The Shibboleth (31 page)

“You some kind of masochist?”

Now, there's an idea. Maybe I am. But hurting Galine felt too good. They're making me into their own monster.

So I say, “Is that a proposition?”

She blanches, disgusted.

“Hey, you're the ones holding my brother hostage.”

Now she looks uncomfortable. Tanzer glances at Ruark.

Ruark shakes it off. “So you're saying that you just endure the pain of the field—”

“Yeah.”

Ruark looks from me to Tanzer to Negata as if taking a silent vote.

“All right, Mr. Cannon. And since you brought it up, I'll restate now that, yes, we do have your brother. Remember that.”

“Gotcha. I'd like to advise you to not put me in a position where I'll have to do something about it.”

She smirks. “It might be time for you to have a visit with the director.”

“The big guns, huh? Send me to the principal's office? Won't that show, uh, I don't know, that you can't handle me yourself?”

She ignores that, but her ears have turned bright red.

“You are dismissed, Mr. Cannon.” She turns and nods to Tanzer, who taps more on the tablet. The plasma screen comes to life, showing the center of the gymnasium where both Galine and Hollis lean against the warped curvature of the bell.

“Miss Galine and Mr. Hollis, this concludes the testing. An employee will be there to collect you in a moment.” She turns to the door, where Davies and Negata wait. “Remove him.” She jerks a thumb at me.

No MRE awaits me, so I look under the mattress for my pack of
matches, but they've been removed during the testing.

I lie on the bed and wait. I sleep, eventually.

The lights flicker on. I can't tell what time it is or how long I've been sleeping. The door opens to reveal Davies and Quincrux.

Davies waits at the door, rifle pointed at me, and Quincrux limps over, sits on my stool. He crosses his hands over the handle of his cane and peers at me.

“So,” is all he says.

“So what?”

“We have come to this. There will be no more testing. I have doubts that you could bear more anyway.”

He's probably right.

He looks at me. Not smiling, not frowning. No indication of how he feels at all. “Do you wish to remain here, below, in the dark? Or would you rise above, to the world of men?”

I feel hollow. Reamed out. “I'm kinda liking it down here. Easy to sleep late with it so dark.” Because his words make me so glad. I can leave here and never come back. I can feel sunlight on my skin. Wind.

He blinks. “The infrared video indicates to me you are lying. Our technicians have tallied the hours you've spent screaming into the darkness. The total is considerable.”

What? I remember screaming the first night, but not since. “Well, anything to pass the time.”

“My recalcitrant boy.” He sounds almost fond of me. “Will you never relent?”

“No.”

“You will never obey my commands?”

“Never.”

“You would balk even when your brother is at risk? When Mr. Graves is?” He stares unblinking. “What must I do to compel you? Our goals are not so different. We both want an end to the entity in the East. But I must be able to trust you'll be safe among the rest of the members of our society. And they will be safe from you.”

Silence. I bow my head.

Once, I made a mistake. I stole a truck. I took something that didn't belong to me, and so they locked me away from my brother. Because I was selfish. Because I was a slave to my desires. Because I wanted to escape from my shabby prison of a life.

“I offer you one last chance. Will you come with me? Will you obey?”

Vig is strong. He's tough like me. But in the end, the world is tougher. We're born into pain. And Jack is here. Him, I can help.

“Yes.”

“You will obey?”

“Yes.”

“That is good.” He stands. “Mr. Davies, you may lower your weapon and turn off that infernal Helmholtz.”

He extends his hand. I take it. And rise.

“Welcome to the Society of Extranaturals, Mr. Cannon. Mr. Davies will escort you to the surface.”

In the motor pool, the blast doors slowly roll back to reveal the mountainside, burning with afternoon light—I've lost all track of time in the hole.

The world's a riot of colors and smells.

I fall to my knees. It is almost too much to bear, this earth of ours.

Davies grabs my arm and begins to tug me upright, but Quincrux says, “No. Let him weep.”

They watch me as I sob. As I rediscover what it means to be human.

Two Jeeps wait with soldiers at the wheels. Quincrux gets in one, holding his cane, and looks back at me, saying, “Remember.”

I don't need to be told what. I'm placed in the other Jeep, and we drive down the mountain.

We pass through a wooded area, the air rich and refulgent and full of the tang of birch and pine, the hint of rot. The air warms now as the gravel road levels and the land opens up. There's the river passing through like a mist-wreathed ribbon of hammer-worn metal threading its way off to the southeast.

On the inside, I feel like I'm expanding and contracting all at once. A grub that has finally emerged into the upper world. The world of men.

We pass over a bridge and continue on the other side of the river, rising now, passing into the shafts of sunlight, passing through the dappled shadows of trees. Ahead rise steaming buildings, thick and squat and officious looking. I'm reminded of Casimir and its dull brickwork, of Tulaville Psych with its outdated crenellations and rarefied heights. These were someone's idea of what the future must look like, all sleek lines with rounded edges. But the sight of them takes me to a level of elation bordering on mania. It's like a cocktail of all the drugs in the world, just for me. It's like being born again.

A few people walk the grounds, which are manicured in places, in others left to grow wild with flowers and grass. I marvel at that for a while,
people walking free.
That takes some getting used to.

There are bulls—army soldiers here—sitting in a guardhouse as we drive through. At the rear of the house sits another Helmholtz box, and when our Jeep's field passes through its field, the poison in the ether skitters into near-unbearable ranges, like a radioactive sound.

We whip by something that looks like a large apartment building, past a couple of adults in what look like lab coats discussing something near the front doors. One of them gesticulates with a fistful of papers. Then a parking lot full of golf carts and ATVs. It seems cars and trucks—other than the military stripe—are verboten here.

We roll through a massive copse of aspens, tall and willowy, and then up a rise and among more of the campus. All of the
buildings look the same: tan quarried stone, large dimpled-glass windows, archaic lighting.

The few people walking stare at us passing, some in lab coats, some in exercise gear, some in fatigues. I feel another mind touching mine through the ether with butterfly wings, but after a moment the sensation subsides. The guardhouse bulls look at us blankly, and there's a still, morose air about the place. The eastern rim of the valley looks as though it is on fire, the hillside streaked with orange and red and the fierce colors of trees.

Eventually, the Jeep stops in front of a large, blocklike building with many stone steps rising toward antique-looking wooden doors fitted with thick, dimpled glass. A mixed group of teens sit on the front steps, smoking and drinking what look like sodas. Despite the bulls, and the employees scurrying about, it seems that Quincrux and the Society give the kids some slack on the leash.

Davies says, “Get out. This is the boys' dorm.”

I throw a leg over the back and hop out.

I walk up the front steps while the kids stand around, watching me.

They make catcalls and kissing sounds as I take the steps. In juvie they call the new kids “fish.” This isn't too different. I keep my head high, shoulders straight. I've done this walk before; it seems like too many times. I meet their gazes head-on. Some faces seem familiar. Maybe some of them are part of the team that nabbed me on the East River in Manhattan. So long ago.

Again I feel the sensation of insect wings battering at my mind like a moth to an outdoor light. Light and distracting, but not an attack. Not aggressive.

Maybe it's the girl again. The girl I swatted.

The ether thrums and vibrates. I'm entering another Helmholtz field.

The doors are a deep stained wood, and when Davies pulls one open, the hinges creak. A long tiled hallway is revealed, full of echoes. To our right is a sliding glass window like you might find in an old-school pharmacy. I flash back to trigger-happy Steve-O and his Taser. But the guy sitting framed in the open window is in his midthirties, wearing black fatigues. He looks up as we approach.

Davies signs a clipboard, looks at me up and down, and sniffs.

“It's been fun,” I say.

“Yeah. Maybe in a few days your voice will come back.” He sniffs. “Good luck, kid.”