by Ty Drago
I knew.
“Before that girl,” she said, “and after that girl … it was my brother and me. But for a time—a long time—she and Tom kind of … well, you could tell there was something there.”
I said, “She liked him.”
“Well, yeah,” Sharyn scoffed. “But that always happened. Still does. Girls dig my brother. It’s something I’ve gotten used to.”
Then I got it. “Except this time he liked Jillian back.”
“Straight up. Started spending more and more time with her. He didn’t dump me, but I began feelin’ like a third wheel. Jillian didn’t want me around, that was plain. Not when we was training, not when we was eating, and especially not when they snuck out for their little ‘walks.’”
I tried to picture the chief feeling that way about a girl, the way I felt about Helene. After all, why not?
Sharyn said, “I guess I hated her, and that ain’t a word I throw around. She’d gotten between my brother ’n me, and that wasn’t cool. Not a bit cool. It wasn’t fair to either of ’em. I dig that. I mean … folks are allowed to like each other!”
“Yeah,” I said.
“One of the worst days of my life was when Mr. P’s crib got shut down … but there was an upshot, ’cause it meant she’d be gone. Tom was pretty messed up about it. He didn’t say so … he never says so, but I knew. It took a long while, but he finally stopped mentioning her, and so I figured he’d gotten past it.”
“And now Jillian’s back.”
Sharyn nodded. “And she’s a Seer.”
“She’s good, Sharyn,” I said. “I’ve seen her in action. That parkour stuff she does is amazing!”
“Free running!” the Angel Boss scoffed. “Studied on it back under Mr. P’s roof. Don’t see much use for all that runnin’ and jumpin’ in real combat.” Then she groaned. “I know it shouldn’t piss me off … but it does. Seein’ her’s brought back all the old memories. My brother’s already looking at her the way he did in the old days. Know why he went off with Chuck to rescue y’all? ’Cause Helene mentioned her name on your radio. Then he was out the door like a shot! And no First Stop for his Jillian! Oh, no. It’s straight to Haven. Straight to the chief’s side!”
“Do you really think she might be a mole?”
Sharyn sighed. “No, she ain’t a mole. Amy’s test works. Besides, the Queen don’t use moles, not like Kenny Booth did. Fact is: Tom and me been talkin’ about maybe shutting down First Stop for good. All that stuff I said, that was just me bein’ pissed.” She met my eyes. “Why, Will? Why’d that mysterious lady of yours have to pick me for this gig?”
“No idea,” I replied. “She just said you were going to Washington and that I had to go with you.”
“Nothing about what to expect?”
I shook my head.
“That’s messed up.”
“Yeah. But she’s always been straight with me before. She told me about the Anchor Shard … told me it would heal you after you got hit in the head.” Then, after a pause, I added, “I trust her.”
Sharyn didn’t reply.
We got to DC’s Union Station just after lunchtime, and were met by a guy in a suit holding up a sign with our cover names on it.
He took us, luggage and all, to a waiting car—the first time I’d ever been in a limo. Sharyn, too, judging by her expression. Ten minutes later, the long car dropped us off at a big, white structure with a sign in front of it: dirksen senate building.
The lobby was small and kind of old-fashioned—lots of wood and well-worn tile. The Capitol police standing guard took our cover names. Then our escort led us up to the fourth-floor offices of James Mitchum, senior senator from the great State of Pennsylvania.
Mitchum was old. Really old—fifty, maybe. He had bags under his eyes and hair so gray it was almost white. His office wasn’t as big as I’d expected, but it had a nice view of the Supreme Court Building across the street.
Suit Guy introduced us and then left.
Wordlessly, Mitchum motioned for Sharyn and me to sit in the two guest chairs at his desk. We sat while he studied us—his expression neutral. Even Tom could’ve taken some “poker face” lessons from this guy.
When he finally spoke, his voice rumbled like thunder. Good for giving speeches, I supposed. “Hugo Ramirez saved my life once.”
After a pause, I replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Your name is Andrew?”
“Andy. Andy Forbes.”
He turned to Sharyn. “And you’re Kim Baker?”
She nodded. Then, remembering herself, she replied, “Yes, sir.” Her Philly accent was there, but she’d managed to dial it back. Still didn’t quite fit the suit though.
“All right kids, let me explain a few facts of life. You’re both here because I owe Hugo Ramirez a debt I can never repay. I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that it would require such a debt for me to overstep my boundaries as I have in this situation. Normally, I don’t recommend pages. And, even if I did, pages are never accepted mid-term. Now what I would like to know is why Ramirez has taken such an interest in you both that he would pressure me to break that rule. You first, Ms. Baker.”
This was it. This was where we found out if the co-chief of the Undertakers, the boss of the Angels crew, and one of the best fighters I’d ever met could rise to a totally different challenge.
Sharyn didn’t say a word.
Seconds passed. A lot of them. Too many of them. As I watched, Mitchum’s scowl seemed to take up permanent residence on his face and start raising little scowls. I glanced at Sharyn, who sat rigidly in her chair, her eyes focused on nothing.
The senator cleared his throat.
Should I answer for her, or would that just make things worse?
“I … understand, sir.”
But that didn’t come from me. It came from Sharyn, who licked her lips and continued. “Sorry, I’ve been sitting here tryin’ … um … trying … to figure out how to explain this. See, Hugo … he’s my godfather. My parents kicked … uh … passed away last year and, since I’m still underage and got no … I mean, don’t have any other family, they was … were … going to drop me into Hugo’s … charge.”
Then she smiled a broad “Didn’t I totally nail that?” smile.
Mitchum regarded her. “Yes, but you’re not in Uncle Hugo’s charge just now … are you, young woman?”
Undaunted, Sharyn replied, “That’s ’cause … because Uncle Hugo’s on sabbatical and can’t look after me just now. So we talked and he suggested this here … the page program. He says that’ll keep me out of troub … I mean, productively occupied until he’s back.”
The senator listened to Sharyn’s cover story like a man who listens to all kinds of crap all the time. Of course, Sharyn’s explanation had been set up in advance. Mitchum could call Ramirez and get the whole thing verified—and something told me he might.
Finally, with a curt nod, he focused his attention to me. Despite myself, I squirmed a little. Some people give off an “I like children” vibe. Jim Mitchum wasn’t one of ’em.
“And you, Andrew?”
“Andy,” I corrected.
“Andy. How old are you?”
“I’ll be sixteen in July,” I lied.
“You don’t look it.”
“I get that a lot, sir.
“What’s your story?”
Ever lie? I don’t mean lying to your parents to get out of chores, or saying you’re going to spend the night at some friend’s house when you’re really planning to sneak into an R-rated movie. I’m talking about lying when something real is on the line, when people are counting on you to do it—to sell it. I’m talking about lying when your life may depend on it.
If you have ever lied like that, then I’m sorry, because it’s a terrible thing to have to do. And it’s even more terrible when you discover that you do it well.
I did it well, much better than I had when I’d lied to Sharyn on the train. And, believe me, that’s n
ot pride talking. Pride’s got nothing to do with it.
“My dad was an FBI agent … Uncle Hugo’s partner. He got killed during an arrest. Since then, Uncle Hugo’s watched over my mom and me. But my mom … well, she’s got a problem with alcohol.” I felt my eyes fill with tears. Every word tasted bitter, like a betrayal. I’d practiced this speech with Helene, but it’d never hit me like this.
Because this time wasn’t a rehearsal.
“I’m on the student council at Chapeltown High. Debate team, too. Uncle Hugo always told me, when the time came, I might consider applying to the page program. But I missed the window because my mom …” My voice trailed off—as if there was more but I just couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“I understand,” Mitchum said. Then he sat back and looked hard at us both. “I’ve read your essays.”
We said nothing.
“They’re excellent. Very different, of course. But excellent. You two wouldn’t be sitting in those chairs if they weren’t, regardless of my debt to Hugo Ramirez.”
Neither of us had written anything. The Hackers had put those papers together based on page program essays they’d somehow dug up on the Internet.
“Do either of you know why I bring this up?” the senator asked.
Sharyn replied, “Yes, sir.”
“And why is that, Ms. Baker?”
“Because you want to us to dig … know … that you know that we deserve to be here. That it isn’t pity and it isn’t a free ride. That this is an opportunity, and a rare one.”
At that, Mitchum came perilously close to smiling. “Very good. Though I have to say, your writing style and your speaking style seem rather at odds.”
Sharyn grinned. “That’s what my language arts teachers always say.”
More silence. More looking us over like we were insects and his eyes twin magnifying glasses.
“Very well, then,” he said. “One of my people will drive you to the page residence and introduce you to the proctors who run the program. After that, you’re out of my hands. Clear?”
We both nodded.
Mitchum stood. He was tall and imposing—probably made his living being tall and imposing. “Welcome to Washington, kids,” he declared. We both stood as well and shook his hand. “My reputation is on the line here. So I don’t expect either of you to cause any trouble.”
“Trouble?” Sharyn replied. Then, God help us, she winked at the man. “Us?”
Lilith Cavanaugh
“What’s your name?” the Queen asked from behind the desk in her sixth-floor City Hall office.
The giant tried to answer, but the brick jammed deep into the center of his face seemed to hamper him. Nevertheless, with considerable effort, he managed to croak, “J—ohn T—all, Ma—am.”
“John Tall,” she echoed. “Your name is Tall?”
He nodded.
The creature before her stood nearly seven feet in height and wore a host body that had met its death at least five weeks ago. He was Warrior Caste, a class of Malum bred more for strength and loyalty than intelligence. And this particular specimen seemed especially dull. Most Malum favored average-sized human hosts, as this simplified the task of finding replacements—rare enough these days.
John Tall was an exception. He liked them large; the bigger the better. In his six months since crossing the Rift, he’d inhabited, worn out, and then replaced four bodies, and getting the next was becoming more difficult. Most human males, after all, weren’t as big as he’d like them to be.
Still, for all his imposing size, the Queen was pleased to see how he trembled before her.
If only the brick in his face didn’t make him look like such a fool.
Humans wouldn’t see it, of course. His Cover would prevent that. But still, why hadn’t he removed it before now?
“Take that out, John Tall,” she said.
Obediently, he reached up and tugged at the brick. It came free in his hand with a squelch that would probably have made most humans vomit. A moment later, his weakened skull broke apart—and John Tall’s brains spilled out onto the floor. A moment after that, his helpless body followed it.
And that’s why he hasn’t removed it before now, the Queen thought.
Yet he’d done so at her command, without comment or complaint. Impressive.
“I have a gift for you,” she said to the body sprawled across her carpet. Then she issued a command into her desk intercom.
Two minions, both morgue workers, carried a body bag into her office. They laid it across the rug and unzipped it, revealing the week-old cadaver within.
“I acquired this for you, John,” Lilith said. “Knowing your … tastes. It stands six-foot-ten inches and, in life, weighed three hundred pounds. Now, Transfer. We have much to discuss.”
The fresh giant in the body bag opened his eyes and sat up. John Tall raised his massive new hands and flexed them. Then he grinned with satisfaction.
“You honor me, Ma’am,” he said.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” the Queen replied. Then to the minions, “Get that other sack of meat out of here.” They hurried to obey.
Tall rose on his new legs. His fresh body wore jeans and a flannel shirt, both a bit ragged but serviceable.
“Ma’am?” he said.
“Yes, John?”
“Can I ask where you found this?”
She smiled. “Our people examined hospital records looking for a desirable candidate. This host underwent surgery … some minor human ailment … and his height and weight were noted in the computer. Then it was simply a matter of having someone pay him a visit in the middle of the night.”
“I’m very grateful,” Tall said, bowing low.
The gesture pleased her. “Good. Because I need to rely on your gratitude … and your loyalty. A delicate task is before you.”
“I am forever your servant, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
“Sit.”
He sat.
She settled herself behind her desk, resting her hands on its polished surface. It was a human gesture, which she instantly regretted. Her own body was approaching three weeks’ dead, and the skin tended to stick to varnished surfaces.
“How much do you know of the Washington Project?” she asked.
“Nothing, ma’am,” he replied. “Just … talk. A small, select group of Malum working on a secret effort to grab federal power.”
“Crass but accurate.” Then, over next several minutes, Lilith detailed the operation: goals, risks and, most particularly, recent developments. Tall listened without comment, which she liked. Then, when she’d finished, he asked just one question, which she also liked.
“How can I help you, ma’am?”
She said, “I want you to assume a key position among our people in Washington. A place has already been arranged for you with the Capitol Police.”
“I understand,” he said.
“No you don’t, John. Your mission will, of course, be to destroy the abomination by any means necessary. You will also either discredit or kill any human witnesses. We cannot allow this knowledge to become public.”
“Of course not, ma’am.”
The Queen studied her huge minion. She was taking an awful risk here; she knew that.
“John … do you remember the last time you were in this office?”
His host’s eyes remained as milky and lifeless as ever, but those of his Cover, which Lilith could easily see, turned wary. Tall’s projected illusion was, unsurprisingly, that of a huge man, his body thick with muscle and his head shaved bald. Intimidating. Effective. As this was the image he chose to show the world, no wonder he favored such large hosts.
“I do, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
“Please remind me,” she said.
He trembled again. Good. “I was one of the guards assigned to that captured FBI agent. The Undertakers … they attacked and defeated us.”
“Agent Ramirez, yes. As I recall, you were the only survivor.”
“Uh … yes,
ma’am.”
“And how were you disciplined for that failure?” she asked.
His trembling increased. “My host’s arms and legs were cut off and I was left alone in a dark place … to consider my mistakes.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. “And how long did you remain in that condition?”
“A month, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
“A long time.”
He nodded, looking terrified now.
“The other day, on South Street, weren’t you among those hunting the Birmelin girl?”
“Ma’am, I—”
“Yes or no, John.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And how did that effort turn out?”
“We … lost her.”
“To the Undertakers, I believe?”
He nodded again.
“Another failure,” she said.
“Yes, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
“And one I’m willing to overlook.”
Hope flickered on his Cover’s face. “Thank you.”
“But in return for that act of generosity, I require something from you.”
“Anything, ma’am!”
“While you’re in Washington, you will have a special … duty. You will tell no one. You will elicit no one’s help. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ms. Cavanaugh!”
“Good. This is sensitive, John. And it’s vital.”
“I will not fail, Mistress!” he said, so eagerly that he’d used her Malum title, which he knew was forbidden. The Queen noticed the slip—but, given the circumstances, ignored it.
She said, “I want you to destroy my sister.”
“I don’t like people getting what they want through political favors. That means I don’t like either of you.”
Lex Burnicky berated us in the foyer of the Daniel Webster Senate Page Residence, a three-story brick-fronted former funeral parlor in northeastern Washington, about six blocks from the Capitol. It was a nice place, what little we’d seen of it so far: lots of wood molding and area rugs.
Lex was one of four resident “proctors”—mostly poly-sci grad students who’d landed gigs as watchdogs for the thirty pages involved in the program each term. They reported to the program director. Lex was short, with narrow shoulders wrapped inside a suit and tie. His brown hair was thin and he sported what he thought was a mustache. Looked more like a dead caterpillar to me.
