Chris Roberson - Book of Secrets (Angry Robot)

ALSO BY CHRIS ROBERSON

The Bonaventure-Carmody Sequence

Here, There & Everywhere

Paragaea: A Planetary Romance

Set the Seas on Fire

End of the Century

The Celestial Empire

The Dragon's Nine Sons

Three Unbroken

Iron Jaw and Hummingbird

The Voyage of Night Shining White

Others

Shark Boy & Lava Girl Adventures

X-Men: The Return

Star Trek: Myriad Universes Echoes & Refractions

Star Trek: Myriad Universes Brave New World

Warhammer 40,000: Dawn of War II

Warhammer 40,000: Sons of Dorn

For Fran Striker, Lee Falk, Gray Morrow,

Matt Wagner and Tim Truman

My brother and I once met at a bar, and fell to talking about family. Parents, kids, relatives, the whole sick crew. He took issue with the idea about children being some link to the future, our bid at immortality. Parents, he says, are our true link to eternity. In each of us is a little bit of each of our parents, literally and figuratively, and in each of our parents a bit of theirs, and so on and so forth. All the way back to the Garden of Eden or the Primordial Ooze, depending upon your politics. Looking at our parents reminds us of eternity, he went on, because in them we can see everything that came before. Our parents remind us of the steaming piles of history it took to get to the present moment in our case, the two of us in that bar on that night at that particular moment.

Considering we hadn't looked at our parents since my brother and I were both five years old, watching their caskets being lowered into the ground, shuffling our feet and wishing it would stop raining, it was somewhat surprising. But that's my brother for you.

What that has to do with anything I'm not sure, except to say that it concerns family and eternity, two things that factor greatly into the events of the past week. It began in the bleary eyed hours of the morning, with a phone in one hand and a telegram in the other, and ended with me watching the setting sun, the secret history of mankind clutched to my chest.

The phone rang insistently, again and again, and as I struggled out of a restless sleep I stared in its direction, an unfrozen caveman trying unsuccessfully to fathom the purpose of this strange, clanging thing. Finally, inspiration struck and I seized up the receiver, maneuvering it with only a hint of difficulty to my ear. Listening to the faint buzz on the line, satisfied by the sudden cessation of the ringing, I stood dumbly for a long moment, trying to remember what to do next. Finally it came to me.

"Hullo?" I managed.

"Is this Spencer Finch?"

"Um yeah?"

"Spencer Finch, the reporter?"

"Yeah." I was slowly beginning to remember what this phone business was all about, and realized that under normal circumstances I usually had some idea who was on the other end of the line before launching into conversation.

Then I remembered that the landline seldom ever rang, and that hardly anyone had the number. I'd lost my cellphone the week before somewhere on a bender, and had been reduced to using payphones ever since.

"Am I to understand that you are still interested in pursuing your investigation of J. Nathan Pierce?" The voice, now that it occurred to me to notice, sounded cultured and refined, if somewhat breathy. An educated and somewhat fey man, or a slightly masculine woman.

"Who is this?"

"That is not important at the moment, Mr. Finch." I caught a trace of an accent, but I couldn't place it. "I'll repeat my question. Are you still pursuing your investigation of J. Nathan Pierce?"

"Possibly," I answered, reserved. "What's it to you, Mystery Caller?"

"I have some information that may be of use to you, should you be interested."

"Uh huh."

"I'd simply like to suggest that you question one David Stiles of Houston. He is a private detective, and his services were recently retained by your Mr. Pierce."

I grabbed a yellow slip of paper I'd pulled off the door as I'd stumbled in the night before, and scribbled down the name.

"And why would Pierce need to hire a detective?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. I've told you all I can. Do with it what you will." The voice paused for a beat, and then added, "My condolences on your loss."

"Yeah, well" I began, and then the line went dead.

"What loss?" I muttered, and then absently turned over the yellow paper in my hand. It was a telegram, signed for by my next door neighbor and dated two weeks before.

My grandfather was dead.

Unable to sleep again after that, I shrugged into my suit coat and drove over to Trudy's North Star. The restaurant was farther away than I really needed to go, but the drive gave me a chance to wake up, and it's one of the few places left in Austin where you can still smoke indoors. I found a parking spot near the door, and settled into a booth before the waitress even noticed I was there. She brought over a cup of coffee without question, and went back to a table in the far corner to finish her own cigarette. She knew me on sight. I'd shown up often enough early in the morning and ordered nothing more than a bottomless cup of coffee for her to give me any special attention.

Lighting my first cigarette of the day, I dumped half the contents of the jar of sugar into my coffee, and then pulled the telegram from my pocket. After glancing briefly at the name scrawled across the back, I turned it over and read the contents more closely. It mentioned a funeral, and an address and date. In San Antonio, at a church not far from my grandfather's house, where my brother and I had lived from the age of five on. I'd missed the ceremony, and was disappointed only in that it would have marked the first time that I would have seen the old man in a church. It went on to request my attendance at the reading of the will at an attorney's office in Houston. I'd missed that as well. There was some mention made of material inheritance, but I didn't spend too much time on that.

I turned the slip of paper back over. I hadn't seen my grandfather in a decade, and was somewhat surprised he hadn't died years before. The name I'd written on the reverse, though, was sufficiently curious.

I'd been working on the piece about Pierce on and off for a while now, in between paying gigs. Since Wi de Open , the left-leaning magazine that had kept me on staff for three years, went under, I'd returned to Austin and started doing freelance work. Wired , Rolling Stone , Spin . Mindless fluff to fill up the spaces between pictures and ads. I'd been getting regular work from Logion , an online magazine based in Austin, and they had commissioned me to do a piece on Texas millionaire and philanthropist J. Nathan Pierce. The money wasn't much, but I had a thing for the lady publisher, and if done right the story might give me a much needed sense of self-esteem. There was only one problem: there was no story.

J. Nathan Pierce, "Nez" to his friends, retired colonel USMC, successful businessman and millionaire benefactor of the University of Texas. This withered old nut was stuck in more pies than he had fingers, but the ones that interested Logion were some shady land deals he'd rigged in South Texas. The back-story of his generous donations to the University was rumored to involve the extortion, harassment, and perhaps outright murder of Mexican farmers, but I had yet to come up with a single bit of verifiable evidence. The Logion piece was intended to coincide with Pierce's official recognition for his humanitarian efforts by the University and the state of Texas. There was to be a gala ceremony in his honor on his seventieth birthday, and ground broken at a new university library that was to bear his name. If I wanted to cast a long enough shadow to sour the birthday carnival, I'd need something more than rumors and allegations. I needed proof.