Chapter 7

It was going to take Jeanne a few days to organize our new identities. It was not only Menderash who would go through the process. We couldn't risk being caught, but it was considered essential that we had those fake identities to utilize, just in case we were in a difficult situation.

That meant that we would be hiding out in the mansion for some time. It was okay because Marco had a pretty firm idea of when his mansion staff were likely to show up and where. It was a good time for bonding and planning.

But I hated waiting. Every second wasted was a second longer for Ax under control of whatever was holding him. Whether it was Yeerks or not, he needed our help and playing video games on Marco's widescreen felt like a betrayal. I was continually thinking over strategy, planning routes and locations and back-up plans, but nobody seemed to be looking as far ahead as I was.

Maybe they needed the time to relax. We had been searching for six months solid, and the eight months apparently in limbo had done nothing to relieve any built-up stress. I, however, needed no such thing. The nagging in my head was constant. Relaxation was a concept I lost the script for years ago.

So when I couldn't sleep, two nights into our stay, I opened my windows to the world and looked upon the calming lights of the city. I put my clothes away and pictured the Great Horned Owl in my head.

I had learned a lot about morphing since the end of the war. I had taken up a teaching role, where I gave lessons to those privileged with the technology. Santorelli and Jeanne were of that minuscule group. It allowed me to fulfill my needs and lead others into the wacky lifestyle that I wouldn't give to my worst enemy.

I was better able to control the morphing process after all that dedicated practice. I left my wings till last but spread them wide when they finally arrived, the morph finally completed. The gift of flying permitted me to soar to such unwieldy heights. Urged me.

It demanded action, and I gave in. I flung my body from the window and flapped to pull myself higher into the air, above Marco's empty driveway. With those silent wings, I turned northwards. It wouldn't take me long to reach my destination.

The house was lifeless. It was huddled away in the shadow of a cluster of trees. The usual white walls and orange-brown roof, such a familiar visage in Santa Barbara, was merely a collection of greys in the night. I could barely make out the distinctive coastline from far above, but the metal fencing that encircled the building was clear as day.

My house was small and hidden, but it needed that barrier nonetheless. It didn't always work. I could see small pieces of trash that had been thrown over, and I was not naïve enough to ascribe it to petty passers-by.

I approached the angle in the roof. There was a small gap there that led into the attic, my usual entry point when out in bird morph. It was a tighter squeeze in owl morph, but soon enough, I was in the darkened room. I demorphed beside the attic door and made my way downstairs.

It was just how I'd left it, much to my surprise. Over a year missing, and nobody had yet managed to break in and steal everything I had. I clearly didn't put enough faith in the police force that was extremely vigilant in my area.

I turned the lights on and took in the sights of the cold, abandoned living room. It was much more cramped than any of Marco's rooms, but everything was much smaller, more subtle. The focal point was the old oak table that hosted the desktop computer. I wrote my books there and prepared my lectures and speeches. Behind that was a corkboard coated in paper. Notes and pictures. Newspaper clippings. There was no concise point to it all, judging from a layman's standpoint, but all the planning made sense to me.

To the left of the cluttered desk was an old bookcase filled to the brim. Books were squeezed in so tight that whole shelves of them were effectively doomed to forever remain unmoved. I went for a closer look, wiping a finger across a piece of shelving and returning it to find a thick layer of dust had settled. The books of great leaders and terrible wars were showing their signs of age. I had books on the World Wars, the American Civil War, Abraham Lincoln, and Winston Churchill. Great leaders and heroic triumphs. They were icons that I would try to emulate. The cause of obsession was not something I ever dwelled on, but I indulged in it beyond what any ordinary mind would.

I tried to justify myself by comparison. Those leaders all had their detractors, some more so than others. War was never clean, and solutions never without consequence. But those heroes rode to victories on their moral courage; the will to do what they thought was right and what was just.

They could argue their detractors and come out proud. History spoke well of them.

I turned away from the bookshelf and the computer. My feet took me past the television that hugged the corner of the room and the stack of decaying newspapers that lay on the coffee table. My short trip brought me through two sets of doors to the other side of the house—my bedroom.

The old clock that would be a dominating feature had stopped long ago. It cast a shadow over the bed that I would rarely use for more than three hours each day. Before the bed, and to my immediate left as I entered, was an antique set of drawers, topped with a mirror. It held various items, including clothing accessories, personalized cufflinks and ties; things needed whenever I was required to make a special appearance.

There was one drawer that I would refrain from opening, despite it being central to the antique - the keystone piece. I stared it down long and hard, my breathing becoming shallower as I felt it call to me. I tried to walk away, but something in me refused.

My hand drifted forward and clung to the handle. I opened it up.

Medals. A substantial number of them. They glowed in the brightness of the room, shone up to me like so many little lighthouse beacons. Most were circular pieces of gold or silver adorned with brightly colors straps of fabric meant to hold them to me. Other items were present, in all different shapes and sizes, all huddled at the bottom of the deep container, but they each carried the same message of thanks.

For others, they were signs of good intention. For me, they were each a little reminder. Each a memory of every small move and every major decision.

I reached down and recovered a few smaller ones, bringing them out of their home to take a closer look.

Jake Berenson. Hero of the Yeerk War.

Jake Berenson. Courageous and Strong.

Jake Berenson. Thank you.

But in the gold, I saw something else. In one, I saw the seventeen-thousand Yeerks.

Jake Berenson. Criminal of the Yeerk War.

In another, I saw the face of every soul I had killed throughout those years. Not the Yeerks, but the hosts that they enslaved. The innocent lives I took that never had a say in the actions of their owners. I saw the Auxiliaries and their demise, too.

Jake Berenson. Careless and Inept.

And in the last, I saw Tom.

Jake Berenson.

I dropped them back in and closed the drawer firmly. I didn't need to see them.

It wasn't a mistake, I repeated to myself, exhaling deeply and running a hand over my face. War is never clean.

I got out of there and returned to the living room, at which point I fired up the desktop computer. I poured myself a drink and started to busy my mind again. It was enough to distract me. I brought up a regular word file and began to type in my latest in a long line of decisions. This time, I wouldn't make a mistake. I couldn't.