by Robert Reed
“He wants to be a hero,” Porsche didn’t say.
Nathan set the padded bat on the table, then asked point-blank, “How often does this happen to you people?”
The Neals bristled.
Then with stiff certainty, Mama-ma replied, “It never happens.”
“Never,” Leon added, for emphasis.
But how would we know? Porsche wondered. We barely know what the Few are doing on the earth!
“All right,” Nathan persisted. “What is it that makes Trinidad so special?”
Special.
Once said, the word seemed to linger in the bright gray air.
Father glanced at Mama-ma, saying, “No, let me.” Then with a mixture of authority and grim embarrassment, he said, “There have been incidents. Warnings. When he was a boy, and later.”
Was he speaking to Nathan, or their captors?
“He’s always been comfortable with lies,” Father continued. “Grandiose notions. A certain self-possessed quality mixed with thrill-seeking.” He sighed and looked at his daughter. “You were closest to him, once. How would you describe Trinidad?”
“Strong-willed,” she admitted. “With a strong-willed father.”
Embarrassment kept eating at her father. “He’s my brother’s boy, which is why I know what I do. Things not mentioned publicly.”
“Such as?” asked Donald.
Mama-ma touched Father on the forearm, lending encouragement.
“While we lived on Jarrtee,” he continued, “the boy stole a full set of keys and tried to open an intrusion.”
“When?” blurted Porsche, genuinely startled.
“It doesn’t matter,” Father claimed. “He didn’t get the chance, and your uncle handled the incident privately.”
The crime was worse than her disaster with Jey-im, but what bothered Porsche—what made her cold inside—was that she had never heard about it. Uncle Jack wouldn’t tell her, naturally. But Trinidad hadn’t hinted at it, much less boasted, and he was more her brother than were the two men sitting with her now.
“And it happened again here,” Father admitted, squinting at a distant point. “After we saw their family in Yellowstone…”
Even Mama-ma looked up, startled.
“The same stunt?” asked Leon.
“Except that time he succeeded.” There was a slowly boiling rage that made it easy for Father to add, “That boy was a nightmare for my poor brother. He had to track him across worlds, then drag him home again. And afterwards, he had to embrace all the blame that he possibly could.” His eyes returned, and he blinked again and again, grumbling, “I see now that Jack was too patient. Too kind.”
“But Trinidad has been so much…better…” Mama-ma was trying to be gracious, or honest. “For years now, he’s been a model son.”
“Dear,” Father purred, “I think the evidence says otherwise.”
Silence.
“And my brother was so proud of him, too.” He fidgeted, then said, “Obviously, he was too patient and much too forgiving—”
“Uncle Jack is neither of those things,” Porsche snapped. “He can be a brutal fuck, frankly.”
Wounded, Father claimed, “You’ve never understood him.”
“And another thing,” said Porsche. “How can we be sure that Trinidad’s acting alone? That there isn’t an accomplice?”
That brought an icy quiet, a deep introspection.
Porsche glanced at the children. The young Hispanic soldier was standing among them, calmly slicing open the plastic packages with a long military knife. In normal circumstances, he would look like any decent person. But she noticed his grim expression and how he never quite looked at the young faces, trying hard not to make them real.
Then Father summoned his usual hopefulness, telling everyone, “For the time being, I think we should cooperate with these people.”
Everyone looked at him.
Then he pulled a hand across his mouth, saying, “And you’re wrong about Jack, I think. I hope.”
“When Jack Finds Trinidad this time—” Mama-ma began.
There won’t be any forgiveness, everyone thought to themselves, in a silent, prayful chorus.
6
Spartan meals were delivered to the tent, a cold lunch followed by a bland dinner. The soldiers bringing the food were bombarded with questions, and each left without betraying so much as a meaningful look. Then night fell, and there was nothing to do but curl up on the hard cots. The midnight arrival of another helicopter flotilla rattled nerves. By morning, they were sharing the mountainside with at least three hundred soldiers. Showers and toilets were available only by appointment. There were no more clean clothes, and diapers were being rationed. During breakfast, F. Smith and a pair of high-ranking souls paid a visit, and the bulldog woman told the prisoners that everyone would be embarking for Jarrtee as soon as the final arrangements could be made. Then she gave Porsche a little glance, and without another word, she and her companions retreated.
The children’s adventure in travel had already lost its luster. There were tantrums that morning, and in the afternoon, there was a bat-wielding fight between Clare—a fearless little competitor—and her cousin Gregory.
The mood was little better among the adults.
Trinidad was the subject of endless discussions. Childhood memories were resurrected, often more than once. Porsche offered the occasional story or clarification, but most of the chatter came from her brothers. Finally, working together, their wives steered the conversation toward more immediate concerns. What was Jarrtee like, and how did its people live? Then they made the oldest children listen to the stories about the old home world. If everyone was going there, wasn’t it reasonable to be forewarned?
Only Timothy didn’t join in the general chatter. He sat alone in the loneliest corner of the tent, staring at the fabric walls or closing his eyes, feigning sleep.
Cornell tried to encourage him, but the man simply covered his face with both hands, ignoring the prattle.
In the late afternoon, Porsche approached. Timothy was lying on his back, on the desiccated earth, and she kneeled and said, “I know it’s hard.”
Nothing.
“And grossly unfair,” she offered.
The man stirred, pulling his hands away from his face, blinking and looking past her, saying nothing.
“Blame me,” she suggested. “I didn’t keep my promises.”
Timothy’s face had the wasted quality of someone in the throes of a terminal illness. But the eyes became bright and strong, suddenly focusing squarely on her, and with a certain relish, he said, “Fuck you.”
She took a turn at silence.
Then he groaned and covered his face with the crook of a long arm, telling her, “You couldn’t make promises, and you fucking well can’t take the blame, either. Bitch.”
Porsche rose and turned.
Suddenly it was warm beneath the tent, and stale, and astonishingly bright; every person made to look small, drowning in the hot, brilliant air.
At dusk, the wind shifted, bringing the stink of a wildfire. Every breath tasted of black ash. Military rations had an unintended smoky flavor. Even in sleep, the fire laced its way into Porsche’s dreams. Waking suddenly at two in the morning, she remembered seeing a smoldering ruin; she had been walking through the ashes, searching for something that she couldn’t quite bring to mind.
“Po-lee-een,” someone whispered.
She tried to sit up, discovering a hand on her arm.
“Po-lee-een,” Trinidad repeated. He was squatting next to her cot, his breath without odor, his body freshly rebuilt after a transit through an intrusion. “Remember how we used to wander the City together?”
She nodded, smiling despite herself.
“Let’s do it again. Like old times.” The charming grin showed nothing malicious, nothing unkind. “How about now?”
She told him, “No.”
Her cousin watched her in the filtered moonlight, meas
uring her.
“Give it up,” was her advice.
“Do you think I can?”
“Easily.” She waited for a moment, then added, “Just turn and walk away. I’m sure you can find someplace to hide.”
“I probably could,” he conceded.
A buoyant little hope was forming. She glanced at the motionless figure on the cot beside her, wishing that Cornell would stay asleep.
“Nobody would ever find me,” Trinidad assured, something dreamy about his voice, his manner. Then he glanced over his shoulder, laughed, and shook his head. “Too bad I didn’t think of that earlier.”
A whistle sounded, piercing and close.
Soldiers carrying lanterns began to file inside, and the familiar voice of Farrah Smith called out, “It’s time now. Everyone, please!”
“Too bad,” her cousin repeated, mocking her.
And Cornell, apparently lying awake all this time, listening to everything, reached up and shoved Trinidad onto his butt. “Yeah,” he concurred. “It’s too bad.”
Latrobe was waiting in the meadow, holding a mug to his face, steam rising as he sipped loudly, with exuberance, relishing the earthly treasure.
Porsche smelled coffee.
“Good morning to you, Miss Neal.”
She said nothing.
“And Mr. Novak, too. Good idea. Keep close to your woman friend.” Latrobe grinned. “We’re glad for volunteers. Real talents like you are so rare.”
Cornell looked tired, but composed. Wary, but unperturbed. With a quiet voice, he asked, “How much of a talent are you?”
“Fair,” Latrobe answered.
A quiet, self-deprecating laugh took Porsche by surprise.
“He’s being modest,” was Trinidad’s assessment. “He’s not a pure talent, but he’s got talent in his bones.”
Latrobe finished his coffee, handing the mug to one of the nameless soldiers who seemed to be everywhere, eager for work. Then he whispered into the same man’s ear, sparking him into a quick, determined trot.
The silhouettes of prisoners and guards swirled together inside the tent, in the lantern light. She didn’t want to watch her family being herded along. “Are we going to stand here all morning?” she snapped. “Or are we getting to work?”
“Fine,” said Latrobe. “Off to work then.”
They walked uphill, armed men shadowing the foursome. Over the last few days, a roadlike trail had been pounded into the long ridge. Without snow, the landscape was unfamiliar. She had never been here before, she could tell herself. This was the wrong ridge, and probably the wrong mountain, and Trinidad was leading the agency into an elaborate, unimaginable trap.
For a few moments, she could almost believe that lie.
Then they arrived at the glass disk, black and slick and very familiar. Porsche recalled the nameless woman kneeling over the molten glass, warming her hands. She remembered her cousin throwing the snowball, striking her. It seemed like a pivotal moment, and if she could somehow change the play of those events…nothing would be any different today, she realized. Nothing would change.
Latrobe lifted his hand, saying, “We’ll wait for a moment. I’ve asked someone else to join us.”
With a quiet excitement, Cornell whispered, “Look.”
To the east, crawling their way along the next line of mountains, were towering orange flames and a black wall of newborn smoke. The wind was in Porsche’s face. She could smell the blaze, and even at this distance, she could see its relentless advance.
Anticipating a question, Latrobe promised, “This site is safe. No need to worry.”
“It only looks like a wildfire,” Trinidad added. “It’s really about as tame as your backyard barbecue.”
Nathan was right; the conflagration was planned.
The first murmur of people could be heard working its way up the ridge. “Who are we waiting for?” asked Cornell.
Latrobe strolled up to Cornell, and paused. He was shorter but more massive. Despite the chill mountain air, his shirt was opened down the front, dark matted hair covering his chest. “Frankly, I was thinking of using you. But you’re a talent, and you have experience, and a good strong back—”
There was a sharp little moan from below.
Everyone turned, in one motion. Two men appeared, including the soldier who had taken Latrobe’s coffee mug. With an exhausted voice, the second man asked, “How much farther?”
“You’ve arrived, Mr. Kleck.”
Latrobe bounced forward, offering his hand.
Timothy stared at the hand, then at the glass disk. Then he took a long, clumsy step backward, in panic.
“Now, now,” Latrobe clucked.
“What do you want with me?”
“Your scintillating company.” The man had a bully’s laugh. “Well, whatever the reason, I asked you to join us. So why don’t you join us? Please?”
Timothy glanced at Porsche, pleading with his eyes, his slope-shouldered stance.
Latrobe was behind him, one hand suddenly shoving him in the back. He relished his work. With a wrestler’s instincts, he countered his victim’s attempts to slip right or left. Dirt and rock slipped underfoot. Then Timothy’s big feet were skating across glass, finding no purchase, slipping out ahead of him as his frantic keening voice began shouting, “No, no! Stop, please!”
In the center of the disk, six scrupulously ordinary objects—the keys—were set in a wide circle, held firmly in place by the invisible intrusion.
Timothy’s feet slipped between two of the keys, suddenly vanishing.
His voice became louder, and senseless, finding a rhythm and holding it. He tried to strike Latrobe, long arms flailing, the fists glancing off the shoulders and a forearm and gallons of dark air. Then his body was inside the intrusion, and he looked downward, struck mute in an instant, gazing in terror at the image of twisting space.
With a flourish, Latrobe gave a final strong shove, and Timothy vanished.
He smiled, saying, “Your friend would appreciate some support from his friends. Since he’s stuck now in a very strange place.”
Then Latrobe stepped forward, vanishing.
And suddenly Porsche was running, charging past the guards and up onto the glass, leaping feet-first back into Jarrtee.
7
A fierce rain struck Porsche’s face and slick newborn body, yet she barely noticed. Permeating the rain was a brutal wind, like a great hand shoving her sideways, and it was inconsequential. There was mud underfoot and a lush blue-black forest on all sides, but she saw none of it. Nothing existed but a searing white light that fell from everywhere, piercing the rain and trees, and the world. And Porsche looked at her own silver-white body, struck blind by the radiance, eyelids shutting in reflex, the full strong hands of a grown woman flung over the jarrtee face.
Lightning sliced overhead, seeping between the bones of her fingers.
A rolling thunder pressed down, forcing out breath and blood, and Porsche nearly stumbled, taking a half-step backward before she found her gait, prying her hands off her closed eyes, then reaching out, trying to see by touch.
Her right hand brushed against a jarrtee arm, then a jarrtee’s robust neck.
Through her hand, she could feel the person screaming. Then the thunder dissolved, and she heard his scream, shrill and endless, and pitiful.
Porsche gave the neck a hard shake, and she shouted, “Quiet,” again and again. Then she said, “Timothy,” with her new mouth, the name mangled but recognizable. And pulling his ear hole to her mouth, she repeated, more softly, “Quiet.”
He understood the word, the new language. The shock of that was enough to silence him.
“You are fine. Alive, and fine,” Porsche assured him, opening her eyes enough to see his silhouette, thin for a jarrtee, utterly hairless, silhouetted against the rough, purple-black trunk of a twanya tree.
Her uncle had once stepped from behind that tree, startling her.
Someone else stepped from b
ehind it now.
The jarrtee man was clothed in black pantaloons and a hooded gray-black shirt, his face covered with an impenetrable mask of night-colored glass. He was carrying two sets of clothes and twin masks, and without sound, he offered one of each to Porsche.
She dressed in a rush, fumbling with the jarrtee snaps before her fingers remembered the tricks. Then she held the mask against her face, and through tearing, sore eyes, saw maybe a dozen men emerging from the forest, a pair of them calmly and efficiently grabbing Timothy, each holding an arm and inexplicably dragging him toward the twanya tree.
Nothing about Timothy struggled, except for his face.
He fought to keep his eyes down, and closed, his newborn mouth managing to call out a single jarrtee word:
“Mercy!”
Nearby, a thickly built jarrtee man pulled on the second pair of pantaloons, then donned the day mask, fastening it to his face in an instant, every motion crisp and expert.
Latrobe.
He sounded like Latrobe, yet the voice was unmistakably jarrtee. As his shirt went over his head, he ordered Timothy secured. “But loosely. Nicely.” His men pressed Timothy’s back against the trunk, then stretched his arms out on either side, wrists and ankles lashed together with silken ropes. Adjusting the hood with one hand, he gestured with the other, saying, “Relax. It’s almost over, relax!”
What was almost over?
He said, “Give him a drink. Now.”
There was another searing bolt of lightning, but Porsche’s mask absorbed and canceled the brutal glare.
Someone appeared on her right, eyes shut, walking out of the intrusion. She didn’t need to hear a voice to know him. “Trinidad,” she muttered, and for an instant, she was ready to fight. Fists and feet, if need be. Anything to hurt him. But a second figure emerged behind him, staggering with his first muddy step; in a louder voice, she cried out, “Cornell!”
