A Rumor of Real Irish Tea (Annals of Altair Book 2)

by Kate Stradling

  “You twisted son-of-a—”

  “Language, Emily,” he admonished before she could finish her insult. “There’s a child present.”

  “You really are a piece of work, Birchard,” said Oliver.

  “Thank you,” Ben said mildly. “I’ve worked for quite some time to become what I am. Do you have any idea how much practice is required to gain resistance toward projectors? And then, after you get that, you have to practice acting like they’re affecting you so that people who are looking to see whether you’re resistant can’t tell that you really are. Years of my life I lost to gaining that trait alone. It paid off in the end, though.”

  “You want an award or something?” Emily asked.

  He laughed agreeably, not in the least fazed by her sarcasm. “I wouldn’t mind one. I never thought I’d make it this high up the administrative ladder. Becoming Genevieve Jones’s personal assistant was like being handed the entire organization on a silver platter. I had access to everything that happened, and I could pass the pertinent information along as needed. I was such a good little ghost, but then General Stone had to come along and ruin everything. I was a moth who got too close to the flame. The minute he chose me, my days were numbered.

  “But then to have another ghost show up at that warehouse siege—that hit me hard. I don’t have a clue how many of us there are, but it stands to reason that when one is discovered, any others in the organization are under greater risk. Luckily, Stone kept his attention on the Phoenix GCA staff. I half-worried that Altair might leave me to fend for myself, since they’d already used their resources to get rid of the ghost of Thomas Fry. I knew my exit would have to be of a different sort than his.”

  His countenance suddenly changed, solemn and pensive. “It’s all right, though,” he said absently. “I’ve lived past my usefulness, but I can take heart knowing that I was very useful indeed.”

  The van came to a sudden halt. Emily glanced through the front window to the interior of an empty parking garage.

  “You ready?” Smith said from the front seat, and he turned to hand Ben another tranquilizer gun.

  “Does it matter?” Ben asked as he took the weapon. He shifted his attention to his two captives. “Last chance, Oliver,” he said.

  The driver’s door opened; Smith disappeared outside the vehicle.

  “Never,” said Oliver hatefully.

  “I thought as much,” said Ben with a shrug, and he fired the tranquilizer gun.

  Emily shrieked as Oliver toppled from his seat, unconscious. “You monster! What have you done?”

  “Believe me, it’s far more merciful to tranquilize him,” said Ben grimly. He set the empty gun down on the seat beside him. “It’ll save him some trauma.”

  “When you carry him off against his will?” she accused.

  His expression turned caustic. “Unlike the GCA, Altair doesn’t force anyone to do something against his will, even if they believe it’s better for him. Oliver stays with you here in the van. Don’t worry—they’ll be along shortly to rescue you.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot me?” Emily asked. “Why does everyone else get a tranquilizer?”

  “Someone has to be the messenger,” he said. Then, to her utmost astonishment, he leaned in and gently kissed her forehead. “Sorry,” he whispered, and he retreated to the back door. He didn’t look her way again; her last view of him was the back of his gray suit before the door slammed shut.

  “You’ve outlived your usefulness, Ben Birchard,” said a voice outside. Smith had left his window halfway rolled down, Emily realized with growing confusion.

  “Yes,” Ben calmly said.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” he said again. “Goodbye.”

  Gunshots—real gunshots, three of them—cracked the air and echoed off the concrete of the parking garage. The metal panel next to Emily’s head dented with the impact of a bullet. She cringed into her seat as her blood ran cold.

  In the aftermath came a horrible, deafening silence.

  “Get the body moved, quickly,” said the unknown man. It took a moment for Emily’s brain to register the sounds that followed: something heavy being dragged, people grunting as they hefted it from the ground, a car trunk slamming shut, an engine starting and a car driving away.

  Logically she knew what had just happened. Emotionally, she refused to acknowledge it. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, and she dimly realized that tears were spilling down her cheeks. She sat as though in a trance, unseeing, uncaring. It was only a few minutes before wheels screeched against the concrete outside, but it felt like an eternity.

  There were sirens and shouts, and footsteps running toward her. The back of the van was thrown open, and Emily flinched away from the sudden brightness. A pair of headlights shone directly on her.

  “Get those people out of the vehicle!” General Stone bellowed.

  Her eyes strayed to Oliver, unconscious at her feet, to Alyson in the back corner, and the two GCA agents sprawled in their seats. Her whole body was in shock, unable to move.

  The agents began to drag the unconscious people out of the way. Someone jumped inside and grabbed onto her arm, pulling her toward the exit. Emily forced herself to go with the man. They helped her get down. Someone removed the handcuffs from her hands. They were a blur of nameless faces. The only image that truly stuck in her mind was the large, smeared bloodstain next to the van.

  General Stone was beside her, she realized in her odd lack of focus. She looked up at him helplessly. “They killed him,” she said in a hollow voice. “He wasn’t useful anymore, so they killed him.”

  “Get this woman back to the office for questioning,” General Stone callously ordered one of his men. “And put out an alert for a fugitive matching Ben Birchard’s description!”

  “He’s dead,” Emily protested with growing hysteria. “They killed him!”

  “Get her out of here!” cried Stone again.

  XXVI

  The Long Ride Home, Part 1

  August 11, 2:42pm cdt, somewhere in the Midwest

  It was blatantly illegal for four children to ride in the back of a double-cab truck, because there were only three seatbelts there. The man who was driving didn’t seem to care, and neither did the young woman in the passenger’s seat. If they didn’t have a problem with it, the four Wests certainly wouldn’t complain.

  “We’ll be there in another ten minutes,” said the driver. “Pumpkin, can you hand them those file folders now?”

  “Sure, Dad,” said his teenaged passenger. She pulled four blue files from beneath the cage that sat between them. The raven within cawed at the slight jostle, which caused her to jump. “Here ya go,” she said as she handed the files to Hawk just behind her.

  He flipped open the first only to shut it again and hand it to Honey. The next went to Happy. He paused at the third one. “This profile is for a fifteen-year-old,” he said.

  “We fudged on your age,” said the driver. “We’ve found we can get away with up to two years’ discrepancy. You and your brother are now both a bit older, so try to act like it.”

  “I can drive next year,” Hawk said to Hummer as he handed over the last file.

  “I can drive right now,” Hummer retorted. “Just not legally.”

  “You keep the laws in this new life,” the driver said abruptly. “You’re not allowed to do anything that’ll draw attention to yourselves.”

  “And we really get to stay together, all four of us?” Hawk asked.

  The man grunted. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Noah and Jacob—that would be you two older boys—are live-in hired hands. You’ll notice your Career Aptitude Assessment scores indicate that you’ll make perfect farmers or ranchers. That CAA allows you to be entered into an apprenticeship instead of finishing out formal high school. You’ll walk away with a specialized degree in farming—and who knows? You might even like it.

  “The McGill farm, where you’ll be living, has been family-o
wned for nine generations. The current head-of-family, Jay McGill, has a wife, Helen, and a two-year-old daughter, Grace. We’ve doctored their records to give them an older daughter and son, Mia and Aaron. The Rural Population Retention Act allows farming families in communities of fewer than five thousand people to have three children, so this won’t raise any red flags.”

  “Mia McGill,” said Honey with satisfaction at how the name rolled off her tongue.

  “From now onwards, Jefferson, Franklin, Madison, and Washington West no longer exist,” the driver said. “In order to ensure your safety and that you remain hidden, you’re never to use those names again. Understood?”

  “We never used them anyway,” said Hummer. “But what about Hawk, Hummer, Honey, and Happy?”

  The man glanced up into the rearview mirror. “What you call yourselves in private is none of our concern.”

  “And what about our parents?” asked Hawk.

  “The McGills will call you by your new names.”

  “I meant our real parents. When can we start looking for them?”

  “When you’re eighteen and legal to be off on your own,” he said. “There’s a word out on the Altair network, and if anything turns up, we’ll let you know.” He brought the truck to a sudden halt and turned stern eyes upon them. “I cannot emphasize enough that Jay and Helen McGill are putting their lives and the life of their daughter at risk to take you four in right now. Do not do anything rash.”

  “We’d never,” said Hummer innocently.

  The man started the car forward again. “We’ve heard of some of your antics, even out here in the sticks. You’re in our hands now, though, and you’re going to have to trust us.”

  “That’s fair enough,” Hawk said for the rest of his siblings. They had no room to complain. Altair had successfully extracted them from the clutches of the GCA. They had parted ways with Quincy back in Phoenix, and over the ensuing week, they had been adeptly smuggled through half a dozen places, passed from one Altair cell to another without incident. They had been clothed, fed, and now they were going to have a place to call home, for a few years at least. It might involve some extra work, but Hawk liked animals and Hummer liked machines, and both could be found on a farm. Honey and Happy would have the freedom to run and play, and they’d be able to grow without the threat of the GCA constantly looming over their heads.

  There wasn’t a whole lot more that they could ask for.

  The surrounding land was painfully flat and populated entirely with fields of corn and wheat. They were so far removed from civilization that it had been several miles since they’d seen a farmhouse, let alone a person. The little dirt lane that the truck finally turned down looked like something out of an era long past. A cheery arch overhead welcomed them to McGill’s Family Farm, established 1873. The blue farmhouse and bright red barn were nowhere near that old, and were kept in very good condition.

  The driver pulled to a stop in front of a wide white porch and honked a staccato rhythm on his horn. “Down you go to meet the folks,” he said to the kids as he climbed out and opened the door for them. “You need to memorize the information in those files and then keep them somewhere safe. Mr. McGill might know a good spot.”

  His daughter descended from her side with Revere’s cage in hand. This she set aside to pull four duffle bags from the truck bed—clothes supplied by their cell for the newcomers. She handed each to its appropriate recipient as they came around. Up on the porch, a woman opened the screen door and emerged. Her expression was a strange mixture of eagerness and hesitation. Behind her came a curious two-year-old girl in the arms of her smiling father.

  Hawk’s duffle bag hit the ground. “Mom,” he whispered in shock. “Mom! Dad!”

  Four children scrambled forward, met halfway by their tearful parents, who embraced them in a reunion long overdue. Emotions choked any words they tried to speak, and for several moments the family simply clung to one another in joy.

  “I can’t believe you’re really here,” said Sara West when she finally regained her voice. “Oh, my sweet Happy! You’ve grown so big, and I missed it!”

  “Everyone, grab your things and come inside,” said James West, unsuccessfully fighting his tears. “We have your rooms all ready for you. We’ve had them ready for ages.”

  Next to the truck, Revere cawed his indignation at having been forgotten. Hawk trotted back to flip the latch on his cage door, and the great black bird immediately flapped out of its confines and up to the rooftop.

  The nameless man and his daughter watched as the family waved their gratitude and disappeared into the farmhouse. “Did you know those were their real parents, Dad?” asked the girl as she wiped her eyes.

  “Are you kidding?” he replied with a soft smile. “It was all I could do to make those people stay put when that kidnapping story broke a month ago. The whole reason we placed them here was so that they could have a place for their other children, if the opportunity ever came. And, against all odds, it did.”

  “But you said that this farm has belonged to the same family for nine generations,” she argued.

  He grinned. “The eighth generation Mr. McGill and his wife were unable to have children, but they didn’t want to lose the farm to the government. So, we created a couple of sons for them a few decades back. On paper, it is nine generations, and that’s all that really matters these days. Come on now,” he said, and he put an arm around her in a fatherly hug. “Let’s go home.”

  They climbed into their truck and drove away, knowing that all was right with the world in this little corner, at least.

  XXVII

  The Long Ride Home, Part 2

  August 12, 8:15am mdt, in transit to Prom-F

  The midnight plane ride and two-hour morning drive were so familiar to Emily’s mind that she thought she had been transported back in time by two weeks. Maggie Lloyd met them at the airport with the same greeting and the same packaged pastries for their breakfast. Oliver shunned his in the same way, and Emily couldn’t manage to swallow anything past the first bite.

  At least they hadn’t spent three weeks in confinement this time around. There was no question of Emily or Oliver being responsible for the events that had taken place on the night of the fourth, but both of them had been subjected to multiple interrogations to glean as many facts as possible. Emily had received counseling for trauma, too. She understood what Ben had meant when he said the tranquilizer dart was a mercy to Oliver. The sickening sounds of gunshots and a body being dragged still rang in her ears, and when she closed her eyes she could see that blood smear on the concrete.

  It had matched the DNA profile they had for Ben Birchard, one of the GCA agents had confirmed. Emily didn’t understand. Ben had served Altair superbly, if the chaos he caused was any indication, and in return they disposed of him like yesterday’s trash. Furious as she had been with him moments before his death, he didn’t deserve that. His sorrowful face as he left the van remained fresh in her memory. He had known what was coming and accepted it readily.

  That made even less sense to Emily.

  Alyson went back to Prom-F three days earlier, or so they said. Emily hoped the nervous young woman didn’t receive any censure for coming back without her student. Alyson couldn’t have stopped Quincy from jumping ship, even if she had been conscious at the time. No one could have stopped it. The plan had been too well orchestrated.

  “You’re to go straight to Principal Gates’s office when we arrive,” Maggie said as she turned off the highway onto the road that led to campus. “You’ve been excused from your first period, Oliver.”

  He grunted a wordless acknowledgment, his gaze fixed on the scenery beyond the window. Emily studied him with a frown.

  Did he regret his decision not to leave with the other kids? Would he regret it someday?

  Soon enough, Prom-F loomed before them. They left the car and climbed the stairs. The reception area was as unwelcoming as ever.

  “Upstairs with you
both,” said Maggie. “No need to keep the principals waiting any longer than necessary.”

  “Principals?” Oliver repeated, his keen ears catching the plural of that word.

  Maggie nodded. “Principal Jones arrived last night especially to speak with you.”

  Oliver bolted forward, renewed energy in his steps as he mounted the staircase. Emily kept pace behind him, silently praying for the little boy not to get his hopes too high. There was no telling what Principal Jones might say to him, but the chances of him being transferred back to Prom-A seemed almost nonexistent.

  They stopped outside Principal Gates’s office long enough for Oliver to straighten his clothing and smooth down his hair. When he was sufficiently composed, Emily knocked on the door. A voice within bid them enter.

  Principal Gates sat at his desk, and Principal Jones stood behind him. Both of them looked more somber than usual. “Shut the door, please, Ms. Brent,” said Principal Jones, and Emily meekly complied.

  “Well, Oliver,” said Principal Gates, “we’ve heard you had quite the adventure.”

  Oliver stood at perfect attention, but Emily could see the fidgets in his fingers. “Things didn’t go as planned,” he said in what was possibly the understatement of the century.

  Principal Gates and Principal Jones exchanged a glance. “We’ve decided that it would be better for you to remain here at Prometheus-F,” Principal Jones said emotionlessly.

  He started. “But—!”

  “Our agreement was that you would return to Prom-A when the Wests returned to Prom-F,” she reminded him. “The Wests didn’t return to Prom-F, though, did they?”

  Emily took a jarring step forward, unable to stop herself. “But they were never going to return. General Stone was going to take them straight to Prom-E.” The pair of principals exchanged another glance, and reality struck her full in the face. “You… knew that all along, didn’t you.”