by Phil Geusz
***
Sam kept his word, kind of. He did indeed faithfully wake us up when it was flapjack time. The meal wasn't ready until one in the afternoon, however, which meant we slept away a lot more of the day than we'd have liked.
Still, we made the best of things. No matter what her other shortcomings as a human being might be—I'd never, ever forgive her for the way she'd kicked Rapput's shattered arm while he was helpless—Linda was indeed a competent backwoods cook. Though I hate to say it, her flapjacks were even better than Mom's. Or maybe it was the syrup made from real maple trees, a fact that Yukon emphasized over and over again. Apparently it was part of his national pride. Even the poutine wasn't too bad, though neither my brother nor I had ever eaten anything but ketchup on fried potatoes before. While the gravy and curds were fine, the conversation was what was really interesting.
"…can't keep them here forever, Sam," Yukon pointed out as he sopped up his surplus gravy with one of Linda's excellent biscuits. "They're boys. They need to go to school and such."
"School!" the American snorted, making the word sound like a curse. Mom did that too. "I can't speak for up here in the Great White North, but back home they're just brainwashing factories meant to convince us the values we grew up with are wrong. No one ever learns anything useful there anymore." He scowled. "We should induct them directly into the army. That way they can learn to scout and such right from the get-go." He sighed and looked down. "This is going to be a long, long war. We're going to be in greater need of scouts than scholars."
Yukon took a bite of eggs and chewed it thoughtfully. "We'll consider it. Times are hardly normal." Then he turned to us. "How far have you two gotten, schoolwise?"
"We just finished the sixth grade," I lied. The truth was that we were old enough to just be finishing seventh, but both of us were way ahead of that. In some subjects I was all the way up to high school. This was why we'd had so much time to hunt and stuff lately; Mom and Dad had agreed it was better we take the time to enjoy being young while we could rather than keep learning stuff maybe faster than we were mature enough to absorb.
"Though just barely," Tim added. He elbowed me and grinned. "Dorkus here has trouble reading."
I elbowed him back—the lie was much too far from the truth to carry any sting. I'd been reading adult-type thrillers and mysteries for over two years. "Says you!"
"Now, now," Linda interjected. Then she looked at me and smiled so wistfully that I wondered if maybe she wished she could adopt us or something. "Some of us grow up a little slower than others. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
That left me blushing bright red with absolutely nothing whatsoever to say, except that under the table I stepped on Tim's foot, hard, for saying I was having reading troubles. Then I changed the subject. "We're sure grateful that you rescued us." I let my features harden—it wasn't an act. "A lot of people got killed, I think."
Yukon nodded, his own face growing somber. "Yes, Robert. A lot of men and women did die freeing you. If it makes you feel any better, and I hope it does, we've been planning to snatch Rapput for months now." He looked at Linda. "When we heard that you two would be with him, we decided that adding a humanitarian element to the raid wouldn't hurt a thing. The plan hardly needed to be changed at all. So I don't think anyone extra died, if you get what I mean."
"I see," I replied. And I did feel a lot better, I admit. Then I looked down. "We have so many people to thank."
Yukon smiled, then reached out and tousled my hair. "I'll see that everyone knows you said that. In the meantime, it was our pleasure."
I squirmed under the touch—it reminded me of Rapput's hand on my head. Why was it that no one ever asked us If we wanted our heads touched or not?
"Mom told us," Tim said carefully, "that we had to be hostages and do what we were told and everything because otherwise the Artemu would throw rocks at Earth until we humans were all dead."
"Rocks from all the way beyond the moon," I added.
There was a long silence. Then, Sam spoke up. "A lot of people have fallen for that. Even some of us at first. But . . ." He cocked his head to one side, as if in deep consideration. "If you think about it long enough, it soon becomes obvious that it's just not so."
"Why?" I asked, cocking my own head.
"There's a hundred holes in the theory, on close examination," Linda explained. "For example . . . if they were to try that, we could blow up the rocks with nuclear missiles. I mean, we'd have months to target them."
"Plus," Sam continued, "there's no firm evidence a rock would do all that much damage even if it wasn't intercepted. We've never been able to study an actual meteor on that scale, so everything else is mere speculation."
"And even if it's true that it'd wipe us out," Yukon finished for his partners, "well . . . What about honor? What about our obligation to the future of the universe as a whole to do what we can to make wars of conquest unprofitable ventures? Better to die proud and free than submit to the likes of him," he declared, jerking his thumb in Rapput’s general direction.
"Everyone else they've ever defeated were either wiped out or became slave-races," Tim continued. "Or so they say, and who can know otherwise? We're the first they've ever negotiated with. And so far—at least according to the news shows—they're living up to the Treaty's terms in every last detail." He looked at Yukon. "Isn't that better than dead?"
The old Canadian's eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought my brother had pushed things too far. "So we're not slaves, eh? Then tell me this: why exactly were we sending them innocent little boys to hold hostage against our good behavior?"
Tim blinked, and I couldn't come up with an answer either. Where exactly did living up to the terms of a harsh peace treaty end and outright slavery begin? Dad didn't think we humans were slaves, and what he thought mattered a lot. But then, neither Tim nor I had thought to ask him if he'd changed his mind after learning he was going to be forced to give up his children. Might he think differently now? Quite possibly, I had to admit.
"See?" Yukon said in triumph as he rose to his feet and smiled. "Just because a jar's label says something on it doesn't mean that's actually what's inside." His smile faded. "Let that be today's lesson, in the absence of textbooks and classrooms and such." He patted Tim's head this time. "You're smart boys, and I'm sure you'll pick it all up in time."
Tim smiled, but the expression faded almost as quickly as it'd appeared. "I don't feel so good," he said, rubbing his belly. His eyes met mine, and I nodded ever so slightly. "I might even be a little sick."
Sure enough, Tim looked amazingly sick. His face paled, sweat covered his forehead, and his breathing became labored. Long ago he'd told me that all he had to do in order make that happen was pretend he was being forced to eat maggoty meat. In any event, it was certainly effective.
"They're under a lot of stress," Linda explained to her superiors. "What with all they're going through, we're lucky it's not a lot worse. Some kids might even go catatonic."
Yukon and Sam nodded but clearly felt put out. Meanwhile, Tim continued his act, causing our keepers to scramble for cold cloths, aspirin . . .
. . . and, worst of all for our hopes, a basin for him to get sick in if he had to. We'd never thought of that! He looked helplessly up at me, for the moment outfoxed.
"He gets like this sometimes when he needs fresh air," I said. "Once he's outside, he's always a lot better. It works almost every time."
"Yeah!" Tim agreed. "Can I please go outside for a few minutes?"
"I don't see why not," Yukon replied. "That's where the latrine is, anyway. We were just about to show you."
"Good!" I agreed happily, not about to let us be separated at this late date. "I need to go."
"Then let's take a trip upstairs," Yukon agreed, rising from his chair and reaching for his hat. "Maybe it'll do me some good too."
15
Tim continued to drool and retch as we made our way back up the tunnels to the entrance. That
had to be distracting for him, so I looked things over twice as closely to make up for his inattention. Where the tunnel branches came together, I carefully attempted to go the wrong way.
"No, Robert," Yukon urged. "That's a dead end, and there're dangerous places too. It's not like this part we've fixed up."
"And this way?" I asked, keeping my tone as innocent as possible while pointing down another passage.
"Don't you worry about that one," Yukon answered, his eyes hardening. And just like that, I knew where all the really important stuff was located. Including, more likely than not, Rapput and Li.
The anteroom—the above-ground part of the complex which was all that showed from the outside—still housed two armed guards, and I gulped. They weren't the same two we'd seen earlier, so therefore I was forced to raise our enemy count to at least seven. Seven was a lot more than five, in practical terms at least. But what could we do? Rapput and Li had to be sinking every hour.
"Call of nature, gentlemen," Yukon explained to the guards. Then he pointed to Tim. "Plus this one isn't feeling well. We could be out a little longer than normal."
"Right, boss," the larger of the two agreed with a slight nod. His face was mostly covered by both a shaggy red beard. "Standard password?"
"Yes," Yukon agreed with a final nod. Then he leaned on the door. It swung open . . .
. . . and the prettiest, most inviting beam of