! You don’t know any of that.”
The Baron marched up the car and met the checker face-to-face. “Do you know Denisov, the Orthodox representative in the States?”
“Of course I do.”
“Good. He believes that if I fail, this will end in nuclear war. Why should I doubt him? Why should I help Stalin?” A moment later, the Zombie took position in the Baron’s shadow, with Phyllis and Marco grabbing onto the standing pole just behind him.
The checker scowled. “Denisov would say anything for help.”
“Do you know what Langley’s primary goal is?” the Baron asked.
“You mean the CIA spooks? No.”
“They want to find a way to stop the bombs with prestige.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“You don’t understand. Only the Russian bombs, not the NATO warheads. That way, when they launch their arsenal, there’s no retaliation—no mutually assured destruction. They’re one step from going over the edge. Do you think the Bolsheviks are any different?”
“Screw off, man—”
“These aren’t cults looking for the afterlife. They’re looking to win the Cold War through any and all means.”
“It’s a good speech,” the checker said, “but I’ll take my chances that Stalin ain’t crazy enough to blow up the world. You don’t have a choice anyways. It’s surrender now, nice and neat, or surrender after killing men that just want to go home. Good men.”
The Baron stared carefully at the checker. “The Soviets must have a dossier on me that says I can be swayed by moral arguments. This is all too calculated.”
The checker shrugged. “So what? It’s true, ain’t it?”
“I try to do the right thing.”
“There you go. Doesn’t matter where I learned it. They have your number, chief.”
Phyllis shook the standing pole, which the Zombie had knocked loose with that earlier punch. “Zombie, can you break off a chunk of this?”
The invincible man chuckled. “Maybe.”
Phyllis stepped back from the steel pole. “Give it a try?”
“Ha! Sure.” The Zombie waved Marco and Phyllis aside. Then he turned his hand around backwards, grabbed the pole with an awkward grip, and said, “Hope I don’t fall.”
“Don’t you dare fall,” the Baron commanded.
Laughing, the Zombie threw his weight forward, a turn that would’ve torn tissues and sprained his wrist. Instead, a chunk of the metal pole twisted around until it snapped loose like a brittle straw, breaking far too easily. The Zombie threw one foot forward to catch his balance, and the entire car’s floor creaked uneasily beneath the stomp.
“Too close,” the Baron warned.
“Still got it,” the Zombie said, wiggling the broken pole like a baton in his hands.
Phyllis smiled pleasantly. “Thanks.”
The Zombie passed her the length of steel. “Break some faces. For me.”
“My pleasure.” Phyllis leveled it at an imaginary horizon, as if checking its length for the finer qualities of crooked metal piping. Once she seemed satisfied that it was heavy and blunt, she stepped in front of the checker and hefted the weapon’s weight in her right hand, up and down, up and down.
The checker’s eyes followed it. “What, going to hit me?”
With a sudden tight grip, she swung it underhand into the man’s shin. There was a hollow thunk, and the checker shouted, then covered his mouth to silence himself. His eyes bulged and watered over his hands before narrowing to a pained squint.
“Good. You’re quiet,” Phyllis said calmly. “Let’s get something straight. I’m the new dock boss in Red Hook. If he wasn’t the Baron d’Holbach, I’d be in charge here, and if you say another smug word, I’ll crack your kneecaps. Do you understand?”
The checker nodded, still holding his mouth shut.
“Don’t squeal on me either. I didn’t break anything—yet.”
The words leaked out between the checker’s fingers. “I wish it didn’t hurt so much.” Then he relaxed visibly, arms flopping against the seat, spine sagging. It was a narcotic reaction, far beyond any normal pain relief. He looked down at his pant leg lazily. “I think I’m bleeding,” he said, mostly to himself. “Jesus. That broke the skin.”
Phyllis ignored his commentary. “I’m not negotiating with a Commie,” she told the Baron. “Now, let’s come up with a way out of this mess. Any fresh ideas?”
The Baron shrugged. “We can’t face off against fifty people. It’s too much firepower and probably enough prestige to impede the Zombie. We’d need Meister Schuler, or an army.”
Phyllis frowned like she’d bitten into a lime coated in lye. “That man was terrifying.”
“Oh, I know. We’re on the same wavelength, but I can’t think of a better distraction, and I know CPUSA won’t be eager to tell New York about the Cat either.”
“Do you have some way to contact them?” she asked.
“No, but if we’re lucky, CPUSA’s setup will be sighted on the platform and reported to Tammany or Greenwich before we reach the station. They’re going to need serious hardware, and they can’t hide what they’re about to do.”
“Lucky. Your plan is to be lucky.”
“No, it’s just a possibility.”
Phyllis tapped her pipe against the backrest of the nearest seat. “This is a damn fine mess. When did it become reasonable to start a war over a rock?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Yeah, it isn’t fucking reasonable. We can’t seriously rely on luck, Baron.”
“I know, I know.”
Marco sat down in a seat across from the fare checker, sagging listlessly in the oversized, forest-green suit jacket. “Are we going to be shot at?”
“Absolutely,” the Baron said. “We’ll need to stay low.” The train began to lean slightly, tilting over as it began going around a very long, very broad curve. “We’re turning north. Wall Street station should unload on the right hand side.”
“Can we break out to the left?” Phyllis speculated. “Maybe to another platform?”
“Just be a wall at your backs,” the checker slurred.
She pointed the pipe at the fare checker. “Shut up before I break your shins.”
“He’s right on that point,” the Baron noted. “The 2 is in a tight tunnel here. There’s not enough room on the left side to move around. Only on the right, same side as the station.”
“Then what, Baron?” Phyllis asked. “We need something.”
“Fine, you’re right,” the Baron said. In his heart, he finally made the undesirable choice—they’d have to use the Zombie to break out through enemy lines. But first… “Zombie, would you eat the man’s radio? This can’t go back to Malik.”
The Zombie waltzed over and grinned manically in front of the fare checker. When the wished-drugged man didn’t react, the Zombie leaned down and gingerly plucked the receiver off his lapel. A thin cable ran down to a belt-secured antenna and battery unit. The Zombie kneeled slowly and put the whole receiver in his mouth—nearly a fist-sized object—then closed his incisors over the cable. It snipped cleanly, like he’d run it through steel scissors.
“Fuck,” the checker muttered.
The Zombie closed his jaw, and the mic unit popped like a candy shell; then he opened his mouth again, chewing, and all the brown components wrapped in candy-colored bands disintegrated on his tongue and between his teeth. Some bright bits of electronics spilled out between the Zombie’s lips. He chewed messily, right in the checker’s face, grinding everything down to shards, slivers, and chunks. The checker didn’t say another word, but he started to shudder. The Zombie swallowed in one go and laughed.
“Thank you, friend,” the Baron said. “You’ll be breaking us out, but I want you to avoid killing anyone if possible. We need to minimize secular damage, or Phyllis and Marco won’t be able to remain in the country, let alone the city or state. Do you understand?”
“If anyone injures you,” the Zombie said, “they’ll die. No exceptions.”
“That’s your choice,” the Baron said. “Try to disable as many pieces of hardware as possible. Injure, break bones, make a ruckus. Remind them of the Pact, while I stick near Phyllis and Marco to keep them safe.”
The Zombie frowned. “Body shielding weakens the Pact.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll just be near them.”
The train began to straighten out. The curve was coming to an end.
“Next stop,” the checker murmured. “Wall Street.”
The Baron pointed to the Zombie. “Stick to the right-hand window. We’ll see an orange signal light on the approach and a red signal light to trigger the stop for the platform.” He waved Marco up and over to him. “Come.”
The teen moved slowly, but he didn’t refuse. “Yes, Baron?”
“Once we figure out the angle of their attack, I need you to put as much terrain between you and them as possible, then get down flat.”
“I’ll try,” Marco muttered, already exhausted.
The Baron patted his pants. Wallet, keys, coins—nothing else. “Cigar case and lighter?” he asked Marco.
The teen patted the inner pockets of the Baron’s jacket, found the cigar case and zippo, and passed them over. “Here. Are you smoking?”
“No. They’re just expensive.” The Baron pocketed them both, feeling more secure with a supply of nicotine at hand. It was a stupid addiction, but he wasn’t quitting today, and he’d need a smoke after this—assuming they escaped.
The Zombie watched this interaction thoughtfully. “It’s been a long day,” he observed. “Remind you of anything?”
The Baron grunted. “I don’t think the Napoleonic Wars were anything like this.” He gestured to Phyllis. “Do you have that revolver hidden away?”
“Still do.” She tapped a lump in her pants pocket.
The Baron nodded. “Hold onto it. Fire a shot only if we need a distraction. As far as they know, we’re unarmed and relying wholly on the Zombie’s invincibility.”
The Zombie grinned. “It always felt like this, just before the volley, or before the charge. Bursts of fighting after stretches of boredom. Blood and sweat, Baron. Stone, steel, brick, and dust. Oh, it’s good to be alive!”
The checker straightened in his seat and shuddered again. “That still smarts.” He pushed himself slowly to his feet. “You’re all assholes.”
“I will hit you again,” Phyllis reminded him.
He coughed and circled a finger in the air above, a signal to round up a crew. “Can I have your attention for a moment? There’s something you should know.”
“Make it brief,” the Baron said.
The checker nodded. “The braking system, the air brakes. Know how they work?”
“No,” the Baron admitted.
“Air brakes are failsafe. If you damage them, the brakes apply automatically.”
The Zombie was staring out the right-hand window. “Orange light!” he called.
“We’re out of time,” the Baron said.
“One thing!” the checker shouted. “If a single valve fractures, then the brake line vents, and the brakes lock. Instantly, the train stops!”
“I’m gonna hit you!” Phyllis shouted at the checker, raising the pipe.
The checker took one step back and wedged himself against the wall and a row of seats. “I wish that happened now.”
The metal ping of a rupturing valve vanished beneath the screaming of the air brakes. The entire train lurched, yanking the floor out from under their collective feet. Everyone but the fare checker fell over at once; the Baron tumbled over his shoes with instinct, twisting over to catch himself with his arms. The Zombie flopped onto his chest, striking the floor with a metallic thud. Phyllis had caught herself by grabbing onto the remains of the standing pole.
The Baron raised his head, pushing up on his elbows to check on Marco.
The teen had fallen badly onto his right side, smacking the crown of his head across something solid. He was rolling onto his knees, wobbly, one hand touching a bloody tear across his scalp.
The fare checker was staggering towards Marco, reaching down into his baggy pants, down to the thigh of his hobbling, lame leg.
“Marco!” the Baron called, trying to rouse the boy to motion.
The checker jerked with a grunt of satisfaction—a sound like an adhesive bandage ripping out hair—and out of his baggy pants, he drew out a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun with two bands of sealing tape stuck to the stock. There wasn’t enough time to react.
“Zombie!” the Baron roared, even as the train lurched towards a complete stop.
The checker held the shotgun close to Marco’s back, cocked both hammers with his off hand, and pulled the right trigger. Everyone heard the first shot.
Marco’s lower back turned to a tight pit of hamburger surrounded by frayed tatters of the Baron’s jacket. He didn’t even scream, only collapsed.
Phyllis made an animal noise and struggled to pull the revolver out of her pocket.
The checker seemed unhappy with the results. He leaned in close, practically pushing the left barrel into an area over Marco’s left kidney, and fired a second shot. Thunder and lead churned a deep hole in Marco’s viscera, spraying bloodspatters up onto the shotgun, the checker’s hand, and his shirt sleeve.
There was a terrible moment of recognition as the train finally, mercifully rolled to a complete stop. Civvies were already screaming in nearby subway cars. Lights danced outside the windows, coming out of a parallel tunnel in the dark, a space far from the platform.
“The Cat is in here!” the checker roared, calling his allies to him.
Behind the Baron, a pistol barked twice; in front of him, the checker’s legs burst open, struck by two revolver rounds. Phyllis pulled the trigger a third time on an empty cylinder, while the checker fell over, howling in agony right until his face struck the floor.
Phyllis shot past the Baron, practically throwing herself onto the fallen checker, scrabbling on hands and knees. The man’s head came up half an inch, just in time for her to bring the pipe down on the back of his skull. Thunk.
No further motion. Unconscious? Dead?
Over a century ago, the Baron would’ve reacted to all of the violence with a series of traumatic appraisals, grappling with the enormity of the disaster in front of him. Even after all those years, adrenaline still ruled him. Yet the Baron didn’t subsume his thoughts into mere panic or even controlled aggression. A well-practiced reaction took hold, which he’d learned through an unpleasant amount of personal experience. Ignore casualties on all sides. Pay attention to everything, and look for the next threat, then the next.
That was why he looked up and away from Phyllis’s brutal violence, why he dismissed Marco’s damaged body, why he even ignored the readiness of the Zombie, rising to his feet. He looked along the train, saw the cowering civilians through the small inset windows in the connector doors, and then glanced outside the right-hand windows at the moving lights.
Those were flashlights, he realized, rushing along the only significant gap between the subway cars and the tunnel wall. Yards away and seconds out from contact, a squad of CPUSA was approaching their car, assailants in the dark.
The Baron was in the light. As were his allies.
“Threats, right side! Get down!” the Baron yelled, even as he threw himself to the right, trying to press his body beneath the lip of the puke-green seats. To her credit, Phyllis didn’t hesitate, instantly flattening herself beside the checker.
Only the Zombie remained on his feet, looking curiously out the right-side windows as black-clad figures rushed up to them, holding Thompson SMGs in firing positions.
“Do you recognize me?” the Zombie called to them.
There was a single heartbeat of hesitation—one of the mercs spoke into a radio handset, inaudible through the glass—and then the mercs answered all at once with an execution-style fusillade of firepower, ripping right through the windows.
Cubes of safety glass cascaded down over the Baron and Phyllis alike, while bullets rapidly scattered and splashed off the Zombie. They ricocheted into the walls, the floors, and even the plastic seat cushions, spraying little fiber threads like confetti.
The Zombie cast them a shark’s grin, and amongst the many rounds wasted against him, a single round shattered against his teeth, a momentary streak of shrapnel that deflected off and peppered the back wall. The Baron saw it happen; he wouldn’t easily forget.
The Zombie smiled even wider. CPUSA had declared war on the invincible man.
Author’s Note:
Thank you for reading! It means a great deal to me.
This chapter went up early due to functioning as a bonus Patreon chapter when I hit a Rising Stars run. If you’re seeing this much later, leave a comment about this dated artifact of the release process.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
Join the Discord to discuss the story and hang out with other readers!
Join the Patreon to support the story and access 4 weeks of early chapters!
