He nodded—and then he saluted. Stein and Balini too as I stood there mouth open. I finally returned it, feeling stupid standing there saluting in what amounted to a modest bikini, and flew away.
* * *
The marshals at the Garage passed me through to Littleton without any delay, and the town looked so normal I almost cried. Mr. Darvish met me at the door of Holybrook Rest, looking far more concerned than a sinister grand vizier had a right to. He didn’t so much as blink at my returning dressed for beach volleyball.
“Miss? The Garage sent a message to expect you. Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you.” I was focused like a laser on the shower upstairs, but my mouth moved on autopilot. He stood aside.
“I will make tea. Please come down when you are ready.”
I nodded and went up the stairs, thankful no one else was home. Everyone kept asking how I was.
Turning the water up until billows of steam turned the bathroom into a sauna, I sat in the tub under the shower stream, legs pulled up and head on my knees, and let it all go. Eventually I stopped shivering and remembered to take off the top and briefs. Dropping them to lie in a sodden pile on the tiles beside the tub, I turned my face up and into the direct shower stream and stayed there until the water started to run cool.
With my civvies gone I dressed in my formal costume, the one that looked like a figure-skater’s skirted outfit. Leaving off the accessories, I brushed out my hair and went downstairs. Mr. Darvish met me at the foot of the stairs with a tray and English tea set and directed me into the B&B’s little study. I sat in one of the Queen Ann chairs and looked at the shelves of old, leather-bound books while he set up and poured. The aroma of Earl Grey teased my nose, relaxing me more, and I gratefully accepted the saucer and cup he offered me.
“Milk? Sugar?” He slid the tray closer to my end of the table. I shook my head, took a sip.
“Thank you. This is perfect.” And it was, the citrusy tang of the bergamot orange adding just the right edge to the heavy black tea.
“The biscuits are fresh.”
“Thank you.” We sat in silence while he prepared and enjoyed his own.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, remembering my manners.
“You are?”
“You’re from the Middle East. I should have covered up more.” Suddenly my legs felt naked, and I blushed remembering what I’d shown walking through the front door.
His smile was broad and genuine.
“It is refreshing to meet a young person who is culturally sensitive. My compliments to your parents. However I have lived in Littleton for a year now, England for five years before that. You are modestly attired.” He set his cup down. “And how are you?”
I found myself spilling the story of my fight with Brick, ending with the way I almost kept hitting him until he would never hurt me or anyone else again. He took the news that I’d been ready to beat a man to death so calmly I almost thought he wasn’t listening, and he let me finish before speaking again.
“You have killed before,” he observed quietly.
“Yes, but not…”
“Not in judgment? Not as the angel of righteous vengeance?”
“No.” I tried to figure out why thinking about it wasn’t sending me into another sick spin.
“I could say that it is in your nature as it is within every man’s. Islam knows the fallen nature of man as well as does Christianity.”
“Have you ever—I mean…”
“Oh, yes. When a bomb killed Atifa’s parents, I would have cheerfully and instantly consigned every last jihadi to Gehenna had I the power.” He pointed to a picture over the fireplace, the happy child I’d met this morning, with a smiling man and woman. “But part of my anger was guilt. The bomb had been meant for me.”
“She’s not yours?”
“She is now my responsibility and my delight. Certainly a gift from God.”
I still didn’t feel anything except sadness and curiosity. “Why did they try to kill you?”
“Because I am a heretic, a Sufi imam who preaches many condemned errors, the worst being that the call to jihad has been misunderstood, that Islam properly understood is truly a religion of peace. Most condemnable is that I am also a confirmed awliya, which makes other Muslims listen to my words.”
“An awli—”
“An awliya. A holy man blessed with keramat, miraculous gifts of power. You have felt the Peace?”
The question seemed a total non sequitur, but I instantly knew what he meant. The way I’d felt the moment we met, the way I felt just sitting here now. The reason I completely and unreasonably trusted him.
“You’re a breakthrough?”
“Just so. The Peace of God is irresistible, and it came to me when I needed it most, when I needed it for others. No one feeling even a small part of it can hate, or act on that hatred.” Now he frowned. “This does not stop a man who is not in my presence from acting, however. So, a bomb, or poison, or a sniper can end my life.”
He stirred his tea.
“The fatwa pronounced against me drove me first to England and then into hiding, for the safety of those around me. I would ask you not to share this, of course. I merely felt that, having known the dark edge of Islamic fanaticism, you should know the light.”
Of course he knew all about the Whittier Base Attack and our losses there. I nodded.
“So, be at peace.” He said it like a blessing. “Know your heart is human, and it brings you great merit in Heaven that you did not act on your anger. And now I recommend rest, and tonight quiet dreams, both of which you will find here.”
* * *
I spent the rest of the evening reading dispatches from Shell and writing up my promised after-action report. Shell thoughtfully emailed Detective Fisher’s investigation reports, something she really shouldn’t have even had. Finally working together with the feds, Fisher had gotten them to hire an expensive psychometric esper to do a “reading” of the vault before time faded the psychic impressions of the heist too much to be useful. The reader had brought a sketch-artist with her and psychically read the events, providing images of the thieves (not that that helped a whole lot since they’d been masked) and what was in the box; which turned out to be nothing but a flash-drive. What?
Regardless, at least they were all on the same page now, and I was obsessing about it to avoid thinking of other things. I included a note in my report about my panicked reaction that dropped Brick back into Guantánamo City’s streets; thinking about how many ways that could have ended badly still made me shiver a little, and I wondered how much of my rage had been from knowing my mistake had almost precipitated a tragedy.
And what was Brick doing in Guantánamo? Could it really be coincidence? I dreamed that Littleton was threatened, and a mercenary supervillain armed to the teeth by Chinese sorcery shows up? What were the odds?
I fell asleep obsessing about that, but Mr. Darvish was right; my sleep was mostly dreamless and what dreams I had were of stars, the Milky Way shining in all its misty glory over Littleton. No sneaky fox entered to disturb them. He probably couldn’t, as long as I slept at Holybrook Rest.
So naturally the next morning pitched me right back into the mess.
Chapter Fourteen
“Whatever you would make habitual, practice it; and if you would not make a thing habitual, do not practice it, but habituate yourself to something else.”
Epictetus (First Century AD)
* * *
My adorable alarm clock woke me again and this time I chased her laughing out of the room with expertly thrown pillows. Then I looked at the text on my flashing cellphone. Garage 0800 hours action review.
I fell back and scrubbed my face, ran fingers through my hair.
Suck it up, Hope. The Sentinels had always done action reviews, and they’d gotten a lot more detailed and formal since Lei Zi and Watchman—both ex-military—had joined; of course the Marines had them. The whiny Hope in me argued for just bl
owing them off. You’re not in the local chain of command. You’re not even in waving distance.
I quashed whiny Hope, called Shelly to tell her where I’d be, and looked at my second text. It turned out to be a relayed text and two attached video-files from Shell.
“Guantánamo City fight caught on digi- cams, claimed as official Cuban-USA joint operation. Blackstone covering for you in Chicago, so good luck with that.”
The first video file (time-stamped yesterday!) showed me flying over Chicago. Since Shell said Blackstone was involved I had to guess that he was conjuring an illusion over another flyer—maybe Safire. The second video was shaky hand-cam cuts, some distant, some zoomed in close, of our fight with Brick. I had lost my hat and shades early on, and was easily recognizable to anyone who knew me.
I took a moment to scream into my spare pillow.
Quin was so going to freak. Blackstone would make cutting comments about “low profiles.” Shelly thought it was awesome and had added her own text expressing her amusement, because naturally Shell had to share the news with her “older sister” and now that Shell knew about Littleton they were texting and chatting without any need-to-know restraints.
I texted back an Ignoring U all and got in the shower. If I hurried I could enjoy a waffle.
* * *
Warrant Officer Clark saluted when I translated into the Garage. Did military protocol include saluting capes in “uniform?” I had come in my field costume complete with armor and maul, partly for psychological support and partly to make a point; should I salute back? I’d never saluted anyone in my life except half-seriously and I settled for a nod, which seemed okay. Clark took me downstairs this time, to what had to be the Garage’s armory, and I relaxed when other enlisted we passed didn’t come to unnerving attention or repeat her salute.
Optional, got it.
She stopped at a security door. It had just a number on it, but over the door frame hung a big wood plank with The Dog House carved and painted in black and red.
“Ma’am.” She swiped her pass, stepped aside with another salute.
“Thank you…Warrant?”
She smiled. “That’s correct, ma’am. Good luck.” On that note, she left me to my fate.
Okay… I stepped inside, letting the door close behind me. The heavy latch closed with a thunk and the light over the second door turned green. Going through that one, I found the Dog House.
It looked like a locker room, equipment shop, and recreational hall. Four tin-men sat playing cards, helmets racked beside them. Their suits weren’t as massive as my Scoobies’ had been, and they carried lighter mounted ordnance. Tin-man suits for non-breakthroughs? Despite good AC and a big ceiling hatch that probably opened into the bays above us, to my supersensitive nose everything smelled of polish, gun-oil, and sweat.
Beyond them I saw my guys, gathered in a space fitted with screens and a display board and the kind of comfortable chair-and-desk setup I knew from college lecture rooms. Even Corporal Tsen was there, leaning stiffly against a desk.
“Astra!” Balini shouted, seeing me. The card game stopped as everybody looked at me, even the third group working out with weights and playing video games on the other side of the room.
I apologized and squeezed my way between the card game and weapon racks to a quiet chorus of “ma’am”s. At the desks, Lieutenant Corbin gave me a nod. “Astra. How old are you?”
“I—what? Nineteen?”
He extended his hand, and when we shook he passed me something flat and hard.
“You know what that means?” he asked the room.
“First challenge in two years!” at least half the room shouted back. The rest stomped their feet and cheered.
I looked at the disk in my hand. It was a burnished steel medal, at least twice the weight of a silver dollar, but with no hole for the ribbon. One side showed the Scooby-Cerberus on the team’s armor patches, this one howling, growling, and chomping into what looked like a zombie—it had three heads, it could do it all. The other side showed the stylized symbol of Ajax’s old Greek-style helmet, over a Latin motto. Quis exire canes?
“Um, ‘Who let the dogs out’?”
“Our team challenge coin, ma’am. Corporal Stein, what are the rules of a challenge?”
“Sir, when a challenger presents his coin then all other team members must also present their coins! Any team member who does not present his coin must buy drinks for the rest of the team! If all other team members present their coins, then the challenger must buy drinks for the rest of the team, sir!”
“Thank you, Stein. And being Ajaxes, ma’am, we drink from kegs. We’re honored to have a Sentinel who knew our namesake hold our coin.” He grinned. “Even if you won’t be legal to challenge for two years unless we do it off-base, and they won’t let us go bar crawling in Guantánamo for some reason.”
Looking at the coin, tracing Ajax’s crest, I swallowed and had to blink suddenly wet eyes. Corbin understood; his grin faded, but stayed a smile. “He was a Heroes Without Borders cape abroad, ma’am, and not a soldier, but he lived and died a warrior.”
“Attention!”
The shout came from the door and Captain Lauer’s aide, and everybody but me snapped to attention until the captain waved them back down.
“Take it easy, gentlemen. I am only here to observe. Lieutenant Corbin?”
“Sir.” The rest of the team settled into chairs facing their lieutenant. I followed their lead, slipping my new coin into the hidden pocket in my armor and setting Malleus on the floor beside me. Captain Lauer took a chair behind us.
Corbin grabbed a remote and clicked it, bringing the big center screen to life. It showed a split-screen view, on the left four boxes showing the view from their helmet cameras and a fifth blank box, on the right a drones-eye view with green icons showing our positions relative to the road and city streets. A second later all the faintly visible bystanders in camera range lit up with their own red icons. Brick’s icon flashed in yellow.
“Settle down guys, questions and comments later. Enjoy the show.”
A digital clock on the bottom started up as the images unfroze and the chatter began. The team piling out of the truck and taking positions to cover a zone. My ride into town seen from overhead, my half of my conversation with Shell. The approach, the grab, the too-short flight dropping us still in town. Brick exploding into his dragon armor. Panicked chatter from the team, Corbin shouting “Go go go!” My short flight, shoot-down and brutal kicking—I didn’t remember Brick kicking me so many times—my second flight and the second hit shredding my civvies.
I tore my eyes from my box—the fifth screen had lit up with what had to be an insane civilian cameraman’s footage of my kicking from Brick— to watch the overhead icons of the team closing, spreading and shifting to make sure their fire lines didn’t reach into town. The fifth camera filmed my reversing course. When we all met on Brick’s position my box went mostly dark again—the cameraman trying to get footage while ducking behind a fuzzy shape that might have been a low wall. My gut clenched seeing Brick punch into Tsen, winced at my final grapple with Brick even though from a distance it didn’t look nearly so bad as it had been.
The video ran another couple of minutes, covering their restraining Brick and our getting him and Corporal Tsen loaded, then it was done and I realized that my heart was pounding in my chest. I closed my eyes and tried deep-breathing.
Lieutenant Corbin led a round of comments and observations, focusing on fire-lines, response time, and commended Balini and Stein for not shooting me when I jumped Brick (reviewing the video, I’d come breathtakingly close to taking friendly fire). The lieutenant offered to run some drills with me if I was here long enough.
“Any other comments?” he finished.
I raised my hand and he nodded.
“I dropped the ball, yesterday.” Nobody had mentioned my dropping Brick short of their chosen engagement zone.
“What happened?”
; “I intended to get a headlock from behind where he couldn’t get any leverage, but he… He grabbed me first and scared me.” I flushed hotly. “So I caught his wrist and lifted him by it instead and I didn’t have control. He pulled himself up to grab me and— I panicked and dropped him. Sorry.”
He nodded again.
“Thank you for that. I would say ‘No harm no foul,’ but it got pretty close there—much closer than it should have. We don’t do sorry here—we suck it up and fix it. We can add some grappling practice to the drills. Anything else?”
There wasn’t, and the review broke up. I looked around; usually if I didn’t have a task this was the point where I headed to the chapel to light a candle or two and thank Mary of the Pagans or go to my rooms for homework. Sometimes it was really homework; most of the time it was mental breathing space to burn off my nerves and rebalance. I really needed to rebalance.
“Astra?” Captain Lauer stood behind me.
“Sir?”
His lips thinned and then he smiled. “Good job. Is there anything we can do for you?”
“I’d really like to know why Brick was here,” I said without thinking. “And I’d like to see him.”
The captain’s eyebrows rose. “We have him at the base. I don’t know how much, if anything, we’ll be able to share, but I’ll see about visiting. Anything else?”
Maybe he’ll talk to me. But it wasn’t likely they’d accept that. “No, I’m good. I should get back to Littleton.”
He looked at me, but I didn’t know what else he was waiting for and he finally stood aside.
“Well then, you’d best be about it. Good day, Astra.”
Warrant Officer Clark got me back to the bay where I flashed back to Littleton, still wondering what that had been about.
Chapter Fifteen
Wearing the Cape 4: Small Town Heroes Page 13
