Disclaimer: The author of this non-profit fic doesn't own Thunderbirds, never will own it, never has. And now is also depressed.
Warnings: Violence, mild bad language, adult and supernatural themes. Be warned, it can get graphic.
Authors Notes: Ah-hah! I actually planned to finish this a week or more ago, but I reached Grandma Tracy's bit and was completely stumped about how it should go. I compromised with something that got all the plot points in, and left it at that.
I'm not…entirely happy with how this part turned out, simply because there were some parts I could make sound right, and some other parts I left out entirely. I was trying to improve on the space between posts, so I forged ahead instead of getting bogged down. I'm reaching the climax soon.
Oh, and I'm working on my other fic 'In At The Death' as well, still.
To my reviewers and readers, keep 'em coming. And thank you for sticking around.
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Part XI – Two Sided War
In which there is – the PRA spirals – Mr Reaming's Mission – Scott on the Wall – PRA Retirement Plan - The Big Man – Track & Trace – Follow the Smoke – One Seventeen – More Agents in Pink – Two Sided War of Attrition - Escape Attempt – Virgil's Phase One – Over the Top – Visions – the Shell Game – Caught – Reconnaissance – Kite's Cousin – Going In – Getting There – Voices – Grandma's Place – Tired – The Photo
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"…the incident has turned into a global debate about the psychic problem. The Miles-Keye Commission has released a press statement revealing that their preliminary findings of the PRA audit has come up with irregularities that require further investigation. Pro-psychic and anti-psychic riots have clashed in several cities. The President's staff has appealed for calm, and is waiting for the outcome of the two investigations in order to make a decision. Billionaire mogul Jeff Tracy and his family are right in the middle of the controversy between the PRA and the government because of the acquisition by Tracy Corp of a supposedly new device to block psychic powers. Mr Tracy's home was invaded by unidentified assailants yesterday, and his sons appear to be missing. He has appealed for any information on their whereabouts. The situation has been complicated further by interference from London, where the Parliament is calling for the asylum of the scientist who invented the device, whose whereabouts are also unknown… "
Forlan switched off the television irritably. It was not a good day to be in the PRA. Already stretched to breaking point, his agents were spending more time keeping back protesters outside of Tracy Corp, and breaking up fights than they were investigating Jeff Tracy.
Not that this was an easy thing to do in the first place. Between the uncooperative attitudes of the workers within the Corp, and their own systems going haywire, the PRA were finding zip, zilch, nada, nothing. And the auditors were asking all the…difficult questions. Court clerks and investigators covered the PRA like a blanket, unhurried and unworried. They didn't have to deal with the streets, or the attack on the President, or anything else but the PRA. Their job was easy.
And Jeff Tracy! The man had more files on the PRA than a conspiracy theorist had alien photos. And they were listening to him. And someone had leaked to the press about the man's sons, which hadn't helped. All the mess was out in the open for all to see, and the PRA had the grubbiest hands.
"Hey, you!" Forlan yelled over to the lanky, long haired figure fussing with the security controls.
And to top off his cake Condor Reaming was walking around and under foot!
"Oh relax, honey," he snorted, unconcernedly. "Mr Tracy asked that the back logs be opened so you agents can access the whole system," he waved the access disk. "He's cooperating."
The screens in the security room all flickered to life, showing footage from the past week all running on the screens.
Agent Forlan scowled. "Get out of here! We don't need your help! Get back into the authorised areas or I'll have you arrested!"
"Sor-ry," Condor held up his hands. "You're carrying to much tension, darling. You should try to relax. Have a manicure too. Those hands are disgusting."
"Out!" Agent Forlan roared.
Condor huffed and hit the 'open' switch on the doors. "Aw geez. Now look what you made me do! I broke a nail on the card slidy thing." He looked at Agent Forlan's expression. "Right, going."
Agent Forlan slammed the door shut and locked it after the man. Any minute now the HQ people were going to call and what was he supposed to say?
Condor Reaming strode out across the lobby, picking at his hand. "Mr Randall." He nodded without turning.
Randall was nonplussed. He knew he didn't make any noise, but no one yet had been able to sneak up on the mysterious Mr Reaming. There was more to him than met the eye. A lot more. He raised an eyebrow at the dandy man.
"Mission accomplished," Condor sighed, looking at his nails. "It was my most expansive treatment, too."
"As long as it works, Reaming," Randall grunted.
"Oh, it'll work, sweetie, it'll work. Everything important works around me."
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Waking up was easier the next time. For one thing, they'd taken him out of the chair and chained him to the wall, so he could finally unclench his cramped, aching body. Any little thing was an improvement. It was blurry and grey in front of his eyes, and it took long minutes of bewildering shadows before things cleared enough to be called a scene.
Scott couldn't move his arms enough to rub his eyes, and he had to blink past the crust over his eyelids. There were hot, stinging burns across his back.
But he was awake. He looked blearily around what looked like a little back room, with a dressing table and mirror on one side, bracketed by clothing racks. The dressing room. A grimy bulb flickered in the ceiling, throwing odd shadows across the man in the chair.
He was sitting with a shotgun across his knees. He could have been tall or short, he was too hunched over to tell either way. He was a balding man with an impressive hatchet nose and slightly sunken eyes, which threw the shadows even deeper across the divots in his face.
"I imagine," the man said, almost to himself. "That it's like waking up behind a stage. Suddenly all the magic and awe is gone, and you realise you've been kidnapped by b-grade stage actors with cheap props and a bad opinion."
Scott just glared at him, whoever he was. His mind felt a bit clearer now, his overexertion was less overwhelming agony than an aching throb right between his eyes. And he was getting aware enough to be angry.
"My name is Ackleby. I need to talk to you. I need you to talk to me. It's vital if you want to get out of here."
Scott continued to glare. He wasn't falling for this bull.
"Now I realise this might be a little bit of a tough one," Ackleby shrugged. "But it's kind of important that you listen to me right now. We don't have a lot of time to…"
Ackleby stopped and looked around at the rattling. On the side of the room the reflection in the mirror blurred as the mirror shook. It was the tiniest tremor, like an echo.
Ackleby watched suspiciously before turning back to Scott. "As I was saying, we don't have ti…"
The clothing rustled of the shelves, like the ghosts of wearers. Ackleby's eyes narrowed. "That's you, isn't it?"
The shotgun came up like bar and struck Ackleby hard under the chin, sending him sprawling back, still half sitting in the chair. He was pinned.
"Very. Good. Guess," Scott rasped, eyes boring holes in his captors.
Ackleby twisted against the weight of the shot gun, squirming out of the chair awkwardly. "Now I…can tell…you…might…be a…little…upset…" he wheezed out. "But…you…must…"
"I must. I must?" Scott growled, white fury filling his blood. "What do you want from us? What more can you steal from us that you haven't already taken? The only thing I must do is get the hell out of here and find what's left of my family. It's up to me whether you survive it or not, Ackleby, and I am long past caring what happens to any of you!"
Scott grimaced, and suddenly the crushing shotgun was lighter, easier to push against. Ackleby heaved it aside and rolled to his knees, watching Scott who was taking heaving breaths from his incarceration against the bare wood wall.
Ackleby massaged his throat, coughing dryly. "You're good," he croaked. "I've met a lot of psychics but I don't know many who could still pull a stunt like that after the stuff you've been through. Pretty stupid, though, kiddo. You haven't got that much juice up yet."
There was a metallic scraping sound behind Ackleby, an ominous little scratching sound on the concrete. He didn't turn around, and his expression didn't change. "Ah. I seem to be at gunpoint. You're very good then."
"Take off the damn chains, or I'll squeeze and let the chips fall where they may," Scott panted.
"I imagine you would," Ackleby breathed. "I imagine you'd do it and you could even free yourself. You wouldn't even think about it, 'cause you've got bigger things to lose than your morals right now. But what then? See that door?" Ackleby tilted his head toward the heavy wooden thing. "Beyond that there's a corridor, and beyond that is fifty guys with access to deadly weapons, and beyond the next door there are about three hundred people who are a deadlier weapon just as a mob. And every man, woman and dumb posing teenager jack of 'em would love to see your corpse pumped full of lead and your head on a wall. You're good, son, but nobody is that good, psychic or not."
"Right. And trusting you is a better option for me," Scott twisted in the chains and Ackleby felt cold metal against his back. "I'm running out of patience Ackleby. And you're running out of time. Give me one good reason why you, who watched a man being electrocuted and watched him chained up to a wall for some genetic quirk, who has participated in who knows how many lynchings and assaults and hells know what else in the name of hatred and fear, should be trusted by me, the epitome of everything you despise? God, you must think I'm stupid, Ackleby. You got no reason to help me anymore than I have reason to trust you."
"You've got me kneeling on the floor with a gun at my back," Ackleby responded. "You're right, my reasons for helping you are shrinking rapidly but I'm still trying. You got all the cards kid, so what's it going to cost you to listen for a minute?"
"What did it cost us just trying to live a normal life, Ackleby?" Scott shook his head, trying to shake loose the agony. "No, I'm not falling for this rubbish. Untie the damn chains or I'll do it myself!"
"You'd really stoop to murder?"
"It wouldn't be murder where I'll shoot."
The gun dug in again. Lower down. There was a silence. "One minute, kid. One minute, just to explain. It'll take that long to get the chains off anyway, so you can just listen while I chatter."
Scott glared at him, unmoved.
"Look," Ackleby huffed. "Look. The Lady said…the Lady said…oh cripes, what'd she…? Right, the Lady said you joked to her that when you joined the Air Force you'd be sure to land right on the rose garden because it'd take care of the aphids once and for all. Good enough?"
Scott stared at him. "You know…"
"Yeah," Ackleby grimaced. "Well, know? Not really. But she knew a hell of a lot about me, I know that. I met her…" Ackleby tilted his head slightly. "Six, seven months ago? She thought I might be useful, and she gave me a way to see through my retirement plan."
Scott
raised an eyebrow.
Ackleby shrugged. "Redemption on the
instalment plan. Why do you think they let me stay in here alone with
you? They think I can handle you." He jerked a thumb towards
himself. "Ex-PRA."
There was a shunting click as the shotgun cocked. "Not helping your case," Scott told him sharply.
"Note the 'ex' in Ex-PRA. As in finished. Stopped. Retired. That's why I can move in these circles, see? I'm useful to have around."
"How many lives did you destroy before deciding on redemption?" Scott hissed.
"Many," Ackleby said levelly. "Though if you're looking for a 'good agency gone bad' speech you're barking up the wrong tree. Have you ever seen a little kid trying to understand the emotions some paedophile empath has stirred up to get what he wants? Ever seen an arson job done by a pyro? I've actually seen people turned to ash, there wasn't even time to scream. I've seen depravities a normal person couldn't even dream of. Psychics aren't always victims."
Scott brushed this off. "Do normal people have to wear coded armbands? Are normal kids taken away from happy families because the authorities say they can't care for them properly? Do ordinary people have to earn the right to be free? Yes, Ackleby, we are always victims, whether you want to admit it or not. You might have seen a few less depravities if we were given a chance from the beginning." He grunted at the ex-Agent. "If you're looking for the 'yes, we're all equal' speech, you're barking up the wrong tree. You're just a spectator in this game, Ackleby. You can talk to me after you've spent your childhood been spat at and dodging rocks and doing community service for the crime of living. Now cut the freakin' philosophy and tell me what the hell you want with me!"
The glared at each other for a moment, and Ackleby looked away. "I just need you to wait. Don't…do anything for now, just sit and wait for the big man to show up. No riots, no escape attempts. They're waiting for the chance to kill you right? They'll give you opportunities to run just so they can chase you. Act out of it, don't take it, no matter how tempting. The dice are loaded against you."
Scott laughed bitterly. "And what do I," he replied sarcastically. "Get from this sage advise? Other than a spot on the gallows?"
"Time," Ackleby retorted. "Think about it son. Would you rather face them as soon as possible or with some actual ammunition? They want you dead, and if they know I've helped you they'll want me dead. But I can steer things in the right direction. I've already got that idiot Father Stewart foaming at the mouth and calling up reserves – he'll call the big man for us, and trust me, I know him. He'll want to keep you alive. He just funds these places so he can find psychics. He'll get you out of here."
Scott's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "But not to help me?"
"Would you rather be with one man who wants you alive or a mob who wants you dead? The big man will have to help you out of here, understand? He won't let them have you, you'll be too useful to him. And if he thinks you're out of it, he'll act stupidly understand? He's a man with his head up his ass."
"Who is he?" Scott asked sharply.
"Better if I don't say it aloud right now."
"Well, that certainly inspires my trust," Scott snapped.
"Look son, I know you've had a hell of a day, but you might start looking past the chip on your shoulder," Ackleby said urgently. "You've got me at gunpoint. I'm talking to you, I haven't called you a freak and I'm trying my best to help you. All I can do is give you sensible advice, okay?"
"No," Scott said darkly. "That's not all you can do to me. That's not all you and people like you have ever done to me. Trusting someone because they're you're only option is no choice at all."
"Do you trust our Lady in Pink?" Ackleby asked. "She's the one who sent me running here. Dramatic gestures and daring escapes are all very well, but people usually die in the attempt. This way you survive. Sometimes you need to be sneaky. That's why she called me."
"A regular snake in the grass," Scott replied flatly, but frankly Ackleby did have a very good trump card.
"She said to tell you that your father's with her agents now and she's sent others out for your brothers. She said you always thought Alan went up to the attic to talk to himself when he was little, before you went up there yourself and saw her great-great uncle. Her late great-great uncle. What else do you want?"
Scott breathed out. "You're serious. You actually want me to just sit on my hands? With those people out there?"
"The big man won't let them kill you, trust me."
"Right. Trust you," Scott replied. He didn't like this at all.
Ackleby waved his hands from where he crouched. "You got a better idea? The PRA at least have procedures. They're reliably and logically violent. These people…" he shrugged eloquently.
Scott shook his head wearily. He had to get out of here. His family was out there, his brothers. He had to find them. Looking out for them was his job. He flexed his hands in the damn chains they'd strung him in. So….what?
Footsteps came down the hall.
Ackleby reacted with commendable speed. He rolled and whirled in the same movement, snatching the gun from the floor and launching to his feet with agility, neatly hooking a foot on the back on the fallen chair as he came up, flipping it upright as the door came open.
All the acolyte saw as he came in was Ackleby, upright and armed and Scott still trussed to the wall. All was as it should be.
"Mr Ackleby," he nodded to the man. "They're all gathered together. We're about to bring the filth out," he sneered in Scott's direction with malicious glee. He was a teenager, complete with acne. "Has he said anything? Father Stewart wants to know."
Ackleby shrugged. "He's gone. I've seen this before – he's overexerted. Not much of a show."
"Hah. They really are weaklings at heart," the kid spat on Scott derisively. "He'll get what's coming to him."
"I imagine he will," Ackleby replied easily.
"God, what a piece of crap," the kid said, raking over Scott's bare chested physique with a sneering arrogance that didn't quite hide the envy. "He's nothing at all, nothing." Suddenly, savagely, the kid kicked Scott in his face.
Scott grunted and sagged and willed the stars to stop spinning in front of his eyes while Ackleby spun the kid around to face. "You do that again boy, and you'll be out on your ass so fast you won't have time to blink!"
"What?" the kid was bewildered. "Why? Why does it matter?"
"This," Ackleby hissed. "Is about justice. You don't hit a prisoner in chains. He'll get what's coming to him. It's not for you to dish it out. Father Stewart would be furious if he knew that someone was corrupting the Court. You're just lucky he's not here, is all." His righteous indignation was the crazy eyed certainty of the true fanatic.
The door opened.
Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, they throw Bale Palton into the mix….
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In the end, Alan and the ghastly reporter who'd attached herself to him hadn't gotten onto the passenger area of the train. Randomly choosing a likely looking engine, Alan had jumped aboard the baggage car and had been followed by Andrea, swearing all the way. Alan suddenly found himself wedged between stacked up bales of dusky carpets and stacked up brightly coloured cartons marked 'RAY'S CAMPING SUPPLIES'. He rubbed his eyes and tried to think. There was another psychic our there, tracking him. He didn't know how he knew, but the knowledge sat in his mind, immovable. And he'd caught up with commendable speed.
He'll catch up again.
Alan swore internally. He hated it when it came to him like this. It took all the flavour out of the future.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," Andrea muttered, pushing dishevelled curls out of her face.
"You're free to get off," Alan mumbled absently.
"Fat chance, kid," Andrea huffed. "What did you mean when you said there was another psychic?"
"He's tracking us," Alan said flatly.
"He? Not she?" Andrea had gotten out her notebook. "You didn't connect with another soul?"
"What?" Alan was bewildered. "What are you talking about?"
"You know, hearts and minds meeting across distances, unexpected saviour coming at the hour of need," Andrea flourished her sharp nails. "I guess not. Unless you swing, you know, that way. Do you?"
Alan stared at her. "You're mad! This isn't a…a story! This isn't some sappy romance book, some…some action movie! This is real life! It doesn't work that way!"
"There's no need to shout," Andrea said with an infuriating indifference. "People live their lives according to those stupid stories, why not? They believe them. That's what makes them not real. All the same stories told over and over again with the same stupid exactness."
Alan shook his head and looked worriedly out of the tiny slit of a window that lead out of the rest of the train – People were getting on board and heading up the train corridor to their compartments. He couldn't tell yet if any PRA had gotten on board, but his instincts were ringing from all directions. He turned back to Andrea. "So? That doesn't mean it's not important. Besides, if that were really true, then you are just the same."
Andrea snorted derisively, fumbling for her cigarettes. "I live outside the stories. I see them, I know them. I am smarter," she snatched a taloned hand under Alan's chin and yanked his face sharply upward. "And I want to know how you knew that!"
Underneath the bubbling anger, underneath the blinding ambition, deep, deep under the thick skinned arrogance there was a tremor of uncertainty. Only slight, but it only made her fury whiter and more choking. Alan shoved her hand away as if it seared him. "Stop it," he hissed. "I just…I just know okay? I don't ask for it, I don't steal it, I could go through life quite happily if I didn't know anything about you. Very happily. But I don't get a choice." Calm down, calm down, he chanted inwardly. She's like a rock in the water. She shakes things, shatters things, imbalances everyone she comes into contact with. If he lost it, it would only make her worse.
Alan looked down at the floor, breathing hard. He had a few other things to worry about. "Look, just…shut up, for just a minute. I have to try something."
He had to be careful, very careful. His shaky control had not improved significantly since what had happened at the station, and more importantly he didn't know if the psychic tracking them could sense Alan the way Alan could sense him. If he could, then Alan might as well put up a neon sign over his head. He stretched….
People flooded in. Hopes, dreams, fears, joys, all of it because in the end that's what human souls were made of. There were no colours involved, but if they were, they would be more brilliant than anything on a canvas. And the colours he was looking for weren't bad, either. They were sharp, focused, no shades between shades; just clean cut and straightforward. Most people didn't go through life like that. Most people were a multicoloured cloud of stuff, these guys were strobe lights.
They were on the train.
Alan was sure. It wasn't quite empathy and it wasn't quite clairvoyance but it was an utter certainty. He came back, his skull ringing and his heart beating hard, into the presence of Andrea Smith-Valentin.
"What happened to you?" she asked, annoyed. "I was calling and you didn't answer! Geez, you've gone white! You're not going to blow, are you?"
Alan coughed and gagged and tried to regain some sort of footing. "We have to go," he croaked. "They're on the train. They're searching for us. They'll make it back here eventually."
"Uh huh?" Andrea blew out a stream of smoke. "And how exactly do you predict we do that? This is a train. It's like an island – there's only a limited amount of places you can run and nowhere you can hide. I mean, Christ, it's a bloody tube. You can go or you can go down, but eventually you'll meet them coming the other way."
Alan rubbed his face. Think, Tracy, think.
Another stream of smoke textured the dimness of the luggage car. There were no windows. Baggage didn't require a view. Overhead mesh racks swung and creaked as the train rocked on the tracks. There was one narrow strip of walking space between the two narrow slit doors on either end. It was a full train, and there was barely any space other than that.
Maybe space within spaces? Could they lever open some of the crates or unlock some of the bags and hide? No, probably not. Most of them were suitcases and pallets of shrink wrapped cartons and even if they could reasonably and invisibly hide inside somewhere it wasn't like they wouldn't be searched eventually – it wasn't exactly an original plan.
What else? Andrea was horrid and also right; you could go one way, or another way, but it was like trying to hide in a dead end.
"Will you put that out?" Alan waved his hands angrily through the tendrils of smoke, the acrid smell was only winding him up tighter, making his desperation more potent. "They'll smell it."
"Oh relax," Andrea snorted. "Air streams through trains from the engine to the caboose. They use the natural air current for ventilation, so it all streams towards the back," she waved her hand toward the next car down, which was another luggage car. She shrugged at his raised eyebrows. "I did some PR work for the transport commission after the gas attacks in San Francisco."
But Alan wasn't staring at her. He was staring at the smoke, which streamed out through the cracks in the narrow connecting door.
Up and back, up and back….
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He didn't have a name, at least, his wardens didn't see him as a name, a personality, a thinking, feeling human being. At times maybe even he wasn't sure that he was one either – surely a thinking, feeling human being would have a better memory, would remember a name to own for itself. That had been buried years ago under the roaring visions and floods of information coming in through his frontal lobe. It was still there, mark you, but it was like trying to find a pebble in a desert.
His wardens usually called him One-Seventeen. It was the most personal thing he owned.
He didn't ask them why they dressed him in the clothes – so starchy and new that you could smell the shipping container still on them. It didn't help; as the memories flooded in though his skin, and One-Seventeen was inundated with the faces of sweat shop workers, customs officials and factory inspectors. Psychometry was a harsh, harsh gift – every touch brought the past with it in vivid detail. It was hard sometimes to even remember the present existed, the ghosts of events that were stamped onto objects were far more certain, far more real than the fluid now. The stress had made him lose his hair long ago. They had given him a cap made in Shenzhen.
But it was a very useful gift. One touch on the floor of a random train, and the quarry was there as clearly as if he had actually been there. And so they had chased, touch by touch, tracking trails left in the very air.
One-Seventeen turned to one of his wardens. "He's close by," he whispered. "He touched the train door less an hour ago."
"Right," she grunted. She kept her distance. No one ever touched him. Ever.
They began working their way through the train, top to bottom. They didn't ask questions. There was no need.
On the second door he brushed, whimpering slightly, he was stunned to find the door opened to a smiling face. The face looked him in the eye, and had said. "Nice to see ya, kid. Oh, here, take it. For the nosebleed."
And had handed him a handkerchief. There was this tremendous and almost alien sense of warmth…
And One-Seventeen vanished from the present on the exasperated. "Damn, there he goes again…"
His wardens snarled the man away and commandeered his cabin. "Go," nodded a senior agent to the rest of them crowding around. "Find them, it's not like they can hide. We'll bring him back and join you then."
One-Seventeen clutched the handkerchief in his white knuckled hand, unwilling to let go.
None of the agents gave the stupid man from the cabin a second thought – which is a shame, because the phone call he was making would have been of great use to them.
"Hey Tony, it's Gino," Gino said into his cell. "Yeah, no problem bud. I got the message to him, so phase one is complete….yeah, just don't ask me to do it again, that poor kid went totally white…yeah…are you sure he'll take us up on it? Granted compared to the hell he's in right now….yeah. Well, let's hope so," Gino smiled. "We can't let our Lady in Pink down, can we?"
At the other end of the train, the Agents had gathered at the entrance of the baggage car, queuing out into the passenger car since there wasn't much space.
The agents tracked the smell of the smoke.
"I tell you, there's someone hiding in the luggage car."
"How do you know it's not just a smoker on the other car?"
The young agent tapped the No Smoking sign.
"Fine. Alright people, go in guns up but no shooting. We want him alive, if possible. A few of you stay out here and watch for any weird behaviour. Any funny stuff, any irrational reactions, and you shoot to kill. Understand?"
They went in. They ferreted around, cracked open crates, ripped apart baggage. All they found was an old, still smouldering butt end, tucked forlornly into the most inaccessible corner.
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When the doors opened, Virgil was prepared.
The others had warned him about this, in between bouts of pain-ridden sleep and stretches of trying to force his power out past the helmet, which rendered him curled up on the floor, willing to do anything to make the pain stop.
There was Chuckles, of course, who was the quiet member of the next cell. He was someone to talk to. Across from him there was Anna, from Pittsburgh, above was Adam from some unpronounceable town in Mexico, To the left and down there was Kylie, a grandmother of four, perhaps five she said, because when she'd been snatched she was sure her daughter was keeping a secret. Telepath's tend to know.
And there was Roger, Turlouse, LingLing, Natalie, Yamen, dotted about the place. They were the ones who regularly, or at least could, talk. The other's didn't bother, or were so far gone they couldn't. There was a constant murmur in the background of raving and mumbles.
They had warned him – they do this to all the new ones, they said. They simulate a fault or a surge, shut down the generator, leave the door open, just to see what you do. People have died trying to escape, they said. Best not to try it. They'll be waiting for you to try.
It's like the thing with Virgil's necklace. The Major kept something of yours, some little trinket. He would dangle it in front of you for a few days or weeks, and then, just as everything started to sink in and the pain became chronic, he would destroy it, lose it, throw it away right in front of you. Kylie had lost a wedding ring that way – a ten generation heirloom callously dropped through the drains – because the Major needed everyone to know who the boss was.
But the war of attrition being played in the prison was not one-sided. Anna could render the security cameras and microphones inert and no guard would agree to be in the same room as a bunch of angry psychics who could do damage enough before the Psy-blocker kicked in. It was hard to keep tabs on them. But you had to watch out, they said. There were people listening in the cells that were passing it on to the guards. The Loyals. Psychics working for the PRA. Some of them wanted to, others were cornered into it.
Watch what you say, they had said. Watch what you think. Mostly they just leave us here to stare at the walls.
Virgil pulled himself to his feet when the lights went out, and clung to wall until the pins and needles and cramps faded. A few shaky steps got him to the door, and he wrenched it open.
"Aw, Virgil, d-don't do it!" Adam called down. They all slurred and stuttered and twitched. That was a long term affect of wearing the Psy-blocker.
"An-na," Chuckles said quickly.
"No, don't," Virgil waved a hand. "I want to see what they'll do to."
"You're nuts," Anna called from her cell.
"Not y-et, I think," Chuckles said from his cell. Virgil peered in , but in the pitch gloom, he couldn't see the kindly old man's face. "Get go-ing, young man."
Virgil didn't waste time. In the hours he'd slumped in that hellish cell, he's decided he didn't have time to waste. Down the catwalk, down the stairs and into the pit, and toward the elevator, which according to the others was the only way out.
Alarms began to sound as the lights were turned back on, and Virgil made it to the elevator. He punched in the code quickly. Kylie had told him; 1-1-4-5-7-8. There wasn't much that could be hidden in a prison of psychics.
The doors opened, but Virgil hadn't called the car – it opened to an empty shaft. He gripped a cable and hauled himself upward. He'd always enjoyed the rope-climb in gym, although right now his arms and shoulders screamed and his body protested. He only had to make it up a level, which is just as well because the elevator car was dropping down, bringing the guards. Virgil reached for the maintenance switch, and hauled himself in as the car flashed by.
They were making it easy, but maybe that was the point. It wasn't any fun if there wasn't a chase. Virgil headed down the corridor at a jog as the alarms flashed around him. No windows, only vents, so he must still be under the ground. He headed for the stairs.
Unfortunately he met guards coming out of the stair well. Virgil whirled as the door open and lunged for the fire extinguisher, the closest thing to a weapon he had, and swung it desperately as one of them reached for his belt. There was a blinding, white flash of pain as his helmet was turned up, but he still had enough momentum to catch the man on the side of the head as he keeled over. The pain diminished just enough for him to fumble for the pin and the other agent got a face full fire retardant chemicals. Coughing and swearing, she staggered and was knocked down by Virgil's desperate fist coming up to meet her. Virgil snatched the remote from her belt as he darted into the stairwell and headed upwards, head pounding an equal beat with his heart.
It wasn't
long before he was out of breath. He made it up two storeys of risers
before fleeing the stairs as security poured onto it.
He ran
through around a partitioned office. There was nothing but big rooms
in this place, divided up into small spaces. Now, there were windows.
And workers. There were screams and yells as Virgil burst through, but he wasn't stopping for anything. Wheezing, his legs screaming, he made his way to a random corridor, and circled around, trying to find more stairs.
He lunged into a door as black clad guards popped up in his corridor.
He walked right into the blow. The pole clanged off his helmet, but the concussive strike was enough to send him to the floor. Then the pure ocean of white pain swallowed him up.
"Clever," Major Corman gloated. "You know, you gave us quite a run for our money, boy? We haven't had this much fun in months, right guys?"
He nudged the groaning Virgil with his toe. The pain was making him writhe on the floor.
"But running into my office? Not very smart, boy," Major Corman bent down over Virgil, pendant dangling around his thick neck next to the dog tags. "Huh. Well, we have a special treatment for dumb rich boys." He kicked Virgil head in the rins. "On your feet boy!"
It took several falls and kicks and drags and in the end Major brought out his favourite tool – the cattle prod – to get him moving. By the time Virgil was back down to the pit, he was writhing and hurting and burning. He wondered, distantly, when the race would start; but no, they had something different in mind for him.
Chains were brought. Virgil was cuffed into a curled position, twisted up and hurt, and hung up on the chains. The Major made a speech. Virgil couldn't hear most of it through the roaring in his ears, but it was something about freedom and rule playing and restrictions of food and medication, met with cries and groans.
"Hear that, prince?" the Major hissed in his ear. "They're all going to suffer for your attitude. They're going to suffer because of you. But not as much as you."
And suddenly Virgil was swung upside down, swinging in front of the guards like a pendulum. They laughed and jeered and howled. The Major flourished his prod a couple of times, and gave him a few shots in the ribs, which had Virgil choking and coughing up bile. He just managed to tilt his head to clear his throat. He must have looked disgusting. He was sure his shoulders were separating.
Eventually, they left. Eventually, the pain became just enough for him to listen to the voices around.
"Geez, they went all ou-ou-out on 'im."
"Whaddya expect? We warned him what they did to first timers, didn't we? I told him, they love stringing people up."
"He may have made it further if rat-boy hadn't blabbed."
"Hey, why blame me? He was going to get caught anyway, but this way I get TV privileges."
"You make me sick, Roger, you really d-do."
"We-ll," Chuckles voice emerged from the gloom as Virgil's gentle spin turned him towards those cells. "He wa-nted to see wh-at th-th-they'd do. I wo-nder what he fou-nd?"
"I f'nd," Virgil mumbled. "I f'nd 't that C-Corm'n sligh'ly less intellgen' than I am."
It was a quality you should hope for in a warden. He was exactly where he expected to end up. Exactly right.
When his brain stopped trying to break out of his skull, he'd try for phase two.
------------------------------------------------------------
"This is insane! You're insane! This is insane!"
Alan would have rolled his eyes, had they not been watering profusely in the wind. "You're a writer, aren't you? Could you at least try to use a few different words?"
A string of very explicit curses met his retort as Andrea scraped along the metal in her rumpled cheap suit and her three inch heels, the words were snatched away in the gale.
They were
climbing across the train roof, couched low over the centre while the
train gathered express momentum. "We're on top of a
freakin' train!" she shrieked.
"Right," Alan
muttered, crawling carefully forwards. Adrenaline had made his
fingertips super sensitive and the vibrating metal wound the tension
up inside of him. You could ride on the top of a train. Train
surfers and third world country folk the world over knew it. It was
just a really stupid thing to do.
Nothing clever would have worked.
Andrea's venomous muttering and blinding terror rage was distracting and nauseating. And to top it off, ahead of him there was a figure standing. It whispered help me over the wind, and then vanished on a blink from Alan. Oh no, not now, Alan groaned inside. I'm on top of a damn train, I can't deal with a vision.
One-Seventeen, One-Seventeen, One-Seventeen...the train shunting turned into words for an instant, then back again. Disorientated, Alan shook his head, and nearly dislodged himself. Digging his fingertips into the frail grip provided by the roof ridges, Alan clung like a limpet for a moment until the dizziness became manageable. He crawled forward as the train rocked over rail joints. His probing hands found the end of the car, and with some white-knuckled manoeuvring, his dragged himself across the gap.
He twisted around to see Andrea drag herself up to the edge. "Okay! We got over! Let's get the hell down!"
"Next car!" Alan yelled back.
"What?" Andrea bellowed back, disbelieving. "Come on, you're kidding me!"
"Not here! They'll see us!" Alan shook his head.
"There's nothing stopping me from getting down here! They're not after me! Nothing at all, you hear?" Andrea bellowed.
"Did you know my Dad sued the PRA once? Successfully? The only psychic ever to do it! It was all hushed up, part of the settlement!" Alan grinned as he dangled the bait. "Follow me if you want to know why!"
He turned his began crawling forward again. He smirked to himself as he felt Andrea's incoherent anger as she hauled herself, swearing, over the gap.
A helicopter roared over Alan's head, so real and so close that he ducked and flinched instinctively. But when he looked around, the sky was clear. He felt like banging his pounding head into the metal. Another one…?
They slipped and slid. As the train turned a bend, they slid to the outside curve, right on the edge of the already convex train top. Andrea wouldn't shut up the whole way along, and Alan's arms were aching with the tension he used to maintain his adrenaline soaked grip. Half blinded by the wind blowing in the face, head spinning and weaving through visions, Alan's questing fingers finally reached the lip of the next car.
Below, the agents searched futilely inside a big tube, from which there was no escape.
At least, that's how it looked from the inside.
Slithering down through the gap, Alan landed on the coupling awkwardly and nearly overbalanced over the guard rail. Rubbing his shoulders, he glanced back into the car they'd climbed over, and saw the corridor was clogged with PRA agents. Yelping, Alan dove into the next car up as three inch spikes descended from above and crouched down low as he hurried up the corridor. Ahead of him a train official was making his way down the train, toward the PRA agents. Alan checked doors until he found an empty one and dove inside.
There was a muffled conversation where Alan heard Andrea's strident tones, and the clipping noises of her heels as she ran down the corridor. She slid the door open. She was never an immaculate woman, but now she looked like she was on the tail end of a bender. Her hair curled up like medusa snakes all around her head, her clothes were completely disarranged and her make-up was smudged. "I'm going to kill you, kid," she growled. "I'm going to kill you!"
Alan slumped against the cabin wall wearily, exhausted and hurting. "Fine. But make it quick and painless. Don't get angry at me," he shrugged as she shot him a filthy glare. "You wanted to come along on this ride."
Andrea snarled at him, and huffily took a seat. "What you've got better be worth a Pulitzer, kid, because one yell from me and they've got you gift-wrapped. Come on, spill."
"Right now?" Alan asked. He'd had about one minute to get his hammering heart back down to a safe level.
"Right now," Andrea fished out a slightly crumpled looking notepad out. "You said your father sued the PRA? How much did he get?"
"Nothing. We got paid in community services points."
"What, those citizenship things?" Andrea asked. "You never had to do your quota?"
"None of us did," Alan sighed. He looked out of the window, lost in a tangled memory. "Scott and John were of age, and had just started, but after the settlement they didn't have to do it anymore."
"None of you?" Andrea persisted. "I thought there was no way to get out of it! Your father must have had a doozy on them!"
Alan shrugged.
"So?" Andrea prompted. "Come on kid, you're one scream away from the hospitality of the PRA."
Alan sighed. "I don't remember much, okay? I was nine, and a lot of it got blocked out. Some Senator or something had the PRA bring me and my brother John in so we could find his kids. They'd been snatched by someone….someone bad."
Howling, whirling emotions spun in around a sink of pure malice…the smell of blood, blood, blood, everywhere, the eerie little whine of the camera…
Alan's hands went white knuckled on the seat. Sometimes the memories snuck up on him out of nowhere, even though they were a confused mess most of the time. There was only so much assault a mind could take before getting tangled up and distorted.
"We found them," Alan frowned at the whited out memories. "They dumped us in some sleazy motel to thank us."
He didn't remember that part, exactly. He remembered the feel of water and the tremendous sense of relief realising the others had arrived after that nightmarish twelve hours. But it was blurred in his mind, and his family had wanted to keep it that way.
"Oooh, juicy," Andrea was scribbling this down. "So, your father probably doesn't like the government much."
"Not really," Alan replied coldly. "Are we back on this again? This is stupid. We didn't have anything to do with those stupid attacks."
"Well right now, kiddo, you're Dad's the prime suspect. Who else is there? It makes for a story people can get there teeth into in any case."
Alan shook his head in disbelief. "Your unbelievable. You really are. You walk through life like the whole universe is against you, except it's the other way around. You don't care about people because you're angry they don't care about you. You've probably never had a friend in your life."
Andrea sneered at him. "Do you want me to get on the couch and blubber about my childhood?"
Alan raised an eyebrow. "I know I'm right. That's what you get for following an empath around."
The slap knocked him against the window but it still wasn't as hard as the raw anger. "How dare you! You think that just because you can see things other can't see that you're better than us?"
Alan
rubbed his cheek. "That's what most people think of us, sure.
What? Do you expect me to be sorry? Psychic's are mostly good,
decent people, just like everyone else. You were willing to
blackmail a minor. How do you think that'll play in the press
room?"
Andrea's face twisted up like she'd bitten a lemon.
"Oh, sure, You're a real wiseass, kid. Just remember that at my
word you…"
"Yeah, yeah," Alan's face swung towards the door. "But you still want the big story, so I doubt whether you'll blow it just yet. Besides, my Dad can pay you whatever charge you like for helping me….are you ready?"
"For what?" Andrea hissed, incensed but caught.
"We're about to play the shell game. They're not after you, so distract them for a minute while I slip into the next cabin."
Alan darted out into the corridor at the sound of the end door sliding open came to him. Lunging for the opposite door, Andrea let out a startled cry and jumped after her meal-ticket. She was just in time to distract the PRA agent coming up the train, checking the cabin doors along the way. They had just reached the two cabins right next to Andrea's and Alan's. One reached for Alan's door…
"What are you doing?" Andrea demanded, voice as penetrating as ever.
"Sorry ma'am," one of the agents flashed his badge. "We're looking for a stowaway."
Andrea raised an eyebrow. Behind the agents, the cabin Alan had ducked into opened a wary fraction. Alan sidled out and scurried into the cabin behind them – one already checked – as Andrea continued. "The PRA? You mean there's a rogue psychic on this train?"
The agents looked awkward. "I'm afraid I can't release that information ma'am. If you could just get back in your seat…"
It took a while to shake Andrea. It always did.
Alan waited until they had checked each of the cabins before emerging from his. Andrea was still standing in her cabin. "You got a set of brass ones on you, kid, I'll give you that," Andrea said grudgingly. "Now what?"
"Now we follow them," Alan replied. "They'll be back, trust me. It's better if we know where they are."
"What about my story?"
"I think it might be better if we wait until we're not being chased by guys with guns, don't you?"
The shadowed the agents down the train, keeping a car of space between them. They followed them to the dining car, which was half full for lunch – and half taken up with agents. They peered through the window, crouched down.
They were arguing and shouting. They were pouring over an internal map of the train, scratching lines and making marks. Occasionally they would turn to a hunched up figure that had been stuck in a chair of its own. Alan bent forward as his lips moved.
The figure looked up, and saw him. Alan ducked. Cursing, he said "We have to get back down the train."
"Oh no, I'm not doing that again!"
"You don't have to!" Alan turned, and fled.
Get back to the luggage car, he thought to himself. They've checked it. He could hunker in there for a while, get off at the next station.
He didn't slow down as he felt the footsteps appear behind him. Forget getting of at the station, get off the train now. He sped up, bursting through the doors and dodging around conductors and other passengers. He was exhausted, and couldn't possibly reach his normal fleetness of foot.
The footsteps were getting closer. Get to the back, get to the back….he was right at the luggage car when they caught him, tackling him into a wall, smashing him into it. Cuffed tightly, he was dragged back through the train. Alan squirmed in their grip, until one of them back handed. He still struggled every step of the way back to the dining car, which had been cleared out by the agents, commandeered from the train officials, who were being cowed back by a senior agent.
He looked despondently at the emaciated, bald figure, who stared back with dull eyes. His eyes flickered past Alan sheepishly.
There, quite calmly smoking a cigarette, was Andrea Smith-Valentin. "Sorry kid," she huffed. "But they had a better offer – I get the exclusive to sell to the Times."
Alan gaped at her. "You…"
"Get them into the cabin, out of sight," the senior agent ordered.
Andrea gave him a little wave as Alan was hauled out, alongside One-Seventeen. Her grin evaporated however, when another agent got a cuff around her wrist. "What? What are you doing?"
"You're a material witness," the agent said, strapping her other wrist and stealing the cigarette. Andrea opened her mouth for an incensed shriek, but was cut off.
"Take them away."
--------------------------------------------------
Gordon bit his lip thoughtfully. Ahead of him, Seredo Hospital rose in an ugly block, surrounded by concrete yards and a mesh fence. It seemed more a prison that a place of healing. The wide glass doors and ambulance bays were the only clues.
Gordon had been sitting and staring at it for a long time. He'd curled up in an uncomfortable corner for an uncomfortable sleep in the morning after the meeting with Kite. He stumbled out of there with a lot to think about, and it hadn't been a restful sleep.
He idly chewed on a candy bar as he watched the place from the park. The others were gathering, but he'd come early to watch and to learn.
There were guards. There were cameras. There was absolutely no way to get in without someone noticing. And what do you want to bet their silent alarm wire went straight to the local PRA? Right.
Alan was okay.
He got on the train, he knew his brother's gentle touch on things. As for the rest of them, Kite said he was still collecting information. Their networks were slow with all the PRA on the streets.
And Gordon was stuck. Most of the people in the shanty town couldn't stand him, and only Kite's grace was keeping him from getting strung up in front of the nearest PRA branch office. Even now he was surrounded by watchful, distrustful eyes. They were waiting for the chance to get him, Kite or not. Janet was just the tip of the iceberg.
Speak of the devil. She appeared, dressed heavily for such warm weather. Jack was in tow and…
"What's she doing here?" Gordon asked in alarm. Kite's dark eyed cousin watched him diffidently from where she perched on Janet's hip.
"Stacy doesn't leave Kite's side," Janet explained stiffly.
"He's not serious," Gordon asked in disbelief. "She's not coming, is she?"
"If Kite goes away, she starts having episodes," Janet snapped. "Clearly you don't know how empathy works."
"Scowl a bit more Janet," Gordon retorted calmly. "People will stop noticing us casing the place, what with your heavy coat and all."
To Janet's utter bewilderment, Jack chuckled. "You're funny."
"Laugh a minute," Janet snarled. She shifted her weight. "Here, take her for a minute."
Stacy was settled silently onto his lap. When she touched him, he felt a swirling, tangled mess of emotions carefully probing and searching in a tiny, tiny way.
You expect this to rattle me? Gordon thought. I've shared a room with an empath my whole life. He focused on a repertoire of happy memories and Stacy reacted with a rare smile.
Janet was shocked. "How did you…?"
"Jack is family, he's used to you. You can't hurt him," Gordon dandled the little girl, smiling. "But you have to control yourself around empaths. I was raised by one and with one. I may be a rich boy," Gordon shrugged. "But I know what I'm doing. And you better put some faith in that, Janet, if you really expect to pull this off."
Jack had sat down to make faces at Stacy. "It'll be okay. Kite is very good. He's done this before, you know."
"You mean other than the chancellor's car," Gordon snorted. Then he scowled. "You're serious, aren't you? He's done stuff like this before?"
Jack shrugged. "He…"
"Of course he has," Janet cut in quickly. "He finds people, rescues them, fights the PRA, all that stuff. He's helped so many people. He didn't have anyone to help him, either. His parents don't want to know him and the school used keep him down and humiliate him. He's done so much for so many. You don't have any right to judge him. You haven't done half of what he's accomplished." She added defiantly.
Gordon shook his head. What he wanted to say was, lady, I go to the same school he went to. The only thing they had a problem with was disruption and destruction. They lack a sense of humour but they're not the Spanish Inquisition. And it's expensive, so his parents must not hate him that much. And he thinks that this is a militia, not a rag tag bunch of desperates. He thinks declaring war will be a great symbol instead of a quick way to die. He thinks he can win this.
And he's stuck me right in the middle of it, because ironically it's the safest place I can be.
This sucks.
Jack was fidgeting worriedly. "Janie," he asked plaintively. "Kite's not going to hurt any of the people in there, is he? They're sick and hurt."
Janet smiled reassuringly. "It's okay Jack. Kite doesn't want to kill anyone, and he certainly won't attack anyone in their beds."
"Right," Gordon grunted gloomily. "Because it's going to be so easy to control things once the fire is flying."
"We have our ways, Tracy," Kite materialised. A few of them were casually strolling in to the main reception, inside plants for when the action started. More where gathering around the grounds, moving slowly towards the building. They had that look in their eyes. They were saying; here, we make our stand.
"No rest for the wicked," Kite smirked. He took the silver lighter off his lieutenant. "Ready to go?"
Janet withdrew the home made smoke bombs from under her coat.
"Let's go."
-------------------------------------------------------
"Not much further now, John." Dale called from the front seat.
John sighed in relief. He wedged into the back of a station wagon was no joke for someone as tall as him. Danny turned his head slightly to grin at him from the back seat. "Comfy?"
"You're funny," John grunted. He shifted slightly to relieve an anonymous cramp.
It took some time to get to wherever it was they were going. They had to circumvent security check points and central districts, in order to keep away from the PRA. Dale did this with an expertise that suggested he'd had practice. All over the streets the network's members spread out on bikes and in cars, keeping a weather eye for spot checks.
So they would go to these…these rogue broadcasters, as near as John understood it, and do their thing, and then what?
John didn't like to say it and certainly didn't show it, but a part of him was screaming what the hell are you doing? You're brothers are out there maybe dying and you're going to be a celebrity! This is insane! You have to do something!
But then a quieter part of him was saying: What else can you do? Run headlong into the PRA or the hate groups and demand truth, justice and freedom? Suicidal much? This is real life, it doesn't work doing it that way…
…it should.
John sighed. He always believed so firmly in the truth. He had to tell the truth. Then, at the very least, people would remember what had happened to the Tracy family…
Nothing's going to happen, John. Nothing.
They're going to getyou, John Tracy.
John blinked. He shook his head. "Did you say something?"
Danny turned towards him slightly. "Nope. Why?"
John gave a puzzled frown. "Never mind."
He settled back. It was probably just his own head. It's not like it hadn't turned on him before.
They went onwards, an uneasy feeling settling into John's gut.
-------------------------------------------
Mr Fenill wasn't a saint, nor a great leader, nor a messiah. He was very good and a very bad job, and when push came to shove not actually evil. Believe it or not, he did join the PRA to help people, not to hurt them.
He really didn't deserve this.
"You're rude, you're insolent, you're arrogant and on top of all that, you're late!"
"We're
here to execute a…" Mr Fenill began, fighting against an instinct
to take a step back.
A skinny finger stabbed him in the chest. "I
know what you're here to do, young man! And it doesn't improve my
opinion of you in any way, not that it could get any worse. Come in
not just like that wipe your feet for Heaven's sake and get
on with it!" Grandma Tracy stepped back to admit them into the
farmhouse.
Mr Fenill dispatched the agents throughout the quaint old home and a second group out to the outer buildings, barns, sheds, and a derelict old stable. They were armed with sophisticated scanners and searchers.
Mr Fenill looked over at their target. A small woman, but she walked tall, so you'd never know. She has the tanned and weathered look of a person who's spent the majority of their life out of doors. Her face was set in a scowl that was made fiercer by the pulled back grey haired bun, but you could see by her wrinkles that she laughed a lot.
He came under the focus of a hawk like glare. "Well? Don't you have something to do, or are you just here as a walking ornament?"
Mr Fenill shook his head. "I would thank you to remain civil, ma'am. If you are harbouring the man we're looking for, you are in serious trouble."
"I don't need your thank you's and I am being quite as civil as you deserve, boy," Grandma Tracy strode away, not even slightly disconcerted by the coldness in his tone. "You came to my home, you'll take it as it comes. Tea?"
"What?" Mr Fenill was taken aback.
"Tea, tea! Are you deaf? If we are going to talk, I plan to be comfortable."
She stalked to the table and sat down. It was set as a smorgasbord for …eight, nine, ten…Mr Fenill's eyes narrowed.
Someone had tipped the old crone off! I knew those yokels down in the town were leading us in circles!
Mr Fenill was tired. He was hungry. He was rumpled and smelt bad and he was running on coffee and frustration. It had been a long flight full of agents who wouldn't stop cracking jokes about the Tracy's escapes, and another chunk of hours just trying to find this bloody place and now…
He sat down, trying to relieve the tension in his back. Something familiar looking flashed in front of his eyes, and he reached out to snag the thin wrist as it withdrew from placing the cup and saucer.
An
armband? She was a psychic? He ran an expert eye over the code. Oh
for crying out loud…a nauscoper? Who the hell had done the advance
work for this little foray?
"And the penny drops," Grandma
Tracy's smile was grim.
"It only proves that this would be the perfect place to hide him," Mr Fenill let her go.
"Oh, take pity on a poor, lonely old woman, kind sir," Grandma's acid tone could have stripped paint. "That's what you want, isn't it? Gifted folk grovelling at your feet?"
"What I want, Mrs Tracy," Mr Fenill retorted calmly. "Is not to have to look at another poor kid who's had his head messed with by some paedophile with a psychic twist. Or haul another body bag out of a burning building because a pyro took offence. I tired of having to deal with the fallout, Mrs Tracy, of people who are barely stable enough to walk four steps let alone handle other people's thoughts or emotions."
"Well. Doesn't that just make us a pair?" Grandma Tracy poured milk primly. "I've dealt with your lot for more years than you've had on this earth, Agent Fenill. There is no one more tired than I of dealing with it – getting put down, getting isolated, getting treated as if I was contagious. I'm tired of having to explain to my tiny son and my tiny grandchildren why the other children throw rocks at them. Why, when our house is violated and out things destroyed why other people get police officers and we just get to grin and bear it. I'm tired of having to go through life like a mouse in a room full of cats. I've had a lot more time to be tired than you, Mr Fenill. I suspect I'll be tired until I die."
Grandma Tracy's glare hit him like a Morningstar. "I've served this land and the people here faithfully and honestly all my life Mr Fenill. My reward – hah, reward – has been to look into my son's face and tell him that it's never going to be right or fair for him. Don't you talk to me about being tired."
"Is he here?" Mr Fenill asked flatly.
"No."
"And if he was here?"
"Guess, Mr Fenill," Grandma Tracy took a dainty sip of tea. "Tell your men they can have a bite. I plan to be a better person than you, even if it is sickening."
Mr Fenill stared at her. "You do know we can arrest you, don't you?"
"Just so, Mr Fenill," Grandma replied, unruffled.
"Your son is charged with serious crimes, Mrs Tracy," Mr Fenill persisted. "Murder, terrorism, treason. All you are guilty of right now is being a good mother and aiding a fugitive on his behalf. If you cooperate we will make sure your family isn't harmed. Your younger grandsons may be returned into your care. They would all be safe and alive, and you would be able to…"
The slap was not ladylike. It was a flat handed punch of a woman who'd raised boys into men. Mr Fenill was sent to the floor.
"You threaten me with that?" Grandma's face was white with fury. "You dangle my family's lives in front of me like a worm on a hook, you tell me I might get some of them back? How dare you! How dare you say that in this place, to me! What reason have you to take them from me? What have they done that you can prove?"
Mr Fenill slowly got to his feet, one hand rubbing his jaw. The woman had an arm like a lead pipe. "We think they had something to do with the attacks in Washington, Mrs Tracy. Or are you going to tell me you condone that?"
"Of course not," Grandma waved a dismissive hand. "Violence never solved anything. You didn't answer me. What can you prove?"
Mr Fenill walked around the room, peering across the many, many photos stuck up everywhere. "Jeff Tracy's hatred of the PRA is legendary, he's rich, and he has sons that would do anything he asked. They're all powerful psychics. If anyone could do it, would do it, it would be him."
"You consider that proof?" Grandma's eyebrows rose.
"In our business, Mrs Tracy," Mr Fenill replied. "We deal with people who don't leave proof. Supposition is all we have to act on."
"So, you don't need a reason to arrest people?" Grandma summed up acerbically.
"We act under the law, Mrs Tracy, whether you like it or not," Mr Fenill was still peering at the photos. "We start on supposition, we prosecute with evidence. No, I can't prove it, yet. But we're getting there."
"Sounds like you started with an answer and are trying to find the question," Grandma threw up her hands. "Do you hear yourself? Say it clear; young man do you have any evidence at all?"
Mr Fenill turned to look at her. "No."
"Then why do you persist?"
"There's no one else."
"Have you looked for anyone else?"
Mr Fenill frowned. "There is no one."
"Is that the same as 'no'? Tell me boy, did you find the Tracy's on your own, or were you ordered to? Did you ever ask why?"
Mr Fenill's jaw moved slightly. "I'm not in the habit of questioning my orders, Mrs Tracy."
"Yes, you might actually have to think for a change," Grandma retorted. "Tell me something, young man. Do you hate psychics?"
Mr Fenill was taken aback. No one had ever asked him that fairly before. Shouted it, screamed, accused it, but never asked it. "No. Just the rogue ones."
"You don't want to have them all in prisons? Really?"
"No," Mr Fenill shook his head. "Psychics have helped us. I'm not blind. They can be useful, skilled people. But they have to act under the law – we can't make special allowances for them."
"Just so. So think about it, young man. Forget the orders – would you have even thought of the Tracy's if they hadn't directed you? No evidence, no warning, nothing but a lot of supposition and bull dust? Doesn't that offend you?"
"I'm doing my job, Mrs Tracy," Mr Fenill said abruptly.
"Seems to me like your taking orders, Agent Fenill," Grandma replied succinctly. "It's not the same thing." She gave him a piercing look. "You really don't know what you're doing here, do you? You really don't."
Mr Fenill glared at her. There was something about the old woman – she forced you to think sideways to what you normally did. She made all your proudest points seem stupid, and more than that, she made you think they were stupid. The uneasiness he's been putting in a blind spot since the raid was coming back to the surface.
He turned his eyes away from her, trying not to be angry. He was in the middle of nowhere, and he didn't know why and it wasn't helping his disposition any having some old hag put her finger straight on it not ten minutes after meeting him.
And, just like that, it all got worse.
He saw the photo.
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End Part XI
