Lesser Gods (34 page)

Cindy, who had accompanied the Knights in order to save the front door from being battered down, called to us in the living room, “Adrian! Laila! Are you alright?”

“What’s going on?” I asked. “What happened?”

“Where’s Alia?” asked Cindy.

“She’s fine,” I replied. “What happened, Cindy?”

“There was an attack in the lobby. We’re not sure of much else yet, but the Knights thought that they might have been trying to get in here. They sounded the alarm for you.”

“Were they Angels?” asked Laila.

“Most likely.”

I said, “But if they were after you, Cindy, they’d probably know you were down at the party.”

Cindy didn’t reply so I pressed, “Wouldn’t they?”

“Like I said, Adrian, we’re not sure exactly what happened yet,” said Cindy. “You’ll just have to wait for the reports to come in.”

I heard Alia’s footsteps run toward Cindy and guessed Alia jumped into Cindy’s arms. I could still hear the sounds of several Guardian Knights walking about, reporting to a unit leader whose voice I didn’t recognize.

“How far did the attackers get?” I asked.

Cindy replied, “They were stopped in the lobby. There was little chance they would get up here. We have much better security these days.”

“Still, Mr. Baker’s going to ask you to accept a new live-in bodyguard.”

“He’ll ask, I’m sure,” Cindy said casually, “and I’ll tell him to go find Terry.”

I laughed lightly. “At least we’re all okay.”

The phone rang, and Cindy answered it to Mrs. Brown. They talked for a minute, and then Cindy passed the receiver to Laila. The short of it was that, despite this “minor incident,” the peace envoy would depart as scheduled, and Laila was to be given an armed escort home. As the Knights left the penthouse, Laila bid us goodnight, but I accompanied her down to the basement parking lot.

“I wish I was going with you, Laila,” I said. “But I’d probably just slow you down.”

Laila gave me a quick peck on the cheek and whispered into my good ear, “Take care, Adrian. I’ll call if I find her.”

“Godspeed, Laila,” I whispered back. “Be safe.”

Chapter 11: The Last Sky Guardian

We had to wait until the end of New Year’s Day to get the full story on the lobby attack, or as much of it as we were about to get in the short term.

Two non-psionics residing within the New Haven hiding bubble, with no known connections to any psionic faction, had entered New Haven One from the front door. When stopped by building security forces, they opened fire with concealed pistols, injuring one Guardian Knight. Both intruders were shot to death.

Fearing that a larger, better-organized attack might be imminent, NH-1 Security had activated our penthouse alarm to make sure that we were out of harm’s way. And that was all there was to the incident itself, but mysteries remained.

“It appears to have been a suicide attack orchestrated by a pair of Angel puppeteers,” Cindy explained to me in the living room after Alia had gone to bed. “They commandeered the two men’s bodies for the attack.”

“So the men who were killed were totally innocent,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Yes,” replied Cindy. “The puppeteers were probably very close to our building in order to maintain control over their puppets, but neither Angel was found.”

“You’re sure it was the Angels, then?”

“No, but Mr. Baker thinks it’s unlikely that any lesser faction would have the means to do something like this.”

“Were they after you again?” I asked anxiously.

“We’re still not sure,” said Cindy, “but neither of the attackers had an elevator key, so unless they planned to steal one from someone in the building, they weren’t trying to crash the party downstairs.”

“Were they after me? Alia? Laila?”

“All very unlikely, Adrian,” said Cindy. “For starters, the value of you three to the Angels would only be as hostages, and besides, if they wanted to kill any of you with suicide puppets, they would have a much better chance doing it outside.”

“Then what about the telephone call?” I asked. “Somebody wanted to know whether anyone was home last night.”

“We all agree that the call was suspicious, but we still don’t know who placed it. If the pair was really coming up here, then the most likely target was Terry.”

“The invalid?” I laughed, remembering the Guardians’ stupid cover story about Terry being paralyzed from neck down. “The Angels still believe Terry is living here?”

“We don’t know how complete or incomplete their information on us is, but it’s possible.”

“But why would the Angels want to kill Terry?” I asked, and then added, “Any more than usual, anyway.”

“We’re wondering the same thing,” said Cindy. “We still don’t know. One of the few things we’re sure of is that the Angels knew their chances of success were next to nil. That’s why they used puppets rather than risking their own members.”

“Why do it at all if they know it would fail?” I asked.

“The Angels might have just been testing our defenses. Or, as the Council seems to think, the whole thing could have been a symbolic attack.”

I gaped at her. “A what?”

“A kind of sick New Year’s prank to remind us that they’re still here.”

I didn’t need reminding. “Are we getting another bodyguard?”

“Possibly,” said Cindy, “but nothing has been decided yet.”

Maybe not for Cindy, but there was one thing I had decided: if this ever happened again, I wasn’t going to stand by and let Laila do my shooting for me.

Right after breakfast the next day, I went to the game room and retrieved Terry’s spare pistol from the pool table. Back in my bedroom, I attached my proximity sensor to my left ear. Alia came in as I was double-checking the safety on the pistol.

“Are you going somewhere, Addy?”
she asked in my head.
“What’s with the gun?”

“We’re going down to the shooting range today, Alia,” I informed her.

“We?”
she asked apprehensively.

“That’s right. So if you’re not dressed yet, get dressed.”

Alia remained silent for a moment, so I said a little sharply, “Come on, hurry up!”

“I thought you didn’t like the idea of me learning to use a gun,”
said Alia, but I heard her rummaging through her dresser for her outdoor clothes nevertheless.

“I’m not going to teach you to shoot, Alia,” I said. “You’re going to teach me. And you can’t tell Cindy just yet.”

“Why not?” asked Cindy.

“Cindy!” I cried in dismay. “That’s not fair! You’re supposed to announce yourself when you come in the room.”

Cindy laughed. “You hardly gave me the chance, Adrian. Besides, if you had been paying more attention, you would have heard my footsteps.”

I sighed. “I should’ve closed the door.”

“So you’re going to learn how to shoot a gun blind now?” Cindy asked skeptically.

“I just want to know if it’s even possible,” I said, embarrassed at how absurd that sounded. “I felt so helpless the other day.”

“I understand,” Cindy said gently. “If it makes you happy, go ahead and give it a try.”

“Thanks.”

“Just try not to shoot yourself, okay?”

I grinned. “That’s why I’m taking Alia.”

The shooting range was empty when Alia and I arrived, or at least, I couldn’t hear any gunfire. I hadn’t been in here since my talk with Mr. Simms before we shipped off to the Holy Land, but back when I was sighted and regularly training with Terry, I used this room almost daily, so I knew my way around. Whenever I could, I always took the lane closest to the exit, and today was no different. I considered guns a necessary evil, and I liked the idea of being only a few steps away from anywhere but here. Sharing my dislike of firearms, Alia hadn’t been in here with me more than a handful of times, but she knew where the spare ammunition and paper targets were stored. I couldn’t levitate her, so Alia had to climb onto my shoulders to clip a fresh paper target onto the ceiling-mounted rail.

“Set the target ten yards downrange, Alia,” I said.

Alia worked the switch that operated the rail in our lane, and I heard the motor whirring for a few seconds before she announced,
“Okay, it’s ready. Ten yards.”

I wasn’t actually worried about accidentally shooting myself, but I needed my sister to adjust the target distance and to tell me if I hit the painted man.

I faced the target, turning my head slowly and listening for the high tone from my humming earpiece. At ten yards, the tone difference between the far wall and the target wasn’t particularly noticeable, but there was enough variation to tell when my face was pointing at the target.

Holding the pistol in both hands, I tried to visualize where the target was. Slowly, one bullet at a time, I fired the gun empty.

Alia had remained silent so I was pretty sure I had missed every shot, but I asked her anyway, “Did I hit anything?”

“I think you nicked the target in the next lane,”
she told me.

“That’s encouraging,” I said sarcastically. “How far down is that target?”

“About twenty-five yards.”

“Bring mine up to five yards please,” I said as I loaded a spare clip and checked the safety.

My sister worked the rail switch, and then gave the front of my shirt a little tug.
“Ready, Addy.”

“Stand back,” I told her. “Stay behind me.”

“Okay.”

Listening again for the high tone, I fired a single round at about where I pictured the target to be.

I heard Alia jump.
“You hit it!”

“Where?” I asked. “Did I hit the painted man?”

“No,”
said Alia.
“You hit the white part on the top left corner.”

I fixed my elevation and squeezed off another round. “Tell me when I hit the man.”

“You’re close,”
said Alia.
“A little more to the right.”

Another shot.

“Too much, Addy. Bring it back.”

I moved my head, listening again to the proximity sensor’s rising and falling tone to see if I could locate the center of the paper target. But as I did, I felt my earpiece tilt slightly downward. I put the gun down on the side table and adjusted the device to make it fit more snugly on my ear. This wouldn’t work if the sensor was pointing a different direction every time I took aim. I wondered if it might be better if I somehow mounted the sensor on the barrel of the pistol like a laser sight. That way, I could be assured of the direction.

There was another problem, though. For the moment, I was firing at a stationary target, but in real life, no one would just stand there and wait to be shot. If a moving target were to quickly cut across my field of audio-vision, I would hear the low tone become high for an instant and then become low again, but that wouldn’t tell me which direction the target was running. Perhaps I could get another sensor for my right ear. That way I could listen to the distances in stereo, which would allow me to better track a moving target. Stereo audio-vision might enhance my performance in other daily-life aspects as well. But how could I mount one of these on my jagged right ear? Maybe a pair of lightweight headphones wouldn’t be too impractical.

Alia broke into my thoughts, asking,
“Addy? Are we done?”

“Let me just finish off this clip,” I said, picking up the gun again.

“I really don’t like this noise.”

“Neither do I, Alia. Now hush so I can concentrate.”

I fired the gun empty, but according to my sister, I only hit the painted man twice, and that was at a mere five yards. It wasn’t a very promising beginning, but I nevertheless decided that I would pursue this little challenge at least until Laila returned.

Over dinner that evening, I explained to Cindy my desire for a stereo sensor, playing down its usefulness in combat as a bonus extra and focusing on the practical applications such a system would offer. Cindy probably didn’t buy my excuse, but she agreed to have the Guardians create a headset with proximity sensors on both sides.

“If it’ll help you catch a Frisbee, it’ll be worth it,” said Cindy.

“How long will it take to make?” I asked.

“We’ll have to ask the tech department,” replied Cindy. “Your earpiece took a week, but I think a headset would actually be easier to build since it doesn’t have to be light enough to mount on a single ear. They might even be able to extend the battery life. Are you going to practice shooting again tomorrow?”

“I’ll wait for the headset,” I said.

“Good, because it’s a warm winter this year and the snow won’t last forever.”

The snow that began falling on New Year’s Eve had continued for a day and a half, leaving a pretty thick cover over New Haven, but Cindy was probably right in that it wouldn’t last. The next day, I helped Alia make a family of snowmen in one of the park’s clearings. Even though it was a Sunday, Cindy couldn’t join us, but at least my sister seemed happy to finally get some time alone with me outside.

It was wet snow, ideal for packing and rolling into large balls. I rolled the large base snowballs while Alia made the heads and gathered twigs and stones for the arms and faces. We made one snowman representing each of us, Terry, Laila and Cat included. Once the six snowmen of varying sizes were lined up along the jogging path grinning at the few passersby, I turned to Alia and said, “Let’s make one more.”

We did, and placed it at the end of the row.

“What do we call this one?”
asked Alia.
“Is this Mark?”

“No,” I answered quietly. “This one is Grace.”

I’m not sure exactly when I started to reflect upon the story that the Slayer Charles had told me of his younger sister, but it was probably sometime near the end of November. At first it was a fleeting memory, as easily dismissed as the leaves on an autumn breeze. But then one night, Charles’s words had echoed through my head during a dream I had. “First they raped her. Then they tortured her. Then they burned her alive. Grace was six years old when she died.”