A Few Good Men

by Sarah A. Hoyt

  I did as he told me. No, I don’t believe in ghosts. Don’t ask me how he knew which way to go. Perhaps I did. Perhaps my subconscious guessed that the path more carefully defended was the one I should take. Who knows? Stranger things, Heaven and Earth and all that. I was not in shape to think. I was barely in shape to breathe.

  All I could think was that I’d let Abigail die, and I’d have to answer to Sam for it. Losing his son had almost killed him. I knew the horror behind his stern facade. Losing his daughter—

  Steady, Luce. Burn. Faster.

  It was easy for him to say. He was just floating along with me. He didn’t even seem to walk, and he could go through guards, and the least he could do was lend a hand and burn some of them.

  I would if I could, Luce, come on. And he was beside me, and he was . . . There was a feeling he was pulling me along. No, I couldn’t feel anything. There was no physical sensation of any kind, but it felt like he was willing me to move forward. Which was good, because I felt exhausted, suddenly, and that was weird, since I hadn’t been all that tired till Abigail fell. Of course, the fast mode takes it out of you.

  Eventually there were no more guards ahead, but there was a secure door, and Ben told me to blast it and I did, giving it both burners set on cut, at high speed, till it fell. It fell outward, because in this prison, I guess, they didn’t want the prisoners to burn in case of a fire, unlike in Never-Never. This was normally a minimal security prison. I jumped out of the way, then into the opening.

  And the cell we entered was normally a minimal security prison cell. Now it was—

  I surprised myself by vomiting, suddenly and violently. Nat was strapped to one of those tables they use in hospitals. He was naked. There were implements . . .

  I’m not going to describe what they’d done to him. Suffice it to say it seemed they were going a long way to replicate what he’d done to Max’s body as he killed the bastard who’d called himself my father.

  For a moment, for a heart-stopping minute that felt like forever, I thought he was dead, and I felt that I would just collapse on top of him. Beyond the nausea, something must be very wrong with me, because my vision was swimming in and out of focus and I just wanted to sleep.

  Behind you, Luce, burn. I turned and I burned, without thinking. Three guards fell.

  Now, get the boy out of here, Ben said. Out, both of you.

  I obeyed. Even though I thought Nat was dead, I obeyed. I set one of the burners on low range and cut through the straps that held him to the table, careful not to cut into Nat. Part of me wanted to cry and part of me wanted to vomit, and though the entire memory is hazy and confused, I think I did quite a bit of both before I had him free. And then he opened his eyes—those dark, brooding eyes—and looked at me. For just a moment, he looked terrified—a look I’d never thought to see in Nat’s eyes—and then he smiled, a big smile with just a hint of tiredness. “Max,” he said. His voice was the sort of croak people get when they can’t scream anymore. “I knew you’d come for me.” Then a flicker of regret crossed his face and he said, “I’m sorry. They took your ring.” I looked, instinctively, to his ring finger. The ring was indeed gone. So was his finger. All of his fingers.

  I choked, and wasn’t sure if it was tears or vomit, or just the extreme tiredness I had to ignore.

  Yes, you do have to ignore it. Forget it. Get the boy out. Now. You’re at a lull while they get more guards in, but there will be more guards.

  I tried to pick Nat up in a way that wouldn’t hurt him further, decided there was no way to do that and threw him over my shoulder, in a fireman’s carry. I’d like to say he weighed almost nothing, but that wasn’t true. Instead, it felt like I was carrying all the sins of humanity, all the unredeemed evil of the world on my shoulder.

  But Ben was calling me, and I had to run back, after him, keep up with him. Use all my speed, use all my strength.

  Only it was hard. The floor was slick with blood. There was blood all over me. My clothes were soaked in blood, and I didn’t know whose—Nat’s or that of the people I’d killed. I kept stumbling because I was so tired, and having to drag myself up, and stumbling again, and sliding, and managing to just keep from falling with Nat on me, and Nat was heavy and felt cold and I was afraid he was dead. And I had to keep going. I had to.

  And Ben had started cursing, in a way he rarely did, unless he was really upset or scared, and he was calling me names which he’d never, ever done before.

  I stumbled and held onto the wall, and wished I could die right then, and Ben came back and called me. Come on you bastard, come on, you pampered princeling, show me you’re a man for a change, he said. Show me you have a right to call yourself a man.

  And I pulled away, and I stumbled after his retreating form, and I cried because now even Ben had turned against me, I didn’t have enough breath to protest.

  I tried to run out the way I’d come, but Ben said no, and he led me another path, and I don’t remember any of it, except I had to burn some people, and they looked really surprised. I took three grav wells. I ran down a hallway. There was what seemed to be a side door ahead of me, and it had a sign on it that said “Alarm will sound if opened.” Alarms were ringing deafeningly already, so who cared? Ben told me to burn through the genlock holding it closed. I did. And then I stumbled against it, and it opened. And I was in a yard filled with flyers, the sort of flyers used for transport of clean linen and such for the prison.

  I don’t remember using Abigail’s gadget, but I must have. I remember getting into the flyer, pulling my oxygen mask down, and still not being able to smell anything but shit and blood. I remember laying Nat down, on a pile of clean sheets and pulling a sheet over him, but I didn’t cover his face, though I was sure he was dead. I remember locking the flyer door from inside, and bashing with the butt of my burner the “brains” of the machine, that allowed it to be remotely controlled.

  I remember Ben driving me, pushing me, with words like whips, That’s right. Show me there is more in you than self-pity and selfishness. Show me you’re good for something. Do it. No one cares if you hurt. No one cares. Get this thing in the air. Now, Luce. Stop whimpering like a little girl. They’re coming for you. You must get it up now. Now.

  And then, as he was giving me coordinates to set, he yelled for me to hurry. He told me no one cared if I died, but I must get the boy somewhere where they could take care of him. I must save Nat, even if I died doing it. Then, as the flyer took off with a jolt, and pinned me against the seat, he said, Take the link from your pocket. Now, Luce.

  Blindly, I did. Blindly I dialed the code he told me, though it made no sense. It was not a code I knew and it seemed to be an invalid code. The link rang for a long, long time, and then Sam’s face appeared midair. His eyes widened.

  Before he could talk, I said, in a thread of voice, “I think Nat is dead. Abigail—” but Ben was screaming, No, no, no, tell him you’ll be on the beach, in Liberte. Give him these coordinates—Ben rattled off numbers—Tell him you’re landing there in . . . twenty minutes, according to programming. Tell him. Tell him he must have people to protect your landing. You’ll be pursued. Tell him to have emergency vehicles and regen available. Tell him you have Nat with you. Tell him he’s alive. I don’t care what you think. Tell him. Tell him both the boy and you will need immediate first aid and regen. Yes, you too. TELL him, you useless bastard.

  I told him, because Ben was very loud and I wanted to sleep, and I couldn’t go to sleep with him yelling like that. And then, with a vague idea that Sam too was yelling questions at me, but it all seemed very distant, I closed my eyes.

  And I felt a touch of cool fingers on my forehead, a hand smoothing back my hair, which had come loose and was everywhere around my face—and I knew they were Ben’s fingers, Ben’s hand, Ben’s touch. And I couldn’t open my eyes, and I couldn’t talk, but I thought at him that I was sorry to have disappointed him, sorry to have made him lose patience with me. Sorry to be what I was and no m
ore. Never quite good enough.

  His response, more in the mind than in the ears was very faint, fainter than a whisper, fainter than his touch, but it was completely different from what he’d said before, it was like what Ben would have said while he was alive, and it fell like distilled sweetness upon my bruised soul, You didn’t disappoint me, Luce. You never disappoint me. You did well. You were always the best of men. They’ll take over now. Tell Sam I’ll look after the girl.

  And then there was nothing.

  When Angels Die

  I don’t know how long I was out. I came awake because someone was pushing and pulling at me. No, several people. And it hurt like hell. And it wasn’t even that it hurt and then it was gone, no. It was a series of repeated hurts, so that I would just be recovering from one, when the other would hit, sharp and sudden. And the lingering pain mounted too, in a crescendo.

  I wanted to go back to where I’d been. It was dark and calm and cold, and there was the vague impression that Ben had been there too.

  I tried to curse my tormentors, but all that came out was a childish whine. I remembered Ben telling me not to whine like a little girl and I bit my lower lip, hard.

  Sam’s voice spoke out of nowhere, “It’s okay, Lucius. You’ll just need some regen.”

  I wanted to tell him it was Nat that needed regen, if he wasn’t dead, while poor little Abigail was beyond all regen, and it was all my fault, but I couldn’t get the strength to speak, and my eyes were streaming tears and I couldn’t stop them. Then someone else above me, a voice that seemed familiar but I didn’t know from where said, “I’m going to give him Morpheus. There’s no reason for him to be awake.”

  “Do it,” Sam said, sounding very tired. “Now, what do we do about Nat?”

  And I realized he didn’t yet know his son was dead, and I took the miserable, unending certainty I’d failed all of them and caused Nat’s and Abigail’s death, with me into an awful sort of cloying darkness that clung to me on all sides.

  After a long time, I realized there was something else. A ray of light, a distant feeling of warmth. I went towards it, though it was hard to say how, since I didn’t seem to have a body. And Max was there and a shaggy golden dog. At the first sight, I thought it was Goldie, then I realized it was bigger. And then I recognized Bonnie, my dog, that I was sure my father had killed when I was ten, because it had growled at him. Max, who was all grown up and looked like the picture in Nat’s cubicle in the lair, was throwing a stick. The dog was retrieving it. Neither of them paid any attention to me.

  And then I remembered Nat didn’t have any fingers, and wouldn’t be able to draw or paint, and I’d have cried, only I didn’t have any eyes, either.

  Other dreams came. I’m sure they were dreams. My mother was holding me, and I wanted to tell her she wasn’t really my mother, then I didn’t, and she was laughing at me and telling me I was as much hers as I could be. And then there was my broomers’ lair, all of them, even Hans, and we were setting off on our brooms, but then Javier told me I couldn’t come because I’d forgotten to bring my body with me.

  Dreams flickered into dreams, all with a feeling of loss, a feeling of something missing. Almost everyone in them was dead, and they couldn’t seem to reach me, and I couldn’t reach them. I couldn’t go with them. And I didn’t have any body.

  And then there was Abigail, sitting right next to me. We were in the prison corridor, where she’d died, only there were only the two of us there, sitting side by side, with our backs to the wall, and she still had the hole on her chest, but it didn’t seem to bother her, and she wasn’t bleeding, though there was blood down her suit. There was blood all down my right arm, too, and most of my shoulder appeared to be just the bone, glaring white amid bits of fabric. And the rest of my body was covered in blood which soaked the fibers of the suit, and I realized, in shock, the blood was mine. I’d been hit, many times. Funny, I hadn’t noticed. It hadn’t hurt. Perhaps things never hurt when you’re dead.

  “When you promised your life, your fortune and your sacred honor, what did you think it meant?” she said. “Did you think it was a game?”

  And then I woke up. Only it was not immediately obvious.

  I woke up to a sudden feeling that I had a body, and my body was lying on something soft, and covered by something soft, and I was looking up at something gold and warm and solid. And then the something resolved itself into wood planks, and I thought it was odd. It had been many years since anyone in my line had been buried. Or anyone in most of the world. Usually the dead were cremated. And what whim had caused them to bury me in a pine coffin?

  Then I became aware it couldn’t be a coffin. Or if it were, it was the world’s largest coffin, because Nat was standing a few steps away from me where the wood formed a peak, so that he could stand straight, even though it was only a palm or so above my head while I was lying down. It was, I thought, a peaked roof, and I was lying right next to where it ended, against a short wall, also made of wood planks. And Nat looked fine—of course, all the dead in my dream looked fine, too—and he was smoking.

  And then Goldie came out of nowhere and jumped on me.

  “Goldie, stop that,” Nat said, just as the dog started to lick my face. I managed to push Goldie away and said, “I didn’t know Goldie was dead.”

  Nat lifted an eyebrow at me. “I don’t think he is,” he said. “Mind you, I’m not an expert on dead dogs, but I don’t think they eat as much as this one does. Not to mention the other end of the business. Dead dogs don’t do that either.”

  I looked him over. “But you’re dead,” I said. “And I’m dead.”

  He walked over and sat on the bed, still smoking, and looked intently at me, as though trying to determine how far I had taken leave of my senses. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m very much alive. You were a matter of more debate for a while. Something in your cells. I’d guess the stops they put in to prevent cloning. We don’t have any techs in the small and exclusive group that caters to the Good Men. We can’t recruit them for obvious reasons. So, our medtechs had no idea what to do with your gencode. It gave them a hell of a time with regen. That’s why it took so long. They finally had to get hold of some notes or something that Simon St. Cyr had. Otherwise you’d be gone.”

  “So long?”

  “Five months,” he said. “I’ve been out here for almost six months.”

  “Out here?” I asked.

  “A safe place. I’ll explain later. We couldn’t be where they might do a sweep and apprehend us. Well, it was fine while we were sealed in the regen tanks. A regen tank is much like the other, it’s all in the ID tag you fake. But for recovery, we were sent away. My father has quite outrageously got your gen-signature on all sorts of contingency documents and has been doing what he pleases in your name. I’m very afraid you’ll have to get rid of him when you go back, for abuse of power, you know . . .” It was clear he was trying to joke, but the joke didn’t quite take off, probably because I’d started crying. I didn’t realize I’d started, until I saw his expression crumple into a look of chagrin and concern. “Now, Luce, what the hell?”

  “Abigail is dead.”

  “I know,” he said, and his face was still grave but less panicky. He fished in one of his tunic pockets, then mopped at my face with a handkerchief that felt scratchy. “Before I was sent out, we had a ceremony in the family to lay her spirit to rest. We . . . sent her off in style. Thank you for bringing her flag, by the way. It meant the world to my mother.”

  “It was my fault,” I said. “I should never have let her go.”

  “It was not your fault. They actually got the whole story out of you—everything that happened. Part of it was you kept talking—while you were out of your mind and they were trying to operate on you and pump enough blood into you that the small part you retained after leaking from all the wounds was enough to keep you alive—part that they gave you babble juice, so they had a report in case you died. And you probably prevented her bei
ng killed in the entry tunnel. Besides pulling a minor miracle in getting me out of there, when you were bleeding to death.”

  “Bleeding?”

  “You really need to learn to speak in longer sentences, Luce.” He expelled smoke, and smiled at me, a smile that was more willingness to smile, than the real thing. “People will think it was your brain that got blown away, instead of your shoulder.”

  “My shoulder . . .” I remembered the dream. “To the bone?”

  “Yeah.” He stubbed his cigarette out on a little round ashtray, then lit another. “Well, you managed to lose some of the bone, too, and a great part of your forearm. Let’s say your arm was only attached to you by the force of your will power, a bit of skin and a shred of bone. You’re a wonder for the ages. How did you manage to lift me at all? It would take two arms. And how did you manage to fire two burners and for that matter to break into a flyer and program it, with me over the good shoulder, with the other shoulder incapacitated?”

  “I used my tentacles,” I said, and closed my eyes, just in time to hear his sudden laughter, which made me feel inexplicably better. I lay there, not asleep, but with my eyes closed, listening to him draw in smoke and exhale it in measured cadences. Goldie nuzzled next to my neck. And I was warm, and nothing hurt, and I definitely had a body. I felt tired, but it was a pleasant tired, like one feels at the end of a long day of hard but enjoyable work.

  And then Nat spoke, “Did you really . . .” He paused. “That is, what you kept telling Dad, when you were delirious, not to worry because Uncle Benjamin was looking after Abigail. And then when you . . . when they gave you stuff to make you talk, you seemed convinced that he’d been with you the whole time, and that in fact he directed the entire operation to get us out of there, after Abigail died.”

  I opened my eyes. He probably thought I was completely insane. I thought I was completely insane, but what else could I do? My nanny, long ago, used the quaintest phrase when getting me to confess something. She told me to tell the truth and shame the devil. I have no idea why the truth would shame the devil, but I also had no idea what else to say right then. So I said, “I saw him. I . . . I hallucinated his voice while I was in jail, but not like that. I mean, I sort of saw him, but in my head, you know? Not with my eyes. And I didn’t hear him with ears, only with my mind.” I shrugged. “I always thought it was just a coping mechanism, one of the reasons I’m only somewhat insane and not a raving lunatic.” I paused. “But there, in the prison, I saw him. With my eyes. And heard him . . . And he was . . . very commanding.”