In this chapter: Secrets uncovered. Kaz might be a bit of a metaphorical archaeologist like his old hero Indiana Jones after all.
(Indiana Jones is a terrible archaeologist, btw. Breaking artifacts and grabbing treasures out of their places without documentation! Makes me shudder, as I studied archaeology.)
Also, Kaz doesn't watch his language around impressionable children.
It's my birthday on Tuesday! Woohoo! I'm old!
Chapter 3
2002
Cambridge University, England
The lad was babbling again. He tended to do that when he got excited, barely even stopping for breath before questions and comments and answers poured out of him again.
"Wheesht, laddie!" Kaz had said once.
The little polymath had been startled into silence. "What?"
Kaz had told him exactly what it meant, which was 'Shut up, kid.' That had resulted in an extremely offended twelve-year-old.
"If ye'r aff tae ask questions," Kaz had clarified, overexaggerating his Scottish burr, "ye'v git tae hauld yer horses fur th' answers, dinnae ye think?"
The boy had blushed and looked chagrined, much to Kaz's amusement.
Well, he was at it again.
"—At least, according to Nash."
The kid would have kept going on that topic, but Kaz pulled up short, looking away from his computer screen where his dissertation was (very) slowly shaping itself into something that wasn't absolute garbage. "Where did he say that? I don't think I read that paper."
"Oh, in an email," Freddie shrugged. "We've been corresponding since I was a kid."
"You're still a kid. Also, we're talking about the same Nash, yeah? Game theory, Nash Equilibrium, Nobel Prize, A Beautiful Bloody Mind John Nash?"
In other words, a Very Big Name.
"Hm? Yeah." Freddie continued to fiddle with his…whatever it was he was working on. Some kind of gadget. A key ring? (Why…? Never mind.)
"Bloody hell."
"He asked me to go to Princeton but I've always had my heart absolutely set on Cambridge."
Kaz was never going to finish his dissertation if the pipsqueak kept invading his dormitory and coming out with surprises like this. "John Bloody Nash personally invited you to Princeton but you turned him down?"
The kid had the bloody gall to shrug.
"Berners-Lee wanted me at Oxford or MIT — whichever I preferred — Diaconis and Knuth wanted me at Stanford, and Hawking wanted me to study theoretical physics with him here but I wanted to do mathematics and computer science first. I might go into physics later though."
Kaz sputtered. " You- you- you turned down Stephen Bloody Hawking? Are you daft?"
"Obviously not." And the kid bloody rolled his bloody eyes behind his thick bloody glasses.
"Besides, he's been very understanding about it and it's not like I've stopped writing to everyone. I even had dinner with Stephen and Elaine the other night."
Kaz felt faint. "You're on first name terms with The Stephen Hawking, and he and his wife had you over for dinner?"
"Well I wasn't about to make them come to me in my little room. That would have been ridiculous."
Because that was the ridiculous part of all this.
"Bloody feckin' hell."
. . . . .
2010
MI6 HQ, London, UK
Kaz had really thought that he'd already dealt with all the surprises the kid had in store for him years ago.
As always, when it came to Freddie Lyon or R or whatever else he answered to now, he was wrong.
They were talking about Smith and his ham-fisted methods of recruitment.
"I told them they were going about it the wrong way, you know," Freddie-R was saying, "You're an adrenaline junkie and you're a stubborn bastard on top of that. They've got an idea that treating scientists like that would make them join up but—"
"They're stupid assholes?"
"Exactly!" Green eyes rolled. "At least when Q's around for the interview, he can sort of persuade them to tone down the intimidation. More or less. Tanner's better at getting them to be nice, but he's not usually around for interviews."
"What's he like, this Q?" Kaz hadn't met his new boss yet, and he was curious.
"Oh he's great!" R gushed. "Brilliant scientist. Mechanical engineer, you know. Been here ages. He used to tell me all about cars when I'd drop in on Q-Branch as a kid. He's in meetings all day today or he would've been here to meet you."
"Come again? Why were you here as a kid? Aside from being a candidate for the top position when you were nine. And you still haven't explained how that happened…if you were absolutely serious about that."
The younger man paused, considering. "Well. I don't mind you knowing. You know how I work. I earned this position."
"I know you did. What was it that might make someone else think different? Family member in Parliament or sommat, posh boy? You really a lord?" Kaz teased.
In all seriousness though, he wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be true. Freddie had always had an air of privileged upbringing that wasn't forced in the least.
"You're one to talk, Mr. Fettes and Cambridge man. Anyway, my godfather was the Q before this one, and my father was a double-oh before I was born."
"A double what?"
"A special class of agents. Elite operatives. The ones with two noughts before their numbers, like 007, are licensed to kill. Most of them love to act like assholes."
"So your dad was an assassin."
Right. Kaz could totally wrap his mind around that. Definitely could reconcile the loving father with a cold-hearted killer. He could totally imagine an assassin coming out to check on his son every weekend without fail, with a hamper full of Tupperwares and the family dog, like Mr. Lyon used to.
"Yes."
Kaz let out a slow breath. "Bloody hell. I guess I'm glad he didn't think I was a threat to you back then."
"He thoroughly investigated you, of course."
"Of course."
"Anyway, to continue, I showed promise early."
Kaz snorted. "Understatement."
"I used to visit my godfather at work, and he thought I'd be good as his replacement when he retired."
"When you were nine years of age." What? He had to confirm that barmy bit of news.
"Yes."
"No one thought that was…weird? Insane?"
R shrugged as though he didn't think so. "Oh, plenty of people. Obviously. That's one of the reasons why I wasn't named quartermaster back then. The current Q certainly didn't want the position. He keeps trying to pass it off onto other people in the department, but no one else wants it either."
"Why not? Head man of the department sounds like a cushy job."
Unless there were other strings attached. Kaz tried to imagine what the head of the MI6 tech division would have to deal with that the equivalent in a private company wouldn't. Maybe more weapons? Assassination attempts?
"Most scientists want to work on their research, rather than deal with bureaucracy, and the government breeds the worst sorts of bureaucrats. The paperwork alone is enough to drive anyone mad."
All good points, Kaz thought. "Makes sense. D'you want the job?"
R smiled dreamily. "As far back as I can remember. Q says he wants to step down as soon as they'll let him pass it on to me. He wants to go back to his labs and not have to deal with people. Machines are so much easier."
Kaz could relate.
"What about the paperwork?"
"I work fast and can multitask extensively. And most of the forms can be automated."
"What about the bureaucrats?"
Freddie's answer was matter-of-fact. "I'd deal with them as they deserve."
"Och!" Kaz laughed, and Freddie joined him a moment later.
. . .
Q made it back to Q-Branch before the end of Kaz's first day of work looking frazzled and muttering about useless meetings.
Dr. Montgomery, as he introduced himself, was an affable and absent-minded older gentleman with silver-gray hair and a mustache of the same hue.
"Ishida? Oh, yes, brilliant work with nanorobotics. Glad you've joined the team, eh? Settling in alright?"
"Yes, sir."
"R's shown you around? Good, good. Carry on, then."
Then he shuffled off, having left a file folder of papers on Kaz's desk. R handed them back to him before he could get too far.
"Oh, did it again, did I?" the old man said, casting a grateful smile at R. "What would I do without you, lad? This place would fall apart without you."
R preened at the praise, small as it was. Kaz, watching, was glad for his young friend. It looked like he'd finally found a place where he belonged.
. . .
They decided to head to the pub after work to catch up, which Kaz was glad for; the first day of work in any new place was exhausting.
"Can you hold your liquor now, Freddie?" Kaz teased.
The younger man rolled his eyes. "Very funny. Victoria still casts a gimlet eye on me when I imbibe alcohol in her presence."
Kaz snorted. "She's entitled to it, in my opinion."
"Yes. She is. My dad still doesn't know the details of that little misadventure. He has his suspicions, but he hasn't heard a whisper of it from her."
. . . . .
2002
Cambridge University, England
Kaz tried to ignore the scene playing out in front of him. After all, the lad was only trying to make friends. Who was Kaz to tell him that they were the wrong sort?
Besides, from what he already knew of the boy, he was proud, independent, desperately stubborn, and did whatever he wanted. Granted, he was pretty responsible and mature for a twelve-year-old (Kaz could remember what he was like at that age), but he was still inexperienced in the real world.
"It's at my place," the star player on the rugby team told Freddie with a lazy smirk. He rattled off an address in an area known to be the rowdy part of the college town.
"Yeah, okay," the boy replied eagerly. "I'll be there."
Kaz could well understand the draw of the invitation. The other student, Johnny Stephens, was older and cooler and alluringly popular, and Freddie, by his own admission, desperately wanted to fit in.
Kaz wanted to intervene, but Stephens wasn't doing anything wrong (and in fact looked to be doing the kind and charitable thing by inviting the small misfit). As the instructor for the class, he couldn't really step in otherwise, could he?
But he had a bad feeling about this. The rugby team's parties were known to be rowdy, and he didn't want the kid getting hurt, in more ways than one.
Bernie Stanton, another of the rugby crowd, slung an arm around Freddie's skinny little shoulders and gave him a noogie with the knuckles of his other hand.
"We can go in my car," he was saying, "I'll pick you up in front of your place. Eight alright, or is that past your bedtime?"
It was a sign of just how much Freddie wanted to be friends with them that he ignored the indignity and merely smiled.
"Thanks," he said, and Kaz gritted his teeth.
'Don't blow up, don't blow up.' He repeated the internal mantra, knowing well his fiery temper when he got riled. He'd gotten into enough trouble in the past because of it, hadn't he?
They were making their way out of the lecture hall while Kaz pretended to be busy packing his notes up. Freddie looked so small next to the large, hulking figures.
"Mr. Lyon," Kaz found himself saying, "a word?"
"Ooohhh," the others ragged. "You're in trouble now."
Rolling his eyes, Freddie walked back to the front of the room where Kaz was trying to formulate how to say what he had to say.
"Mr. Ishida?" he said with exaggerated, mocking respect.
"Don't go to that party, Freddie," Kaz said at last.
The kid looked taken aback. "Why not? What, you don't want me to make friends?"
"They're a bad sort, Freddie," Kaz warned. "You don't want to be friends with the likes of them."
"I'll choose my own friends, thanks." As predicted, Freddie's tone was positively arctic. "Have a good afternoon, sir."
Kaz watched the haughty little figure depart, and cursed.
Damn, he'd done it again, hadn't he?
. . .
Eight o'clock came and went, and Kaz resolutely kept his nose out of the kid's business.
He had, of course, heard Stanton's vehicle arrive (late, he noted hypocritically); the whole neighborhood had heard the obnoxious honking of the bright tangerine Ferrari. He'd taken a quick peek out of the window in time to see the tiny boy climb into the back seat with what looked like a carful of other young men squeezed inside.
He'd sighed, shaken his head, and tried to concentrate on his dissertation.
By nine-thirty, he'd known that he would get no work done until the boy was home safe and sound, so he'd gotten up and stretched.
Maybe he'd take a walk around the block. It was a nice, mild night.
As he stepped out into the hall, he saw the elegant figure of Freddie's aunt knocking on the door of room number 221.
"He's out," Kaz told her.
She fixed her icy blue gaze on him, and he shivered, not quite knowing why.
"Lab?" she asked. She was even more attractive up close than she had seemed when he'd observed her before with the rest of Freddie's family. She wasn't young, but she had an air of…allure? Sexiness? That intangible, ineffable It.
Kaz's mouth went inexplicably dry. "Party," he croaked.
A pale brow arched, asking a silent question.
"Other students in his class invited him," Kaz offered.
She examined him for a moment while he shifted uneasily.
"You don't approve."
How she'd arrived at that conclusion, Kaz wasn't sure, but he suddenly felt the need to confide to her his worries about the kid.
"They're known to have some pretty wild parties," he said hesitantly. He didn't want to snitch on the kid, after all, but dammit, he was worried. "Drinking, drugs sometimes. I told him not to go, but he's stubborn."
The red lips pursed. "Do you know where?"
"Yeah, sure." He told her the address, relieved. Then he hesitated. "You won't be too harsh on him?" he asked, worried. He had no idea what kind of discipline Freddie's family used. "He only wanted to make friends. You know how it is at that age. Well, maybe not you. Nerds like me though. We have a tough time making friends."
Her face softened imperceptibly, though not a muscle moved that Kaz could see. "You can come along to make sure, if you like," she offered.
Kaz, surprised, stammered his acquiescence, and then they were off.
"This is a really gorgeous car," he ventured to say. It really was. The Aston Martin was definitely the fanciest vehicle he had ever been in.
"Freddie helped me pick it," the boy's aunt said quietly.
"He knows his cars inside and out," Kaz agreed. "And then some. In my opinion, he doesn't really need to be in classes. My class, anyway. It's too elementary for him."
"You like him."
"He's a good kid. Brilliant mind. Absolutely brilliant. I can't help respecting a brain like that."
"You're not envious?"
"Like the dickens," Kaz snorted. "If I had a brain like that…I dunno what I'd be doing, but I certainly wouldn't be struggling to finish my stupid dissertation that I absolutely hate with a passion right now. The kid churns out papers and reports like—whoa!"
The car had swung to an abrupt stop in front of a well-lit house with a short squeal of tires. The bass of the loud music inside thudded and made the car's windows rattle.
"Sounds like a fun party," Kaz said in a low voice.
His companion's lips were pressed into a tight line as she led the way to the wide-open door, leaving the sports car double-parked and blocking the street. Apparently, traffic laws didn't apply to people like her.
They picked their way past necking couples and stumbling, laughing dancers who were definitely inebriated at the very least. The air was hazy with smoke.
Kaz found himself glancing into corners and behind furniture – the kid was so tiny he could easily get lost in this dark, ear-shattering environment. Then he scolded himself; the boy wasn't that small…but he was, compared to Kaz's admittedly abnormal height of nearly six and a half feet. But he was young, and the young were easily led astray by those who didn't have their best interests in mind…like Pinocchio.
'Och, fur feck's sake, Kaz,' he grumbled to himself, 'Git a haud o' yersel'.'
Suddenly, Kaz sensed a change in Freddie's aunt's bearing, and she glided – stalked – her way toward a group of laughing lads.
"Here, give 'im more!" Stephens was crowing, and Stanton ceremoniously poured more liquid into the plastic cup held in a wobbly hand.
"Frederick Lyon,' the boy's aunt hissed, and Kaz didn't know how they all heard it over the pounding music, but everyone froze.
Ruddy-cheeked, glasses askew, with his hair messier than ever, the boy blinked unfocused eyes up at them. "Who?" he finally said after a few moments too long.
"You," the woman ground out, and grabbed him by the back of the neck, pushing him toward Kaz, who caught the stumbling boy. The plastic cup and its contents were lost somewhere along the way.
"Ohhhh, tha'ss righ'!" Freddie slurred happily, still oblivious to his aunt's frosty anger. "Feddy Line, tha'ss mee!"
"Take him to the car," his aunt snapped at Kaz, and then she turned to the older boys, who looked completely unaffected by the scene, the assholes.
"It was only a bit of fun," Stephens laughed. "Get the whole experience of Cambridge life. It's a rite of passage."
Stanton backed his friend up. "Yeah, it's no big deal."
"No big deal?" Freddie's aunt said, and another shiver went down Kaz's spine, although the others seemed not to notice the danger wafting off of the woman. "A bit of fun? He's twelve years old."
"Ann' Tory?" the boy said, suddenly a little more alert, "You won' hurt them?"
The lads laughed. Kaz did not, nor did the woman. Only a titter went around the rest of the room, as they had more sense than the two young men at the center of her ire.
"Go to the car," she ordered.
Kaz ushered the boy away, past the young men and women who had been dancing and laughing not minutes before but were now still and silent.
Freddie tried to pull out of his grasp and linger, but Kaz tugged at him to keep moving. He wasn't about to disobey that woman. She was terrifying for some reason he couldn't fathom.
Outside the house the boy suddenly decided to let loose and vomit. Luckily, he just barely missed Kaz's shoes, but it was a close call.
Kaz never found out what went on inside that house – the stories that went around in the weeks after were much too wild to have actually happened, and any authorities who tried to investigate found themselves presented with deliriously ludicrous stories that they had to discount. All Kaz knew was that the woman came out of the house several minutes later with not a hair out of place in her perfect coiffure, and the lads decided not to return to Cambridge the following Monday…or ever.
"Get in," Freddie's aunt told them tersely, and they drove off in silence.
They had to stop once so the boy could vomit again, but they soon made it back to Freddie's room. He was snoring away, so Kaz carried him up. He was so small and light, and the guilt churned in Kaz's stomach. If he hadn't been so clumsy in trying to stop him…
Once they'd put him to bed, carefully positioning him on his side, Kaz stood back and shifted nervously from foot to foot. He didn't quite know what to do with himself now that the boy was home. Well, the aunt was here, wasn't she? So he should probably…
"I've got it from here," she told him.
"Right." He shifted again. "I'll just…er…I'm down the hall. 229. If you need anything."
"Thank you for your assistance," she said, and her voice sounded a little softer, gentler, "Good night, Mr. Ishida."
"Good night," he answered, and it was only days later that he realized that she'd used his surname, which he hadn't told her. Maybe the kid had.
. . .
The following morning, after a sleepless night, he went out to the bakery down the street and brought back breakfast: an assortment of pastries and tea (one English Breakfast for her, one Earl Grey for the midget, and one gunpowder green for himself). On an afterthought, he picked up a packet of plain crackers and a bottle of aspirin with a wry smirk.
Freddie's Aunt Tory raised a brow at him when she answered the door, but thanked him graciously.
"He's still dead to the world," she remarked drolly.
"Right," Kaz said. He held up his backpack, which held a stack of lab reports and exams. "Do you mind if I stay and get some grading done?"
He wondered belatedly if it was rude to invite himself into someone's room, especially when the owner of said room was in a drunken slumber.
"Suit yourself."
It was close to noon when Freddie woke up, and boy, did he wake up with a bang.
He groaned, moaned, and proceeded to empty his stomach into the conveniently-placed receptacle held in front of his face by his grim-faced aunt.
"Please kill me. I want to die," he sobbed between retches.
Looking very slightly amused, Aunt Tory put her hand on the back of her nephew's sweaty neck and squeezed a little. "Are you sure about that?" she drawled. "I'd be happy to oblige."
The boy spit a final mouthful of bile into the trash can and curled into a miserable ball of suffering amid his damp sheets. "You're bluffing because you know I'm being overly dramatic and you're sadistic."
"How am I sadistic?"
"You're enjoying my suffering. Schadenfreude."
The woman didn't deny the accusation and only tugged at the boy to get him upright enough to drink a bottle of water and down some aspirin. Then she forced him to nibble exactly two and a half crackers before she let him lie back down.
"Oh, god, I'm dying."
"Go back to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up." Kaz had the feeling that she was not usually given to gentleness, but she said it comfortingly enough, and she accompanied it with soft caresses on the aching head.
"I'm not going to wake up. I tell you I'm dying. There's a rotting skunk carcass in my mouth and a googolplex of jackhammers in my head."
"Hush and go to sleep, dear."
. . .
Kaz had finished his grading and had moved on to catching up on his reading by the time late afternoon rolled around. There was a stack of academic journals that he'd been putting off reading, and now seemed like a good time to do it.
Was he loitering and dawdling?
Of course not! He definitely needed to get this reading done. Lots of cutting-edge technology within these pages, and there could be an article amid the dross that could set off the spark of inspiration for a whole new project. It was always that hope of hidden treasure that spurred him on.
Inevitably, however, the dry language of academia put him to sleep.
'...Actuated by pneumatic processes…' faded into the sounds of muffled crying.
"I want to go home."
"Oh, darling," came the whispered reply, "it can't be that bad."
"I don't belong here. I want to go home."
"It's not like you to give up, Danny."
The slightly alert part of Kaz's brain raised its head. The kid's name was Freddie, wasn't it? Weird. Oh well. Maybe 'Danny' was a nickname or some such, he rationalized, and settled back to half-sleep.
"It's too hard. I can't do it." It was accompanied by a loud sniffle.
Aw, kid.
"The schoolwork?"
"No! That's easy. It's always easy. Books. Theories." Kaz could imagine the expression on the lad's face: proud and disdainful. "I could do it all with my eyes closed. But I don't know how to act around these people. I can't be normal."
"You're not like the others, luv. You're completely unique, and that's perfectly fine. But give these people another chance. Perhaps not those bastards from last night, but others. Kaz. Other classmates. Isn't there anyone else who's not an arse?"
Kaz mentally agreed with the woman. There were definitely lots of people around who weren't absolute bastards like those two.
"I'm the asshole, Aunt Victoria. I don't know how not to be."
Aw, lad. Well, not exactly untrue, but he was young. Kids tended to be brats at that age.
"That's something you can work on, luv."
"Don't tell my dad? I won't do it again."
"I told your father you'd be fine on your own." Uh oh. Kaz winced. That was the 'responsible adult' voice people did.
"I know. I know you vouched for me. I swear. I won't do it again. Ever. I thought it would be fun. And they said they'd look after me. It was stupid. I shouldn't have trusted them."
A sigh. "You wanted to fit in."
"I'll never fit in anywhere. I'll simply have to accept that." Another sniffle.
"You'll find a place where you do belong."
Kaz cracked an eyelid open and saw the blurry outline of the kid's aunt perched on the side of the bed, stroking his head and back soothingly. The kid was a miserable little ball swamped in the bedclothes.
"I won't. But it's okay. I don't need friends anyway." It was said with bravado, but a waver cracked the young voice.
"What about him? He's not your friend?" Kaz imagined that Aunt Tory – Victoria, obviously – glanced over at him as she said it.
"He's…he's my instructor. Wouldn't be right to call him a friend, would it?" The kid's voice was sort of pleading for her to contradict him.
"I think you can be friends with anyone you want, darling." Internally, Kaz agreed with her wholeheartedly, but he gave no outward sign that he was awake. At least, he hoped he didn't.
"Then I guess he's my friend. If he wants to be. What kind of adult would want to be friends with a kid, anyway?" There was a rustling of bedsheets as the kid in question shifted.
"Depends on the adult. Depends on the kid. I don't think he's very good at making friends, either. Besides, don't you have a dozen correspondences going on with scientists across the world? They're not friends?"
There was the sound of something between a sniff and a huff. "I'm sure they don't think of me as a friend. Maybe as someone to mentor and cultivate, but not a friend."
"Perhaps."
"So are you going to tell Dad?" Insistent.
Understandable. Kaz would want to know, too, in his position.
"No, I won't tell him, if only because he would be horrified that you were drinking that awful potato vodka."
Freddie (Danny?) giggled. "He would probably disown me, wouldn't he?"
"Very likely. That man is such a snob."
"I didn't like it anyway," the kid confided, and that was the end of the conversation.
Victoria gave Kaz a knowing look when he feigned waking up soon after, muttering about boring articles and stretching his long limbs until his joints popped.
"Oh hey. You're still alive, midget," he said carelessly and maybe a little louder than necessary. He didn't bother to stifle his amusement at the absolute wretchedness the boy was exuding. "I'm starving. How about you? I could go for a curry."
The kid immediately turned green and grabbed the trash can. "Go to hell, Kaz," he muttered once he'd overcome the sudden surge of bile.
"Och! Nice way to thank me for looking out for you."
"Sod off."
. . . . .
Notes:
Room 221: Is that a reference to 221B Baker Street (Sherlock Holmes)? No, of course not! And did Freddie/Danny hack the system to assign himself that room on purpose? Noooooo, of course not! /sarcasm.
Potato vodka: Reference to Ian Fleming's dislike of cheap vodka. Apparently, a vodka martini should be made with grain vodka whenever possible.
