Hadrian's Rage (23 page)

After their night of violent lovemaking, Devon never goes out of his way to encounter Frank, or so he repeatedly tells himself. That night, as Devon sees it, was a mixture of anger and lust, and not one to be repeated. Regardless of his sadistic/masochistic nature, Devon acknowledges that their one night of battle-infused passion seemed to satiate both men, curing, for Devon at least, his anger and desire for revenge. As far as Devon is concerned, they need to go their separate ways and act as if their lovemaking never happened. Yet, as the days pass, the two men are always crossing paths. Devon finds this odd; the Midwest Gate is large enough for two men to go about their daily activities and never encounter one another, especially since one man is confined to a three-mile radius. Yet, somehow, Devon is constantly running into Frank. He can’t blame this all on Frank either. Frank is the one limited to where he can go, but it always seems like Devon’s duties bring him into contact with Frank. Devon is cordial every time he and Frank meet, and Frank always salutes as required as well as, oddly enough, offering Devon a shy smile.

Sometimes, these encounters don’t even happen. Devon often finds himself seated at his assigned cubicle going over the schedule for an upcoming battle drill or reviewing the details of the last attack when he will suddenly look up and see Frank, except Frank isn’t there.
What in Hadrian’s name does this mean?
Devon wonders how he might rationalize either his encounters or daydreams.
The next time he is really here—when I really see him—I will have to ask him—get him to—what? Back off? He hasn’t done anything. He’s the one restricted. I can go wherever I damn well please. He sticks to his daily routine. When off duty, he runs back and forth, up and down, and back and forth again, and then on Sundays, his one enforced day off, he goes to the historical library to—wait—how do I know that?—Antinous help me.

“Rankin!” General Birtwistle’s voice is curt, ripping Devon roughly from his daydream. “Get your head in the game, Lieutenant!” Devon leaps up and stands at attention, saluting the general as per basic army regulations. “Sit down, Rankin. We were talking here, and suddenly, you stopped listening. Are you having some sort of stroke or seizure?”

“No, sir.” Devon remains standing, clearly confused by how he managed to allow his mind to slip away during a critical meeting with the general. “I’m sorry, sir. I was just thinking about—”

“About what? Frank Hunter?”

Devon is shattered and stunned. “Sir?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me; the entire Wall is gossiping about your little tryst with him. How you tackled him in the dirt and got all hot and heavy until he dragged you back to his room. Don’t worry. You can rendezvous with that private recruit all you want. He’s been in the army longer than you and would have easily surpassed your rank had his sentence allowed for such promotion. I can make an exception for him on that account. Damn, I wish I had fifty more such men.”

“Sir—I—we—don’t—”

“Lieutenant-General Pauloosie led me to believe you were some crackerjack officer, career military and all that. Instead, I find myself saddled with a lovesick puppy.”

“I am, sir—I mean, no, sir—”

“Just bloody well sit down!” Devon resumes his seat. He isn’t even in his cubicle; he is in General Birtwistle’s office. They have been discussing the upcoming battle drills, and when the general recommended they bring in Frank Hunter to develop the details of the mock attack, Devon drifted off. “Now, may we resume talking about Private Recruit Hunter without you cooing over him in a fantasy again?”

Devon blushes at the general’s accusation and immediately chastises himself.
These random daydreams about Frank are getting out of control.
“Yes, sir, I will talk to Fra—Private Recruit Hunter and ask—”

“You are not going to ask him anything!” General Birtwistle is clearly annoyed. “He is your subordinate. You will order him to the task, and he will do it!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, as I was saying, your ideas are all very well and good, by the book and all that, but there is nothing new or even dangerous about them.”

“Sir, I—”

“Let me finish before you start defending yourself. I know it is standard practice to use laser light technology for skirmish practice, all very impressive-looking, but it does waste a lot of energy, and the President has ‘requested,’”—here the general mimes quotation marks to show the order behind the President’s word choice—“we reduce our power consumption.”

“But the Wall’s carbon capture units are constantly converting carbon dioxide into carbon neutral fuels—”

“Yes, yes.” General Birtwistle is annoyed at this suggestion. “And all that carbon neutral fuel is reserved for the operating of our all terrain vehicles and aircraft. We cannot afford to use it for simulated attacks.”

“We could use the urinators—” General Birtwistle raises a brow at the lieutenant’s use of slang. The urinator is actually a urine-operated generator. It was first developed in the early twenty-first century by four Nigerian schoolgirls.
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Little attention was paid to them at first, but the founders of Hadrian insisted they be one of the main sources of energy used. As practical as this form of energy is, most people are disinclined to use it since it requires an extraordinary amount of urine and, of course, there is always the smell. “Sorry, sir; that’s just what everyone calls them.” Devon coughs to hide his embarrassment.

“As you were saying?” The general isn’t one for helping others save face.

“We could use the urine-operated generators. This base is quite heavily populated, so I’m sure we could easily acquire enough urine to run the simulations for the duration of the skirmish.”

“Yes, yes, yes, but that still makes use of the wave and technology.” And then in an aside, “Besides, they stink.” Devon can’t help but chuckle. As if offended, the general straightens his back and becomes even sterner, a feat Devon had thought impossible. “You don’t see, do you, Lieutenant; we are constantly thinking and working inside the wave, but our enemies are not. They are not connected in the same way we are. And these laser light shows create a game-like atmosphere. Our soldiers look forward to these events. They are ‘fun’!” Sarcasm and insolence drip. “No imminent danger is present. The end result is that our soldiers are no longer on their toes when a real attack happens. It is one thing to be shot through the chest with a beam of light; it means nothing if you can’t be killed. And shooting
down a holographic man—where is the sense of reality in that? You see, this is why I brought up Private Recruit—don’t you disappear on me!”

“No, sir; I’m paying attention.” Devon is determined to gain control over his emotions and the longing he is experiencing for Frank Hunter.

“This is why I brought up Private Recruit Hunter. As a result of his sentence, Frank Hunter is in a unique position. Like the enemy, he thinks outside the wave. This is why he has proven to be such a great asset to this gate. Insisting he be transferred to my gate is one of my best maneuvers yet.” Initially, Frank Hunter was sentenced to the Northern Gate, but when General Birtwistle learned of the private’s extraordinary abilities as a sniper and tactical strategist, he knew he had to have him at his gate. The Midwest Gate suffers the greatest number of attacks. That piece of intelligence and the general’s founding family status were all he needed to wheedle Frank Hunter away from Lieutenant-General Pauloosie. “That young man knows when an attack will occur even before our monitors do. He is always on his game, constantly peering into the horizon through his scope, attentive to nature’s movements and manmade movements.” The general pauses and looks Devon’s way as if to ascertain comprehension in the youth. Devon merely looks bemused. The general harrumphs in response, creating even more confusion in the young man. “There is another aspect about Frank Hunter that distinguishes him from the rest of us.”

“And what is that, sir?” Devon wipes away the sweat starting to drip down the back of his neck. He is beginning to feel like this meeting has become an interrogation.

“He reads.”

“We all read, sir—”

“Not the way Hunter reads. He spends every Sunday in the historic museum, the library, as I’m sure you already know.” Devon’s blush deepens; is the general being coy with him? “He reads books, word for word, line by line, page by page. Most of us just skim the information we get on the wave, listening to the voiceover rather than actually reading anything. Frank, on the other hand,” to Devon it seems like the general is referring to the private as a trusted confident, “well, he absorbs what he reads, thinks about what it all means. And, best of all, many of the books he reads are about the military strategies used over the ages. He studies war. And, like the enemy, he thinks outside the wave.”

“What is the point of all this, sir?” Devon is still befuddled as to the general’s intent.

“Young Hunter came to me with a brilliant idea.” Actually, Frank Hunter has been coming to the general with this idea for over two years, but it wasn’t until Colonel Guillaume de la Chappelle’s last report that the general finally agreed to listen to the young man. Seeing a look of consternation on Devon’s face, the general explains, “Don’t be offended. He is not under your immediate charge, and I have made it clear to all the other officers that Private Recruit Hunter has free rein when it comes to bringing his ideas forth to me directly” (something he only recently agreed to, once again under the persuasion of de la Chappelle). “I will not waste Hunter’s time with red tape and bureaucracy.” The level of respect Frank has garnered from his superior officers stuns Devon. “Now, I was reluctant at first, but he has explained his reasoning quite well, and I am willing to give his idea a shot.”

“And what idea is that, sir?”

“Live skirmishes using blank ammunition. He spoke of something called paint balls that will reveal when a person is injured or killed; some war game they used to play in the twentieth century. Said he’d read about it and thought it would be a great way to train new recruits. Sounds fascinating, really.”

“But that would mean we’d have to base some soldiers outside the Wall?”

“Exactly! As Frank explained it to me, we never think like the enemy because we are always on the defensive.”

“Well, we’re not going to go out there and attack them. They’re the ones always coming to attack us.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” The general is annoyed that Devon is not following his, actually Frank’s, logic. “But we do not anticipate their moves because we never think like they do.” Forgetting now what Frank had said, the general blinks up a cheat sheet to read off. “We never consider what their attacks might be like except based on what previous attacks have been. This is why our soldiers are stymied when an outside gang comes at us with brand new tactics. We must be able to respond to the unknown as quickly and as effectively as we respond to what we have come to expect from them.” Having finished reading Frank’s words, the general looks up momentarily to question Devon. “Are you following me now?”

“Yes, sir,” Devon replies without complete certainty.

“So, we are going to have live skirmishes, two platoons pitted up against each other, with one platoon on the offensive whilst the other must repel it.” General Birtwistle claps his hands together as if all is complete. “Now, you are to seek out Private Recruit Hunter and begin planning the first of these live skirmishes immediately. You are to report back to me as soon as the two of you are finished detailing the plans.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now you can stand,” the general orders. Devon obeys, stands to, and salutes his senior officer. “You are dismissed.” With that said, Devon might as well have disappeared since the general dismisses him from his immediate attention; his eye blinks closed his notes on Frank’s War Games scenario and blinks up an old report about the last attack against the Midwest Gate.

A turbulent explosion of energy forms a tight ball of hot ice inside Devon’s stomach. He will not just be accidentally bumping into Frank; for at least two weeks, he will be working with him side-by-side. The tension is too much to bear, so Devon seeks Frank out, not to discuss their joint assignment, but to ask Frank whether he would prefer it if he were to ask for a transfer.

Devon finds Frank on one of his runs. Knowing he could never catch up with the man, Devon takes the local tram ahead one stop; this way, he can easily fall in line with Frank’s pace. As a result of the run, Devon keeps his sentences short. “We have to work together.”

“I know,” Frank replies. “It was my idea.”

Devon considers this for a moment and wonders whether Frank set this up intentionally. “Maybe I should transfer.” When Frank doesn’t respond, Devon persists, “What do you think?”

“Why do you want to leave?” Although subtle, Frank’s demeanor suggests disappointment.

Devon is beginning to lag behind, so Frank slows his pace to accommodate him. This is something new. Devon is even more confused by Frank’s body language than he is by his words. “I just thought I might be making your life uncomfortable, being, we, you know—and our connection to—and now we have to work together—and, well, anyway, if you would prefer it, I could—”

Frank stops running. Devon can’t help but run past him a few paces before stopping himself. Suddenly, Frank reaches out and grabs Devon’s arm, pulling him in for a kiss. When he finally releases Devon’s lips, all he can say is, “Don’t go.”

Devon is stunned. It takes him a moment to regain his senses. “Okay—I won’t.”

The two men lock eyes—it is as if they have turned into one. Suddenly, Devon blurts out, “I want you.” Three simple words, but poignant and strong enough to reach inside and touch the man Frank desperately tries to hide.

In response, Frank reaches for Devon’s hand and whispers, “Come with me.” Devon is taken aback when Frank leads him into the Historic Museum, through the displays of old northern Manitoba life, into more recent history explaining the purchase and transformation of northern Manitoba into Hadrian and, finally, into a small back room that just happens to be the library museum.