A Method Truly Sublime (The Commander)

by Farmer, Randall

  Polly took a sip of sweet tea, her favorite vice. “Focus Teas requested the Council not to interfere. The request was made to me, through Jill, and was not pretty.” Meaning a threat of the use of force or the use of blackmail materials. “I was also requested not to bring this up in Council, which I’m disregarding. All of you need to know what’s going on, so you know it’s in your best interest to stay as far away from this situation as you can. I believe you may be receiving calls from your friends and backers over this issue to influence you, and to ask for perilous favors; I hope you now have enough information on the subject to at least know what the stakes are.” She paused and turned to Tonya. “And that’s the last we’re going to speak on this subject. Tonya, I believe you have a report on our old friend Focus Abernathy and what she’s been up to?”

  Tonya fidgeted with her papers while she thought. Suzie and Wini had to be spitting kittens over the Hancock matter and it was part of her and Esther’s job to represent Suzie and Wini’s interests on the Council. She snuck a peek at Esther. Esther was enraged but not speaking.

  No, Tonya couldn’t think of anything to do about the situation. Teas was likely already in the CDC’s facility, where Tonya should be right now if the Council’s directives had been followed. Inserting herself blindly into this internal faction fight among the firsts would be plain stupid. She needed more information.

  “Friends, I have a sad story to tell,” Tonya started. At least the story of the mutie mill episode would be long enough to let everybody calm down.

  Abernathy’s slave pens weren’t the problem. The Council’s job would be to make sure the media didn’t find out, and, more dangerously, figure out who was behind Abernathy’s scheme. The mastermind couldn’t be Abernathy, who couldn’t find her own ass in a phone booth if she sat on a tack. Tonya suspected one of the first Focuses, but they had all denied it, one way or another. Including Suzie Schrum, the President of the Northeast Region, who had been just as surprised as Tonya had been when Ackermann and Rizzari had sprung the news on them back in the December regional meeting.

  Tonya hoped Rizzari had caught Suzie’s buried livid hostility, or the Northeast Region would soon be down one Focus and need a new Vice President.

  Carol Hancock: March 10, 1968 – March 11, 1968

  “Hancock!” McIntyre said, an attention getting bark.

  I looked up from where I sat on the grimy cell floor. No, I hadn’t gotten my new cell yet. They were still working on the security modifications. Enough steel and anything became Arm proof, in their eyes. “Huh?” I had been talking, answering questions. Or had I? Keaton and Hank Zielinski had sat in, or so I thought. Hallucinations again.

  “That’s the third time you’ve gone through this elaborate song and dance of yours about this alleged Officer Canon person’s attack on you in Philadelphia.”

  I massaged my temples with my right hand. The world swam around me and I took a deep breath. “Oh, okay. I believe you. I’m not feeling well.” No lie. “All this healing I’m doing ran through most of my juice.”

  McIntyre grunted. “Your count’s 96. You’re not supposed to go dysfunctional until it’s down to 90.”

  Dammit. Arguing numbers when dysfunctional wasn’t useful. “I told you and the doctors I have these problems at higher numbers than I should.” I did want to be cooperative. “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t have to fake being broken right now. Yes, I could attack McIntyre and kill him before he twitched twice, a pointless victory buying me nothing but pain. I wasn’t sure I would be able to escape out of the cell if the guards held the door open for me.

  “How about I ask simple questions and you give me simple answers?”

  I gave McIntyre a conspiratorial smile. “I can live with that.” I was breaking him, seducing him to the idea that Arms were people, too. Not an easy process; experienced willful law enforcement officers resisted the more subtle uses of my predator effect. However, I had been around him long enough to learn him thoroughly. Given enough time I would get him to the point where he would free me on his own, bucking his superior officers.

  “Where’s Keaton’s current home?”

  A question easy to answer with truth. Keaton was good. “I don’t know. She left Philadelphia when I graduated and she’s always been the one who’s contacted me, since. Hey, I just thought of something. Her new answering service ladies speak with a Guatemalan accent. I wonder…” I concocted a specious story about Keaton being out of the country, all based on excessive speculation. I nurtured a thousand of these bits of excessive speculation and I doled them out as slowly as possible.

  Night in the Detention Center was deadly quiet, even to my ears. Sleep, though, still came rough. Bad dreams of evil clowns warring with Madonna figures and evil princesses dressed in white. Dreams starring Keaton, almost all from the first few months of my training, when I didn’t understand how to avoid giving offense. Dreams of Bobby and I screwing. Those were the good ones, but they had become corrupted: Bobby always died in them. I worried that even if I escaped from this place, the bad juice here would have driven me mad.

  I still didn’t dare pray.

  About three in the morning I gave up on rest. I had a growing problem, or set of growing problems, due to my incorrectly healed left shoulder. Its range of motion was limited and I couldn’t exercise it as I needed. Which meant the shoulder muscles were atrophying, following the Zielinski dictum on Arm muscles that the muscles you use grow and the ones you don’t do not. I risked hypertrophy in many of the surrounding muscles, from compensation. In addition, because of my left shoulder and the confined nature of my cell, I couldn’t exercise the rest of my muscles sufficiently to keep my old muscle problems at bay. So I starved myself, to lose muscle mass all over my body.

  I needed to figure out my left shoulder. I poked and prodded, creating a visualization of its structure. The shoulder wasn’t dislocated; my humeral head was lodged in the glenoid socket as it should be. Only, if I wasn’t mistaken, the glenoid socket itself had healed about 20 degrees off true. More poking and prodding produced incredible pain and a hypothesis that both my scapula and my clavicle had healed into a warped configuration, because of the way the Feds chained me up for however many days the Feds took to transport me here. Yet more poking and prodding convinced me I had a second structural problem in my left shoulder: my rotator cuff muscles and tendons, shot away while I lay bleeding on the pavement after my takedown, had somehow split in two lengthwise when they regenerated.

  I was well and truly fucked.

  I waited until mid-morning and most of the way through the day’s medical tests before I brought up my problems.

  “Dr. Wilson,” I asked. “May I have a moment of your time?” He might not know shit about Arms but his ignorance was at least honest.

  He looked up at me from his paperwork and waved away an orderly to meet my gaze. He did have years of experience dealing with (I couldn’t say ‘caring for’ with a straight face) other Transforms, including Focuses. Like Zielinski he had some immunity to my blandishments, likely from his experience with Focuses. Unlike Zielinski he was both still employed and still trusted by the Feds.

  “Certainly, Carol. It’s a pleasure to talk to you,” he said, lying like a rug. Deep in his mind he still believed my ability to talk closer to the skills of a parrot rather than a human being, despite how I peppered my commentary with medical lingo.

  I explained my shoulder problem. “Would it be possible for you to surgically fix it?”

  “Technically, yes,” he said, after a pause. “I’ve done similar regeneration-based surgeries to Focuses after car crashes and falls. Practically, no.”

  “What’s the issue?”

  “Without anesthesia this operation is far too dangerous.” For him. “I can’t immobilize your left arm and still be able to fix your shoulder.”

  I bet Zielinski would be able to.

  I had also forgotten about the immobilization part. I wasn’t sure I would be a
ble to fake my cooperation to the level of allowing myself to be tied down. Well, shackled down, with thick steel, to be more precise.

  I thought for a moment and came up with an inspiration. “How about if I told you how to get around that problem?”

  “I’d like to hear about your idea,” Dr. Wilson said. McIntyre did as well, coming over to peer over Dr. Wilson’s shoulder.

  “In a few days I’m supposed to be getting juice,” I said. I didn’t want to explain this, but anyone who read my St. Louis records would know already, so I didn’t give away any secrets with this information nugget. “After I get juice I’m helpless for an hour or two afterwards.” Unless some damned Chimera raped me. “Would it be possible for you to do the surgery while I’m indisposed?”

  Dr. Wilson turned to Special Agent McIntyre. “Is this so?” Wilson not only didn’t know anything about Arms, he hadn’t read up on us, either. He should. For grins Keaton had procured the official report on me from St. Louis; she had used it to puncture my ego, but I had found the report hilarious. In a grim sort of way.

  McIntyre smiled. “Totally helpless, and when she comes to, she’s so horny she would even screw you, Wilson.”

  Wilson shivered and backed off; I don’t think he did sex of any variety, including self-administered hand jobs. “Well, if you’re willing to vouch for my safety, I’ll do the surgery. Understand, Mrs. Hancock, this will be painful and will involve rebreaking bones and removal of muscles. You won’t be able to use your shoulder for days afterwards.”

  “Uh huh. Just make sure they get pinned into the proper orientation and my body will do the rest.”

  Or so I fervently hoped. The number of ways this might go wrong, in a place so choked with bad juice, boggled my mind. On the other hand, not getting my shoulder fixed would lead to my death, especially if I stayed confined in this hellhole.

  No angst this time, no hesitation. Choosing between bad options had become a specialty of mine.

  Gilgamesh: March 10, 1968 – March 11, 1968

  “She hasn’t left,” Gilgamesh said. This was his first phone call to Shadow from California, from a phone booth among a rank of several outside the Transbay Terminal in San Francisco. An AC Transit bus rumbled by as he spoke, spewing black exhaust. A Greyhound followed immediately behind. A lot had been going on since the last call. He had sent his letter, exchanged phone calls with Sinclair, and sent another two letters out, pleading with Occum and Ezekiel for phone numbers so they could be in closer communication during the crisis. He didn’t expect he would get either phone number.

  “Who hasn’t left?” Shadow said, and paused. “Good news, Gilgamesh. I got word from Sinclair. Hancock is in the CDC’s Virginia Research Complex, in their Transform Detention Center. I also managed to get Sky’s Toronto phone number for you.”

  “Thanks.” Gilgamesh didn’t say he already had contacted Sinclair on his own. Sinclair had been driving near the eastern locations on Shadow’s list since Gilgamesh last called Shadow. Sinclair had found Tiamat three days ago. Perhaps it was a little rude of him to test Shadow this way, but even though Gilgamesh acknowledged Shadow’s leadership as a Guru, it still would have been foolish to trust him blindly. Treating Shadow so poorly should bother his conscience, but Gilgamesh was tired of being meek and mild, and tired of continually letting others talk him into holding back. Officially, Crows had no leaders. Shadow was a Guru, though, and the Gurus, the teachers of Crows, earned their titles by attracting Crows to them. According to the common wisdom on the matter. Gilgamesh suspected more to the story, but as a young Crow, no one would tell him.

  “The ‘who’ is the Skinner. Stacy Keaton.”

  Shadow paused. “Have you contacted her in person?” Wary.

  “No, just by letter. So far.” He had looked over the Skinner quite carefully once he arrived in California. She had gone to ground. No organization, no contacts with anyone he could see. Spooky. In Philadelphia, she had a large organization of normals she ran around, mostly criminals. Seeing a Major Transform as powerful as the Skinner go to ground put Gilgamesh on edge.

  “Good,” Shadow said, relieved. “What did you tell her, anyway?”

  Gilgamesh smiled. “I wrote the letter on stolen paper, using gloves, so she wouldn’t catch my scent. I slid the letter under her door when she wasn’t home, so she couldn’t trace me. I addressed it to ‘SK’.” He read the rest of the letter to Shadow, leaving out Tiamat’s location.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “How did she react?”

  “Poorly. I think she realized how much I understand about her to say even that much, and she didn’t like it at all.”

  “Did she try and track you down?”

  “Absolutely she tried to track me down. She’s still trying. But after I dropped off the letter I’ve stayed at least four miles away from her house.” The time since he slid the letter under the door had been terrifying. He had given her almost nothing to work with, but knowing so didn’t help. He couldn’t sleep, instead watching her constantly for any suspicious activities, or for whatever had spooked her. Hyper-alert. His things were packed and in his truck, all ready to leave the city at the least hint of anything suspicious.

  “You’re taking awfully large risks, Gilgamesh. Are you sure you understand what you’re doing?”

  Gilgamesh closed his eyes and didn’t answer. His nerves had been asking him the same question ever since he made his decision to act and he still didn’t have an answer.

  “It’s all right,” Shadow said gently. “It’ll be all right.”

  Neither of them believed it.

  With the Skinner unwilling to act on his request his next task was to find an apartment near the Arm’s place…and send the Skinner another letter.

  ---

  The Skinner acted before he finished his second letter. The Skinner drove into downtown San Francisco and went into a random building, the only Transform or Major Transform present, according to his metasense. There, of all things, she did a pantomime routine pointing at something in the building. Five times. Including flapping her arms like a bird.

  Like a crow, perhaps?

  Gilgamesh waited as the Skinner went back home and very firmly stayed home.

  He had to check, dammit. He crumpled up his partly written letter and left his new apartment.

  The building turned out to be an unemployment office and the place where she did her pantomime was right in front of a job board. Gilgamesh checked the papers and index cards haphazardly thumbtacked to the job board until he found the Skinner’s message.

  Crow Eradication Service

  Work in the extermination industry. Minimal pay, long hours, lots of hunting. Often futile. Call xxx-xxx-xxxx for more information.

  Gilgamesh skedaddled until he was far away from the unemployment office before he broke down and called the phone number. Long distance. With a Los Angeles area code.

  “Rodriguez Message Service,” a woman said. “How may I help you?”

  Shit. Gilgamesh held the phone away from him, fighting panic. He stammered for a moment. “I don’t have an account with you, but I believe someone may have left a message for me. For, um, ‘Helpful Crow’.”

  “Of course, sir. Let me check. Yes, here it is. For liability purposes, understand that we aren’t responsible for the content of any of the messages we deliver, but we are responsible for the veracity. Do you wish to copy this down?”

  “No, I’ll remember.”

  “The message reads: ‘You are out of your god damned mind. No, I won’t rescue my dipshit former student; you don’t get rescued when you fuck up that bad. If you want to discuss this further use the apple press statue in the park.’ Anything else, sir?”

  “No thank you, ma’am,” Gilgamesh said. He blinked and fought off panic, wondering if he had been too hasty and should try to send a message back through whatever strange message service the Arm used. As he thought through his options he heard over the phone
, likely through a hand over the handset on the other end: ‘Lupe! Focus! You’ll never guess! There’s a goddamned Crow on the message line!’ followed by some rapid-fire Spanish.

  Gilgamesh shrieked and ran.

  He found a park with an apple press statue within an hour: Golden Gate Park, in downtown San Francisco, less than two miles from his phone booth and about eight miles north of the Skinner’s house.

  He left the following for the Skinner:

  SK

  Thank you for your quick response. I witnessed the fall of the Student. She was taken by surprise by a vast number of hornets, who appeared out of nowhere, with no warning. I have never before heard of an operation involving more than 200 hornets. In addition I heard the terrifying howls of several large dogs like the ones we experienced in Philadelphia, including the one that got away, who personally chased me and almost caught me on the way out.

  Helpful Crow

  The next morning the Skinner left the following for him:

  HC

  Fuck, that’s a lot of hornets. I don’t like the implication of the doggies, either. However, I am not a trusting sort and I have run into other less helpful of your fine companions before. I believe one fibbed to me; the other made me think wooden furniture was prey. You’ll need to do better to convince me.

  SK

  Gilgamesh replied:

  SK

  Yes, there are other members of my tribe who do not agree that your tribe can be dealt with, and they can be a bit fierce at times. I don’t agree with them. I am willing to help you in whatever way a person of my limited experience can pitch in. What can I tell you about my experiences that can help explain my assertions?

  Helpful Crow

  Later, Gilgamesh called Shadow. “I’m making some progress exchanging messages with the Skinner,” he said, after making small talk. “The problem is: she doesn’t believe my story. I have a question for you: what about our Crow capabilities can I pass along to the Skinner?”