The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security

by Andrew Tisbert

  A restricted flight zone enforcing the Southern Vermont border formed a crescent, beginning below Albany and reaching all the way to Watertown and the Northeastern corner of Lake Ontario. Another restricted flight zone down Lake Champlain along the East side of the Adirondacks—straight through the middle of the country—had been implemented ostensibly, to ensure delivery of humanitarian aide to refugee camps that proved the absence of terrorists. But, this was only one of the functions it served. It also provided a buffer for the US sympathizers in Montpelier. And, of course, it kept military pressure on Washington's enemies.

  Flying into Vermont was easier from the Canadian territory of Quebec. There were random patrols to enforce the US agreement with Canada on limiting trade with Vermont, but they could easily be avoided. Especially when you had a way to distort communication signals.

  Even with the scrambler, the Sons of Man were being cautious. Leslie was impressed by the planning that had gone into their route. She knew it would have been possible to cross the restricted zones instead of taking their longer, circuitous route. But the great arc of their journey to the eventual hideout in the wilderness meant they avoided appearances in towns where they might easily be spotted by security operatives or Vermont authorities. It also removed a great deal of risk of being shot down by random patrols.

  In each new lift car they found directions to the next ride. Leslie couldn't read them, but they seemed clear to Roger. He only managed to get them lost once, in the middle of the night somewhere near the rocky Maine coast, the darkness falling on them in sheets of cold rain. They wandered for about two hours before they found the car. All Roger said was, “Sorry about that,” and resumed his sullen reticence.

  Leslie wondered why the Atheist organization had gone to such expense to help them. She didn't believe their motives were altruistic, and was prepared for the likelihood the Sons of Man wanted something from her. It was a persistent thought.

  When do I get the bill for all this?

  By the time they quit the last lift car—in a small clearing surrounded by tall conifers—it was dark again. The rain continued, falling like ice slivers shattered from up high in the opaque sky. Leslie thought she heard the hoarse rush of a nearby stream somewhere in the woods, felt the presence of the mountains hunkered in the night around her. They walked a winding path to the camp, Roger leading with a flashlight from the lift car. When they reached the quiet building, Leslie's fingers and feet were wrinkled and soft. The place stood only one story high, made almost entirely of wood.

  "There are supposed to be solar batteries inside,” Roger grunted, and climbed the rotting steps of the porch. His torchlight stabbed through the doorway and he followed it in.

  Once inside the building, Leslie peeled off her sopping jacket while Roger searched for the pantry to turn on the lights. He opened a cracked, peeling door and disappeared. After a minute, a hanging light went on over a table in the kitchen, and illuminated the dusty sitting room before her. When she saw the fireplace and the stack of wood beside it she smiled. How long had it been since she had built a fire? One thing she could remember about her childhood.

  "I'll light a fire to dry our things,” she called. She knelt on the cracked brick hearth.

  "The freezer in here's stocked. Are you hungry?"

  Leslie looked up. He stood by the pantry holding fresh steaks. His hair was matted and damp, hanging over eyes only half focused on the world around him. Leslie felt sorry for him in that moment. “Very.” She returned her gaze to the fireplace.

  Leslie wondered what Roger was thinking. She'd been trained to kill, and yet she knew how the physical act had still changed her. How was it for him? His involvement in all of this was a mistake for which she was responsible. If the situation were reversed she'd hate him with a hardened core of steel and ice. She didn't know what to say to him.

  I wish I could be alone to talk to Gun right now. Gun would know what to do.

  She placed larger sticks over a pile of kindling, then used a little of Gun's precious power to produce a flame. Smoke slowly rose as the kindling ignited, and she watched flickering tendrils grow and writhe around the large sticks. Soon, she smelled the steaks frying in the kitchen.

  She undressed to her bra and panties, hung the clothes with her jacket on the mantle, and left her shoes and socks on the hearth. Then, dropping the scrambler beside her, she sat on a rug against the fire's warmth to listen to the counterpoint rhythms of the rain on the roof and the popping flames. Her mind began to race over the events of the last few days. Everything had happened so fast. Now she was here in Vermont—a fugitive, whose only chance for ultimate survival was the removal of the head mem—the loss of her greatest ally. She was afraid to be without the gentle motion of the head mem's assistance. She was terrified to gain the memories she knew stirred uneasily beneath its blurring tentacles. She was afraid to learn who she really was. She'd grown so accustomed to the head mem, she assumed her intelligence originated there. She didn't want to watch herself grow dull and alone.

  Roger emerged from the kitchen, then disappeared through a doorway in the back of the room. “Here's the bedroom,” he called. “Not much, but there are a couple of cots.” He reappeared holding a few hangers. Undressing to his shorts, he used the hangers to drape his clothes by the fire. Then he returned to his cooking.

  When he approached the fire again, he held a plate of steak in each hand. He passed one to Leslie then sat cross-legged beside her, balancing his plate on the crux of his hairy calves and thighs.

  She watched him as he tore at the steak with fingers and teeth. Since they'd met, he'd been an uncomfortable mixture of rashness and fear. He'd broken down in panic at least twice already, and even though he acted arrogant and sneering, he was mostly passive. Still, in his apartment when Leslie had first seen him, his eyes were bright with spirit and intelligence, like the dappling of light on water.

  Now they were like dull gray marbles—marbles too heavy to control, since, every time he lifted them toward her, they rolled to the side and out of focus. That dullness and uncertainty in his gaze irritated her. She resented his weakness. Did she have to deal with every trial alone from now on?

  At least she had Gun—Gun who was dying, she reminded herself. Gun, whose fate was to slowly lose power and turn stupid. She couldn't help wondering if Gun reflected her own fate. She didn't know what she would do without the head mem in her skull, guiding her, softening the edges of her memories. She reached for her food and ripped furiously at it. Her stomach burned with hunger and she swallowed without chewing; the knot of meat hurt all the way down. She ate in silence. When she was through, she put the plate on the floor and wiped her fingers on her bare thighs. The meat was an unpleasant lump in her abdomen. When she looked at Roger, his dull expression no longer made her angry. She felt sorry for him again, and responsible. He blinked, then carefully watched her.

  "I was hungry,” he said, mouth still full, as he set down his own plate.

  "Roger. I'm so sorry."

  "For ... what?"

  "For what happened yesterday."

  "Yeah. Right.” He rubbed at his forehead. Then his hand dropped to a pale knee. “I keep wanting to blame you, you know. If only you'd never shown up, I tell myself, I would have never gotten involved in all of this. I mean you've got to know by now I was never a part of the Sons of Man thing, not really. I've always been a big talker, but an even bigger coward. I've never really admitted that to anyone. I have an ... umm ... friend ... who's always believed in me. And I've always put on such a big show of indignant outrage at the behavior of Washington for her. I always wanted to show her what a brave man I was. But really what've I ever done? I was just showing off. But she was willing to take it at face value. She was so much stronger and honest than me. I just pretended at everything.

  "It would be nice to go back and apologize to her for my posturing. I never treated her right.” He stared for a moment at the fire. Leslie waited, watching flames brighten
his eyes with their reflection. “That's not going to happen. I killed that guy. There's no turning around. My whole life's upside down. I've lost everything, including my self-respect.” He laughed. “And, oh, I want to be angry. I want to strike out at something, at you, because how can it possibly be my fault? I want to blame it all on you. But I know better, Leslie. I know I'm to blame."

  The lump in Leslie's stomach soured. No, she wanted to say, it is all my fault. Arguing over it, she knew, wouldn't help either of them, even as the guilt filled her like the spreading out of a cracked egg. She heard Tom Russell's voice: ‘He'll get a fair trial....' and before that—’ ... an Atheist and an unborn'. She turned to watch the fire and her face heated quickly. “Roger,” she said. “You may have saved my life in Boston, as well as your own."

  He shook his head. “I don't know anything about that. I wasn't thinking about saving your life. I was just scared out of my mind. I wasn't thinking about anything. I just ... lost it."

  Leslie grasped his hand. “Do you think heroes aren't afraid? They act when they think they are being cowards."

  Their gazes met and Roger smiled in gratitude. “That sounds like something I might have said once.” His hand moved from hers to touch her cheek. The side of her face was still tender, but this time she forced herself not to flinch. “Thank you."

  She uncrossed her legs, leaned toward him and brushed his shoulders with her fingertips. Her guilt was slowly beginning to feel like a desire to reassure him. She reached her arms around his back, the hair of his chest rough against her. Her good cheek rubbed against stubble on his chin, as his hands moved to press her shoulder blades. She moved a shoulder loosely under the feel of his hand. She raised a hand to caress the back of Roger's neck through coils of still-damp hair; her fingers brushed his ear, the side of his head. Then she caught herself and pulled slightly away, one arm still wound under his.

  "Don't worry,” Roger whispered. “I'm not going to do anything to you.” He sighed, pressed her back, and she let him pull her closer again. Her left breast gave against him. She closed her eyes as he moved a hand to slide between her flesh and the fabric of her bra. Leslie felt his thumb rub over her right nipple, but his motions didn't seem aggressive. It was more as if he sought comfort, and the feeling was mutual.

  A part of Leslie felt maternal toward him. Both the sensation on her breast and the mothering feeling stretched pleasantly through her belly, softening, smoothing, relaxing. They sat quietly for a while, only the rain, the fire and their breathing in her ears. Then Roger spoke again.

  "I really do sympathize with you, Leslie. Even your wanting to have this baby. I want you to know I'll help you in any way I can.” He smiled, and the lines around his mouth and eyes bore no scorn or sarcasm in them. He kissed Leslie's nose and when his lips moved away, her skin cooled with the moisture left there. “We've still got a ways to go tomorrow. We should probably get some sleep.” He rose awkwardly, trying to conceal the swelling at his crotch with his hands. Leslie smiled to herself at his embarrassment, but didn't say anything.

  As Roger went to the kitchen to turn off the light, Leslie took Gun and the scrambler with her to the bedroom, crossed the wedge of light from the doorway, and approached the dim outline of the far mattress. The light went out behind her and she heard Roger stumble to the other mattress. “Goodnight, Leslie,” he said. “Thank you."

  Leslie placed Gun and the scrambler carefully on the floor at the head of the cot. Then she got under the thin blanket and lay down. At first she couldn't sleep. She turned on her side and tried to make out the still outline of Roger. He was motionless. I truly am sorry. She listened to his heavy breathing. She was exhausted, but didn't feel sleepy.

  As she lay there she became aware of a slight, almost indiscernible odor of cinnamon and musk in the room; it was the same as the smell she'd noticed on Roger in Boston, and Leslie fought down the same vague sense of panic she'd felt there. “Roger,” she said softly. “Do you smell something?"

  She listened to him sigh and roll over. “Are you kidding me?” Then he paused and she imagined him sniffing the air. “It's that aftershave again, I guess. It must be the Atheist's choice when they're on the lam. What's your problem?"

  Leslie felt her heart racing. “It scares me."

  "You can hardly smell it,” he said. “You need to try and sleep.” He stirred in the darkness again, then went quiet.

  She knew he was right. The head mem was already washing through her fear like a soft tide, caressing inside her, compelling her to relax. Slowly, it helped her become drowsy. She relaxed until her eyes closed and she dozed off.

  An unseen presence beside her cot stirred her. She couldn't see and she reached out, her wrist colliding with the soft skin and rough hair of an outer thigh. Her other hand thrust out to rest on the knob of a knee. “Roger? What's wrong?"

  "Leslie,” he whispered. “I can't sleep."

  She pulled her hands away and pushed herself up to sit on the cot's edge. She could barely make out his pale frame in the darkness. An arm swept toward her and his hand rested lightly on the back of her head. She let it draw her forward, reaching for his thigh. Her right palm rested higher this time; two fingers brushed the mat of hair at his groin. Her other hand grasped the bony ball of his hip, while she softly traced her fingers through the hair around the base of his cock. He was already stiff. She made a ring around him with thumb and forefinger and gently squeezed. He dug his fingers into the hair at her nape and let out a breath. He was thicker than she expected, but not very long. When she took him into her mouth he slid in almost all the way without making her cough. She moved her tongue along the underside of him while he moaned.

  It didn't take long for him to finish. Leslie was surprised when the shaft expanded and cum spat thinly once, then twice, in the back of her mouth. As he pulled out, going immediately flaccid, she moved the stringy fluid on her tongue, some of it bitter, most of it salty. She swallowed, suppressing the slight desire to retch she always felt.

  Roger was stroking her ear and neck, panting. “That was nice.” She realized he couldn't see the smile she'd forced to her lips for him and let it evaporate.

  "I can make room on my cot if you want.” She lay back down and slid to the side while he crawled in beside her, not touching her. They lay like that for a minute, uncomfortable in the silence. Then Roger said softly, “Goodnight, Leslie.” She closed her eyes and forced herself to relax again. Before she fell asleep, she noticed that faint smell again. Cinnamon and musk.

  * * * *

  There's just the faint shade of the smell in her dream. Yet it's an ominous presence filling the room around her. It mixes with her own sweat, liquid fear seeping from her body. She smells his aftershave as the back of her head slams against the wooden floorboards, and her vision shatters then slowly swims blurrily together. He pins her down roughly with his chest and legs, a wiry forearm across her throat. She can barely whisper, “Please don't,” as he thrusts, piercing.

  I'm so dry, how can he penetrate me?

  And then she catches her breath and clamps her eyes shut against the sudden pain. He's punishing her—for what, she can't even remember. “This is the way it will be,” he yells in her face, spittle foaming on her cheek—until she can be good. Be good! She wants to be good. She wants to disappear from this, gasping the thick air. Her panic shakes her, and she flails against him, but she can't get out from under his weight. That smell, in her sleep, awakens the memories slumbering beneath the new shape of her mind, the soft sheet of the head mem. Even in the consciousness of her dreaming she can feel the inner motion of the head mem; she feels as if she's spinning out of control, but the feel and smell of her father are slowly disintegrating, slipping back into their induced slumber. “Are you ready, Leslie, ready, Leslie?” she hears. “Ready Leslie, ready Leslie, ready.... “

  * * * *

  At first she didn't know what woke her. The camp was quiet—even the rain had stopped—and gray light spilled from th
e window between the cots, the beginnings of an overcast dawn. Roger still slept beside her, on his stomach now with one arm hanging over the edge of the mattress, drool soaking the sheet. Rubbing her face with both hands, she sighed. Then it happened again.

  "...Ready, Leslie."

  She was instantly alert. “Gun? Gun, how did you—” A wave of nausea crested thickly over her, then subsided. She reached over Roger, her fingers collided with the scrambler, then Gun. “Shit,” she muttered as the scrambler slid a couple feet away from the cot.

  "Are you alone, Les? It's ... Tom."

  She raised Gun and tried to turn it off. “Gun. Stop. Disengage—"

  "I love you, Leslie."

  She grew still, staring at the firearm.

  "It's true. I love you. And I'm so worried about you. Security has gotten very nervous. And you know the more nervous they are the more dangerous they are. Now there's your friend's murder of Rhodes to contend with. I believe they want to activate your head mem and be done with it. I can't let this happen to you. Please, Les. I only want you back here with me, safe."

  "You know it's not that simple any more."

  "No. You're absolutely right. But we can work something out when you're safely back in Washington."

  Leslie closed her eyes. “I need time to think."

  "You don't have any more time—can't you understand that? Security wants to close in, whatever it takes. I can't control it. All I can do is get to you before they decide to take over your head mem. I know you're somewhere in the Adirondacks right now. If you just tell me where you are I could be there within two hours. Meet with me—just me. Let's not let this get any more out of control than it already is. Please Les. I thought you loved me once. Please. We need to just talk this out."

  Then Gun went quiet.

  Roger stirred and, without looking, Leslie knew he'd been awake through her conversation.

  "You heard."

  "Yes.” He sat up.