All That We Are (The Commander Book 7)

by Randall Farmer

  She didn’t. “Hargrove and Adkins have a difficult relationship. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Nope. Got one on you.” Keaton giggled, an incongruous sound that Tonya always found unsettling. “Ideals. Ideals are both a strength and a weakness. Only Hargrove and Rickenbach have ideals – trust me, the rest of the Detroit Focuses would sell their mothers for a fix if they were junkies, and betray the pusher to the cops for a hamburger an hour later. I’m trying to pound this into Mann, but I haven’t had any luck yet. Since Rickenbach is under my near constant protection, that leaves Hargrove.”

  “I would have pegged you for thinking ideals were always a weakness.”

  “You’ve been talking to me for too long, Tonya. The stress has caused you to sweat out too much of your juice and your IQ’s gone down to bunny levels. Where else do you get discipline from, if not from ideals? Sit back and think about it. You’ll figure it out.” Keaton paused. “I’ll give you one for free, Tonya. The perps behind this aren’t the Hunters, but Rogue Crow’s Kansas City Chimeras – the Patriarchs – and Rogue Crow personally. He uses them for fancy espionage missions the Hunters are unsuited for. Hancock and I just decapitated their organization, though. So to speak. So they shouldn’t be a problem for at least another month.”

  “Thank you,” Tonya said. Keaton knew more, but it likely tied into the Arm Bass rescue. Keaton had passed along that the rescue was successful, but hadn’t gone into the details.

  “If you by chance come to Detroit, be careful. I’m fairly sure both Hargrove and Adkins are being watched. I’ve got some traps to set. See yah.” Keaton hung up.

  Tonya slowly put the phone down with a clatter. The world swam around her eyes until someone waved a BLT under her nose, which she reflexively ate. She chased that down with a candy bar. Someone rubbed her neck, which felt wonderful. The stress broke, and everyone in the household who was asleep suddenly had unexpectedly pleasant dreams.

  ---

  “Talk to me about ideals, you three.” Tonya sat in the back seat with Delia. Delia’s husband Pete drove and Marty sat next to him. They motored to Long Island, where Polly lived, with her household and her catering business. On the way, they had stopped at the post office and mailed, expensively, five boxes of duplicated notes from three of the Network’s remaining friendly researchers.

  “Ideals?” Marty said. “No one we care about has ideals. We’re nasty pragmatic types. We spit on idealists. Ugh.” He accompanied the last utterance with a chest pound and a turning up of his lips.

  “I disagree,” Delia said. “True, we aren’t idealists, ma’am, but we do have strong ideals.”

  “What, the ideal of stab the other person in the back before they stab you?” her husband said.

  “No. Ideals are what makes effective people so effective.”

  “Why?” Tonya said. Keaton’s comments on the subject bothered her. As a new Focus, she had been an idealist. Doing things the right way rather than doing what was necessary, the same as Gail. Keaton implied she, Keaton, had strong ideals, with her comment about discipline. Tonya understood how important discipline was to Keaton. She valued it nearly as much as she valued survival. It implied Keaton thought ideals drove her discipline, or something along those lines. By inference, Keaton implied Tonya held to strong ideals, as well. Keaton had remarked many times, starting early on in their relationship, that she ‘put up’ with Tonya because she thought Tonya was well disciplined, meaning she had strong self-discipline, unlike most of the other Focuses.

  “Dunno,” Delia said. “Never thought much about it. It just feels right.”

  The Ford thrummed down the New Jersey turnpike as everyone thought.

  “How about discipline?” Tonya said. “How does this fit in?”

  “You talking about disciplining others, or self-discipline, ma’am?” Pete said.

  “Self.”

  “Well, then, self-discipline is being able to stick through with something to its bitter end. Self-discipline itself could be considered an ideal, then,” Pete said, turning his head momentarily to look at the people in the back seat.

  “Too incomplete,” Marty said. “Discipline shouldn’t be stupid.”

  “Why not? Why can’t you have stupid self-discipline, just like you can have stupid ideals?” Delia smiled. “There ought to be a term for that. Disciplinist or something, to go along with idealist.”

  “So,” Tonya said. “Are all idealists wrong, then? I would use the word stupid, but stupid implies non-intelligent. I’ve seen many wrong idealists who weren’t stupid, just lacking in sense. Like when I was a young Focus.”

  “I think we use the word idealist to mean someone who is following the wrong ideals. From our parochial perspective, of course,” Marty said. “The opposite of idealist is a pragmatist, at least in a dictionary sense. Someone who is following the right ideals, meaning, of course, yours.”

  “This may just be our modern culture’s view of the word,” Tonya said, “The actual dictionary definition of pragmatist is not ‘the opposite of idealist’, but instead someone who’s interested in day to day and practical things, as opposed to theory or speculation. An idealist isn’t someone who’s interested in the theory of justice, for instance, but someone who wants justice done right and perfect.” She paused. “I can’t see how someone could imply this about me.”

  Delia laughed. “A certain someone whom I not need name, our no-longer-local-thank-God-almighty serial killer, called you an idealist and you’re stuck on the insult? Ma’am?”

  “No, not ‘idealist’. She implied I had strong ideals.”

  “Well, then, that’s different. That was a compliment. You do possess strong ideals, ma’am. The strongest among all the Focuses I’ve met,” Delia said.

  “Thanks. I think.” Tonya shook her head. “I don’t see it.”

  “I do,” Marty said. “Where are you now, boss?”

  “In a car. Going to Long Island.”

  “Why?” Marty smiled. “Why do we always find ourselves doing these things? Council meetings, trips to the CDC, trips to the Inferno insane asylum, trips to hassle the boss Focus of the United States, etc., etc. Why aren’t we home, in your Focus household, sawing lumber and baking cookies, like the other Focuses, eh?”

  “Oh,” Tonya said. Right.

  ---

  Focus Polly Keistermann appeared to be about as glad to see Tonya as she might be glad to see a diseased skunk. “Come on in! What an unexpected surprise!” Polly gave Tonya a big hug, and flickered her eyes over Tonya’s people. No, Tonya hadn’t warned Polly she was on her way for a visit.

  “Private Carl!” she said, with an officer’s bellow. A young man, obviously Carl, turned up out of nowhere. “Private, I think we’re going to have an impromptu meeting. Get me Corporal Holly. I’m going to need her. Marty,” she said, pointing to Marty, “and Delia,” she said, pointing to Delia, “will be staying with us. Take Pete,” she said, pointing to Pete, “out back and give him the tour.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Pete glanced over at Tonya. Tonya nodded at him; Pete, as a normal, didn’t respond to juice signals, and never would. Pete followed Private Carl out back.

  Polly based her household on a military model. New Transforms went through Polly’s own house version of basic training. This came naturally to Polly, as she had served in the Navy during World War II as a WAVE. Polly’s household even had uniforms, although they were caterer’s uniforms, not true military uniforms. Mercury Catering was Polly’s household business. For Focus households, Polly’s was one of the more unqualified successes. If not for her extensive donations to the Council and UFA, Polly would be a multi-millionaire. Even better, every last cent of Mercury Catering was legit, legal, above the board and uncorrupted. As far as Tonya knew.

  Polly’s darker side expressed itself in other ways. Tonya knew Polly had used Keaton for at least three hits in the years when Tonya served as Keaton’s contact, hits associated with Focus business, not Polly’s catering business.


  When Tonya first found out about Polly and her entourage, she expected the worst. When she met Polly and saw the uniforms, she feared she and Polly would never be able to work together. However, Polly was officially Lt. Polly, not General Polly or something else absurd. As Polly would later say, “This is about as many people as a Lieutenant should command, so I’m a Lieutenant.” Save for the catering uniforms, Polly did the military model straight. When possible, she traded around for military veterans. Through various nefarious separate deals, Polly had managed to snag one of Tonya’s projects, a retired Master Sergeant named Shot, though Shot had traveled through two other households before he found his home with Polly.

  A few minutes later, the aforementioned Shot poked his head through the doorway to the sitting room where Polly led them, smiled and waved, and went on his way, carefully shutting the pair of French doors behind him. Tonya said nothing and tried to think happy thoughts. She had wanted Shot for her own household, but Polly had pulled enough strings to make sure Tonya hadn’t been able to keep him. Tonya also thought he looked ludicrous in a caterer’s uniform, but at least he didn’t metasense like he felt ludicrous wearing it.

  “So,” Polly said as she sat, now the serious Focus Council president. “What’s the emergency? This had damned well better be good.”

  She had no argument with Polly’s anger. If someone barged in on her, she would be reacting about the same. However…

  Tonya handed her Beth Hargrove’s letter.

  After reading it, twice, Polly just sat in her chair and stared at the wall.

  “Polly?” Tonya said, after several quiet minutes had passed.

  “I wish this damned army had a Major or General I could refer this disaster to, as this is out of my league,” Polly said. “Problem is, we don’t have another league.” She turned to Corporal Holly, her aide. “I think we need another round of refreshments, dear.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Corporal Holly scurried off. The first plate of finger food still sat, uneaten, on an end table. Everyone ignored it.

  Polly paused. “Do you have any advice about this disaster?” Polly’s face showed creases of exhaustion and stress and she suddenly looked about fifty years old, a difficult task for a Focus.

  “My hands are tied,” Tonya said. “My responsibility is the mentoring program, not the Beth Hargrove issue.”

  “No one has responsibility for the Beth Hargrove issue. I want your advice, just the same.”

  “The Beth Hargrove issue involves subjects you ordered me never to speak of,” Tonya said. “I must respectfully decline until you rescind this order.”

  “Whatever you say, dear,” Polly said, exasperated. “Which of my idiotic orders was this, anyway? I make too many silly requests when I’m trying to make sure things get done one thing at a time. There’re always too many problems to take care of.”

  “I think a demonstration is in order,” Tonya said.

  “Demonstration?” Polly laughed in anger, now beyond exasperation. “Go ahead and demonstrate.”

  Tonya stood, turned away from Polly, and crossed her arms in the air. Then she made a big show of pointing at Polly, before sitting back down.

  “You know, if this falls through,” Tonya said to Polly, “I’m going to be so terminally embarrassed I’ll never…”

  Sergeant Shot knocked on the sitting room door. “Ma’am, a strange man appeared at the front door. Out of thin air. He said he’d been summoned.”

  Polly raised an eyebrow at Tonya, and then the brow came down in consternation. “A Crow. You invited a Crow, here?”

  “Polly, it’s necessary. The world’s gone to hell in so many ways I’ve lost track. You need to hear his story.”

  Polly leaned forward, eyes boring into Tonya’s, Polly’s charisma amped to terrifying levels. “Who’s saying this?” she said, demanding.

  “Me,” Tonya said, her stomach roiling.

  “You’ve never been allowed to go this far before. What’s your game here? I want answers, Shirley.”

  Tonya’s bladder almost cut loose in terror at Polly’s words, as complex juice patterns flowed through Polly’s charismatic link and into her mind. “It’s gone, this won’t work,” Tonya said, trying and failing to cut the link. Her whisper was the best she could do.

  “You shucked Patterson’s tag?” Polly said, a moment later, backing off a little on the juice pattern flood and her charisma. “How?”

  “I had help,” Tonya said. “A story you’re not ever going to hear if you keep probing like this.”

  Polly backed off her hold a bit more, enough for Tonya to flicker her eyes around the room and realize that none of the others here were hearing the conversation or had even noticed something was wrong. “If you’re not owned, why are you still alive?” Polly said.

  “Better armed guards,” Tonya said. “Talking Rizzari out of her rebellion. Bringing the Arms in out of the cold. What I accomplished bought me my life.” All true, and all enough to weaken Polly’s confidence the tiny bit that allowed Tonya to wiggle free from Polly’s tricks.

  Polly made a grave mistake when she met Tonya’s gaze, as Tonya’s eyes were how she established her charismatic links. Polly didn’t use her eyes, and Tonya didn’t know what she did use, but now Tonya fought back with her charisma, and for once was able to establish a charismatic link with Polly.

  “What else can I do to win back your trust?” Tonya said. A charismatic demand.

  Polly almost answered. Instead, she glared and fought off Tonya’s command, though unable to toss Tonya’s link any more than Tonya could toss Polly’s charismatic link. “By your actions, over time,” Polly said, answering Tonya’s question anyway. With a lie, or at least an incomplete truth. “They had you for too long.” Which showed weakness. Polly didn’t trust weakness. “They could have you again tomorrow.”

  “True,” Tonya said. “This is why I’m here, today. Use me, the real me, while you can. Let me tell you what’s going on.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” Polly said. “It’s obvious. Despite all the politic pronouncements, you joined Rizzari’s Cause.”

  Tonya glared back at Polly. They had been close friends once, as young Focuses. No longer. “And what cause have you joined?”

  Polly laughed, her laughter tinged with despair. “Me.” She shook her head and stopped the charismatic battle. “Let’s listen to this Crow of yours.” She turned to her still closed door. “Bring him in, Sergeant Shot.”

  Tonya cursed inside. Not only hadn’t she won Polly over, she had possibly made things worse.

  “…and so our friends and largest hidden strength, Master Occum’s Noble Beast Men, cut themselves off, worried that their own kind had betrayed them,” Sinclair said. He sat on the edge of the elegant Louis XV chair, not relaxed at all. He still had his Crow fierceness going, which he needed in this room to keep from being overwhelmed.

  Sinclair told the complete story, starting with meeting a baby Crow who would later choose the name of Gilgamesh. He continued on with the story of the Philadelphia massacre, the Hunter attacks on Arm Hancock in Chicago, Hancock’s capture, incarceration and rescue from the Crow perspective, her recovery in the hands of Keaton and Gilgamesh, Hancock’s alliance with Gilgamesh and later all of Shadow’s Crows, the takedown of Rogue Focus in Houston, Lori’s pregnancy, Gilgamesh’s detective work leading to the identification of Crow-killer and the Transform snatcher as the same person, the identification of Focus Frasier as the captive Focus held by the Hunters, Tonya’s mind scrape and her joining the Cause, and the events of the last few weeks.

  Thrown together as a single narrative, it overwhelmed.

  “Well,” Polly said. “You aren’t lying. You personally witnessed a great deal, but you’re holding something back, something important. I’m not doing anything without this bit of crucial information.”

  Sinclair nodded. “It’s more terrifying than even you are, ma’am. I can’t speak of it, but Focus Biggioni knows. She’s
one of the namers.”

  Oh. Polly turned to Tonya, leaning half way out of her seat. “Care to enlighten me on this Crow mystery?” Polly wanted to disown the mess and consign them all to the Cross, just to get the problems out of her hair.

  “It’s our mystery as well,” Tonya said. “Arm Hancock is the Commander.”

  “Well,” Polly said, sitting back down. “That’s at least one bit of good news. I had been afraid this Enkidu Monster was the Commander. He shows far too many of the signs. Are you sure?”

  Polly’s comment soured Tonya’s stomach some more. She, Polly, knew far more about the Hunters than she revealed. Probably learned through the Dreaming; Polly’s Dreaming capabilities were legendary. Tonya shrugged. “Military leadership, healing, overthrowing the old order, coming back from the dead, and the denial of the honors. She shows all the signs.”

  Polly looked at her. “So does Enkidu.”

  She and Sinclair let Polly’s comment lay there for a while, like a giant dead slug on the carpet. Eventually Polly turned away. “So, what can you tell me about this?” She pushed a typewritten report over to Tonya, under the CBS letterhead: a formal inquiry to the Council about a group of hidden no-household Focuses, who lived just south of Detroit and who had been discovered by a group of canny reporters. Tonya smelled Keaton behind this, craftier than normal. Perhaps following Hancock’s advice.

  “I know they’re real,” Tonya said. “I’ve never met any of them, though.”

  Polly shook her head. “They’re Wini’s edge, aren’t they?”

  “One of her edges, yes.”

  “Damn.” Polly closed her eyes. “Thank you, Crow Sinclair, for putting up with us two old hens. You’ve convinced me. We’re going to do the right thing for once. For this, I’m going to need a Crow who can stand up before a crowd of Focuses and tell them who he is and what he can do. Any ideas?”

  “A crowd?” Sinclair said, now panicky. “Ah. Not me. Stage fright.” The thought of stage fright in a Crow almost made Tonya laugh aloud. “The one you want is Crow Sky. Performances turn him on, uh, boost his confidence, ma’am. I know how you can get in touch with him.”