by Kim Fielding
“You have been busy,” Fedir said to them. He frowned slightly at Reid. “And you are hurt.”
Reid waved impatiently. “What’s going on out there? Any news?”
“People know something is wrong. They are….” Fedir said a Vasnytsian word.
“Uneasy,” Reid translated. “Have there been announcements from the government?”
“No, no, of course not. But more police, more soldiers on streets. And second concert is cancelled. Officials say Jaxon is sick, but nobody believes this.”
The Workers’ Day concert—Jaxon had completely forgotten about it. He did a calculation in his head and realized it was supposed to happen the following night. Some fans would surely be disappointed, and he felt bad about that even though he couldn’t avoid it. “I wish there was some way for me to apologize to everyone.”
Fedir clapped his back. “Someday people will know what you did for us. You will be hero.”
“I haven’t done anything. Reid’s the hero.”
“Two heroes,” said Fedir with a grin.
Reid clearly didn’t care who was a hero. “Have you had any luck at finding a way to decode and send the documents on the chip?”
“No. Maybe someday soon, but not now. Now we find you safe place.”
“Where?”
“I do not know. But I think….” After a pause and a grimace, Fedir lapsed into Vasnytsian while pointing at the people in the corner. He stopped long enough to shrug at Jaxon. “I am sorry. My English is not good enough.”
“Don’t apologize, dude. We’re in your country. If you guys want to scheme, go ahead. I won’t be any help anyway.”
They took him at his word, and Jaxon felt only a little left out as everyone else conversed loudly in the corner. He sat back down with his paper and pen. Maybe his fictional singer felt left out too, knowing a mere entertainer wasn’t much use in battle—although he was just as much at risk of getting killed as the soldiers.
By the time Reid returned, Jaxon had finished the song and was leaning against the wall, reminiscing. For no particular reason, he’d suddenly remembered the summer when he was twelve and his parents had taken him on a road trip to the Black Hills. They’d stayed at a dumpy old motel and eaten greasy hamburgers, and they’d tromped around Mount Rushmore and Deadwood. It was the first time Jaxon saw real forests and hills taller than the gentle rolling wheat fields of western Nebraska. And yes, it was only South Dakota, but it proved that a world existed outside Peril. Which had been a relief, since he was beginning to realize he’d never fit into his hometown.
“What are you thinking about?” Reid asked, sitting beside him.
“Buffalo and prairie dogs.”
“Not platypuses?”
“Those too. Have you solved all our problems?”
“No.” Reid shifted closer to him. “Most of them think it’s better if we go back to Starograd—more places to hide. But we’d also put more people in danger there. They’re throwing around a bunch of plans, but every one of them is a long shot. I don’t know what to do, Jax.”
Jaxon knew the admission must have been difficult for a man like Reid, yet Jaxon couldn’t find the right words of comfort. “Do you want to hear my new song?”
Reid’s smile was small but genuine. “Yes. I’d like that a lot.”
So Jaxon began to sing. He tried to keep his voice soft, but the acoustics were good, and anyway he swiftly lost himself in the emotions and forgot to stay quiet. Everyone else came over to listen—hesitantly at first, until he nodded them closer—and although Fedir was likely the only one who understood the words, they all seemed carried by the music. Including Reid. He sat completely still, hands steepled near his face as if he were praying. The song itself was different from Jaxon’s usual style, a plaintive ballad rather than a roar. Although he wished he had a guitar to accompany him, it worked well a cappella.
When the final echoes of his voice died away, a hushed silence fell. Then his little audience broke into applause and bilingual acclaim. Fedir wiped tears from his eyes. “Beautiful.”
But Reid appeared pained, as if his injuries had become worse. “Jesus Christ,” he said. And repeated it. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“It’ll be a fucking tragedy if you never play that onstage.”
Jaxon should have been appalled at this admission of possible imminent doom. Instead he leapt to his feet. “I will!” he exclaimed.
“That’s a nice sentiment, but—”
“Not a sentiment. A fact. I’m gonna do that concert tomorrow.”
Grunting softly, Reid struggled to stand. “That’s crazy.”
“No, no, listen. We’re probably fucked anyway, right? So why not go out with a bang? If the concert comes as a surprise, I might get through a few songs before Talmirov’s goons show up. Which might be kinda fun for folks who don’t get a lot of fun. Plus it’ll make Talmirov look bad—he’ll be caught in a lie since I’m obviously not sick.”
“But you won’t be able to escape like that.”
“Big deal. I’m not gonna escape anyway. So maybe they’ll shoot me, which is hard to hide if you’ve got hundreds of witnesses, and it’ll also make Talmirov look bad. Or they haul me away to their prison or torture chambers or whatever. Another public black mark for good old Bogdan, and better than if they do it in secret.”
Although Reid was shaking his head, he also looked contemplative, as if he were considering Jaxon’s words. Meanwhile, Fedir was talking rapidly to his friends, and they showed growing excitement.
“We can help,” Fedir announced. “We can tell people. Words move fast in Starograd—we are city built on secrets and whispers. People will come.”
“Will they be safe?” asked Jaxon, who didn’t want to trigger a bloody revolution.
Fedir shrugged. “We are never safe here.” He turned to one of his colleagues for a brief discussion, then nodded and turned back. “Also, we can try something. People can bring mobile phones.” He pulled out his flip phone and tapped it meaningfully.
“How will that help?” asked Reid.
“We take pictures. We, uh, catch sound, yes? And maybe some friends will make internet work—then we send to whole world.”
“Make the internet work? What do you mean by that?”
As Fedir explained in Vasnytsian, Jaxon took it as a good sign that Reid nodded and looked increasingly more excited. “What?” demanded Jaxon when Fedir was done.
“They have hackers.” Reid said it in the same tone Buzz used when the newest Fluevog shoes came in.
“Okaaay?”
“They have a key generator they’ve stolen from the military, and they can use that to hack into the government’s internet connection. I hope. Once that’s a go, they can create a Wi-Fi hotspot, and everyone with a flip phone can use the Wi-Fi to upload photos, video, audio—whatever they can manage.”
Jaxon didn’t know what a key generator was, but he got the gist of what Reid was talking about. “How will this help?”
“It won’t help us—you and me, I mean. Talmirov’s people will catch on and shut things down fast, and then we—”
“We’re fucked. I know. But it helps the cause?”
“With luck.” Reid rubbed his mouth. “Whatever people here can get out, it might go viral. Especially with Jaxon Powers standing front and center. Everyone’s going to take notice.”
Jaxon wasn’t used to thinking about schemes and intrigues. Hell, he’d always sucked at chess. “I guess it’ll be satisfying to know people are watching on YouTube, but I still don’t get how that’s going to help the Vasnytsians. That chip’s still gonna be in your arm.”
“Yeah, this is second-best to getting that data into the right hands, but it might do the trick. People believe what they see and hear, Jax. If you tell them Talmirov’s corrupt, that he’s in bed with Russia, you won’t even need the proof. They believe, and suddenly there’s a lot of pressure on Western governments to do something. And there’s a
lot of sympathy for Fedir and his colleagues, which will help a lot.”
Fedir nodded his agreement. “Right now, I think nobody cares about us. Why should they? You will make them care.”
This wasn’t a responsibility Jaxon had asked for. Or expected. Like most of the musicians he knew, he began his career wanting fame and fortune. He wanted people to admire him. He wanted to be more than that weird queer kid, the loner whose own parents had no idea what to do with him. Through some talent and enormous strokes of luck, he’d accomplished all of that. But he’d never dreamed of carrying enough influence to topple a regime.
“With great power comes great responsibility,” he muttered.
Reid huffed a laugh. “Peter Parker’s not a redhead.”
“And I’m not a big fan of spiders. But the principle holds.”
“Yes, I guess it does. Are you certain you want to do this? We might come up with another plan.”
“You might. But this one’ll do the trick, right? It’ll fulfill the mission.” Jaxon smiled to show he wasn’t teasing or being ironic. Somewhere along the line Reid’s mission had truly become Jaxon’s as well. “I want to do this.”
Reid shocked Jaxon with a quick, fierce hug. It was firm enough to make Reid groan, but despite the discomfort, he didn’t let go right away. Instead he whispered in Jaxon’s ear, “You’re a revelation.” Then he kissed Jaxon’s cheek and released him.
“What’s so revelatory about me?”
Reid just shook his head. “We have some planning to do….”
“So I should go play and let the grown-ups work. I got it. I’ll plan my set list for tomorrow.”
“You’re not going to get a chance to do much singing.”
“I know. But it’ll be fun to come up with a list anyway. The only stop in my Go Out With a Bang Tour.” He leaned in and planted a kiss on Reid’s cheek.
Chapter Fourteen
IT didn’t take Jaxon long to devise the list of songs he wanted to play, but inevitably wouldn’t, thanks to Talmirov’s minions. He hoped he’d at least manage one or two. He decided to start with the new one, which he was calling “Battle Song.” Then maybe he’d follow up with one of his tunes about Nebraska. That seemed fitting: to end his career back, figuratively speaking, where he’d begun.
With Reid still deep in conversation, Jaxon grew bored. He found a stash of cheese sandwiches someone had brought, ate one, and washed it down with a bottled beer. A little exploration was in order, so he left through a doorway at one end of the room and wandered throughout the castle’s lower level. There wasn’t really much to see; the rooms stood empty except for bits of unidentifiable refuse. Overall the structure was in good condition, which suggested someone had used it after the Ottoman Empire receded. Under vastly different circumstances, Jaxon would have considered buying the property and having it fixed up and modernized so he could live there. If today’s experience was anything to judge by, the castle would be an inspirational place to compose music.
“Not gonna happen,” Jaxon reminded himself as he climbed a curved stone stairway. It was too bad, really, considering this was the first urge he’d had to settle down.
An interior balcony ran the entire perimeter of the upper floor, providing a view into the central courtyard. One of the Vasnytsians from the Black Cat stood at the balcony railing, apparently chain-smoking. Like a Wild West desperado, she had a pair of pistols holstered around her hips. She smiled at Jaxon and gave him a thumbs-up.
Across the courtyard, the castle’s sole tower rose an additional two stories. Jaxon saw the outline of another person inside, keeping an eye out for intruders. If Jaxon owned the castle, he’d put a comfy love seat in the tower and sit there on stormy days, watching the rain come down. It would be nice to have someone special sitting with him.
The upper-floor rooms proved slightly more interesting since they contained a larger and more diverse collection of junk. Some of the plastered walls had ghostly vestiges of murals, the paint too faded to make out details. One room held shards of broken dishes, some of them delicate porcelain but most rougher terra-cotta. Another contained an enormous tiled stove in good condition, its yellow-green glazed tiles decorated with mythological figures. It would have originally burned wood or coal, but he bet it could be adapted for gas, creating a pleasant refuge on a cold winter day.
“Set lists you’ll never perform, castle improvement plans you’ll never implement. Face reality, Powers.” Yet he didn’t heed his own lecture; he continued his tour, imagining what he could do with all the rooms.
By the time he made his way back downstairs, the meeting had broken up. Some of the conspirators had returned to playing cards, but Reid sat on his narrow pallet, his gaze faraway.
“What were you up to?” he asked when Jaxon sat beside him.
“Snooping. It’s a nice castle.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Hey, Reid? If I write a couple of letters, is there any chance they might get to people in the US? Eventually?”
“There’s always a chance.” Reid didn’t look optimistic.
Jaxon grabbed paper and pen. The first letter was for Buzz, and it was fairly easy to write. Jaxon thanked him for representing him so well and being instrumental in his success. He said he’d like his wealth to be donated to good causes—Buzz could choose which ones—and Buzz could own the rights to Jaxon’s name and music. He trusted Buzz to make good decisions. Jaxon wasn’t sure if the letter would be legally binding, but since he’d never bothered to write a will, he figured it was worth a try. No use letting the lawyers leach everything away.
He folded the paper and wrote Buzz’s name, address, and email on the outside. Then he remained still for a long time, pen in hand. Finally he wrote:
Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m sorry I was never the son you wanted. I know it’s been hard on you. I wish you could have accepted me the way I am. But I appreciate what you did for me, and I love you. I hope I made you proud of me in the end.
Love,
Jaxon
He seriously considered signing it with the original spelling of his name, but that felt as if he was selling himself out. He’d been Jaxon-with-an-x for a long time now, and that’s who he wanted to be.
“Do you want to write any letters?” Jaxon held the remaining papers toward Reid.
“No.”
That hurt. “There’s nobody…?”
“I knew what I was signing up for when I took this job.”
That didn’t explain why Reid was so alone in the world, but Jaxon didn’t push it. He didn’t want them to fight, not now.
After a while Reid took Jaxon’s letters to one of the people in the corner, who nodded and tucked them into a pocket. Then Reid returned to the bed, wincing as he sat down. “As soon as it gets dark, we’re leaving.”
“Where to?”
“Starograd. Safer than trying to travel there during the day.”
“All right. But we’re going together, right?”
“Yes.”
That, at least, was a small relief.
AS Reid promised, they left the castle shortly after nightfall. Jaxon and Reid squished together in the back of a panel truck that smelled of cabbages and grease. Someone had hastily jerry-rigged a secret compartment in the cargo area, immediately behind the seats. It had just enough space for two men to sit, and while it wouldn’t pass careful scrutiny, it was better than no camouflage at all.
The ride was uncomfortable for Jaxon and obviously painful for Reid. Although Jaxon couldn’t see him in the dark, he heard him moan at the bigger bumps. “Come here,” Jaxon ordered after a particularly large bang. He tugged at Reid’s arm.
“What?” Reid sounded irritable.
“Turn around and lean back against me. I can be your shock absorber.”
“I don’t need—”
“Don’t martyr yourself. No reason to suffer more than necessary.”
Grumbling, Reid obeyed. With grunts and muttered profan
ities, he repositioned himself until he was sitting between Jaxon’s legs and leaning his back against Jaxon’s chest. That put his hair in front of Jaxon’s nose. It tickled and carried the odors of earth, cigarette smoke, and antiseptic, but Jaxon didn’t mind. Feeling slightly silly, he hummed some favorite songs, and Reid relaxed against him so thoroughly that Jaxon suspected he’d fallen asleep.
Twice the truck halted. Loud voices shouted commands, and someone opened the back of the truck. But although Jaxon’s heart beat prestissimo and Reid’s body tensed as he readied himself for attack, nobody disturbed their hideaway, and the truck soon started rolling again.
Jaxon was dozing when the truck made a third stop. Reid went rigid as the back door rattled open and someone began pulling at the entrance to their compartment.
Relief made Jaxon giddy as friendly, familiar faces greeted them. He offered Reid a hand to help him stand—Jaxon was pretty stiff himself—but Reid ignored it.
They’d stopped in a weedy parking lot at the center of several rabbit-hutch apartment buildings. Only a few other vehicles were there, and they looked like Yugos held together with dental floss and Scotch tape. With small, dimly lit apartment windows as the only sign of life, the place had an eerie postapocalyptic vibe. Moving quickly and without saying a word, the two Vasnytsians who’d driven the truck led them into one of the buildings. The single functioning bulb in the small lobby flickered sporadically. A large potted tree clung desperately to life near a window, flanked by a pair of badly dented metal benches. The air was heavy with the odors of past meals.
One of their companions said something, and Reid translated. “The elevator has cameras. We’ll take the stairs.”
Fair enough, except it turned out they were going to the sixth floor. By the time they neared it, Reid was pulling himself up by the banister. They walked down a narrow hallway lined with identical doors faintly illuminated by more failing light bulbs, and then one of the Vasnytsians knocked softly on the door at the very end. It opened swiftly and they all went inside, but after a brief conversation, the two men from the truck left.
