by C. Gockel
“Yes. I remember.”
They stayed all day. Aria wrinkled her nose at the meat and decided it was inedible, but she ate the last of the bread and apples and cheese for lunch. She found a restroom down the hall with working water faucets.
“What books do you have? If we’re going to be here all day, I need something to occupy myself.”
He nodded permission for her to look without rising.
She unzipped his bag and set them on the table, aware of his eyes on her. The first had been blank, now nearly filled with page after page of neat, small writing. She wanted to read it, but wasn’t bold enough to flip through while he watched her so intently. She wasn’t even sure it was all in English.
The next was older, the well-worn leather cover dry and crumbling slightly at the binding. The paper inside was nearly translucent, though stronger than it looked, and it had been carefully wrapped with a long strip of leather to keep it from coming open. She frowned at the cover. There was a symbol and a line of text in some language she couldn’t read.
“What is this?”
“A Fae epic translated into Old Irish.”
“Old Irish?” she frowned. “What is that?”
“I learned it when I was young, from my grandfather.” He smiled slightly at her confused look. “He thought everyone should learn to speak the human languages. That was the one he thought most relevant at the time.”
She set the book aside to look at later. She held two others up for him to identify.
“A book my grandfather wrote about his childhood. And a history book.”
She glanced at him. “And these?”
“Histories.”
Histories of what? She studied the covers. Old, though not as old as the epic. The languages appeared to be different, though she couldn’t read any of them. She didn’t even recognize the alphabets. She took them to the window for better light. “What languages are these?”
“Fae dialects.”
She glanced at him again. “Do you mind me looking at them?”
He sighed, his eyes closed again. “No.”
She opened one book and paged through with careful fingers. The books were well cared for but obviously old and she bent closer. “Was this handwritten?”
“Yes.”
The script shifted between writing so ornate it nearly formed pictures, characters and lines flowing like water through and around each other, and something slightly more akin to English cursive, though the letters were unfamiliar. One page caught her interest, and she followed the curves. “This is beautiful.” Her voice was only a whisper. “I meant to find something to read, but this is art. Can you read this?”
“Yes.” His voice was tired but tinged with amusement this time.
“How many languages do you speak, then?”
A pause. “Eleven? It depends on whether you count several of the dialects as separate languages or not.” He shifted against the wall, eyes still closed.
Aria studied his face. The bruise near his eyebrow had faded slightly, though it was still visible. He’d washed the blood from his face and hands that morning and changed into a new, clean shirt. The pants he’d washed in the sink; he’d reappeared in the doorway after a trip to the restroom and dripped his way back to the spot beneath the window. Now they were damp, as was the carpet beneath him. If he’d been human, he’d have been shivering in the unheated warehouse; Aria was, despite her thick sweater and coat.
He sang again that afternoon.
The sound rose around her like saplings, green and fresh, shot through with golden sunlight. She saw him kneeling again in the stream, cupping the clear water to his face, running wet fingers through his curling black hair. He looked up at someone on the other side of the stream, though she couldn’t see who, and smiled suddenly, a flash of white teeth and a bright, clear smile like that of a boy given an unexpected compliment.
She found herself staring out the window at the gray twilight, her forehead pressed to the glass. And who wouldn’t want that, instead of this? This city is all cold, unfriendly people in cold, unfriendly rain and dreariness. Even when it’s not winter.
Owen rose and stood next to her for a moment. “We should go soon.”
“Where? Do you have a plan?”
“There’s a human population that will take you in. They have no trackers. It’s a hard life, but they find the freedom worth it. I will take you there tonight. They have connections. They can get you outside the city if you wish.”
“I thought you wanted to rescue the test subjects.”
“I will. But I won’t ask you to join me. It’s dangerous, and it’s not your fight. I was wrong to try to use you.” He inclined his head slightly, and she suddenly realized it was a sort of bow.
“I have nowhere to go.” She took a deep breath. “I have no family. I may as well help you.”
She flinched at his sudden hard look.
“This is not a may-as-well. This is my family. This is my people. I may die trying, but it is worth it. If it’s not worth death to you, I don’t want you.” His eyes blazed.
She swallowed hard. “I will help you.”
They moved to another hiding place in the middle of the night. Owen, a little steadier on his feet, led her to a tiny brick building that echoed with the faint sound of traffic from the street. A drizzling rain began to fall just as they stepped inside.
“Where are we?”
“The Summerhouse. It’s one of the oldest buildings left standing.” Owen stopped to catch his breath, leaning against the icy brick for a moment. He led her to a fountain and bent to drink from it, cupping the water in one hand. Then he slid down to rest against one wall, legs bent before him.
“There’s no roof.” Aria stared at him. “It’s raining. And freezing cold.”
He blinked at her slowly. “Is that a problem?”
“For me it is.” She shivered in her coat, wishing she’d thought to bring a change of clothes on this unplanned adventure. Every inch of her felt grimy.
He pushed himself to his feet and led her through a little archway into a tiny enclosed room. He pulled the blanket from his bag and handed it to her. “Use this.”
Aria nodded uncertainly, and he sat down in the doorway, head leaned back against the brick. She finally curled up on the brick floor, wrapped tightly in the blanket. She slipped slowly into a comfortable doze, warmer than she’d expected to be.
Hours later, she drifted into wakefulness, surprised at how cozy she felt. Her arm, crunched beneath her on the hard floor, wasn’t cramped or cold. She watched Owen through half-closed eyes for long minutes. He sat in exactly the same position, head dropped back against the brick, hands resting loosely in his lap. The late-morning sun barely broke through the misty haze to light the empty room behind him.
Why do I trust him?
The question flickered into her mind, and she couldn’t answer it, but she knew she did.
They stayed in their new hiding place all day. Aria paced restlessly a few times, trying to keep warm. Owen went out once, leaving her to hide, and returned with a hot coffee, water, and a sandwich from a street vendor for her. He didn’t eat himself, and spent the rest of the time resting, motionless against the brick.
“What are we waiting for?”
“Nightfall.”
Chapter Four
Aria crouched in the darkness beside Owen. “Now what?”
Owen’s eyes flicked past the gate into the darkness beyond, and then back to the guardhouse. “Talk to the guard. Try to distract him for as long as you can.”
Aria gaped. “What? I’m not good at that kind of thing! I’ll be arrested!”
“Possibly. More likely they’ll throw you out.” His eyes flicked over the gate again.
“What about my tracker? Will they know it’s gone?”
“Unlikely. Most of the guards don’t know about them either, so the sensors aren’t part of standard equipment.”
“What are you going to do?”<
br />
“Best you not know, in case you’re arrested.” He turned to her, blue eyes oddly bright in the dim light. “Last chance to back out. I’ll hold no grudge.”
She took a deep breath. “It’s wrong, what they’re doing.” She nodded firmly, as much to convince herself of her courage as to answer Owen. If he could do his part while still in pain, she could do this simple thing.
“Approach from the street there.” He pointed off to the left. “I’ll meet you at the coffee shop across from Bryson’s afterward.” He paused, then added, “It might be a while.”
She nodded again, and they slipped back through the shadows. He left her at the edge of the road and disappeared into the darkness.
She took a deep breath. What makes you think you can act, girl?
Her shoes crunched on broken glass as she approached the guards. “Hello!” It wouldn’t do to surprise them.
“Hold.” One of the three guards held up a hand. “Identification, please.”
“I don’t have it. I’m sorry.” She spread her hands regretfully. “Well, you see, I haven’t been home all day, and I didn’t plan on coming here. But I’m working on a project for school and hoped you could help me.” She smiled up at the stern guard with her most innocent expression. She could do that one well; she’d practiced it on her teachers when she was younger.
“What do you want?” He was cautious, alert.
She hesitated and looked him over. His nameplate read Ballard, but she wasn’t sure how to read the insignia on his uniform for a correct title. “I’m compiling information on the education and background of security and police forces. Do you have a moment? It won’t take long.”
Ballard frowned at her. “Government analysts are well aware of our background and credentials.”
“Yes, sir, but this is for a school project.” She smiled again, thankful for once that she looked younger than she was. “We’re looking at commonalities in background in people who are motivated to serve in particularly patriotic ways. It’s inspiring, really. It would be very helpful if I could hear your story and how you came to work here.” Her heart was pounding, but she kept her voice light and cheerful.
“Hm.” The guard stared at her for another long moment. “Come into the guardhouse.”
The other two guards shifted position in front of the gate as she stepped into the tiny room. Ballard stepped behind a desk, eyes on her. “What’s your name?”
“Aislin.” The lie surprised her, as did the name itself. Where did that come from?
He frowned and studied her again. “What do you want to know?”
“Where did you go to school? What did you study?”
“You’re not ready to take notes.”
She blushed. “I have a very good memory.”
“North Central Community College. Majored in legal studies and criminal justice.”
She smiled. “A double major! That’s a lot of work. Is this what you planned to do when you graduated?”
His eyes flicked over her shoulder to watch the other guards pace slowly outside. “Not exactly. I hoped to be at Quadrant Headquarters and eventually work up to the President’s staff. But it’s a good starting point.” His voice had warmed a little in response to her friendliness.
He’s too terse. I need to get him talking. Aria tried for a question that might have a longer answer. “Were there any specific experiences that inspired this career path?”
He hesitated and glanced out the window again. The other two guards appeared unconcerned, strolling around in the clear area in front of the guardhouse. “Not exactly. But my uncle—”
The phone rang and Aria jumped.
Ballard picked up the phone. “Front gate.”
Silence. His eyes ran up and down her, cool and professional. She glanced at the walls of the guardhouse, trying to look unconcerned.
“Understood, sir.” He hung up the phone. “Remove your coat and shoes and anything in your pockets. Step through this.”
“Why?” She hung back.
“Colonel Grenidor wishes to speak with you.” His expression was closed, not giving her any clues about what would happen next.
She frowned, trying to look innocently confused. “I don’t need to bother a colonel. I’m interviewing security personnel, not military officers.”
“It’s not a request.”
She hesitated, but finally took her coat off. Maybe it would buy Owen more time. Barefoot and coatless, she felt vulnerable. The contents of her pockets looked forlorn on the smooth desk surface. A gum wrapper. A key ring with three keys on it. A few slips of paper with notes to herself about groceries to buy and research she was no longer doing. She stepped through what she assumed was a metal detector. He frowned at a screen behind the desk.
“Remove your socks and belt.”
She swallowed, trying not to look nervous, and stepped through again.
He frowned at her, but she thought hopefully that his expression looked more thoughtful than suspicious.
“Do you have a shirt on under your sweater? If so, remove your sweater.”
“I don’t.”
“I’ll have to frisk you.”
“Okay.”
He ran his hands along her body in quick pats, up and down both legs, inside and outside. She would have blushed, but it was over so quickly she didn’t have time to be embarrassed. Very professional.
He nodded for her to walk through the screen again.
“Hm.” He glanced at her again and she could almost see the mental shrug.
He made another call. “I need an escort at the front gate. Thanks.”
Then, “Wear this at all times.” He handed her a badge that she clipped to her jacket. She put her shoes back on, toes icy from the cold concrete floor.
They waited in silence. After several minutes, the rear door opened and a young officer near her own age met her. “Come with me.” He didn’t return her smile.
They crossed a large empty space paved in concrete, a line of spotlights against the high wall marching away to each side. Lights flooded the front and corners of the building, a massive six-story structure with a grand entrance. Her escort led her to a side door.
Bland white hallways led deeper into the building. Her escort paused several times to glance at the signs posted at each corner.
“This building is huge. Do you ever get lost?” Aria asked.
“Not anymore. The room notations are pretty logical for the most part. Floor, corridor, hallway, room number. Corridors are more or less north-south, hallways east-west. But there are a few outliers.” He led her down a staircase. “Here.”
The door was one of several in a row with ornate wooden frames and embossed nameplates. She knocked, her heart in her throat.
“Come in.”
She turned the knob and entered. The escort waited for the colonel’s nod before he took off down the hall.
Aria closed the door behind herself, buying time for another deep breath. Then she turned and smiled.
The man was middle-aged, with broad shoulders and the beginning of a potbelly just showing beneath his crisp uniform. He stood to greet her with a firm handshake and nodded to a chair. He glanced at a stack of folders and adjusted them slightly to align with the edge of the desk.
Aria sat, her knees together and her hands tucked between them. She forced herself to sit back and try to look relaxed.
He smiled at her coolly. “So. Aislin. An interesting name.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He continued looking at her, unhurried and thoughtful. “How did you come by it?” he said finally.
“My mother thought it was pretty.” She smiled innocently.
“You were asking the guard questions. Why?”
“I’m doing research for my thesis.”
“Your thesis?”
“Yes, sir. I’m doing research on the Revolution. What makes people want to serve in patriotic ways? I’m interviewing security personnel, but it would be ver
y helpful if I could get your perspective too, sir.”
His skepticism was clear, his dark eyes amused. “An interesting story. I’ll humor you for now. Have you any particular questions?”
Aria was sure her panic showed on her face. She stammered, “Well, not exactly. I’m just beginning my research so I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“Do you always interview people without pen and paper?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry I’m not more prepared, sir. I do have a good memory, though, and I’d be happy to show you the final draft to ensure I don’t get any of the details wrong.” She tried for a confident tone despite her nerves.
He licked his lips and gazed at her thoughtfully. “I graduated from the Army Academy in 2065 with degrees in biology and psychology. My first assignment was in the technical arm of the 91st. Subsequent assignments focused on research in nonstandard biology and alternate models of sentience.” He watched her face as she frowned.
“Nonstandard biology?” Her confusion wasn’t feigned. “Like mutations?”
“Something like that.” Again, a neutral gaze on her face.
“And alternate models of sentience? What does that mean?” She tried to look innocently interested. “Robotics?”
He smiled slightly. “More like cultural studies with layers of psychological and sociological terminology on top.”
“Hm.” She frowned. He wasn’t giving her much to work with. “What was your most interesting project?”
He glanced down at something in his lap, fiddled with it, and then looked up again with a slight, amused smile. “When I was at the 70th, we did a study on the Cherustin people in the Himalayas. They believe that the spirits of their ancestors can be heard in the wind. Not too surprising, I suppose, since the winds howl through the mountains there. The spirits are believed to be trapped in nets left out for the purpose and carried with them to each new campsite to be set free to guard the living. Interesting, but not entirely bizarre. What was more intriguing was how the ancestor spirits were enticed to provide their protection—”
The phone rang on his desk. He picked it up after one ring, his eyes remaining on her. “Yes?” His mouth tightened as he listened for a short moment. “Yes. Thank you.” He set the phone down and smiled at her coolly for a long moment before continuing. “Oh yes. The ancestor spirits. Their cooperation was bought with a sacrifice of blood. A chicken, a goat, it didn’t really matter, but they wanted fresh blood every night.”
