02 Anna the Caterpillar

by Thescarredman

A very AU series, narrated mostly through the point of view of Anna, the group's android housekeeper, as she acquires a family and discovers her own humanity.

3. Lab Ratz: Daddy Issues

March 2004

Project Genesis Secure Facility

a.k.a. The Darwin Academy

Roxanne lay on her mattress on the floor of the pitch-black cell, lost in a waking dream. She'd lost count of the meals she'd heard pushed through the floor-height slot in the wall by her bed. She had no idea of the dimensions of the room; she hadn't moved much past the trays and the toilet. There didn't seem to be any point in exploring.

Her nails were long gone, but the cigarette jones was finally loosening its grip. Good thing. I was about to start on the fingers next. She wondered if the crap they were probably feeding her was habit-forming.

She'd been having weird dreams and hallucinations in the sightless dark; sometimes she didn't know if she was awake or asleep. One time, she'd been sure she'd heard her mother's voice, shouting something from far away. She'd watched pale pastel lights crawling through the air above her head; when she closed her eyes, they were still there. Lots of times, she wasn't sure of the positions of her hands and feet. Once, she'd thought her left hand was behind her head and between her thighs at the same time. She'd been afraid to move it; she'd had to feel for it with her right to locate it, lying beside her on the mattress.

She placed her hands on her bare thighs. Why did they take my clothes? Am I really naked, or am I just imagining it? She ran her hands up her thighs, her belly, her chest, and finally reached up to her neck to grip the metal-feeling collar that circled it. This feels real enough. She hung on to it, waiting for the familiar numbness to steal into her fingers, but after a hundred heartbeats it still felt solid as ever, making her even more uneasy. Great. I'm so screwed up, I depend on numbness to keep a grip on reality.

A thought occurred to her. She felt her armpits, and then ran her hands down her legs. Still smooth. It hasn't been more than a few days since I was kidnapped. Unless they're shaving me while I sleep. They'd have to be drugging me, to get away with that. She explored the downy patch between her thighs. She'd just started dressing that up a little, nothing radical, just whacking a couple of Indians wandering off the reservation whose boundaries were defined by her skimpiest underwear. No nubs. Even if they're shaving me, would they notice this?

She'd tried talking aloud, even singing, trying to relieve the silence of her prison. But they were messing with the room acoustics somehow. At first, her voice had disappeared into the dark without an echo; then suddenly it had begun to come back at her from every direction without any time lag. It was unnerving, like someone was reading her mind. Eventually she'd quit, and lay silent, afraid of her own voice.

She heard a scrape from the meal slot; another tray would be on the floor next to her bed. She'd quit trying to get whoever was pushing it through to talk to her. She crawled to the meal and ate the flavorless, semi-solid stuff unseen; she ate with her hands, since no utensils were provided. She rinsed them in the toilet afterwards and felt around the tray for her drink, suddenly parched. Liquid came in a heavy metal cup with a lid she couldn't open; she drank through a small hole in the top. The liquid was uncarbonated and tasted odd; it could have been Gatorade or rat poison, for all she knew, but it was either the contents of the cup or drink from the toilet.

She added the tray to the stack she was accumulating. After the first two or three feedings, she'd thought to keep track of the number of meals she'd had by keeping the divided trays in her cell instead of pushing them back through when she was done; she was sure they were feeding her at irregular times, but she could at least keep count of the meals. She'd already counted five meals in this way; this should be the sixth. She ran her fingers down the stack, counting trays by touch.

There were eight trays in the stack.

She fought down panic. I didn't forget to count two meals. They know I'm doing this, and added two trays to mess me up. Next time I count, there'll be ten. Or two. Nevertheless, she felt her heartbeat and breathing quicken. I have been saving them all, haven't I? God. If they keep this up for a month, I won't be sure of my own name. She crawled back to her pallet and lay down on her back, folding her hands on her abdomen and crossing her ankles so she'd be sure where they all were.

"What a crappy week," she said softly, staring up into the darkness. Experimenting had shown her that the everywhere-at-once effect didn't kick on if she kept her voice down. For all she knew, it wasn't happening at all any more, but she was afraid to test it. Just now, she was afraid of almost everything.

Her mind wandered back to the start of the school week. Monday had been her fifteenth birthday, unnoticed by everyone but Kat; she hadn't even got an e-mail from her mom. It had also been when someone had played that weird practical joke on Bobby in the cafeteria, making his pop bottle explode in his hand and soaking her last clean coverall with steaming hot cola on wash day. Tuesday, Kat and Bobby had been missing from class: family emergency for Kat, and some mysterious court summons for Bobby. Matt, the dreamy PE instructor, had hinted that Bobby'd been called to give testimony against one of his former foster parents.

She'd groused about it as she'd done sit-ups on the gym mat while Matt counted. "What happened to the travel restrictions? And why didn't they say goodbye?"

"Security, Rox," he'd said with a faint smile. "You know how risky travel is for all of us right now. But the bad guys can't make plans to ambush us on the road if we're back before they know we're gone." His ice-blue eyes bored into her, coolly amused at her worries; she was suddenly very conscious of his hands on her ankles as she looked at him over her bare upraised knees. "I'm sure they're both safe. That's thirty."

That same afternoon, after lunch, she'd heard some vicious gossip: Grunge had been seen coming out of Pod Eleven's bedroom annex just before lights out the night before. They didn't hang out with anybody in Eleven; the only reason she could figure he'd be there was to spend a little "quality time" with the school skank, Jenny Grier. If the story was true – or even if it wasn't – it would be all over campus by tomorrow afternoon, despite the new security restrictions on the students' movements.

That afternoon, after classes, she'd gone to her weekly physical. She'd felt a little hesitant about stepping on Dr. Ivery's scale. Like many girls her age, she obsessed about her weight; sharing a table with Kat and watching her shovel it in made it easy to overdo, and she'd been afraid she'd gained in the past week.

Thinking she might need to drop a few pounds, she'd stepped on the scale and watched the digital readout do its thing. In bright red letters, it had displayed:

33.8

"Whups," the doctor had said. "Must have it set to metric."

That's still only seventy-five pounds, she'd thought. He must know that. I have to weigh more than that. Immediately, the display's numbers had begun to rise until they'd displayed her normal weight, in pounds.

Dr. Ivery had looked at her. "Um, sorry, Rox. I don't know what's wrong with it. I'll have a new one by next week." He'd smiled warmly at her. "Lay off desserts till then."

She'd hung out with friends after dinner, watching a movie together as a good way to avoid talking. When Grunge had come into the room at the end of the movie, she'd made a determined effort to sweat him. It had been pathetic, really, the way he'd tried to make up to her and pretend he didn't know what she was mad about at the same time. She'd intended to keep the pressure on him for at least another day, until the story had made the rounds. If she was going to have to put up with all the sidelong glances and whispers tomorrow, she'd decided, he could endure her cold shoulder until the rumor mill moved on to something else. After he'd left, thoroughly chastised, she'd played cards with some kids in commons who'd carefully avoided the current hot subject – while she was with them, at least. But she knew they'd be talking about the two of them the instant she left.

An hour before lights out, she'd headed back towards Pod Nine's sleeping area. The Academy's underground floor plan was circular, with sleeping areas for each of the fourteen "pods" of students located around the perimeter. She'd nodded at the guard standing at the head of Pod Nine's hallway, and headed down the hall towards her room. On the way, she passed the pod's unused bedrooms; every sleeping annex had eight rooms, so there had been three of them. When they'd first been assigned quarters here, she'd wondered about that. Most of the other kids had been in groups of seven or eight; theirs was the only pod with fewer than six. Maybe two or three never showed up.

The first occupied room was Kat's. On impulse, she'd tapped on the door. No answer. None of the doors had locks; following that same odd urge, she'd turned the knob and looked in. Neat as a pin, just like always. The family photos had been arranged on the tiny table by the bed, and her sister's goofy pink teddy bear lay on the spread. She'd imagined the six-six redheaded Amazon asleep with a pink teddy bear tucked under her chin and almost giggled.

But her pillows had been all wrong.

Housekeeping entered the students' rooms every day while they were in class, tidying up, making the beds, resupplying the toiletries. But Kat insisted on making her own bed; she said that the familiar chore put her brain in gear for the morning. But the way her three pillows had been arranged was different from the way she always did them. They must have come for her in the middle of the night. What kind of emergency could be that serious?

A vague impulse had led her to her sister's closet. None of them had much in the way of street clothes, but Kat's had seemed to be all there, and her last clean coverall had been missing. She got out of bed and left the grounds in her school uniform? Well, duh: it's all she's got that still fits. She'd never squeeze into the clothes she brought from home.

When she'd stepped out the door, the guard had been waiting for her. "What are you doing?"

"It's my sister's room. I wanted to check her stuff, in case anything's missing when she comes back." Turning her back on him, she'd headed on down the hall towards her room. But Bobby's door lay in between, and she couldn't resist putting her hand on the knob.

"That's not your room, Spaulding." The guard had followed her down the hall. He'd looked full of Secret Service menace, complete with Uzi and ear bud with the coil of wire trailing into his shirt collar. But the mirrored shades when we're ten feet underground seem a bit much.

She'd felt stubborn. "It's my friend's room, and he's gone too, and I'm going to look in on it. What are you going to do, shoot me?" She'd gone in, and instantly known something was wrong: Bobby's guitar had been lying on the bed.

He wouldn't leave that, not even for an overnight trip. It's all he owns, almost. She'd recalled how he'd arrived with it, socks and underwear stuffed inside the sound box to meet the volume restrictions of his baggage allowance. They wouldn't let him take it with him. Cold fingers had touched her neck and shoulder blades. She'd backed out of the room, scared and a little angry, both feelings unfocused. She'd bumped into something and spun, startled almost out of her wits.

It had been the hall guard; he must have been close enough behind to look over her shoulder, seeing what she was looking at. He'd stepped back hastily, as if she were red-hot.

A plan had formed in her head. Her door was next, but she'd stepped past it to the last on this side, Grunge's.

"Hey." The guard had been two steps behind her. "Forget it. You've been with your boyfriend all afternoon. You're not going into his room thirty minutes before lights out."

She'd stared into the mirrored lenses and very deliberately placed her hand on the doorknob. He'd tensed. "You go in that room, you're going on report. I mean it."

"Oooh, going on report," she'd said, her anger building. She'd stepped towards him, and made a couple curious observations. The first was the odd slip he'd taken as he'd stepped back, as if he'd suddenly found himself on ice instead of carpet and couldn't get any traction. The second was that he'd stepped back at all; the guy was two hundred pounds of beef, armed with a machine gun, and he was starting back at the approach of a terrier-sized schoolgirl. She'd seen him take a sudden breath and snug his weapon to his chest as if he'd thought she might take it away from him. An incredible revelation had struck her. He's afraid. He's afraid of me.

She hadn't wasted time wondering why. You didn't need to be a Psych major to know that scared people were dangerous, especially when they were packing automatic weapons. The anger had drained out of her, replaced by caution and cunning. The man had been watching her with the stillness of a lion tamer who'd suddenly realized he'd entered the cage without his whip.

"Sorry," she'd said quietly. "I don't mean to be so edgy." She'd stepped to him slowly, and had carefully laid a hand on his forearm. She'd stared up, trying to look past the lenses to his eyes, but seeing only her own reflection. "Look. I've been fighting with my boyfriend all afternoon, and we only sort of made up. I just want to go in there to make sure the truce is holding and say goodnight. Five minutes, tops. Then I'll go straight to my room and I won't set foot out of it the rest of the night. Okay?"

She'd felt the cords in his arm flexing, even under the shirt. "Go on then."

She'd knocked on Grunge's door and entered without waiting. Serve him right if I embarrass him. But he'd been awake, dressed, and reading – a real book that wasn't a textbook; she couldn't make out the title. He'd put it aside hastily as she'd shut the door behind her and put her back against it.

He'd given her his patented heart-melting smile as he'd patted the mattress next to him. "Hey, Rox. Not mad anymore, huh?"

"Yes. Very. I'm not staying." His face had fallen, a little boy who'd just been told there was no Santa. You think I'm a mental defective? If I ever sleep with you, it won't be to keep you from going to another girl. She'd kept her voice down and her emotions in check. "I just came to warn you that I won't be in first class tomorrow. I'm going to see Nicole."

He'd given her a concerned look that had nothing to do with the way she was treating him, and she felt herself begin to soften. "Don't count on it. Her 'open door' isn't nearly so open since the 'emergency.'"

"Then I'll camp at her door until she sees me."

"What's going on?" He'd swung his feet off the bed and stood.

She'd held up a hand to stop him before he got close enough to challenge her willpower. "I'm not sure. I'll tell you tomorrow when I know more."

"Rox." He'd leaned towards her. "Watch yourself around Nicole. There's more going on than they're telling us, and she's not what she seems."

"Tell me about it. When they hired all this security, who thought they'd put her in charge of them?"

"Who's they, Rox? Who runs this place?"

"What? The Dean. Mr. Hardesty."

"Uh huh. Where's his office?"

"Huh? I don't know. I never go to see him."

"Have you seen him at all, since the day you came here and he gave you that welcome speech?"

"No, but we see him on TV for school announcements-"

"Which could come from anywhere."

"And they post written notices with his name on it."

"Who posts them?"

"Whatever you're saying, just say it."

"Matt's the PE instructor, but he's also the Dean of Men. Nicole does the same thing for the girls. Dr. Ivery handles all the health issues, from cafeteria menus to the regular checkups. They're our only contacts with school administration, and everything official comes down to us through them. Rox… Matt and Nicole and Ivery run this school."

"So… who hired all the new guards?"

He'd shaken his head. "That's a crock, too. Don't know where these guys came from, but they're not strangers. You can tell by the way they interact. Matt and Nicole and Ivery are used to giving them orders.

"And then there's the way the guards act towards her. You don't see it?" She must have looked blank; he'd continued. "She's just her usual friendly self towards them, same as with us, but the way they act towards her is different as night and day. When Nicole talks to a guy, he moves in and leans close; he can't help himself. Now, most of our security guys are young enough to be in Nicole's dating pool, but when she gets within arm's length of the guards, most of them step back, like they're afraid of touching her. And the ones that don't step back … they freeze like they're scared to move; deer in the headlights. They sweat. That's a pretty strange reaction to a hot chick who acts halfway interested."

"Maybe they're shy. Or they've got willpower."

He'd stepped towards her, bringing him almost close enough to touch. "Rox, give it a rest. They know something about her that we don't, and they're scared of her. And it's not just that she's a bitch to work for."

"I'll be careful."

He'd leaned forward again. She smelled soap and clean hair; on him, it was as good as Stetson. "And before you show her too much attitude, you might give some thought to how many people you didn't see in commons today."

She'd wanted to ask him what he meant, but she was out of time, and hadn't wanted to make the guard outside any twitchier. Besides, he was getting way too close for her to stay aloof. Setting aside an impulse to kiss him goodnight, she'd opened the door and left. The guard had been standing right by the door, as if he were trying to listen in; she'd wondered what he'd heard.

"Okay," she'd said. "Thanks." She'd headed next door to her own room, and paused with her hand on the knob. "Good night." He hadn't answered. As soon as the latch had clicked, she'd pressed her ear against the door. She'd heard him speaking in a low voice, but couldn't make out the words.

He's not the same guard who watched us in commons today; how did he know we were together all afternoon? Surely they don't gossip on those radios all day about what every one of us is doing; they'd have no time for anything else. So why me? And why does this big dangerous man behave like I'm a cat and he's a mouse?

Then, Grunge's last statement had come back to her, and another oddity had risen to mind. The Darwin Academy's class structure kept her pod mates in each others' company exclusively during classes; they were a class of five, taking the same lessons all day, and saw kids from other study groups only during lunch, PE, and after school. It hadn't made any impression at the time, but the cafeteria and commons had been unusually empty.

How many 'family emergencies' have there been in the other pods?

She'd felt a sudden stab of alarm. Where's Sarah? The Apache Princess had parted company with them after classes, gone to see a 'friend' in another pod, nothing unusual; but Roxy hadn't seen her come back, and the new security rules didn't permit overnight visits. She'd decided to check Sarah's room, if the guard wasn't in the hall.

She'd opened the door and stuck her head out. The man had been six steps from her door, looking her way; she'd put on her sunniest smile and beckoned. He'd approached cautiously, scowling.

"I was hoping you hadn't left," she'd said. "Do you know if Nicole has office hours tomorrow?"

He'd relaxed. "Can't say."

Which isn't the same as saying you don't know. "Okay. Thanks again. Good night." This time, when she'd pressed her ear to her closed door, she'd heard, "Pod Nine. All three in. Lights out in twelve." So Sarah's still with us; she just came back earlier.

She'd hurried through a shower, put on a beater and boy shorts to sleep in, and brushed her teeth. Since there was no place at the Academy to buy anything, Housekeeping supplied all their toiletries in little hotel-sized packages. She'd noticed all her used stuff had been replaced with new, from her soap to her toothpaste, and she thought the toothpaste had a funny aftertaste tonight. No telling what kind of generic crap they put in these unmarked containers. Someday I'm going to brush my teeth with pimple cream or something by mistake. She'd finished her nightly ritual and climbed into bed just as the overhead lights went out. She'd thought about her suspicions, and how she'd confront Nicole in the morning.

They're moving us a few at a time in the dead of night, no warning, no time to pack, no chance to contact anyone; just roust us out of bed and hustle us out the door. The cover stories are supposed to keep the ones who haven't been moved yet from panicking. Instead of indignation, she'd felt a curious acceptance about it as she'd settled with unusual ease into sleep. They're evacuating us to a more secret location where we'll be safe. That's fine, but there's no reason they couldn't let Bobby have his guitar. I'll promise not to tell anyone if she gives me a heads-up and a chance to pack. That's not much to ask. I'll take his guitar … and Kat's stupid bear, too.

She'd drifted off to sleep, and wakened in this nightmare.

I don't even know who's doing this. Did the Academy wait too long to move us, and the terrorists captured the complex? Or…

A wave of nausea hit her, and the invisible walls spun. Since she'd been in here, she'd discovered that trying to concentrate made her feel sick and dizzy. The thought came back to her: if they keep this up for a month, I won't be sure of my own name.

"Spaulding." A man's voice, deep and hoarse-sounding, just loud enough to trip that coming-from-everywhere effect. It sounded like the voice of God. Suddenly, having someone talk to her didn't seem so appealing. She held her breath. God, what now?

"Spaulding? You in here?"

Why would they ask that? Unless… She choked down a wild hope. "Yes. Here." Her voice seemed to come from everywhere too. "Who is it?"

"I'm Bobby's father."

"Bobby doesn't have a father."

"Everybody has a father. Come on, it's checkout time."

If only. "What are you doing here? Why should I trust you?"

"Because I know the way out, and I've got your clothes. Come and get em."

She swallowed and stood up shakily. "Where are you? I don't know where the door is. I can't see a thing, and I can't tell from your voice."

"It's an electronic gimmick. It uses microphones to pick up the sound of your voice and rebroadcast it, so fast you can't hear the time lag. Just touch the wall with your right hand and start walking until you reach the door. Then I'll pass your clothes through."

"What about a light, for chrissakes?"

"There's no light out here either, and the switch doesn't work. Sorry."

She groped her way towards the wall near the mattress, placed her right hand on the smooth, cool surface, stretched her left hand out in front of her, and shuffled forward, her feet making tiny squeaking sounds on the smooth floor. "Don't suppose you could meet me halfway."

"You have to get to the door anyway. You want to risk running into me butt-naked?"

"Do you look like Brad Pitt?"

"Heh. More like Jack Nicholson. I bet you look like a pug. What's the 'R' stand for?"

"Huh?" She felt tired already, as though she'd walked for miles. Drugs? Darkness? Or just three days spent lying on a mattress? She slowed further, expecting to reach the corner at any moment.

"The name patch on your coverall says 'R. Spaulding.' I'll bet it doesn't stand for Rachel or Rebecca."

"Not even close."

"Rosemary? Rolanda? River? How about Rhoda?" She heard fingers snap. "Rita! Sure."

Am I smiling? It feels like I'm smiling. I'm being Daddy-teased. It totally embarrassed her girlfriends when their fathers talked to her like this, but they didn't understand. It wasn't flirting, really; the men were just compelled to put their daughters' fatherless little friend with the chip on her shoulder at ease. She thought it was kind of sweet. This man had brought a hint of a smile to her face, for the first time since she'd awakened blind and scared. "Roxy."

"'Roxy.' Now, that goes with the attitude."

"Hey, I'm not at my best right now. I think-"

She collided with a wall, face-first. She tasted blood. "Shit."

"What's wrong?"

"I ran into the wall. My nose is bleeding."

"Maybe you should have had your other hand out."

The fear came back full force. I did. I remember doing it. Didn't I? Did I drop my hand and not notice, or did I just think I raised it to begin with?

What if there's no open door waiting on any of these walls, no kind man come to help? She imagined shuffling along the walls, following a stranger's voice urging her on as she circled the cell back to her mattress. Then her imagination, which she'd been keeping locked down tight to keep her fear under control, finally broke loose and ran free. I don't really know the shape of the room. This is the farthest I've been from the mattress. What if it's not a box at all? What will I tell myself if the next corner becomes an outside corner that turns me right instead of left? What if this isn't a cell, but a maze? Her imagination ran further, picturing the maze partitions behind her moving silently in the dark. If I backtrack right now, will I even find the mattress and toilet? Or just a blank wall? She'd just keep going, completely lost and aimless, turning this way and that, the directionless voice urging her around and around until she forgot why she was up and moving. Until she was stark staring crazy. They won't need a month; this is all it'll take to put me right over the edge.

She felt the cool smooth wall bump against the bare skin of her back and butt; she must have fallen against it. Her throat and abused nose began to clog up.

"Spaulding. Roxy. You okay?"

"No." Her blind eyes felt pinched and hot. "I can't see. I can't find you. I don't know what day it is, or if it's day or night, or whether I ate five minutes or five hours ago, or how many freaking hands I've got." Now her breathing was tightening up, too. "You're going to have to come to me, because I'm not taking another step in this funhouse until I know you're real."

"Fine. I'll bring your stuff, and we'll go out together. Don't move."

She waited silently. At first she heard footsteps, again coming from everywhere, but they faded quickly, leaving her in the close and silent dark. "Please be real. Please be real," she said, not even whispering, a silent movement of the lips.

"I'm here." His voice was low, and coming from just in front of her. She smelled aftershave; it was better than a garden in full bloom. "Put out your hand."

She did, and her fingertips touched fabric, a shirt with somebody in it. "Oops. Meant to hand you your clothes. You're closer than I thought –" She stepped forward and explored with both hands: a hard chest, ribs. A man, big and warm and solid, more real than the walls. She slid her arms all the way around his waist and pressed herself against him, gripping her own wrist, as if to keep him from getting away. Then a hand as big as a plate pressed against the bare skin of her back, just below the shoulder blades. She felt only a moment's surprise. What else could I expect? I'm spreading skin all over him; even if he's forty, he's a guy, and he's bound to think it's an invitation. Guys are what they are, and do what they do. Right now, I couldn't let go of him for a million dollars, not even if he grabbed my bare ass. If he wants to cop a feel in return for getting me out of here, it's the bargain of a lifetime. She tried not to stiffen as she waited for the other hand to settle.

But it found the back of her head instead, and pressed it against his shirt in the dark. "Shh. It's all right, it's okay," he said softly. His fingers combed through her collar-length hair. She felt cloth spread over her back from shoulders to thighs, warming her; she hadn't realized she was shivering. "You're safe now. We'll get the others and go far away from here. You'll never see this place again. Have your cry, Roxy. Then we'll go out to them."

His shirt was warm and wet. I am crying, aren't I? A gusher, too, feels like. She felt strangely detached, as if she were watching all of it happening to someone else. She felt hot tears coursing down her cheeks, felt her breath hitching as she sobbed. The big hand at her back kept them firmly together until the storm passed.

Eventually, she found she could loosen the death grip she had on him. Instantly his hands came off her, and he pulled the cloth at her back across her shoulder. "Here. I left your shoes outside the door." His voice was all business again. "Socks and underwear are in the pockets."

She wiped at her eyes. "You touched my underwear?"

"You'd rather do without?"

She felt in the pockets for bra and panties, and let the coverall fall to her feet. "A forty-year-old man's been pawing my goods. Ewww."

"Fifty-seven, actually."

"Gawd. You're old enough to be my grandfather." She examined the panties by touch; they were the pair she had to shave for. She turned them around, making sure they were right side out, and the strings were untwisted.

"Barely true. And, you know, you're lucky you've got underwear. I almost didn't take it, because I didn't recognize it. Looks like red lace doilies with strings, not a bra and panties. As underwear, I don't see how it would fit a cat."

"You must be old. You are so behind the times." She tried to step into the thong and caught a toe. She wobbled and lost her balance, falling sideways against him. Instantly his arm was across her collarbone, a hand on her opposite shoulder. "I'm okay. My balance is shot, though. Used to be able to stand on one foot all day."

His hand didn't withdraw this time. Instead, he turned her to face him and slid it up her shoulder until it touched the collar on her neck. She felt the other hand join the first. She smelled his aftershave again, and a puff of breath on her face. "Still feeling strange? The collar should have quit working half an hour ago."

She felt her face flush. For some reason, she was embarrassed, standing blind in front of this guy in her panties with her bra in her hand and his hands on her neck, in a way she hadn't just a minute ago, when she'd had her arms around him wearing nothing. "What's it supposed to do?"

The collar came free and clattered to the floor, loud enough that the coming-from-everywhere effect was triggered again. She felt him step back. "It heterodynes your brainwaves."

"Say what?"

"Keeps you feeling confused and out of sorts. Screws up your balance and motor control. Induces false sensory impressions. In other words, screws your head up good. But you should have been feeling better by now. Must have had it turned way up."

She swallowed. "I do feel better, sort of. I don't think I can trust my balance, though. And my hearing's going in and out." She almost put the bra on inside out, but caught it.

"Just sensory deprivation, then. Or maybe they've been feeding you something."

She decided to sit to get the coverall started, rather than try standing on one foot again. "Look, I'm real glad you're here, Mr. Lane-"

"Lynch."

"Huh?"

"Our real name is Lynch."

"Oh. Anyway … the clinch, a minute ago. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I wouldn't want you to think I'm …"

"Understood. I'm not telling anybody. It would ruin my image."

The socks were on; she started pulling the coveralls up her legs as she wriggled her bare butt on the floor. The thing seemed determined to snag every six inches. "Yeah, but …I … don't get me wrong, okay? I just don't know where you think this might go. I mean-"

"Oh, give it a rest, Spaulding. I get it. You're not my cuddle puppy; I doubt you're anybody's cuddle puppy. As soon as you see me in the light, you'll know I'm not either. We had a lifeboat moment. It's over. Get dressed and let's blow this joint."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Frankly, compared to your girlfriend next door, you're almost modest. She wouldn't even let me pass her clothes through the doorway; said she wasn't going to stay in that cage another second. Walked out starkers, took her clothes out of my hand, and started dressing. Didn't even ask me to turn my back."

She finally had the coveralls pulled up to her waist, and her feet poked out. She stood and started to put her arms in the sleeves. "Had to be Sarah."

"'S. Rainmaker.' Indian girl?"

"Yep. So, did you?"

"Turn my back? No, I left the room, quick as a cork from a champagne bottle, and came for you. I'd already fetched clothes for the big redhead. I thought I should leave the boys for last."

"Thank you for that." She zipped up. "Ready. Which way is out?"

"Take my hand. No wisecracks." He led her across the room, out of reach of the walls. Several steps later, something told her they were going through a doorway.

"It's still dark."

"Told you. There are two more doors before we reach the corridor. This room was set up to keep you from getting a glimmer of light." He pressed her shoes into her hand and waited for her to put them on, again sitting on the floor; then he tugged her gently down a wide hall for a few steps. They went through another unseen door into what seemed to be a much narrower hallway. They reversed direction, walked a few more steps, and stopped. "We're at the last door. Close your eyes and let them adjust. You might want to cover them, too."

He pushed open the door, and dazzling brilliance flooded in. She swayed, and Mr. Lynch put an arm around her and drew her close, steadying her. The light pierced her closed lids, making her feel weak and dizzy. She covered them with one hand as they stepped out together.

She opened her eyes a sliver, and saw that they were in a long wide corridor, antiseptic white. She thought she could see other doors down both sides, spaced every fifty feet or so, until the corridor curved out of sight in both directions; a little school-sized cubby, doorless, stood beside each door. Then a shadow moved in front of her.

"Oh dear God." She'd never heard Sarah so distraught. "What did they do to her?"

"Nothing permanent, I hope. But she got special treatment, I don't know why."

"They beat her?" She felt arms circle her tightly, and Mr. Lynch released her. "Is she all right?"

"No," she said breathlessly. "You're squishing me. It's just a bloody nose. I walked into a wall."

"Roxanne, the side of your face is blood all over. You look like you should have a concussion."

She touched the side of her head. She could feel it now, turning sticky where the tears hadn't made runnels in the mess. Through tightly squinting eyes, she looked at her hand; it was smeared with red. I didn't hit that hard, did I?

"Don't panic," she heard Mr. Lynch say. "It's not your blood. It's from resting your head on my chest, I think."

Her vision was beginning to clear, though the corridor still looked blindingly lit. She could just make out Mr. Lynch, standing near: a blurry figure dressed in black from neck to feet. His shirt seemed to have a darker stain, a glistening patch right at her head level. She raised her slitted eyes to his face and saw a horror.

"Gawd. What happened to you?" He looked like the Phantom of the Opera, the left side of his face a scarred ruin, the eye dead. She thought of how she'd wrapped herself around him and accepted his embrace; it made her feel queasy. She averted her eyes. "Are you shot?"

"No. It's not my blood either." He turned away slightly, showing less of the normal side of his face and more of the gargoyle mask as he looked down the corridor. "There were fourteen guards down here. They didn't all run away because I said 'Boo.'"

She felt dizzy. "Did you …"

"Not all of them. They did run, eventually. The ones that were left."

Her eyes slid towards his face and away again. Her mind kept going back to that moment in the dark, and seeing it in the light of her new knowledge. "Sarah, where's Kat?"

"Freeing the others. Mr. Lynch says we have to hurry; more goons will be coming soon. If you listen, you can hear glass crashing. She's just knocking down the outer doors to let in light, smashing the glass, throwing clothes through, and going on to the next one."

"We're all here? Where did they take us?"

"Nowhere," Mr. Lynch said. "You're under the Academy. They built this first."

Suddenly he bent over her; his face was a foot in front of hers. Involuntarily, she shut her eyes.

"It's a face, Spaulding." The voice was still as she remembered; so was the aftershave. "Badly used, but still a face. Open your eyes."

She took a breath and raised her eyelids. He wasn't smiling, which would have made it worse. The good eye stared kindly at her; the dead eye looked at nothing. "Take a good look," he said gently. "It's easier that way. Satisfy your morbid curiosity, or whatever." He touched the furrows on his forehead. "About the time you were learning to talk, I got in the way of about sixty pounds of scrap metal propelled by exploding rocket fuel. The man running in front of me was chopped into hamburger. The one next to me caught a chunk the size of your hand in his throat. I count myself very lucky. I see as well through one eye as most people do with two, and it doesn't even hurt anymore, except to look at. Okay?"

She swallowed. "Kay."

He straightened. "I'm going for the boys, before the redhead gets back."

"I could help," she offered.

He snorted. "Not on your life, Spaulding. You want to satisfy that curiosity, you'll have to ask the guy first."

He disappeared into an adjacent door. She looked at the one they'd come out of, and noticed that the wall in front of her cell bulged into the corridor. My extra door.

Sarah's arm circled her waist. Normally, she'd have felt weird letting Sarah touch her, at least this up close and personal, but she doubted the girl was looking for a date; and besides, the human contact just felt too good to give up right now. Sarah rubbed at Roxy's face with a sleeve; the action made her think of a cat washing her kitten. The Apache Princess made a disgusted sound. "It's drying too fast. I'm just smearing it around. We need water."

She leaned into the older girl. "I wanted to ask him how long I was in there."

"Was I missing from school at all?"

"No."

"Four days, then."

"How do you know? I tried counting meals but I lost track."

Sarah lifted her eyes towards the ceiling. "Don't ask me how… but I know the sun rose and set four times while I was in that cell. It's Saturday night."

"I woke up in that cell. I'm sure they drugged me somehow."

"Me too. I went to my room to take a shower, right after class. I don't remember making it out of the bathroom."

What would that guard have done, if I'd gone into Sarah's room and found her passed out? "Maybe what they gave us took a day to wear off."

"Maybe, but I think I'd know." She shrugged. "We'll find out soon enough."

She felt a tiny smile turning up the corners of her mouth; it felt damn good. "You know, you shocked the old boy, walking out to him in your birthday suit."

Sarah shrugged again. "What was the point? He'd already seen anything he wanted to."

"Oh?"

"All those mirrors on the walls and ceiling. When I was in the cell, it seemed obvious they were one-way. As soon as I stepped into the outer chamber, I saw I was right. Didn't you notice?"

"Sarah, I haven't seen my hands for four days. There aren't any lights in there."

Startled, Sarah looked at her, still blinking and squinting, then at the cell door with the extra chamber. "Bastards," she said softly. "I wish he'd killed them all." Her voice was so expressionless, Roxy couldn't doubt the girl meant every word.

Kids from other pods started emerging from the ruined doors in twos and threes. Embarrassed, she slipped in front of Sarah, hiding her face from the crowd filling the hallway behind them. Most of them looked pretty shocky; some were sobbing. One of those was Jenny from Pod Eleven. Barry, a boy from her pod, reached for her and put his arms around her. Weird. Barry's a born-again, one of the ten guys in school who haven't been in her pants. Where are all her lovers now? The thought was one of pity rather than malice, even though she now doubted Grunge was one of the ten.

A hollow boom echoed from far down the corridor; Kat was working through some issues, it seemed.

Mr. Lynch came out the door alone. "He's moving a little slow, but he'll be out in a minute." He glanced at the gathering crowd. Pitching his voice high, he said, "Everybody wait here until I come back out. Caitlin, especially, if she comes back before I do." He stared at the last door in the corridor and took a deep breath. Then he stepped to it, touched the handle, and after a short hesitation went in.

She said, "Did he tell you he's Bobby's father?"

"Yes." Sarah was staring at the closed door.

Suddenly they were both encircled from behind by a pair of arms. "Are you guys okay?" Her sister's voice. Caitlin got a look at her face and gasped.

"Not what it looks like, Kat. I just need to clean up, is all."

"Our rescuer just went into Bobby's cell," Sarah said. "I imagine he'll be in there a while. He said for all of us to stay put until he comes out."

One of the girls, Julie Rabinovitz, pushed forward. "Like hell. I'm getting out before they come back." She walked past them without a glance their way and disappeared around the curve in the hall.

Grunge ambled out his door, rubbing his shoulder. He took one look at her and rushed over, spreading his arms and taking the three of them in. "Jeez, Rox. You must have really pissed her off."

"Ouch," she said weakly. "Somebody call a play."

"Eddie," Kat said quietly. "Watch the hands." The group broke up.

Barry still had Jen's tacky face pressed to his shoulder, and his fingers twined in the wavy blonde hair at the back of her head. "Does anybody know what's going on? Or what we're supposed to do next?" He and Jen still had their collars on, she noticed. Some of the other kids had gotten theirs off, but nobody was helping people remove the damn things. What if they come back on while they're wearing them? Will they fall into a trance and walk meekly back into their cells?

Kat must have had a similar thought. She grabbed Jen's collar and gave it the same twist Mr. Lynch had given hers; it parted between her hands, and she slipped it off and dropped it to the floor. As she reached for Barry's, Roxy heard other collars hitting the concrete.

"We've been had," Kat said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Whoever these people are, whatever's happening to us, they didn't bring us out here in the middle of nowhere to teach us calculus and American History." She glanced at the door to Bobby's cell. "But we're getting out of here. And we've got help, serious help. I think if we do what this man tells us, we'll be okay."

A boy in the back of the crowd spoke up. "There's a door at the end of the hall that looks like it's the bottom of a stair well. Remember how the stairway was all caged off, so you couldn't go down to the bottom? But I can't get it open."

Mr. Lynch came out the door, his mouth a thin line. "Be glad you didn't. We're not going that way."

"All our stuff is up there!" One girl shouted out.

"So are thirty armed men. Or were." He made a sweeping gesture that included the space above them. "This is a tighter lockup than a Supermax. You're in an underground prison with reinforced concrete walls two feet thick, in a frozen wilderness a hundred miles from any other human habitation. The perimeter fence has lethal current running through the wire. The guard force is almost half the size of the inmate population, and armed with automatic weapons. And all that was in the minimum security section upstairs." The look he gave them would have been chilling, even with two good eyes. "They must have been scared to death that you'd escape or get out of control. In the security office on Level One, there's a bank of buttons that flood the different levels with gas. Before I came down here, I pumped the upper level full of anesthetic. I think." He lifted his chin, glancing up to the blank ceiling. "There was another button to flood it with Sarin. I don't think I mixed them up. Anyway, you don't want to go up there. Your stuff is gone forever, but you've got your lives and your sanity." He turned to Kat. "Everybody out okay?"

She nodded. "Everyone's out. How okay they are, I can't say. There are only forty cells. They packed half of them with three kids each, the rest with two – except us."

"Yeah. You five were put in solitary confinement. Interesting." He addressed the rest of the group again, gesturing down the corridor. "We're going to have to split up into small groups and run for our lives. Do not go back home. You'll be rounded up and made to disappear, along with anybody who's seen or heard from you. Unless you're prepared to put their lives in jeopardy, don't attempt to contact anyone you know. Most especially, don't contact family or friends. They can't help you, and you'll only be forcing them to share your danger.

"Just around the bend is the guardroom – lockers, showers, and armory. I've been through it once already; I just need to make sure the ones who ran stayed gone. When I know it's safe I'll come back for you. We'll ransack the place for whatever we can use. Take clothes, cash, and keys, especially car keys. Do not take credit cards; IDs either. You'll need expert forgeries; I can help with that. Do not take any guns." He gave them all a fierce look. "You're going to be hunted by men who know how to use guns; a weapon in your hands is just a license to shoot you dead." She noticed he was packing: a pistol in a black nylon holster under his left shoulder, and some odd gadget, a taser maybe, clipped to his belt on his right hip. He turned. "I'll be back."

"I could help with that," Kat said. Roxy watched her sister's fist close and open and close. She noticed for the first time the way Kat's hair was plastered to her head, as if she'd been sweating like a pig in her sleep. Her eyes were sort of staring as she looked down the corridor. She didn't look all there.

"No." He stepped close and laid his hand on Kat's knuckles, and she shivered. He looked past her into the crowd. "If there are any others among you with an itch to try your powers against your keepers, forget it. What I said about guns goes double for you. Some of you may be able to laugh off bullets someday, but for now, forget it. The talents are too new, and they're not under proper control. You can't rely on them in a fight against armed men. So leave this to me." He turned back up the corridor. Roxanne began to feel uneasy the moment he disappeared around its curve.

She turned to her sister. "'Powers?'"

Kat studied her fist. "Those glass panels are two inches thick. I've been smashing them with this. See any marks?" She dropped it. "When I hit them, they felt like peanut brittle. The steel doors seemed as flimsy as cardboard. The whole world feels like it's made of Styrofoam and modeling clay." She turned to Sarah. "What about you?"

Sarah looked uncomfortable. "If I tell you, you'll think I'm turning New Age. Or make some crack about the Noble Savage."

"You know me better than that. Give."

"I feel … more closely connected to nature."

Grunge started to say something; Kat waved him to silence. "Could that be useful, do you think?"

"Even when I was a child, I never got lost. I could wander in the woods for hours and always be back in time for dinner. Now…" Sarah pointed at an angle over her shoulder. "North is that way. It's about an hour past sunset. It snowed a little yesterday, and it's going to snow a lot by noon tomorrow, but the night is clear, and the temperature's dropping like a stone. So we'd better dress warm. And we have a full moon to travel by."

"O-kay. Bobby's new trick has something to do with heat, I'm guessing. Eddie?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes things feel … different when I touch them. And my skin feels weird."

"I bet you're not done yet. Be careful." Kat looked down at her. "Well? Anything odd before you woke up here?"

She thought about it. The only thing weird that had happened that last day was the way the guard had acted, but it was too vague to mention. Then she remembered the doctor's office. "I changed the reading on Dr. Ivery's scale."

"A power women will kill to possess," Grunge intoned. "Guard the secret with your life."

"I don't know what that's the start of, but you be careful too."

Sarah looked towards Bobby's door. "Shouldn't he be out by now?"

Grunge rubbed his shoulder again. "Maybe the old dude knocked him on his ass, too."

"What?"

"Yeah. I've had nothing to do but practice katas for days, in a hall of mirrors like Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon, getting a serious attitude and feeling as bad as bad gets. I'm waiting by the door for somebody to come through, gonna take them down and make a break. Finally, it opens up and I jump for whoever's behind it. Next thing I know, I'm facedown and there's a foot on my neck and my arm is twisted straight up behind me. The old dude is good."

Sarah stepped towards the door. "We should see about Bobby."

Grunge slid in front of her. "Whoa, there. I'll go see. He might not be dressed yet."

She brushed past him. "I've seen a man." She entered the door and let it close itself behind her.

Grunge looked after her. "Can anybody tell me what's up with those two?"

Roxy told him, "A mutual attraction to forbidden fruit, is my guess." Kind of like our relationship. "I doubt it'll ever go anywhere." Ours likewise, I think sometimes. Were you really that desperate for some tail? Or don't you think it's cheating, because you've never used The Word?

Shots sounded somewhere up the hallway, a string of reports that sent crashing echoes down the hall towards them. Kids screamed and stampeded for the doors. The three of them bolted for Bobby's cell.

She was the last in. She saw that this cell had a sort of light-lock too, but a simpler one, consisting of a small room with a door at each end. She didn't enter the inner chamber, just glanced inside as the inner door slowly closed. The first thing she noticed was that the cell really was a glass box enclosed in a larger room. Looking at it from inside, the inner room was all mirrors; the mattress and toilet were endlessly reflected off the walls. The second was that only the cell was lighted, from recessed fixtures inside the ceiling; the outer chamber that surrounded it made do with the diffused light that came through the glass. The third was Bobby, sitting on the floor fully dressed, with Sarah kneeling behind him with her arms around him, her long black hair falling over his shoulders and almost brushing the floor as she leaned over him. They both looked up in surprise as Kat and Grunge entered. How could they be so into each other they didn't hear gunshots out in the hall?

More gunfire sounded through the open doors, just before the outer one closed itself: single shots from a different weapon, it seemed to her. The two on the floor started at the sound. "What now?"

A single thought filled her: he's out there all alone. Kat and Grunge moved into the room, towards Bobby and Sarah, as the inner door closed completely; she backed out into the hall. Maybe no one noticed me come in; I was only there a few seconds. Maybe they'll think I ran into another room. She headed up the hall, hugging the innermost-curving wall. As soon as the last door was out of sight behind her, the corridor curved more sharply, and angled upward slightly.

As she crept along, she noticed some things about the corridor. It wasn't as pristine as she'd first thought; the white paint was spalled in places, exposing the concrete underneath, in a pattern suggesting bullet marks. The floor was marked with a red smear-trail down the length of the corridor, as far as she could see in either direction. It looked as though at least one bleeding body had been dragged the length of the hall. He said he'd been through the guardroom before he came to us. There was a firefight in the hallway outside my room, and I never heard it. The rooms are soundproofed, big time. Her throat got tight. They must have been planning on a lot of noise from the cells.

A body appeared around the curve of the wall: a stranger, dressed in hunting camo, crumpled against the wall. His head and one arm were grotesquely twisted. His weapon, an assault rifle, lay by the opposite wall, as if thrown there.

"Get down on your knees, hands behind your head." A man's voice, a stranger. Her heart leaped into her throat before she realized it was coming from somewhere out of sight up the corridor. "Do it. Or I swear I'll put a bullet in her." She moved forward cautiously, still hugging the inside wall.

"If you do, you'll lose your shield," Mr. Lynch's voice replied. "Counter offer. You try to hang on to the girl, you die. You keep your piece, you die. Let her go and kick your weapon to me, you live."

Two more steps brought the scene into view. The corridor ended at a set of blank steel double doors. In front of them stood another man dressed in camo, facing Mr. Lynch from a distance of maybe twenty feet. He was twice Mr. Lynch's size, and he looked scared. But not as scared as the girl he was holding in front of him, pinned in place with a massive forearm. Julie's head was bleeding on one side, she was pouring tears, and she looked scared to death. Both her hands were gripping the guy's wrist, to absolutely no effect. The man held a pistol an inch from her temple.

The man suddenly pointed his gun toward Mr. Lynch.

"You tried that before, fella. Won't work this time either."

"What about your little knockaround piece, the one behind you?" The man stared past Mr. Lynch, and she suddenly realized the gun was pointed at her. "Will it work on her?"

Great. He can't protect me and face this man down at the same time. I came to help, and I've turned into a burden. Then she remembered the dorm guard's unexplained fear. She gathered her courage, met the man's eyes, and slowly raised her bloody hand and flipped him the bird. "None of this is my blood, buttwipe. And your popgun won't work on me, either." She theatrically touched a tongue to her upper lip, to the only blood on her face that was hers, and moved deliberately to the other side of the hall, staring at the man the whole time; the sudden confidence that had appeared in his eyes when he first saw her was gone now. Julie was staring at her too, her own fear forgotten for a moment. "'Knockaround piece.' If he lets you live, I am gonna bust you up soo bad."

Anger. Gotta banish the fear and get my mad on. She let her imagination conjure up a few things the two camo boys might have been up to with Julie before Mr. Lynch interrupted them. She felt her anger building, and kept her attention focused on the man holding her schoolmate.

The man suddenly flung his gun hand up, as if he'd slipped or taken a hard push. The weapon went off, and a bullet ricocheted off the ceiling. Julie slipped under his arm and bolted; she would have run all the way back to the cells if Mr. Lynch hadn't caught her wrist. "Calm down," he said, not even looking at her, staring spookily at the man. "Walk back to the others. Tell them everything's okay, but wait."

Julie was shaking like a leaf. "There's another one."

"I know." Mr. Lynch stared at the blank steel doors. "I see him. Go on now."

The other man dropped his pistol; his hand was shaking so bad, she thought, he couldn't have aimed it anyway. One of his eyes filled with blood, the white part turning bright red. He kicked the weapon away. "I'm done." Blood started streaming from his nose; he dabbed at it and stared at his hand. "It's over. Chrissakes, just stop." His voice rose, sounding panicky. "Please." He wobbled as if he might faint. Now blood started leaking from his ears, too.

Mr. Lynch shook his head slightly. "It was too late before you dropped the gun." That was when she noticed the weird yellow light, sourceless and pale, softly washing the walls. "If you believe in God, pray. You don't have long."

The man clapped his hands to his ears, as if to hold back the flood. He took one step towards them before he fell to his knees. "Oh, god," he said in a lost voice. Mr. Lynch stepped up to him and pushed on the side of his head where his hand covered it. The man fell sideways, out of the way of the door, and lay on his side near the wall, a pool of blood spreading under his head. He stilled.

"You know, Spaulding, you ignored two orders I gave you not ten minutes ago." He was still staring at the blank doors, his back to her. The cooling corpse at his feet seemed gone from his mind. "You didn't wait for me, and you went up against an armed man with nothing but your power."

"I … didn't do anything. I just moved so he couldn't shoot us both at the same time. And then I distracted him." It hit her then: the risk she'd taken, and what she'd just seen.

"Little girl, I didn't make him lose his balance." He raised his voice. "All right. I know you're there, not five feet from the door. It's just you and me now. Let's not waste time. Do you know who I am?"

Silence from the other side of the doors. She counted heartbeats. Ten is probably three seconds, the way it's pounding.

He suddenly roared. "DO YOU KNOW! WHO! I! AM!" She gasped; each word was a whipcrack that made her flinch.

From the closed door: "No. No." A pause. "I don't know."

"Meaning yes. All the stories are true, and you'll never hear the worst of them, because I'm the only one left to tell them. When I came through the front gate, there were sixty people between me and this spot. The eight smartest ones are over the horizon by now. The rest are in dreamland or Valhalla. Do us both a favor. Put your weapon on the floor and slide it through the door. Your knife and sidearm too. I'll tie you up, and you can wait for the reaction team."

No answer from the other side of the doors.

"Son, do you want to die today?" The ghost light seemed to brighten slightly. A sheet of newspaper slid out from under the door and scuttled towards him. But there's no wind; the air in here is still as a tomb. The debris reached him and whirled around his legs, rising as high as his knees before it settled back to the floor. "I can do it from here, without even seeing you. There's no cover, no shield or concealment between us." His voice grew softer, until it was barely at conversation level. "I'd rather not do it, truly. Give me a choice. Help me save you. Push your weapon through. Count of five. Four. Three. Two."

She heard a bump and the doors parted slightly, opening towards them. A foot from the floor, a gun muzzle slowly poked out, pointed down. It pushed through the door for a foot of its length and stopped.

Mr. Lynch stepped sideways almost casually as the gun jerked up and fired a burst. She screeched and dropped to the floor, hugging the wall.

There was a heavy thud, and the weapon clattered to the floor, still between the double doors. But one of them swung open, kicked by a third camo-clad man lying on the floor in the midst of a seizure. His head and limbs jerked and his mouth opened and closed; it made her think of a fish out of water. The man gave a couple more jerks and lay still.

Mr. Lynch shuddered and placed a hand on the wall, leaning over like a runner after a long race. She crossed the corridor and came up behind him. Gingerly, she rested a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

His chin dropped to his chest, and he took a breath. "Will be. When you reach for it quick, it pulls back hard when you let go."

She shook her head, knowing he couldn't see. "I don't know what you're talking about. What did you do to them?"

"I don't know. I'm no doctor. I just hit them hard enough and something breaks." He straightened and looked down at the corpses. "Sometimes they go quick as switching off a light. Other times it seems to take forever." His voice got distant and colorless. "I don't like killing people. Never did. I'm good at it, I know, but I don't enjoy it. Even in self-defense, killing someone steals a little bit of your soul, you know?" Another deep breath. "I've been doing this sort of thing, off and on, for almost forty years. Tonight I killed more people than Charlie Manson. Maybe as many as Calley, if I'm wrong about the gas. And I'm in competition with Jim Jones for lifetime achievement. You've got to wonder how much of my soul I have left."

The words and the tone of his voice wrenched at her heart, filling her with fear … but pity too. With his back turned, it was easier to remember the fatherly man in the dark. She removed her hand from his shoulder and slid it between his ribs and his arms; he stiffened, but only for an instant. She did the same with her other hand, wrapping her arms around him from behind, and caught another whiff of his aftershave. Gently, she pressed the side of her face against his back. "I don't know who those people are, but I'm sure you're not like any of them. Thank you, for helping us. We didn't have a chance without you, I'm sure of it."

He placed a hand on her wrists. "I don't deserve gratitude. I wasn't coming for all of you, not at first. It seemed too risky. My original plan was to take Bobby alone; meet him up topside, and smuggle him out in my car. While I was casing the place, I saw how they kept you in tight little groups, and I was afraid he'd refuse to leave without his team mates, so I decided to break all five of you out. That made my plan so complex that breaking everyone out was hardly more ambitious, and an escape that size might keep IO busy while we went to ground."

He cleared his throat. "I had my groundwork started, barely, when something unexpected happened. I knew that IO was expecting you to manifest a few at a time, three to five a week. And I knew they planned to isolate you for a while when that happened, but I couldn't get the details; security was too tight. When all of you started manifesting in the same week, the security slipped a bit … and I got a closer look at what they had in mind for you. It made me very glad I'd decided to get you all out." He pressed his hand against hers. "Roxy. Listen. Right now, those kids need guidance. They need someone they can respect and take orders from, someone with all the answers. I can't be that person if they think I get weepy over making the hard choices."

"Lifeboat moment. No problemo." She let go of him and took her hands back. The palms were red to the wrists. "Aaaa! How can you stand it?"

"You get used to it. After you've been sprayed with intestines or brains or bone fragments, a little blood doesn't seem like such a big deal."

"Gulp. Word?"

"What word?"

"I mean, is that for real?"

He nodded. "Oh, yeah."

She surveyed the scene; it looked like the set of a horror movie. "Mr. Lynch. We have to do something about this. I don't know about the others, but my sister will blow chunks before she gets to the doors."

"You have a sister here?"

"Kat. Caitlin."

"Caitlin Fairchild is your sister?" Something odd in his tone.

"Half sister. Same dad. We found out here."

"Humph. She's got a weak stomach? That Amazon?"

She nodded. "She gets queasy during the first aid demos. One time in the cafeteria, one of the servers sliced his hand open on a steam tray; she couldn't touch her lunch. The worst was when we were out on the trails. Once the leaves started falling, there were lots of places you could see the perimeter fence while you're walking. Anyhow, we're out in the woods, and we hear this loud pop. Somehow a deer had got past the outer fence and blundered into the hot one." She jerked her head. "That's when we found out how much juice was going through the middle fence. The current pulses about once a second; the first shock had made it spasm, and it put a leg through the links and got trapped. Every time the juice hit it, it looked like it was exploding. You could smell it cooking, and it started … coming apart. Kat left two meals on that trail, I swear." She looked at the three bodies: the twisted-up one, the man in the doorway who'd died looking like a fish that had fallen out of its tank, and the big guy, lying in a pool of blood three feet across. "If she sees this, she'll toss her stomach lining, I know it."

"The mess I made on my first walk down this hall was worse. I've been cleaning up as I go."

"I noticed the trail on the floor earlier."

"Uh huh. Doesn't seem to bother you any."

"Rough high school. They mopped blood off the floor pretty regular."

"Ha, ha."

"I'm not kidding. Inner city school. Four big ethnic groups, maybe half a dozen gangs. Kids get beat up or stabbed every week. The cops were in there regular, leaning kids up against their lockers for a pat down, or taking them off to jail. Couple rapes a semester – reported ones, that is. Emergency vehicles should have had their own slot in the lot. Nobody got killed while I was there, though."

She looked at the twisted man, with his assault rifle nearby. "This one looks like he was trying to kill you. The kid in the doorway was just too scared to give up, I think. But he'd have shot you if you let him. This one …" She looked at the body at her feet, the one who'd threatened to kill Julie, and had got that strange look in his eye when he'd called her a knockaround. "This one makes me glad you gassed the top floor. If he'd got into the control room, he wouldn't have thought twice about flooding the lower level with Sarin. Who are these guys?"

"They must have been out patrolling the fence when I came through the gate. Maybe their shift was over, or maybe they couldn't raise anybody on the radio and came in to check it out. I'll get them out of here."

"Can I help?" An unappetizing prospect, but she'd do it.

"Yes, but not with this." He pushed open the other door and stepped past the body; she saw that the doors swung both ways. He held it open for her, and she entered the guardroom. The blood trail continued through the door, past several long double rows of wardrobe-sized lockers secured with padlocks. At the other end of the locker room, she saw that the trail went through a large open doorway; the floor and walls changed to tile on the other side, and it smelled of damp and something else. Shower room. "Stay out of there," he said, and then pointed off to the right. "Just past those lockers is a place where you can clean up. I want to send you back for the others, and you'll be a lot more reassuring if you don't look like you've been butchering hogs." He headed back towards the doors.

The place he'd directed her to was a sort of open utility area. It included a big utility tub with a shelf and soap, a big mirror over the sink, and a paper towel dispenser. A fire extinguisher and suitcase-sized first aid kit hung from the wall next to the mirror. The plumbing for the tub branched off to a low faucet with a floor drain beneath it, presumably for the large wheeled bucket and wringer nearby. A mop stood leaning against the wall next to it.

She examined herself in the mirror. My God. I look like I've been in a car crash. The right side of her head was painted red with blood, as well as her nose, upper lip, and under her chin. Her hair was matted with it; her eye looked back at her from a scarlet mask. Her fingers, palms and the inside of her wrists were sticky with the stuff, along with the blue fabric of her cuffs. I don't even know whose blood it is. Looking at her reflection made her skin crawl.

She turned on the taps, adjusted the temperature, and got busy. She started by scrubbing her hands until the water rinsed clear instead of pink. Then she washed her face, using paper towels for a washcloth. Getting her hair clean, she decided, was going to involve ducking her head under the faucet, which would soak her coverall.

From the front of the room, she heard the swinging doors thump as Mr. Lynch entered. The bumps and slithery sounds he was making as he traveled towards the showers told her all she wanted to know about what he was doing on the other side of the lockers. She wondered briefly how many bodies he'd had to drag into the shower already, and decided she didn't want to know.

She unzipped the coverall and pulled her arms out of the sleeves. The garment fit better than a tent, and it had a little elastic at the waist, but it was no leotard; her hips weren't big enough to keep it up around her waist, so she had to tie the sleeves around her to keep it from heading straight for the floor.

Then she worked up a thick lather in her hands, and scrubbed soap into her hair, repeating until her scalp tingled. Could have used my fingernails about now. The matted strands loosened up, and she ducked her head under the warm water, sending the disgusting mess down the drain. After doing it all a second time, she felt halfway presentable. She untied the sleeves to put her coverall back on, but decided they'd clean up better if she wasn't wearing them. She wet them under the faucet and rubbed bar soap into them, inside and out, and started rubbing them together vigorously. Probably won't get them clean, but at least I won't be leaving smears on everything I touch.

"If you're about – oops."

"Hey!" Startled, she let the soapy cloth slip from her fingers. In an instant, the coverall was down to her knees before she caught it and yanked it up around her. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry." His voice sounded echoey; he was back on the other side of the lockers. "Just came in for the mop bucket. I didn't expect you to be skinning down again." She heard a coughing sound, and she realized he was choking back a laugh. The whole ridiculous situation hit her then, and she started giggling. Mr. Lynch laughed out loud. After a little while, they both settled down. "Ah. Ah," he said, still on the other side of the lockers. "A glimpse of returning normalcy, one can hope."

"I can't believe I just went spastic over you seeing the back of my bra." Then she replayed the business with the falling coverall. She'd spread her legs quickly to keep it from heading straight to the floor, and she thought she'd bent over a little to snatch it up from around her knees. God. "That is all you saw, right?"

"Nothing else to see."

"So you didn't see me drop my pants?"

He snorted. "Like I said, nothing to see."

"Come on."

"No, Spaulding," he said indulgently, "I didn't get another look at … that cat's cradle you wear instead of underpants. I didn't see your bony little butt, and I definitely missed my chance to admire that adorable birthmark."

She smiled as she stuck her hands back into the sleeves. "Pig. I don't have a birthmark. And my butt's not that little, or bony either. I have it on good authority it's perfect."

"I've diapered bigger butts. And a girl your age shouldn't be inviting reviews about the shape of her derriere."

"Insert smart comment about fatherhood here." She zipped up. "Okay, you can come get your bucket. But I'm not done."

He stepped around the lockers. "Understood. I'll give you plenty of warning when I come back with it." He looked her over as he rolled the bucket under the wall faucet and started filling it. "You know, you clean up okay. Not like a pug at all." He touched her hair and showed her a dab of pink foam. "Missed a couple spots though."

She turned back to the mirror, dismayed. "I washed it twice."

"Bar soap's no substitute for shampoo." He gave her an odd look, then went on. "And blood is troublesome stuff. It's like penetrating lubricant when it's wet, and turns to glue when it dries. It gets into everything and won't come out easily." He looked down at his black shirt. "It's easier to hide than remove. Mopping the floor won't really clean it; it'll just make it less obvious what you're stepping in. Stuff just spreads too fast and dries too quick."

"I'll say. It wasn't in my hair more than a few minutes before it started stiffening up." Is that why he's in black from head to toe, to hide bloodstains? I just thought it was part of the whole ninja commando thing he has going on. She looked at her sticky cuffs; she could feel the material hardening from the drying blood, even mixed with soap.

Then a question jumped in front of her train of thought and derailed it. Where did the blood across his stomach come from?

The blood on his stomach was lots fresher than the stuff on his chest. She'd felt that when she'd pressed her head against him, but she'd mistaken it for her own tears. The stuff on his stomach had been warm and fresh enough that she hadn't noticed it until she saw it on her hands.

She reached for the bucket faucet and turned it off. Before he said anything, she told him, "Take your shirt off."

"Just as soon not."

She started water running in the tub and plugged the drain. "You lied to me." She pointed at his stomach. "That's your blood."

He raised an eyebrow. "The stuff that was on your face wasn't. You didn't ask me about the other."

She narrowed her eyes. "I specifically asked if you were hurt."

"You specifically asked if I was shot. This is a stab wound." He didn't move to take off his shirt. She looked for a tear or hole, but didn't see one. The tub was half full; she shut off the water.

"As if it makes any difference. You sound like some stupid boy. What were you thinking? You said you were here to get us out. How are you gonna do that if you bleed to death?"

The corner of his mouth lifted. "I'm not bleeding to death. It's just a little cut. But it keeps opening up when I move."

"Oh. Well, okay then. Just keep going like that until you pass out from shock. And you seemed like such a smart guy at first. Mr. Lynch, you know you're all we've got." She flicked a finger upward. "Make you a deal. I won't make fun of your body hair if you promise not to suck in your gut. Guys look ridiculous when they do that."

His face turned solemn. He unbuckled the holster and laid it carefully on the floor, then pulled the shirt out of his waistband and pulled it over the back of his head to keep it off his face as he pulled it down his arms and tossed it into the tub.

"Oh. My. God."

She spared hardly a glance at his chest hair, which was no thicker than the stuff on his arms and would hide nothing that was underneath when it wasn't matted with blood. And what was underneath …

The scars on his face were nothing. His left side was spider webbed with jagged slash marks, concentrated mostly between his nipple and waistline, but reaching as high as his collarbone and God knew how far down. In addition to that evidence of the disaster that had taken his eye, his body was peppered with smaller marks; it didn't look like a square foot of his skin had been spared some rude intrusion.

The final surprise was how chiseled he was under that abused hide. Not power lifter bulgy, nothing like that; more like a Greek statue, super fit and toned. Built for performance, not for show. He even had money maker lines running from his hips down into his pants. A guy her age built like this would be mad hot; on him, it looked kind of scary. It occurred to her that demons were usually drawn corded with muscle like this.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"Keep it. You look like you spent forty years in Hell, and probably took it over." She wet a wad of paper towels and started scrubbing his chest.

"Not quite, but in the top three. Uh, I can do that."

"No. You'll start bleeding again. Keep still, and give it a chance to close. I'll get you clean and patched up." She tossed the soiled towels in the waste can under the tub and pulled more from the dispenser. She worked her way down his front, scrubbing the center hard to loosen up the crud matting his chest, trying not to wonder whose it was or how he'd got it all over him. Several towel changes later, she was below his sternum, and the blood was fresher – his, she was sure. The shirt material must have wicked it from the cut all across his abdomen. She took it easy, using gentle strokes, looking for the wound.

"You know," he said, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying this."

She paused with a handful of wet paper pressed to his bare belly, then realized he was teasing her again. She grinned up at him. "And I'd know you were lying, too. This is as far as I go. Below the belt, you're on your own." Second startling thought: I'm enjoying this too. I'm … getting some weird satisfaction from tending to him. I'm not crushing or anything; the idea of making out with him is ridiculous. So what is it?

"I've got a question," she said.

"Oh?"

"Did you really expect me to look like a pug?"

He smiled. "No. Quite the opposite. I'd have been disappointed if the face hadn't matched that angel's voice." He looked down at her. "That wasn't a come on. Did any boy telling you he liked your butt ever make you blush like that?"

"I was just thinking… I'm glad my boyfriend doesn't know how to sweet-talk like that. I'm having a hard enough time staying a virgin as it is." She grinned up at him. "Oh, now who's blushing?"

She decided to change the subject. "I've got this weird little computer in the back of my mind that works on stuff that I notice but don't really give much attention. Then five minutes or a month later, it sends me this report from left field. Sometimes it even wakes me up." The circular motions she was making under his navel slowed. "The guy who had Julie. Once she got away, why didn't you just shoot him?"

"I was out of ammo by the time I came down here. You don't suppose they just let me walk into the control room and start pushing buttons, did you?"

She looked at the blood on him, and what Grunge had said. He came down here with an empty pistol, knowing there'd be guards. He took on something like a dozen armed men with his bare hands, and sent them running. And I came to lend him a hand. Joke.

Her hand felt a little trembly as she touched a spot on his lower abdomen. "Is this it?" It was a row of three cuts on his right side, level with his navel, maybe three inches wide in all. The left and right ones were longer but seemed shallower; the middle one was gaping. He shrugged, and she watched it seep blood, painting the skin below. She wiped at it. "I don't know if a bandage will do any good. This needs stitches."

"I'm sure there's a needle in that kit. You know how to sew?"

"I sew pants cuffs, not living flesh."

"It's just a fine grade of leather, Roxy. Open the kit. Let's see what we've got to work with."

The kit had all kinds of stuff in it, even tiny syringes already loaded with drugs; she only recognized about half the contents. Mr. Lynch looked it over. "That squib bulb is astringent powder. Squirt it on the wound. Then find a small packet with needle and thread."

The powder made a mess of him again. She wet another towel and cleaned off the excess. "How did some bozo get close enough to stick you with a knife?"

"I was a little busy. Half a second of precognition is a dandy tool when you've only got one opponent, but when they're coming at you from three directions, sometimes you run out of ways to dodge. Besides, he wasn't that close. Seems we've got more than one martial arts nut around here. Ever hear of shuriken?"

"Jeez." She found a small packet and opened it, withdrawing a large curved needle and about twelve inches of thread. She stared at it, and then at the wound, finally up at his face. He stood waiting, almost relaxed. "If I'm hurting you, tell me."

"If I did, what would you do different? Close stitches, Roxy; six or eight. Don't hurry." He carefully placed his hands on his head.

He was completely still and silent, not even breathing, as she pierced the injured flesh and drew the thread through. "I'm almost afraid to ask. How did you know about all this? What's your connection with these people?" She stared at his tortured body. "And what do you do for a living?"

He stared straight ahead. "I work for the people who built this place. That's how I knew about it, and how I found out Bobby was here. This is just one of a lot of things they're into. They solve problems that involve national security. Some of their solutions are … extreme. Implementing extreme solutions is what I do for a living."

"I hope it pays."

"Better than you'd believe."

She was half done, and he hadn't seemed to notice. He went on. "They're not evil, not all of them anyway. They set out to do good, and they do, a lot. But they've gotten used to doing what they want, with no one to answer to. It makes you … lose your perspective."

She was only half listening as she focused on her task. She said absently, "This is gonna leave a scar." She had to stop work because he suddenly wouldn't hold still; she realized he was laughing, and woke to what she'd said just in time to join him.

"I suppose I look like ten miles of bad road."

She pulled out a gauze pad and a roll of adhesive tape. "Yes and no. Your hide is a jigsaw puzzle. But I go to the beach a lot, and I don't see many guys half your age looking this buff. How do you do it?"

"Ah, swimming. Running and hiking. Climbing, all sorts."

"'X-treme' stuff, huh?" She taped a pad over all three cuts.

"Very. I'm usually carrying a gun."

"Oh."

He touched the dressing. "Nice work. Much better than I do for myself. Thank you."

"I'll do what I can with that shirt and hang it up to dry. You can mop without it, right?"

"Yes. I'll remember to give a shout when I come back." He dropped the mop in the bucket and wheeled it away.

She watched him until he was out of sight, noting that his back was as well-muscled as his front, and peppered with scars as well. I'm feeling something for him. It's not lust; the idea of him touching me like that makes my skin crawl. But I don't think he'd ever try. He was exerting a pull on her that she couldn't deny, though: the closer she was to him, the better she liked it. She listened for the slap of the mop as she worked on his shirt; she was sure that if she couldn't at least hear him nearby, she'd start feeling antsy and want to look for him.

You're running on instinct, girlfriend. You've had a rough week, filled with stuff you can't figure out, and scared numb for most of it. Along comes a big strong male to protect you. That's where the urge to stick close comes from; that's why you ran up the hallway when you heard gunfire. You were scared, so you went to find him, even though you were running towards the shots. Because you felt safer with him than anywhere else.

She shook her head. I've gone Cave Girl. I'm dressing his wounds, bathing him and washing his clothes by hand. She imagined them both in Flintstones outfits, and him bringing her a pair of rabbits to skin and cook over the fire. She couldn't help giggling.

"What's so funny?" His voice echoed from somewhere else in the room.

"Oh. Well, sometimes I think about this situation, and I get kind of hysterical." She rinsed out the shirt and hung it over the edge of the tub. Then she rinsed her hair one more time, finished her cuffs, and went looking for him. He had his back to her, mopping the floor in front of the entrance doors. She paused, watching him work, admiring the play of his muscles and his tireless rhythm. You're feeling possessive, she thought wonderingly. Over some tough old wardog who never had time for his own kid. You've known him for an hour maybe, and somehow, he belongs to you.

"I'm ready to go, I think," she said. He set the mop in the bucket and turned to look at her. "Your shirt should dry fast. It's synthetic." There didn't seem to be anything else to say, so she stepped past. "I'll be back." At the door, she turned. "You'll be here when we get back, right? Not going off somewhere by yourself?"

"No. I'll be waiting right here."

"Good." She turned away.

"Hey."

She turned back. He looked at her, ill at ease. "You know you can't go back home. You can't let them catch you again. When we leave the complex, we'll be scattering to the four winds. I'd like you to come with me. All of you," he amended, mistaking her look no doubt. "Your friends, I mean. And I'd take it as a personal favor … if you could convince Bobby to come along."

She was shocked. "What did you say to each other?"

His mouth twisted. "Let's just say it didn't go the way I imagined."

She figured Bobby was having a hard time handling the changes, but the thought that he might refuse to go with Mr. Lynch hadn't occurred. Until he'd invited her, it hadn't occurred to her not to go with him. "I have to talk it over with them. But as far as I'm concerned, if we're on the run anyway, we might as well run in your direction. But you have to do something for me."

"Name it."

"Stop calling me Spaulding. It makes me feel like I'm in the principal's office. I'm Roxy or Roxanne to my friends."

The corners of his eyes crinkled. The dead one didn't look so horrible anymore; she wondered if he ever wore a patch over it. I bet he'd look good in it. "Roxanne it is then. Hurry back. We have some time, but I don't know how much. And there's still a lot to do before we leave."

"Right." She pushed open the doors and nearly struck her sister.

Kat's face settled into a stern expression that vanished as soon as she looked past her and saw Mr. Lynch in the hall behind her. It was almost funny, watching her eyes widen and her pupils dilate at the sight of him, shirtless and leaning on a mop. At least, until she realized there was something besides shock on her sister's face.

Mr. Lynch turned quickly, almost as if he was embarrassed, and pushed the mop and bucket towards the sink. "Looks like I got done just in time."

She stepped past and into the corridor. "Time to round up the others." She hoped she wasn't going to hear a lecture all the way down the hall. In the months since they'd discovered each other, Kat had taken the big-sister role to heart, and it had only gotten worse since she'd become the big sister. She took three steps before she realized Kat hadn't turned to follow.

Her sister was standing with her arms on the doors, holding them open, staring into the locker room after Mr. Lynch.

Gawd. She feels it too. "Kat, he could probably use some help." By the time I'm back, she'll forget about jumping on my case, I bet. "I'll be right back with the others, okay?"

"Okay." Without looking back, Kat passed through the doors and disappeared inside.