In perfect formation, the First Battalion of the Junior Guard stood at attention, their assault weapons held rigidly at their sides, eyes forward, chests out. The tension was like a piano wire pulled taut, threading through the boys' tense muscles, waiting to break. Only moments before, just as they did at this time every day, the battalion of boys had scurried onto the sand-covered drill area in their underground bunker, adjacent to the firing range.
It was the same battalion, the same uniforms, the same weapons as yesterday. Only Joe was different. And he felt the difference, coursing through his veins, pulsing even at the ends of his fingers. He wondered that they didn't see it, but there was no indication that any of the boys noticed anything at all.
This was a routine drill, one they did every day. Joe had been in charge of training the boys for months now, drilling them every moment they weren't in the Junior Guard School, learning the non-physical skills they would need in the world of the New Order. His drilling had paid off, and they had become a well-oiled fighting machine, with a discipline that rivaled the Guard itself. For weeks now Joe's battalion had been the center of his life and the source of his pride—
And even after he began to doubt, at least the Junior Guard had been a diversion from the insanity that surrounded Jamie. Now, with his new vision of the way things were, they were a source of personal embarrassment.
But since it appeared that none of the boys was going to run out and denounce him, he did not dare change so much as a single lift of an eyebrow. Eyes were on him; Luke's for one. Probably others. Watching for the least sign of difference, of dissension.
Of treachery? That was how they would see things.
"Who are we?" Joe screamed into the silence.
"The Junior Guard!" the battalion screamed back, with voices that cracked with puberty, voices that were deepening, and voices that were still high and tinny with childhood. But the response became a single sound, shaking the walls, reverberating down the concrete tunnels.
"Who do we protect?"
"God and Country!"
"Who else?"
"Brother Joseph!"
"Who from?"
"The Jew Pig Commie Enemy!"
"What do we train for?"
"Armageddon!"
"WHEN'S THAT GONNA HAPPEN?"
"REAL SOON!"
The ritual followed the same script they had all memorized on their first day in the Guard. They learned the routine while half asleep and stumbling into formation during "surprise" drills in the middle of the night. Joe remembered the faint puzzlement on the boys' faces the first few times they repeated the litany, as if they were shouting slogans they didn't really grasp for reasons they didn't fully understand. But now, Joe could see as he surveyed his creation, they understood it all too well. The hate had become real. They believed it. They lived for it. And it was all they lived for; before friends, future, or family.
Brainwash complete, sir.
Today's drill took them outside, to the recently completed obstacle course. The course itself was disguised and camouflaged from the air. The ever-present guards watched for aircraft, in particular a small plane belonging to the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. When the guards spotted anything in the air, even an innocuous ultra-light, someone would blow a signal whistle and the battalion would go into hiding, concealing themselves in oil barrels and fox holes. Normally Joe would be keenly aware of anything that might be flying around in the air, right down to the ever-present turkey vultures, but today he just didn't care. The daily drill was a responsibility, nothing more. Meaningless. Less than meaningless. The enemy, he now knew, existed only in someone's fevered imagination.
His father's.
He hadn't slept last night, either. This wasn't terribly unusual, since he had to be up for the late-night surprise drills, and after the drills it would often be late enough that he wouldn't bother going back to bed, instead filling his time with five-kilometer runs and weightlifting. He had found a way to summon a second wind out of habit, but he was glad he wasn't required to run the course.
Joe watched the boys crawl under barbed wire, climb up ropes and over walls, run through tires and snake through conduit. And none of it made any sense anymore. We're doing this for nothing, he thought in disgust that sat in the back of his throat and made every swallow a bitter one.
Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a familiar shape. Luke.
He stood at the corner of the obstacle course, and all evidence showed that he had only recently awakened; he yawned frequently and had the rumpled, disgruntled look he generally had until lunch. Father must have given him time to sleep, Joe mused. He never sleeps when Father is awake. He found it disturbing, though, that Luke was here watching the Junior Guard. He letting me know that he's watching me?
The more he considered this, the more it made sense. Joe caught him making furtive glances in his direction, which Luke quickly diverted when their eyes made accidental contact. Then Joe saw him nod towards one of the guards in the tower. The guard returned the nod, then began scrutinizing the area where Joe was.
He's having them keep an eye on me, too, Joe realized.
Dismaying, but not, after all, surprising. Unless—
For a paranoid moment the boy considered the possibility that his father could be reading his mind. After all, the "gift" had to come from somewhere! What if his father had known, all this time—
He mentally ran through everything that had happened so far, and his panic subsided. They were only reading the signs, he finally decided. There was nothing supernatural about it. My father is still a fake.
Still, it was unnerving to be watched so blatantly. He had hoped to be able to sneak away and get more food to Jamie, but as he stood there, watching the watchers, the flaws in that half-formed plan became evident. For one thing, it would not solve the overall problem. Jamie was a tool, one his father was going to use until it broke; and the boy seemed well on his way to breaking. He might be able to get him some more food today, but what about the next day, next week? How long before every opportunity, every chance was cut off? Not long, with Luke in charge.
And that didn't solve the real problem, because meanwhile his father was using him to talk with that godawful thing, whatever it was.
That wasn't the last of his problems, either. The drug dealing had also begun tugging at his attention, and he found that he could no longer look the other way and still have anything like a conscience. He taught the Junior Guard that drugs were poison—and meanwhile, his father sold the stuff to kids no older than these.
But with all of these eyes following him now, there wasn't much he could do about the drug ring, or Jamie.
As a child, he had toyed with the idea of running away. That had been when his father first began taking notice of his son, attempting to mold him into a little miniature version of himself. He resisted, at first—after all, so much of what the public schoolteachers taught him ran against everything his father preached—but obeying his father was just too much a part of him to resist. Finally he accepted his father's word completely, and whatever urge he'd had to run away seemed like the most treasonous insanity.
That had been many years ago, when he was a child of fourteen or fifteen. When I didn't know any better. But now he was an adult, responsible for his own actions. He couldn't hide behind "my father said" and "my father told me to" any longer. And there was another person involved, a kid, an innocent; someone who was going to die, perhaps even the same way Sarah died. That, he knew after last night, was something he could never live with.
If he could not summon the strength or the means to help Jamie from within the camp, he would have to go outside for the help. He knew enough about the outside world to realize that, once he had gone to the government, there would be no turning back. With the drugs involved, he suspected they would be all too willing to help rescue the boy in trade for busting the drug ring.
Maybe he could strike a deal.
He blinked, and for a moment his sight blurred. Too little, too late? he wondered. Still, if I don't do something now, there won't be a chance to do anything at all. Luke's ready to get rid of me. It won't be long before he succeeds. And then where will Jamie be?
Then came another horrible thought. What will happen to him if I can't get him help? I don't have any real evidence to show anyone—just what I can tell them. That little bit of food I brought him was the first thing he'd eaten in a long time, and if I'm gone no one else will be here to help him.
Meanwhile, the Junior Guard ran through their paces like perfect little robot soldiers. When the exercise was complete, Joe summoned then dismissed the First Battalion. For a brief but oddly sad moment, he wondered if this really was the last time he would ever lead them in exercises. If he did leave, these boys which he had helped convert into fighting and hating machines would have to come to their own conclusions about the Chosen Ones, their beliefs, Brother Joseph. Perhaps, he hoped, it wasn't too late for them to change. Would the defection of their leader make them think—or make them decide that Satan had corrupted him and vow that the Evil One would never touch them—closing their minds off forever?
As the battalion filed back towards the bunkers, shouting a cadence his mother would have taken extreme exception to, Luke gestured for him to come here. The gesture seemed calculated to annoy him. It was as if Luke was ordering a dog.
Joe knew he was tired and tried to get beyond his own foul mood when he walked up to Luke. Don't let him get to you, he told himself. You're tired, you're hungry, and it'd be easy for him to make you say something stupid. And he knows it. He's trying to get your goat, you know he is.
But as he came closer, he sensed something different about the man. The sneer was a little more pronounced, smug. Luke stood in a particularly haughty pose, and there was dark laughter in his eyes.
Something happened, Joe thought. He's talked with Father about last night, must have. Maybe it's too late for me to do anything about Jamie. He wanted to blame the weakness he felt in his knees just then on his lack of sleep, but it was fear, and he knew it.
"Brother Joseph wants to speak with you right now," Luke said, and it sounded like he was suppressing laughter. With great difficulty. "Boy, kid, you sure have screwed up."
"Where is he?" Joe replied, completely deadpan, as if Luke's words hadn't made any impression on him.
"In his office," Luke said—a trap, since Joe knew "the office" could have meant any of three separate places.
So he asked the right question instead of charging off by himself. "Which one?" he asked. "The one near the meeting hall, the security booth, or the conservatory?"
"Near the security booth," Luke said brightly. "He knows everything."
"No," Joe corrected, meeting Luke's eyes directly. "He doesn't. At least not yet. That can always change. Remember, I was only thirteen at the time. A little boy."
This last statement actually seemed to frighten the man, as if it was a blow that had been completely unexpected. Luke blinked once, then stepped backwards. As if he forgot all about last night, Joe thought. I'll bet this isn't as bad as he's making it out to be.
It was, however, an effort to keep from shaking. He had been called before Brother Joseph often, as he was a high ranking officer as well as his son, in that order. Each time in the past it had always been an experience with varying degrees of unpleasantness. But today—well, he'd rather have faced a root canal.
What did Luke say to him?
Joe realized that Luke was accompanying him. "Did he say to escort me?"
"Why, no," Luke sneered. "We're just one big happy family. Got something to hide?"
"No, I don't. But you are a soldier of the Chosen Ones." He gave Luke a level stare and felt a brief flush of success when the man couldn't meet his eyes for more than a second. "Seems to me you have duties. I just thought you might have more important things to do, like see to Jamie. Who do you have guarding him now?"
"That's got nuthin' to do with you no more," Luke said. "You'll see."
Joe shrugged and walked on, pushing the pace, not looking to see if Luke kept up. Short and stocky, the older man had to walk nearly double-time to keep up with him. They entered the dimness of the complex, accompanied by the familiar whirr, whirr of cameras panning across them as they passed. He's watching me, Joe thought, with certainty. They all are.
They came to the main security station, the mother of the smaller one Joe had operated the evening before. Do they know I was there? he wondered, but he had no time to fabricate an excuse. Or—did he?
They entered a room full of video screens much larger and more numerous than the little ones he'd used at the backup station. Along one wall was a variety of radio equipment, through which senior members of the Guard monitored police, emergency and aircraft transmissions. One officer was listening to a short-wave broadcast from Russia, another monitoring what sounded like an African station. Since neither of these were in English, Joe wondered why they had it piped through. No one in the Chosen Ones spoke a foreign language, or at least admitted to it, for fear of being labeled a spy or a witch.
His father was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He appeared to be displeased with everything around him, but then as far as Joe knew, he always looked that way.
"Good afternoon, sir," Joe said, his voice cracking. The fear he was trying to hide came through anyway. He likes it when I'm scared, he reasoned. That way he knows I'm still under his thumb.
Brother Joseph did not respond. He seemed to feign an interest in the screens, which displayed nothing particularly unusual; empty hallways, views of the grounds above. One showed the elementary school class, though Joe had no idea why. He cautiously looked for a screen with Jamie and saw none, although some were turned off. The silence continued, and Joe waited patiently for his father to acknowledge his presence.
In his own time, he did. He picked up a computer printout, turned it around, and held it up to Joe.
"This says you were in the auxiliary security station south this morning around two a.m. Care to tell me why, soldier?"
Joe stared at the report that he hadn't expected for days, and at first could think of absolutely nothing to say. What was I doing in there at two a.m.? You see, Dad, I was just trying to liberate Jamie, see, and take him to the cops and tell them everything. No problem, okay? His eyes blurred momentarily. After that, I was helping put a fire out, he thought, and he seized upon that as an inspiration. His father couldn't possibly know the exact timing of everything that had happened last night. If he just rearranged events a little—
"First, I had checked the storage area nearby because there were lights on down there, which there shouldn't have been at that hour. It was Luke and Billybob; they said they were guarding Jamie, so I started to leave, but there was a disturbance, and I smelled fire," Joe said calmly. "I was near the station. I entered it to examine the security cameras, to see if the detectors had picked up anything or if it was just someone sneaking a smoke. Once I was in there, I saw that there was a fire somewhere in the quadrant—and even more important, I saw that Jamie had been left unguarded, since Luke and Billybob had gone to neutralize the fire. It seemed to me that the fire might move into his room. In order to preserve our assets I took it upon myself to break him free and move him clear of the area, to somewhere secure and safe, where we could be found easily or get out if the fire started to spread."
His father stared at him for a long time. His expression then was totally unreadable.
After what seemed like an eternity he cleared his throat. "That's what Luke here tells me. I just wanted to hear it from you first. Remember next time, that whenever you enter a security station, you must fill out a report describing why you had to enter the station. File it promptly with the watch commander."
"Yes, sir." Joe waited for something else to drop, but soon it became evident that nothing would. Other things seemed to be on Brother Joseph's mind, and Joe glanced over at Luke, who appeared to be disappointed.
"I've been thinking about our new security branch," Brother Joseph finally said. "For some time now we have been lacking in some means to protect our organization from internal threats. I know, our admission standards are quite high, but there's no way to tell when Satan might infiltrate and sway one of our own. It's happened before. It will be an internal affairs matter, investigating and prosecuting those who veer from the one true path."
Joe sighed inwardly. Now that he had escaped the trap Luke had set for him, all he could feel was—tired. Fine. He brought me all the way into the security booth to tell me that the position he once promised me is going to Luke. Swell. Anything else you'd care to rub into my face while I'm here? It'll save time and trouble to go ahead and get it over with now.
"And it's been a tough decision, but I've narrowed it down to one." His eyes softened a bit and looked at Joe with what appeared to be admiration. "Son, how would you like to take the post? I've had you in mind all along, but I wanted to be fair to the rest of the officers. Luke here was a close second, but after hearing what you did last night, and the smart snap decisions you made, I've decided to make you the next head of Internal Security."
Joe was speechless. From Luke, who was standing off to his right, he heard gurgling sounds. Then the noises turned to grunts, which further articulated to: "But—But—But—"
Brother Joseph nodded with something approaching sympathy. "I know, Luke, this is a real disappointment. But I know you'll take this graciously. Like a man! You're still important. You're still in charge of that other little project we talked about."
Other little project, Joe thought briefly, but he was still too flabbergasted for it to really register. He's going to make me the head of Internal Security after all Luke must have been telling him. Does this mean he trusts me after all, or is this just another elaborate test? Look at him. He's handing me the post in front of witnesses, and if this is a trick, Luke doesn't know about it. Sounds like he's about to piss his pants!
"But—" Luke said again, but Joe's father didn't seem to hear him.
"Another thing," Brother Joseph said. "Any idea what caused all that ruckus last night? That little fire wasn't the only disturbance, as I'm sure you know."
"No, I don't. Perhaps it was the work of Satan," Joe responded automatically, not certain if he believed the words or not. "From what I saw in the security room, it all seemed to happen at once, power failures, cameras going out, pipes breaking, fires—I was concerned with Jamie's well-being and safety. Maybe—I don't know, maybe Satan wants to get at him so we can't channel the Sacred Fire anymore."
His father gave him a funny look at that. "Perhaps. Perhaps you're pushing that part of your responsibility a little too far there." He smiled benignly. "Since you are now a senior officer, let me show you your new quarters."
Joe had little to say as they walked a long corridor to the adjacent quadrant, then went up one floor to a wide, carpeted hallway that announced, with flamboyance and no subtlety at all, rank. At the end of the hallway was a set of flags, one American, the other, a little larger and taller, of the Sacred Heart. Not the Flag, that one stayed in the Meeting Hall; this was a copy. Brother Joseph unlocked a huge oak door, one of several along the hallway. Slowly, majestically, it swung open, like the gate to a castle.
Joe realized, on entering, that he hadn't really known how well the officers of the Guard lived. Now he did, and he was amazed at the luxury and opulence he saw here. Carpeting, track lighting, a computer terminal, presumably one directly linked to the main computer, and a big screen TV stood against one wall. In the corner was a small kitchen, with every modern convenience including a microwave. The place looked and smelled newly remodeled.
Luke was standing in the doorway. "But you promised me this one!" he wailed, but his words apparently went unheard.
"In here you have an added feature that the others don't," Brother Joseph said, leading him to the bathroom. Or that's what he thought it would be; when he turned the lights on, it looked like something out of ancient Rome. "A Jacuzzi, just a bit smaller than my own." And indeed it was, rising out of the middle of the room on a pedestal, surrounded by plants and Roman columns. "But no hanky panky," his father said, winking. "This is for you alone. After a long day of drill, it's good for your muscles. It'll help you keep in shape."
They walked back into the bedroom, where they found a huge antique bed with a canopy. "This was your bed in Atlanta, father," Joe protested, but his objections were a bit feeble. He couldn't deny that he had wanted digs like these all along, but never thought his father would consider him worthy enough. Within a few minutes, all that had changed.
"I will have a few privates in the Guard help you move," Brother Joseph said, watching him with an odd expression on his face. As if even this gave him power over his son.
That was too much. "No, please, father. Let me get some help from my Junior Guard battalion. . . ."
"You will not do that," Brother Joseph said fiercely. "They are no longer your responsibility. You are an officer now, with full rank of lieutenant."
"Lieutenant?" Joe said, confused. That was jumping rank, something that just didn't happen. "But why?"
"Because you are my son," his father replied. "And you will be treated as such. Provided, of course, you remember where you stand in the organization." He turned to leave the room, then said, as much to Luke as to Joe, "I have the power to appoint and promote whomever I wish. The Chosen Ones belong to me first, and God second. Do not ever forget that. That applies to both of you." He hesitated at the doorway, then said, "There's something else I must show you. Come."
As Brother Joseph led them to yet another surprise, somewhere deep within the bowels of the underground, Joe tried to cope with his world turning upside down. He didn't think much about where they were being led. All his attention was taken up by these latest changes—not only unexpected, but unprecedented.
What got into him? Shoot. An hour ago I was thinking about running away, but with all this, who could? Head of Internal Security . . .
Now that he thought about it, he wasn't even qualified for something like that. He was just a foot soldier. It was so unlikely that it roused his suspicions. . . .
But his father had said that it would be an easy post, more figurehead than anything, unless a situation came up that would need his special attention. Maybe it wasn't so unlikely. After all, Brother Joseph was going to put Luke in charge, and Luke didn't know shit from shampoo.
Nevertheless, figurehead or not, this new job meant rank. It meant being promoted over Luke's head. And the room! It's amazing! Joe's present room was little more than a cubicle in a dormitory, with a simple bed on an unfinished wooden floor, a table, a lamp and a dresser. A little more than most of the Chosen Ones had, but still pretty basic. I think I could get used to this. . . .
But Jamie—
He tried to keep Jamie, and Jamie's danger, in the front of his mind, but with the sudden change in his status, it was becoming more difficult. He had a taste of the things that only the elite enjoyed. For a moment he was dismayed at how easily he had been manipulated—
But it was a short-lived dismay.
Now I can help Jamie more, if I can sneak behind around my father's back. That makes more sense than running off. It would be different if he hadn't promoted me, but that changes everything. And the more he thought about it, he knew he couldn't run away. What would he have on the outside? Nothing. He didn't even have a high school diploma, at least not one this state would consider valid. There were no assurances that anyone would even listen to him out there, and given the Chosen Ones' security, he knew he wouldn't be able to change his mind once he defected. They would know, immediately, what he had done. In fact, they would probably assign someone to "eliminate" him. They had done it before, killing a former member who knew too much about the organization. And the man they'd killed wasn't even an officer.
Shoot, they killed Sarah's parents, just 'cause they tried to run off. I wouldn't have a chance.
He would have to contend with Luke as best he could. It would be easier to evade Luke than the entire army. Besides, with this new and unexpected change in status, he doubted Luke would come near him now.
In fact, Luke wasn't even a real threat—no matter what he'd promised before. In order to rationalize killing him, Luke had depended on proving some questionable, if not treasonous, behavior. Now that Joe was head of Internal Security, that would be more difficult, if not impossible, to do. The game had turned completely around, this time in Joe's favor.
Why screw everything up by running away?
As he thought these things over, he had paid little attention to where his father was leading them, or what Luke was doing. Now Joe glanced over at him, walking a few feet behind his father, and saw the characteristic smug grin on the man's face. Whatever was up now, it was going to be nasty enough to revive Luke's spirits entirely.
Now what? Joe thought, but had no time to puzzle over his expression. They had apparently arrived at their destination.
His father turned toward him with a sanctimoniously sober expression. "What you're about to see, Joe, is going to be hard to take. But just remember, it's God's will. To interfere with God's will is to do the will of Satan. And that we cannot have."
Then, from behind a set of double doors, he heard the whimpering of a child in terrible fear.
Jamie?
The doors opened, as if by themselves. Then he saw a disheveled, drunken man holding the door open by a crossbar.
"It's been nearly thirty minutes," the man said, visibly swaying as he struggled to stand up. Joe recognized him as Jamie's father. "Should we let him out now?"
Joe could barely see into the darkness of the room, which he now saw was a large storage facility, one of the newer ones. He smelled the damp odor of the fresh plaster and caulking. He hesitated before stepping inside, knowing that he really wasn't going to like what he saw. If Brother Joseph had warned him—it was going to be bad, real bad.
Behind him, Luke laughed. Brother Joseph stood in the doorway and beckoned all of them to enter.
The room was dark, except for a few Coleman lanterns sitting on the floor, illuminating two regular Guards who stood at attention. Something that appeared to be a huge box was standing in the middle of the large storeroom. But there was a dark object in the box, and when the whimpering came from it, he knew who it was.
"Jamie?" Joe asked, but he was more confused than afraid, since he couldn't quite see the boy or what was happening to him. Then his eyes adjusted, and the darkness retreated.
Jamie lay in the box—or at least, Joe figured he was lying in the box, though all he could see was part of the boy's head. Just the mouth and nose. The rest was covered with an enormous helmet. And the kid's body, from the neck down, was buried in some kind of white substance that looked soft.
Held this way, Jamie could breath, but he couldn't hear, see, or feel anything. If they'd blocked his nostrils with nose-plugs, and they might well have, he wouldn't be able to smell anything, either.
A sensory deprivation box—Joe recognized it from a PBS documentary. It was cruder than the one he'd seen; this one used foam or something, rather than gel or warm water. It didn't look cruel—but it was. Grownups had trouble in the sensory deprivation box. How could a little kid cope with it?
Joe immediately went for the box, but the two Guards stood in his way, holding him back with their assault weapons, denying passage.
Joe shook his head violently. This didn't make sense! Why were they doing this to the kid?
"It was God's wish," Brother Joseph said simply, walking closer, staring down at the suffering child the way anyone else would look at a tree that needed pruning. "I wouldn't worry. God will take care of him, if that is His will."
"His will?" Joe said stupidly.
"God has asked me to do this in order to make the boy even more malleable to His will. He has been resisting of late. I heard the word of the Lord," Brother Joseph said, casting his eyes up in false piety. "So I obeyed. 'The Lord moves in mysterious ways.' I'm certain the reason will become clearer, but until then I must carry out the order he has given me, and only me."
Jamie whimpered again; in that helmet, his ears filled with white noise, he wouldn't even be able to hear himself crying. Joe remembered what Jamie's father said. Thirty minutes? How long do they plan on keeping him in there?
Joe turned and faced his father. "May I respectfully ask how this could possibly help us? He was already communicating with the . . . Holy Fire," he said, with an effort. "The latest channeling was the most successful of all. Might this push him over the edge? He is still mortal, Father. Might this overstep the bounds of mortality?" When he finished the sentence, he found he was shaking. His voice, too, betrayed some of his revulsion.
Luke had moved closer to Brother Joseph. Silhouetted in the light of the hallway, the two bore a striking resemblance to an evil Laurel and Hardy. Even though Brother Joseph's face was difficult to see in the dim light, Joe could sense his father's frowning. "I detect a note of protest to this situation, young man. Perhaps you had better rephrase the question."
Joe wiped sweat that had beaded on his forehead. Luke shuffled, coughed, and crossed his arms, as if trying to look important. James, the boy's father, stumbled over to a chair, where a bottle of whiskey was waiting.
"Is this deprivation supposed to help him in any way?" Joe asked carefully. As if Jamie could take any more abuse, he thought. Starved till he's sick, and now this—
"Perhaps. If the Lord wants to take him, this would be the time to do it. But I think not." Brother Joseph was looking down again at the child in the box, but his eyes were curiously unfocused. "Soon we will have another channeling, and Jamie is again to be the tool. This is, I suppose, a way to make him more receptive to the Holy Fire."
As his father replied, speaking with vague boredom, Joe realized that he had no intentions of letting Jamie out any time soon. He's doing this because he enjoys it. He likes the fact that Jamie's scared half to death. God didn't tell him to do it, his own insanity did.
It was going to happen all over again, the same thing that happened to Sarah, though perhaps in a slightly different form. But the end would be the same. A short struggle, then an unmarked grave in the sandy soil. Joe glanced again at Jamie, although he knew the child couldn't see him.
In his mind, their eyes met.
The boy squirmed, as if fighting the restraints. But the movement was so slight, and lacking in energy, that it was barely noticeable. Then he opened his mouth to speak, and what came out was not a whimper of pain but a whisper.
"Help me."
"You'll receive all the help you'll need, little one," Brother Joseph said, with mock gentleness. "Joshua, take him out now. You, son, come with me."
Joe hesitated as he watched the guards moving towards the tank, reaching for the straps on the helmet.
"Come with me now!" Brother Joseph ordered. Joe flinched and followed his father out of the room. "Luke, you stay with them, make sure Jamie is returned to his new room. Remember, you're still in charge of him. Don't let anyone else near him. That includes our new head of Internal Security."
"Yes, sir," Luke said, snapping off a salute with a toothy, mindless grin. "And thank you, sir. I won't let you down."
"I certainly hope not," Brother Joseph said. The statement, uttered without emotion, had an ominous feel to it.
In shock, Joe followed his father out. After Brother Joseph closed the door behind them, he grabbed Joe by the shoulder and spun him around with surprising force.
"Now you listen to me, you little shit, and you listen good," Brother Joseph said, his face only a few inches from his son's. "I will not tolerate this attitude in any of my men, especially from my son! You are of my flesh and blood and you will obey me or suffer. It is clear to me that you disapprove of my treatment of Jamie. Am I right?"
Weakly, Joe shook his head.
His father slapped him once, hard. Joe's face snapped back at the impact. "Don't lie to me! You disapprove and I know it. That's why Luke is in charge of Jamie. You are now in charge of Internal Affairs, and that relieves you of any responsibility to the boy, do you understand me? You will have nothing to do with Jamie. You will not even look at Jamie. You will not be permitted at any channeling, and the only Praise Meeting you will be permitted to attend will be one in which Jamie is somewhere else! You made the right decisions last night, when we had the fire, but after that little exhibition of insubordination, I wonder if you really had my best interests in mind. If you are caught trying to communicate or assist Jamie in any way, you will be stripped of all rank and the privileges you now enjoy. There is nothing to discuss. My word is final. If you disobey, contradict or embarrass me in any way as a ranking officer of the Chosen Ones, you will be court-martialed!"
Joe stared at his father, too numb with shock to feel anything.
"Do you understand me?" Brother Joseph shouted, spraying spittle in his son's face.
Joe did not know what to say, what to do, what to think. He felt as if he was frozen in a block of ice; he felt as if he was teetering on the brink of disaster, as if merely breathing would violate some unspoken law. Any answer could easily annoy his father further, so he said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached up and wiped the spit from his cheek.
His father seemed willing to wait forever for an answer. Several long moments passed before Joe summoned the courage to respond.
"Yes, I understand, sir," he said simply.
A faint, sardonic smile creased Brother Joseph's face. He seemed, at last, satisfied. "Good. Then you are dismissed."
Joe turned to leave, and had gone a few steps when his father said, just loud enough to make him jump a little, "Remember, son, you are now in a high profile position. And you represent me, both as my officer and as my son. I keep tabs on all of my officers, in particular the ones recently promoted. This is common knowledge. You will be watched. Closely. Do not embarrass me!"
Cindy, Al decided, as Andur crept into his usual spot near the Chosen Ones' hideout, is beginning to suspect something.
It had been an uneventful day; for much of it, Cindy had seemed content to watch him, as if by watching she could comprehend him. Coping with the revelation that elves were real, Al had learned from past experience, could take some time. She had spent some time at the pay-phones, calling different law enforcement agencies, using a tattered calling card that looked ready to disintegrate at any moment. Nothing had turned up, and she had returned to the Winnie in a depressed and subdued state, where she scrubbed the countertops again, obviously trying to keep herself occupied. It was all he could do to keep from telling her of his own progress.
It would complicate things, he decided. As much as I want to ease her mind and tell her what I'm up to, to do so would probably attract attention I just don't want now. This situation is more volatile than anything I've handled before. The last thing I want is for the Salamander to notice us! He felt a twinge of hurt pride; the Salamander couldn't know such things, could it? He was just flinching from an imagined attack, scared. No way for an elven noble to act. Right?
She was getting wise to him. Earlier today was proof of that. He'd thought he was going to be able to get away from the racetrack in his elvensteed without her seeing. Around the track Andur continued to be a Miata, although there was a chance that by now Cindy had guessed the truth about the beast. After all, there were several hundred other people here at any given time, and there was no point in breaking his cover now just because one of them knew what he was! But as he was trying to pull out of the parking lot, Cindy stood in his path, keeping him from leaving.
"You're not going anywhere until you tell me where you're going, buster," she announced sternly, though Al detected a hint of nervousness. "Do you have a harem of elf women somewhere to tickle your ears?"
Al sighed and Andur's motor idled down. "Don't I wish," he replied, trying to keep the mood light.
She continued to block his path.
"You know, you are making quite a scene here," he said conversationally. "People are going to notice."
"Let them notice," Cindy said, coming alongside the Miata and sitting presumptuously on the driver's door, looking down at Al. "They'll just think this is a lover's quarrel. The word all over the track is that we've been seen shacking up in that so-called 'Winnie.' "
"Well, you've got me there," Al said uncertainly, unable to ignore the burning he felt in the tips of his ears.
"I do believe you're getting embarrassed," Cindy noted with a hint of morose humor. "So. These little trips you've been making at night have really piqued my interest. You want to tell me where you're going, or should I really start making a scene?"
"Ah, no, don't do that," he said. He looked into her determined face and felt something inside him surrender. "All right. You win."
Cindy smiled in victory, her eyebrows raised in question marks.
"I'm meeting with other elves," he lied smoothly. "It's like I'm going deep, deep, deep undercover, meeting other agents, you see? We're following leads. Nothing on Jamie yet. Nothing solid."
"Hmm," she said. She didn't sound convinced. "Why don't they meet you here?"
"Are you kidding?" he replied, slapping his forehead for effect. "With all this metal? You forget what an anomaly I am. Most elves shy away from human settlements, even ones like this that are easy to blend into. There's too much iron and steel around here. Their magic doesn't work. We've got to meet secretly in the woods and have conferences in the shadows of tall oaks." He folded his arms resolutely and glanced stubbornly away. "It's an elf thing."
"I see," she said, but it wasn't really clear that she did. Or that she really believed him. She stood, her expression still suspicious, that tiny touch of humor quite gone. "I don't suppose I'm going to get more out of you than that," she said. "It's better than nothing. You let me know when you find out where Jamie is, okay?"
"I will," Al said, with more confidence. I'm not lying. I don't know where he is . . . exactly.
He drove off, but he was aware of her eyes following him until he was out of sight. And he wasn't at all comfortable.
Her determination is disturbing. She's getting desperate, as any mother would. She suspects I'm being less than honest with her—
Well, she's right. I'm hiding things from her. She doesn't trust me. Not that I blame her. Not only am I a stranger, I'm a strange stranger.
Though it was not quite dark yet, he left Andur in his hiding place and started through the woods towards the Chosen Ones. A thing as evil as the Salamander will be weakest at twilight, when the world of light crosses the world of darkness, and all creatures of the Earth are somewhat befuddled. At least, that's the theory. This Salamander could be one of twilight, in which case my elven behind is nailed but good.
There weren't many guards this time of night, Al noted with interest as he assumed his position in the boughs of a great oak. His agenda included studying the layout again, analyzing the damage he created the last time he was there, and fishing for clues to Jamie's precise whereabouts.
All this, and without the Salamander seeing me. Tricky stuff. Perhaps if I had to I could disguise my magics as something other than what they are. He remembered the girl-spirit he had seen before, during the Praise Meeting. The child certainly was busy. If she hadn't been distracted during that out-of-body choreography she might have seen me. Let's see. Is there a meeting tonight?
He probed the surfaces of the Chosen Ones' buildings, finding a strange absence of activity. Not much going on. No meeting, that's for certain. The hall they met in is deserted. He probed further, finding a few guards posted here and there through the complex. He wondered if the entire lot had just vanished, when he traced one of the power lines to the huge dining room where nearly all of the Chosen Ones had congregated. A swift scan of the people failed to turn up Jamie. But then, he remembered, the boy was being kept elsewhere, probably in isolation.
Al pulled back and thought this over. They seem to have only a skeleton force of security during mealtime, which appears to be around dusk. If we were to go in and get the boy, a time like now would be perfect. He froze as a guard strolled beneath the tree, and Alinor cursed himself for not throwing up another spell to help conceal him. As soon as the soldier passed, Al replaced the earlier night's spell of unnoticeability.
He reached into the complex again, this time probing a bit deeper into the complex of tunnels and rooms, a little surprised to find areas he had missed previously. This place is enormous, he thought. It could hold twice as many as it does now, and with room to spare.
Al sent his mind following electrical lines down one of the heavily modified areas and suddenly touched a sensitive mind. Now he had eyes and ears! He firmed his contact, and his elven blood chilled when he discovered that the person was one of two walking with Brother Joseph towards one of the huge storage rooms. The other man besides Joseph was overweight and radiated a strong sense of low intelligence, but the one whose mind he had touched was much younger and brighter.
And the younger one was very receptive to his probe. Enough so that Al could ride along in his mind, an unseen, unguessed passenger, eavesdropping on everything.
As he listened to the conversation, he caught the younger one's identity with a shock of surprise.
That's Brother Joseph's son. And he doesn't seem too comfortable here.
They paused before a reinforced door—and when the doors opened up, he could hardly believe what was inside.
If it had been hard for him to keep from flying to Jamie's rescue before, it was doubly hard now. His blood heated with rage, and he bit at the tree limb he clutched like one of the old berserkers, to keep from flinging himself down and taking them all on in single-handed combat. He fought a silent battle with himself just to keep his arms and armor from manifesting, a battle that he came within a hair of losing.
Through Joe's eyes he saw the boy buried in a sensory deprivation tank, a torture so barbaric he could hardly believe the truth of his own senses.
He had to do something. Now.
His heart ached as he left Joe's mind and probed the boy's mind for injuries. It was not as bad as he had feared. The child was incredibly resilient; he had suffered no ill-effects from the hallucinations he experienced. Oddly enough, it was the dull gnawing of unrelenting starvation that had helped keep him sane. It was the one constant that the boy could cling to that he knew was real. There was some bruising from beatings—but not as much as he'd feared. Evidently Brother Joseph had come to the conclusion early on that physical punishment would get him nowhere with this child.
I can send a healing to him, Al thought, grimly. It won't do much for the starvation, but it will help with his other problems.
The elf reached into the life-web all around him, summoning the power needed to reach the child and heal him, when he became aware of something. Something that flickered like a black fire, stirring from its sleep. At first it was only at the periphery of his powers, emerging from the darkness of its slumber, and he couldn't quite identify it. But then, as it became fully awake, he had no doubt as to what it was.
If I send a healing to the boy, it will light me up like a fireworks display to the Salamander's Sight! he thought in dismay. Even now, with this simple contact, it might see me. If it attacks me now—
He withdrew quickly, before the Salamander could sense him—he hoped. If he attracted its attention he could easily become history, of no help to the boy or his mother. Alinor withdrew entirely into himself, letting no betraying spark of Power leak past his shields. He made himself as dark and invisible as the night that had formed around him.
Hiding again. You'd better redeem yourself, Alinor, or your long life will be miserable indeed. . . .
He checked the area—with non-magical senses. A few more guards had taken up positions nearby, but all had the lethargic auras of men who have recently overeaten. Something else to note. The next shift isn't very alert. Another time a move to liberate Jamie might be most successful.
He sent a tendril of energy beyond his shields, just enough to see if the Salamander was there, but not enough to give him away. The evil creature was out there, but wasn't directing any energy his way; it seemed more interested in the suffering child—and, oddly enough, the drunken man who was watching him.
But there was something else moving within the confines of the compound, a bright and energetic something that instantly seized his attention. No, not something—someone. And he had seen her before.
The girl.
He turned his attention from the "real" world to the other world: the halfworld. There she was; a glimmer of energy, of spirit, that was quietly, diligently watching him. He had no doubts that she had spotted him long before he sensed her, had seen him sitting there in his precarious position in the tree in spite of the "expert" shieldings he had put up.
And she knew when he'd seen her, too.
:Who are you?: she asked, impudently. :A munchkin?:
Al didn't respond at once. He wanted to be certain that their conversation was a private one. She drew closer, to the edge of his shields, but no closer.
The nearer you are, he thought, without actually sending the thought, the less likely that thing will overhear us.
As if reading his mind, she dropped a portion of her own shields and stepped inside the safety of his.
:Stay away from the monster,: she warned, casting a look in the direction of the Salamander. :It doesn't see me, and I don't want it to.:
:I don't either,: Al said, and relaxed. :Hey, you're pretty smart. What's your name?:
Although she was only a few feet away, she was still a spirit hovering on the edge of the real world, and her image wavered from translucent to almost solid. She still appeared to be leery of him, a healthy caution.
Then again, to operate as a spirit in such close proximity to the Salamander, and to remain undetected, would require a long habit of caution. She's been smart and cautious, or she wouldn't be here talking to me. She would already have been consumed, drained to nothing and sent to drift off until someone pulled her across to the Summerlands.
"Sarah," she said. The reply was closer to speech now than the thought-message she had been sending; with such beings, Al knew, this usually meant a bridge of trust had been established. She looked down now, a little sad, perhaps embarrassed. Al was uncertain what her next move would be as her features became fluid, mistlike. She pointed down towards the Chosen Ones buildings. "I used to live down there."
She's a ghost, and she knows it, Al thought, careful to keep his thoughts to himself. This is the spirit who was helping Jamie through the channeling. I need to get her to work with me if I can manage it.
"What are you?" she repeated. "You can see me but you're sitting there in that tree. You're solid." Her tone became accusatory. "You're alive. But not like most people."
"I'm not," Al supplied. "Remember hearing about elves when you were a . . . well, do you remember hearing stories about elves?"
She stared at him for a long moment. "Naaaw," she finally said. "Those were just fairy tales. You can't be."
"Yes, I am," he said, then glanced down at a guard, who was walking beneath the tree. The Chosen One didn't look up, but his nearness still made Al nervous. Silently, he held a finger to his lips. Why, he wasn't sure; only he could see, or hear, the ghost.
She looked at him with unmistakable derision. "So which one are you? Sneezy, Sleepy, Stupid . . ."
Al shook his head. "Those are dwarves, not elves. Anyway, those are make-believe. I'm the real thing." He smiled, feebly. "You can call me Al."
"Huh. An elf named Al? Am I s'posed to believe that? What are you doing sitting in the tree? Are you one of them?" she continued in an accusatory tone, indicating the guards below.
"No. No, I'm here for another reason," he said, trying to conceal an aching heart from the girl. Just a child. And now—
She said she was from down there. Was she a Chosen One once? She must have been, so how did she die?
Jamie—had she been his predecessor? She knew about the Salamander—had she learned through first-hand experience?
How could he possibly ask her that?
"You a spy?" she suddenly said, and Al could sense a sudden surge of interest. "Like James Bond? Like in the movies?"
Whatever happened to her, the Chosen Ones must be her enemies, he thought, remembering the bizarre Praise Meeting and the careful way she had shielded Jamie from the worst the Salamander could do to him. She was aiding Jamie during that channeling. She's good, too, because the Salamander didn't move against her. Shall I take a chance with this?
Do I have a choice?
"Kind of. I'm here to spy on the group down there," he said. "You know, Brother Joseph's church. Did you say you used to belong down there?"
He would have asked her more, but the wash of terror that spread from her to him stopped him cold. "Brother Joseph?" she quavered. "What do you want with him?"
"He took—stole—the son of a friend away from us. I think he's doing something with the little boy, but I'm having a hard time finding out anything." At the unmistakable quickening of interest he felt, he continued. "His mother is here, looking for him. He's from Atlanta, and he came here with his father, but his father is not a nice man. He kidnaped Jamie away from his mother, and I think he gave Jamie to Brother Joseph."
"You're looking for Jamie?" she asked, and the question seemed filled with hope. "Jamie's down there. You saw him, didn't you?"
"I saw him." He let his voice harden. "I didn't like what I saw." He took a brief moment to break away from the contact with Sarah to seek Jamie out, worming a tiny tendril of awareness through the complex maze. He was gone; at least he was no longer in the deprivation box.
Al returned his attention to Sarah, a little relieved. "I've got to figure a way to get him out of there. I'm not like you. Their guns can still hurt me." He hesitated. Had he said too much? Did she really know what she was? But it was too late to take his words back now. "I can't get through the other things, like fences and doors. But I can talk to you, and right now I think we need each other's help if we're going to help Jamie." He paused and tried to sense if she had been hurt or frightened by his words. "You know—you're not the way you used to be, don't you?"
She shrugged; a ripple in the mist. "It's okay, Al. I know I'm a ghost. Sometimes I don't like it, I want to go on through to the other side, but I feel like I have to help Jamie. Brother Joseph killed me." She solidified for a moment, and there was a look of implacable hatred on her face that turned it into a terrible parody of a little girl's. "I've got to do what I can to keep him from doing it again. That's why I'm still here, helping Jamie."
Then she changed, lightning-like, to an attitude of childlike enthusiasm. "So what do we do now?"
Al considered his options. From Earthplane to Spirit to . . .
Hmm . . . well, the next logical step would be Earthplane again, to someone alive and breathing. Perhaps someone who is disgruntled or unhappy. Someone who can physically help us inside the compound. Maybe even someone who could carry Jamie out of there, when the time is right.
"I think I have an idea, Sarah. Here's what I'd like you to do . . ."
:Jamie?: he heard Sarah say from somewhere in the darkness. :Where are you?:
His eyes had been closed, but when she spoke the words were like light, breaking through the pain.
He had been dreaming about being tied to a big tree and left there for dead, when a big bony vulture in a pale suit walked in with Joe and just stood there, watching him. Joe didn't do anything to help, and he couldn't understand why, since he had done everything before to make him safe in this horrible world called the "vacation place." He trusted Joe in all things; Joe even brought him food when no one else would. But this must have been a dream, because otherwise Joe would have taken him down out of the tree or at least blown away the vulture with his assault rifle.
Jamie felt hot and knew he must be running a temperature. Otherwise he wouldn't be so sweaty all the time. And he felt so sick. He could hardly move, he was so weak. He didn't know where the restroom was, and he couldn't get up anyway, so he just went, like a baby. He didn't like it, and he felt a vague discomfort from somewhere deep in the darkness, but he didn't know what else to do about it.
His whole body had felt funny, heavy and light at the same time, while he was hanging there in the tree, but now it felt like everything was going back to normal. When he tried to open his eyes, it took a minute to realize that he had, since the room had no light.
:Sarah,: Jamie thought, his mind forming the words when his mouth and vocal cords could not. :What are they doing to me?:
:Take it easy,: Sarah said, but the words came uneasily, as if she really didn't believe what she was saying. Jamie didn't like that. :You can go a lot longer like this.:
:No, I can't!: Jamie protested. :They're never going to let me see my mom again. They all lied to me. Joe's the only one who told me the truth. They're hiding me from her, Joe said, and they won't let her see me even if she knew I was here.: He felt tears burning down the side of his face. :I haven't eaten in I don't know how long. Sometimes the hunger goes away for a while, but it always comes back. Then I have to wet myself and that's something little babies do. What will they do next, put diapers on me?:
He listened to the silence, knowing somehow that she was still there.
:I'm hungry so much my arms are getting thin. If they don't give me food soon I'm going to just disappear!:
:No, you are not,: Sarah said, sounding like a grownup just then. :Hold on. Help is on the way.:
As hope flared, Jamie summoned the strength to sit up precariously on a bony elbow, and looked into the darkness. At first he thought the light that became brighter just then was Sarah, then he saw they were just dizzy-stars.
:Help? Who's coming to help? Joe?:
:Sort of. There will be others. Just hang on a little longer.:
:Sarah? Are you still there?:
The lights faded, and Sarah's presence faded into the darkness.
:Where are you?:
The more Joe thought about it, the more certain he was that the two regular Guard soldiers who were helping him move into his new digs were spies, working directly for his father. They were older than he was by a few years and had been around the Sacred Heart for as long as Joe could remember, and should have been promoted to captain long before now. If there was any resentment in them about Joe's new rank, they didn't show it. They paid the proper respect and subservience in his presence, and what little Joe overheard when they weren't directly under his eye did not betray feelings to the contrary.
They performed the tasks set them without a flaw, like robots, or well-oiled cogs in the machine Joe's father had built. Before, he would have been proud of his father's accomplishment. But seeing their lack of emotion, their total implied commitment to Joe and his father, made his skin crawl. If he told them to march into the pond, he had no doubt in his mind that they would do just that.
He began to doubt their facade, however, when he caught them glancing in his direction a few times as if they were trying to make certain whether he was watching them. Then, once, he saw them communicating with some sort of obscure hand signals that he didn't recognize. When he saw that, Joe turned cold. Spies. For father, and Luke too, no doubt. Figures.
That he was now head of Internal Security and should investigate, or at least question, such behavior, was never a consideration. For the time being, anyway, he just didn't care. After seeing Jamie that afternoon, he'd felt numb all over, incapable then of feeling much of anything.
Within the first half-hour of moving into the new apartment, he noticed two tiny microphones, each about the size of a fly, inserted into the ceiling. He wondered if there were miniature video cameras, which would have been the size of a pencil eraser, somewhere in his new place. Until he learned otherwise, he would have to assume there were. And act accordingly. In fact, he wouldn't be at all surprised if a view of his new living room was being presented to the main security station on one of the little monitors on the wall. Perhaps he should wave.
That would only let them know I know, and I don't think I want that yet, he thought, as he made a point of acting as normally as possible. It's late afternoon now. Dinner will be served soon. I'll most definitely have to put in an appearance there. Even if I'm not very hungry, after what I saw today.
Jamie. Locked in a box like a lab rat. Already a skeleton from starvation. The haunting memory of the boy's eyes back when he'd tried to get him free—they'd looked at each other for the briefest moment, but that moment was stamped into his memory and wouldn't let him go. It pulled at a place in the middle of his chest, stabbed at his heart with surgical precision. He trusted me. And now look at what's happened.
He began to wonder if he had indeed waited too long, that Jamie was doomed even if he acted now to save him. Sooner or later Father is going to kill him. And why? For what? When Jamie dies, Father is going to lose his precious channeller. It can't have anything to do with reason. My father is simply being sadistic.
At this, Joe frowned. Why does that surprise me? The answer to that was not immediately clear. Because all along I've been denying the truth. When he raised me, he smothered me with deceit that I'm still peeling away, like the plastic wrap on a choice piece of meat. But I have to face facts. My father is doing this because he enjoys seeing others suffer. He likes knowing he has the power of life and death over people. It makes him feel good and serves his own enormous ego.
An ego that will never completely be satisfied. . . .
What a prick.
He looked around at his new place, reluctantly admiring the wealth that surrounded him, and realized that he had been waiting for years to have a place like this. To himself. The rank of lieutenant was also something he had dreamed of, but he had thought it would be years away, as there were so many more qualified soldiers in front of him. Now both had been handed to him, by his father, on a silver platter. Although the soldiers who had helped him move in gave no hint that they were jealous, he knew they had to be, on a certain level. But then, all of Father's wealth has been taken without regard to right or wrong. It's pretty typical for him to hand his son all this stuff, the title, the job, the apartment, without bothering to justify it. He's God's own, right? He doesn't have to justify anything.
He realized the hour was late and began getting ready for dinner. In the bathroom he regarded the enormous bath with mild curiosity, saw immediately that it was empty. With no obvious means to fill it. Well, it didn't matter.
He stripped and climbed into the shower.
As the hot water washed over his body, he tried to put Jamie out of his mind. But the more he tried, the more solid the memory became. What did I see in those eyes? he wondered at the recollection. He was begging me, but was he accusing me, as well? He might as well have; I'm as guilty as my father. That he was taking a hot shower in luxury brought on enough guilt; poor Jamie, he knew, was probably lying on a mattress somewhere, too weak to go to the john. And I can't get food to him. Father made that clear. I'd be drawn, quartered and hung out to dry if I was caught near him. With all the cameras and security in this place, I'll be lucky to be able to use the bathroom without someone watching me.
At that thought, he glanced up at the ceiling, half-expecting to find a camera staring down at him. They'd do it, too. Especially Luke. He'd probably have a camera put in here just so he could see me without any clothes.
Joe put on a clean dress uniform that had just arrived from the laundry and was surprised to find the lieutenant's insignia already attached to it. Guess Father decided to dispense with the ceremony, he thought, in a way glad that it had been done this way. The ceremony, at best, would have been awkward. He shrugged and put the uniform on with the new insignia, in spite of the fact he didn't feel he deserved it.
As he donned the uniform, a voice from deep within him reminded him of a poignant fact:
If you don't do anything to help Jamie, the boy will die.
He stopped in the middle of combing his short, blond hair in the mirror and looked himself in the eye. He couldn't remember when he had last performed this simple act of self-searching, and he found it difficult, especially when he was wearing the Chosen Ones' uniform. He felt like a monster. The uniform seemed to be alive; he thought he felt it crawling on his body, like some sort of parasite. He didn't belong in it, and he knew it.
I've got to get out of here, contact the authorities, with or without the evidence. Who knows, maybe there's a missing person's file somewhere with Jamie's name on it. If his mother is looking for him, then there would have to be. But to let anyone know about Jamie, I've got to figure out a way to escape this complex without anyone knowing, at least until I'm well clear. If they come after me, well, I'll just have to spot them before they spot me.
After making his decision, again, he felt a little bit better about himself. In the shiny new uniform, he walked straight, with his head up, strengthened by the knowledge he would soon be ridding himself of it.
Dinner was a strange affair. Rather pointedly, Brother Joseph reminded him that he no longer had to eat with the "grunts," that he could now eat in the senior officers' hall which adjoined the central dining hall. He was still not invited to eat with his father, who dined separately from everyone, but that still suited Joe just fine. The farther away I am from him, the better. What I'm thinking about here is treason, and my body language will give me away for sure if I don't watch out.
The senior officers said little after saying grace, just a few bland comments about the quality of the food, which he had to admit was excellent and far superior to what the rest of the Chosen Ones ate. Each of them had been served an individual Cornish game hen, real potatoes au gratin and pasta salad, all delicacies and not at all what he was used to. The meal was served on china, with real silver utensils, and the dining room was furnished plushly, like his own quarters; the contrast between this room and the main dining hall was startling.
He couldn't help noticing as he ate that the atmosphere was definitely strained. No one said much of anything, and Joe had the feeling this was due in part to his presence. The ten officers were men in their forties, and as the meal progressed he felt progressively more and more uneasy. There were five captains, four other lieutenants and General Plunket, Commander of the Guard, who was an old man in his seventies who had actually served in World War II—ancient history to Joe. The general said little as he ate, and became slightly drunk on the carafe of wine as the meal proceeded, which seemed to be typical for dinner, as none of the other men seemed to notice.
"That certainly is a smart outfit you've trained there, sir," one of the lieutenants said, with a suddenness that made Joe jump. The man, Lieutenant Fisher, had been his teacher in a few bomb-making courses. More Junior Guard training, information which he had promptly forgotten. Right now if Fisher had asked him how to make the simplest black-powder pipe bomb, Joe would have had to admit that he couldn't remember. Joe regarded him cautiously, expecting his politeness to be a veil for something sarcastic, but he saw only sincerity in the man's face.
Fisher cleared his throat and continued. "I think you will make a fine addition to the senior staff."
"Thank you, sir," Joe said, almost saluting there at the table. He stopped himself in time. Looks like I'm gonna have to feel my way around how to treat these guys. "I'm looking forward to serving as your Internal Security head."
Fisher nodded in agreement but said nothing.
"Damned Nazis, they had the right idea!" Plunket roared from the head of the table, a response to a murmured question from one of the other men. "Train the youths. They had millions of their young 'uns trained to step in at a moment's notice. Had them running the government, the utilities, the post office. We came in through a town of about twelve thousand and all we found were teenagers and old people too feeble to walk, and the kids were running everything! Their fathers had already been conscripted, years before. He had the right idea, Hitler did. Kill the Jew pigs, and make sure the next generation understands why it had to be done!"
He pounded the table for emphasis. Silverware and glasses hopped momentarily. Joe wished he were somewhere, anywhere, else.
"Thank you, sir," he said, because he felt like he had to. "I'm certain the Junior Guard will become true fighting men when they are old enough."
"Here, here," one of the captains murmured. General Plunket muttered something else that was unintelligible. The wine appeared to be catching up to him.
Joe wanted to disappear. I'm starting to like the compliments, he realized. This whole dinner is making me feel proud of them all over again. And I want out!
One of the officers poured wine, what was left, into Joe's empty glass. "Here, have a drink," he said. Joe accepted without a word, although he didn't like the taste of alcohol, or its effects. Even Father has a glass now and then. Said it had something to do with making the men feel more comfortable.
But he had a lot of reasons for not liking what alcohol did to him, and one of them had to do with the walls he had carefully constructed, barriers which he maintained to keep his gift of reading thoughts a secret. I lose control of it when I drink, he told himself. Then, But just one glass shouldn't hurt. He took a sip and briefly resisted the urge to spit it out. This was a very dry and bitter wine, which he didn't care for at all. He would have preferred straight shots of Listerine to this.
"What exactly does your new position entail?" Plunket asked, looking as if he was struggling to get the words out clearly. " 'Internal Security.' What does that mean?"
At first Joe was a bit alarmed. Didn't Father brief him on the new office? Plunket is, after all, in charge of the army. And my superior. Damn him!
But the one gulp of wine had loosened him up some, and the words came tumbling out.
"Brother Joseph says that it's something we've needed for some time," Joe began. " 'Internal Security' is exactly what it says. There are threats from within this organization as well as the obvious ones without. There could be spies. There could be infiltrators. Why, even some of our own trusted men could turn out to be FBI agents or even worse, liberals."
He took another sip of the wine, not quite realizing until he set the glass down that a deathly silence had fallen over the table. Gone were conversation and the clink of silverware; everyone had frozen in place. A sickening feeling of somehow screwing up came over him; his right hand, still holding a fork, began to shake. They were all staring at him, silently.
"What I mean is, I don't think anyone in the Guard is suspect. New recruits—"
"I think," General Plunket said, with horrible clarity, "that you have said quite enough, young man. I will take this up with our leader. It would appear that you have been misguided in this endeavor."
Joe nodded, not even having the strength to speak. He felt suddenly lightheaded, partially due to the wine, but mostly to his embarrassment.
Why did I have to open my mouth? He wanted to scream. I should have known all this crap would have been a secret even from the other officers. God, what a fool I am!
It was then he realized that he was going to throw up. He felt his gorge rising, and uneasiness somewhere deep in his stomach, so he had time to leave to room before it came up. Get out of here, he thought. Before I puke my guts out all over this table.
He stood and politely excused himself. Amid silent stares, which he could feel burning holes in his back, Joe left the officers' dining hall and began searching desperately for a restroom.
Moments later, after retching none too quietly into a toilet, Joe contemplated flushing himself down the sewer as well. It would make the perfect end to this day, he moaned, catching his breath in the stall. If I were just a little smaller than I feel right now, it would probably work. Good-bye cruel world. Flush.
In the washbasin he cleaned up some, still a little queasy but feeling better now that the wine was out of his system. He was contemplating a roundabout route back to his new room, so that he wouldn't have to see anybody, when he became aware that he was no longer alone in the bathroom.
He knew immediately that it wasn't someone or something that had been there when he entered, and couldn't see how anyone could have come in without his hearing them. He turned slowly, expecting to find another adult sneering at him. Instead, he saw a little girl, standing in the corner.
She must have already been here, he thought, though he couldn't see how. What's she doing in the men's room anyway?
They regarded each other in silence for several moments; Joe still felt dizzy from being ill, and it wasn't until his eyes had focused completely that he thought he had seen her somewhere before.
"What are you doing in here?" he asked, trying not to sound harsh. "This is the men's room. Little girls aren't supposed to be in here."
"I'm not a little girl anymore," she said, and vanished.
A light rose from where she stood, a vague, glowing mist of something that came towards him quickly before he could step back. It touched him; it felt like a child's breath brushing across his face. Then it was gone.
Joe was too stunned to react. What in God's name was that? he thought.
But a moment later, he decided that what he had just seen was a hallucination, brought about by the bad wine he'd swallowed at dinner. Time to go to bed. I'm starting to see things.
As much as he wanted to put the disturbing vision behind him, he couldn't. On his way back to his new room, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen that particular girl before. It wasn't until he reached his front door and turned the key that he knew, with the suddenness of a revelation, who the little girl was. And why she vanished as dramatically as she did.
No, it can't be, he thought, horrified at the prospect of dealing with a ghost. I am seeing things. I must be.
He opened his door in a daze of confused shock. And there was his father, Brother Joseph, sitting in an easy chair reading one of his son's books. He looked up as Joe entered and smiled a predatory smile.
"I've been waiting for you," he said calmly. "Please, come in. We have a few things to talk about."