by Jaspre Bark
And when Spike looked up at him through teary eyes half closed from injury, Kit saw no trace of the monster he had feared so much. Just a crushed and frightened mutant, his eyes pleading for mercy as Kit's eyes must have pleaded on many occasions.
Kit kicked him in the face. Then he kicked him again. And again and again.
"I was proud of you that day."
The Consoler didn't have to explain what he meant. He'd been thinking back to that time so he knew that Kit had been thinking about it, too.
"I was proud of myself," said Kit. "All my life, I'd been so weak and frightened. That day, I learned to take charge of my own fate, thanks to you."
"Don't say that!"
"Why not?" Kit sneered. "It was you who taught me to take what you want from life." He suddenly remembered that they weren't alone. He sneaked a self-conscious glance at each of his guards, but they were facing dead ahead as if deaf to anything they shouldn't hear. He dismissed them abruptly and closed the cell door behind them. He knew as well as the Consoler did that he had nothing to fear in here.
"Everything I am," said Kit, "I owe it to you, my brother." And he really meant what he said; the Consoler could feel that he did, even though he knew how much pain it would cause him.
"I was wrong, Kit," he said. "It was never about getting justice, only about revenge. We made ourselves as bad as the norms who persecuted us."
"Is that what they drummed into you in that prison? Know your station; conform to their rules; accept your lot?"
"They gave me time to reflect on my actions."
"They broke you!" said Kit contemptuously. "No norm gangbanger would have pulled down five years, but you were a mutie. No one cared what they did to you. They could keep you clapped in irons until you were prepared to lick their boots!"
"My sole regret about my time in jail," the Consoler sighed, "is what it did to you, Kit. It made you bitter and more vicious. The things you've done..."
Kit snarled. "I'm not the one who changed."
"Violence only breeds violence, Kit. The cycle has to end somewhere."
"And you've found a better way, have you? By running away?"
"It's true, I came to Miltonia because I was afraid," the Consoler confessed. "I was afraid of what I had been, of what I might become again. And I begged you to come with me because I thought you could be happy here, too. But not like this, Kit, not like this. Miltonia is our better way. Things are different here."
Kit shrugged dismissively. "More to take, that's all."
When Kit looked back on his early life, he always saw it through a haze of tears. That changed, however, on the day that Kaboodle introduced him to the township.
He was happy there, and even accepted by the older kids. They made him an honorary member of one of their street gangs - the Blades - and gave him his first alcoholic drink and taught him how to scrape a living on the black market. They understood all he had been through and they hated the norms as much as he did. Sometimes, there would be clashes between the Blades and the Rockets on the edge of Bogweed, and despite his youth Kit was allowed to join in if he pleased. As a rule, he would go along if his brother was going and stay behind if he was staying.
By the time they were fourteen, Kit and Kaboodle had ceased even their infrequent visits back to their mother's home. It wasn't just that the streets of what they called Normtown were dangerous, but it was that they no longer felt they belonged there.
At the age of fifteen, then considered adults, they split from the Blades after a heated argument over something trivial. Kaboodle formed a new gang which he named the Chameleons in honour of the brothers' shared abilities. Within three years they became one of the most feared organisations on the planet, and the most wanted. But the posters that hung in every sheriff's office featured only blurred photographs and inaccurate artists' impressions.
The next time Kit cried was on his nineteenth birthday, the day it all went wrong.
He remembered the lights of the saloons streaking around him, diffracted by the water in his eyes as he ran. He remembered also his heart pounding in his chest and shouts ringing in his ears. The marshals rarely entered the township and he had counted on them to give up as he crossed the border. But this time they were determined to get their man.
He didn't know what to do. He wasn't physically strong and he didn't know how to fight. They outnumbered him, anyway. He had always relied on his stealth and his cunning, but he couldn't shake them off long enough to hide or to change shape. Only one thought formed clearly through his panic: Kaboodle. He had to find Kaboodle. And in that moment, Kit became the bullied child again, looking for protection from his brother.
They talked for a long time in the bar they had made their home, sequestered in their private room while the rest of the Chameleons waited outside knowing that the building was surrounded, knowing that this was bad.
Kaboodle took the news calmly but Kit could feel his disappointment. "I told you she was off-limits. She's the sheriff's daughter, Kit."
"I know," he snivelled, "but she's been seeing that Blade, Tusk. I just thought..."
"You thought you could kill her and frame him, bring the whole affair out into the open, and set the norms and the Blades against each other. I told you it wouldn't work, but you're cocky, Kit. That's always been your problem."
"It should have worked," insisted Kit. "I was watching the Blades' hideout, disguised as a street sweeper, and when I saw Tusk, when I realised I could get right up to him without him suspecting... It was a good disguise, too. I'm getting better at it, Kaboodle, like you always said I could. I can read their DNA now like a map. I mean, the eyes weren't quite right because they're the hardest part, but so long as I wore my hat jammed down..."
"What happened?" Kaboodle prompted.
"Stun pellet," said Kit, miserably. "It wasn't my fault. I mean, I had to let them see me, didn't I? I had to let them see the tusks. Only they came quicker than I thought. I still had my hands around her throat and she was still kicking. They got lucky, that's all. The pellet grazed my shoulder, and I just... lost control. It was like my body just shot back to normal and they could see my face. My real face!" He was shaking. "You have to help me, Kaboodle. I can't go to jail, I can't! I'd be at their mercy again!"
Kaboodle thought for a long time. Then, in a quiet, resigned voice he said: "Go back into the bar, Kit."
"What... what are we gonna do? Fight our way out?"
"We can't win against them, Kit. Even if we could, the cost would be too high. Those people out there trust me. I won't sacrifice them."
"Then what?"
"Borrow a face from Spike or one of the others. Find a dark corner and do nothing to draw attention to yourself."
"Hide from them? B-but they know I can change shape now. They won't let anyone out of here until-"
"I'll deal with it," Kaboodle said firmly.
Sometimes, when he looked back at that moment, when he saw again the quiet resolution in Kaboodle's face, Kit wondered what he would have done if he had known what his brother had planned. There were times when he almost admitted to himself that on some level he had known. After all, neither of them could have made a decision of such import without the other being aware of it. Back then, though, it hadn't mattered.
A moment earlier, Kit had been unable to see a way out. Now, he was saved because his brother was here.
He would make everything all right again.
"I knew you couldn't face doing hard time," said the Consoler. "I knew it would destroy you. But sometimes, Kit, when I look at you now... Drokk help me, I wonder if I did the right thing."
"Of course you did," said Kit. "Your going to jail was the best thing that ever happened to me. It taught me to stand on my own feet. My abilities developed and so did my confidence. I became as good a leader of the Chameleons as you'd ever been; everybody said so. They respected me. And not because I was your brother, but because I'd earned it. Don't you see? I always wanted to be like you, and t
hen I was!"
"I wouldn't have attacked the sheriff's daughter," said the Consoler darkly. "And I wouldn't have dreamed of doing some of the things you've done since then."
"You think I'd have been happy stuck on Thulium 9 all my life? There were opportunities out there, Kaboodle, and I wanted to take them."
"You preyed on our own kind."
"And the ironic thing is that, again, I have you to thank for it. The only limitation of my power was that I couldn't copy norm DNA. If I was to make myself rich, I had to find some wealthy mutants, and we both know how few of them there are. It was you who first mentioned Miltonia to me, Kaboodle. It was you who gave me the idea of finding rich mutants here and ripping them off. You did that on the day you left; the day I realised there was nothing to keep me on Thulium 9 any more."
Kit prided himself on being hard-hearted and pragmatic. Even so, it had taken him many years to stop feeling guilty about his brother's sacrifice. He had managed it, eventually, through an unexpected turn of events. Kit's guilt had left him in the moment that Moosehead McGuffin zapped him with a paralysis ray.
His captor had paraded him in front of the very mutants from whom he had been stealing for years, his duplicity exposed by the most solid evidence possible: Kit himself, frozen in mid-transformation. His game was over. He had experienced a lot of emotions that day: shame, humiliation, denial, impotence, anger, and even a touch of despair. But not fear. Not this time. Not even when he thought about what the norms would do to him. And this, he realised, was how Kaboodle must have felt, all those years ago. For someone in their profession, jail was just an occupational hazard - an inconvenience, to be sure, but no more than that. He could handle it.
As for what had happened to Kaboodle, well, that had been his own fault. Kit had no intention of being broken like his brother. He had developed new abilities that nobody knew about. He was still in control.
He wouldn't be like his brother. He wouldn't stay caged for long.
"I didn't plan to keep McGuffin's body at first," said Kit. "Why would I want to be a Strontium Dog anyway? But I soon realised that the longer I was walking around as him, the longer he'd be left to rot in Shawshank. Also, Moosehead was something of a war hero and had a bit of respect in certain quarters despite his trade. I used that to my advantage."
"Moosehead McGuffin is a good man," said the Consoler. "A man whose reputation and life you destroyed."
"I did no worse than what he tried to do to me," said Kit. "Anyway, first chance I got, I contacted some of the wealthy Miltonian mine owners and reminded them of what good ol' Moosehead had done for them. They fell over themselves to return the favour and got me a Miltonian passport in double-quick time. I handed in my notice at the Doghouse and got outta there before anyone could smell a rat."
"You must be very proud of yourself," the Consoler said dryly, "conning the same people twice."
"They didn't suspect a thing," said Kit with a broad grin of satisfaction. "And why would they? After all, the heinous Identi Kit was locked up out of harm's way."
"And now you've found the perfect career for somebody so obviously skilled at lying, cheating, and betrayal. You've gone into politics."
"My new friends in business were more than happy to sponsor my campaign. It wasn't just that they were grateful to poor old Moosehead. As soon as I scratched the surface of our utopia, here, I found what lay beneath it: fear."
The Consoler nodded. "I discovered that for myself."
"The norm population was growing faster than ours, and they were taking mutant homes and jobs, demanding rights and representation. The mutants could see a day when they would become a minority again, when Miltonia would become like every other world."
"And you appealed to that fear."
"I gave the people what they wanted. I promised a hard line against immigration and was returned to office by a landslide. I looked for you, by the way. Once I had access to government records, I searched for your name. I didn't find it. It was only when you formed your ridiculous resistance movement that I knew you were here. Mr George Smith... Were you really so ashamed of where you came from?"
"Some of it, yes." The Consoler shook his head sadly. "All that skill, Kit, all that guile and courage, and you had real power, too. You could have done so much good. If only I could have made you see."
"See what? That I should be like you? Devote my life to helping others? Why should I, Kaboodle? Nobody ever put themselves out for me."
The Consoler raised an eyebrow. "Nobody, Kit?"
Kit hung his head but the Consoler could feel that he was more angry than ashamed; angry at having his past thrown back in his face again.
"You have to fight back," muttered Kit, parroting his brother's words of so long ago back to him, "meet violence with violence." Then he looked up and met the Consoler's eyes defiantly. "I did what you told me, Kaboodle. I stood up for myself. And now I have everything we ever wanted. I'm rich, I'm comfortable. Hell, I'm even respected!" A snarl pulled at his lips. "And every day, I get to make life miserable for the norm scum who thought they could grind me down!"
"Then I'm sorry," said the Consoler, "for what must happen next."
They looked into each other's eyes for a long time but no more words were spoken. They were not needed. Each knew exactly how the other felt. The Consoler could see now that he would never talk Kit round to his way of thinking. The knowledge was a profound disappointment to him, and it surprised him only a little to feel that same disappointment reflected in Kit's heart. He felt responsible for having made Kit the person he was, and somewhere, buried deep within Kit's psyche and denied for many years, that same guilt resided, too.
The Consoler had never felt closer to his brother, nor so far apart.
"I will find out what your Salvationists are planning," said Kit quietly as he turned to leave the room. "For the sake of all we used to share, please answer General Rising's questions sooner rather than later."
Kaboodle Jones was left alone again with his misery, with the remnants of a desperate hope, and the bitter knowledge of what his failure would mean for his friends, his followers, his world. There was nothing more he could do. Events would play themselves out, as perhaps he had always known they would.
"The only language they understand," he muttered to himself sadly as he awaited the outbreak of war.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RISING FALLS
General Rising was not having a good day.
His borscht had been scalding hot and when he'd dropped the straw from his lips, it had splashed all over his uniform jacket. The thick beetroot stains would not come out. It was his only clean tailor-made uniform, too. The other was covered in blood, thanks to that contemptible traitor McNulty. He hated the way he looked in standard issue uniforms. And to top it all, his tailor had just been sent to an internment camp.
He swore violently and then realised how stupid he sounded with his jaw wired up. This only angered him more and he swept the bowl of soup off his desk, splashing borscht all over his trousers as he did so.
Jenkins, his aide, popped his head around the office door at the sound of the bowl shattering on the floor. "Is everything all right, sir?"
"Yef, id'f fine, dank you. Diffmiffed," said the general.
"Is that blood on you, sir?" Jenkins asked with a concerned look.
"No id'f borffd."
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"Beedrood foup, you idiod. Now ged oud!"
Jenkins left with discreet haste and Rising slumped behind his desk. He knew he shouldn't take his anger out on his second-in-command. He was about the only person left in the palace that he could trust.
Having to abort his pre-emptive strike against the Salvationists had greatly embarrassed him. It would not do his career any good, either. If he even had a career to worry about after the fiasco of the crashed air carrier... He had launched a full-scale investigation into what had brought the carrier down and where its extremely expensive cargo had gone, but
it was likely to be days before any conclusive leads turned up.
He knew in his bones that Alpha and McNulty were behind it, and he swore to make them pay. What he couldn't understand was how two mutants who had fought for the freedom of other mutants could suddenly turn on their own. Perhaps it was simply money. They were bounty hunters, after all. Perhaps it was money that had caused members of the mutant militia itself to turn traitor, too.
This was the issue that had been troubling him most of late. Acting on an anonymous lead, his men had apprehended three Salvationists planting a bomb in a schoolroom. The men had been quite heavily mutated, and further investigations had shown them all to be members of the elite presidential guard. Before Rising had a chance to properly interrogate the men, they had all committed suicide in their cells. His attempts to get some answers from their unit about the corruption in their ranks had been stonewalled. They'd simply insisted that they weren't answerable to his authority and refused to cooperate in any way with his investigation. Even the president had denied him an audience when he requested it.
Rising could feel his influence slipping by the minute. He had few powerful friends left and his enemies, sensing his growing weakness, were circling. There was obviously Salvationist infiltration at work in the highest levels of government and he meant to get to the bottom of it.
There was a knock at his office door. "Come," Rising said.
Jenkins's head appeared around the door again. "I think you ought to join me on the balcony outside, sir," he said.
