by Mich Moore
a clue why. He had spent a couple of hours with the prison chaplain back at Lincoln Hills, but nothing had ever come of it. Broussard wasn't in search of spiritual succor, then or now. And yet, he felt himself drawn to this charismatic gentleman from Texas. He decided to speak with him. Alone. He got his chance later that evening when he caught up with the gregarious preacher working the crowd at the ward's cafeteria. The man was a born entertainer. As he made his way from the soft drink dispenser to the cashier, he deftly lobbed firm handshakes, kisses on babies' foreheads, atta-boy slaps on the backs of drooling idiots, toothy-yet-humble smiles for the cameras, and potent sound bites from the books of Romans and Galatians directed to the weary faithful and wannabe-faithful who looked upon him as some post-Apocalyptic bronze serpent staked to the menu board by Moses.
Broussard managed to catch the preacher just as he was managing to extricate himself from the lunchroom.
"Pastor, excuse me. Do you have a moment?"
Pastor Walsh turned eyes red with fatigue upon him. "Of course. Let's talk over here."
The pastor led Broussard to an empty nook a ways down the hall. "What's on your mind, son?"
"You don't know me. My name is Neal Broussard. I'm one of the engineers working with the robots."
"Yes! I thought you looked familiar. Mr. Broussard, your parents must be very proud of you."
Broussard was temporarily stumped for a proper response. "I was raised by my uncle. I don't know how my parents feel about me."
The pastor's eyes closed, and his lips moved slightly. He was obviously in prayer.
Broussard waited until the older man was finished, and then he took a deep breath. "Pastor Walsh, I—uh ... " Broussard was having a difficult time pushing the words out of his mouth. The pastor quietly waited. "Before I came to Chicago, I was in prison for murder."
The pastor's expression turned grave. "I see."
"Multiple murders." Broussard could not keep looking the preacher directly in the eye, so he lowered his head.
"Mr. Broussard, are you seeking God's forgiveness?"
"Uh ... No. Not really." Broussard looked around. "I just felt like I needed to tell you that. Keep things transparent, you know."
"Understood." The pastor placed a light hand on Broussard's shoulder. "This is obviously something of a burden for you. If so, then why don't you put it on the cross and let God handle it? Can you do that for me?"
"Sure."
A passel of giggly nurses was headed their way. "Well, thanks for listening."
"Mr. Broussard, the Lord is still with us. He'll listen, too. Just ask."
"Why would he listen to me? A killer."
The pastor smiled and stifled a yawn. The man exuded weariness. "King David was said to be a man after God's own heart, and he betrayed an excellent servant and then had him murdered."
They both thought about that for a few seconds. Finally Broussard said, "I see."
The pastor yawned again, this time more loudly. "I'm sorry, but are we done here?"
Broussard gave a start. "Yes. Of course."
"Then I'll see you on Monday."
"Pastor Walsh, one more thing. Did Allan explain what we're doing here? At this hospital? With these men?"
The man's pleasant demeanor returned. "Ah, yes. After a fashion. He and Mr. Fields and I spoke at some length about their theories for helping the assembled intelligence creatures. And as I explained to them, that's not what we do. No minister in his right mind would get into a tussle with God for a man's soul. I'm simply here to provide spiritual comfort for these men during their time of transition. I will also take their confessions, if they so wish."
"And that's all?"
"That's all. Good night, Mr. Broussard. Don't forget what I said."
About what? Broussard watched him stand and slowly return to his adoring crowd back in the cafeteria.
The next day was billed as a day off, but in fact it was only a morning off. Chang, Kuiper, and Bautista wanted to attend services at Saint James Cathedral. That left the rest of the team on their own until they returned at lunch. However, the balance of their 'day off' would be spent in Lakeview, an artists' colony situated sixty kilometers north of Chicago.
The AIs and the team were the invited guests to the beachfront home of Bernie and Dot Greene. Like Farmer Johnson, they were A-P agents, supervising the tiny Lakeview Patriot community. Greene had made his fortune on Wall Street, and Dot had created her fortune by marrying Bernie. The couple had its own private slice of voluptuous beach, which they had cordoned off on both sides by high walls fashioned out of sandstone imported from Australia. The placid waters of Lake Michigan fanned out between them. Unlike Chicago's busy ports, the only vessels headed out into the meatier parts of the lake were yachts and sailboats. It was an idyllic setting.
And today, inside this urban oasis, the Greens were throwing a party.
A large banner stretched across their gated driveway welcomed the DAT team:
WELCOME, DAVID, ROSE, SARAH, AMADEUS, AND BRUCE!
Chang bade the driver to stop their bus so that the AIs could see the message. There appeared to be either some confusion or lack of interest; all of the comm screens remained blank save one. David asked, "Can we go home?"
"No," Chang replied.
They continued on to the house ... and discovered a menagerie of CIA agents posing as clowns and jugglers. Others posed as magicians and painfully uncoordinated unicorns. Glow wands and tethered balloons marked the paths to three inflatable jump houses. The entire setting fairly screamed, "LET'S HAVE FUN!"
Tara and Derek led the AIs to the action, uttering soothing words of encouragement as they took in the kaleidoscope of colors, movements, and sounds. The Redstone videographers darted in and out of their paths, attempting to capture everything.
Sensing their apprehension, the other team members gathered around the DATs and excitedly explained to them the function of each performer or game. When a live pony was brought over, the AIs visibly relaxed and began to investigate the patient creature's legs, bulbous belly, and red, green, and lavender polka dots, something that its owner must have thought was a good idea to subject the beast to. Amadeus approached Chang. "Can the pony come home with us?"
But before Chang could tell him "no," Amadeus had grabbed the animal's leash and was leading it back to the buses. Chang signaled Derek. "Go get him."
That was when the childlike spirit of unbridled F-U-N finally descended upon the estate of Bernie and Dot Greene, causing the other four DATs to pitch headlong into the jump houses, and then to test their juggling skills with the jugglers, and then to dash pell-mell through the main house like wild monkeys, and out the front doors to the beach to chase and flee from the waves crashing in from the lakeshore. And then back again to worry both ends of the CIA unicorns until Derek and Tara got them all settled down to have their faces painted. And then it was off to explore the mysteries of sand castle building, and then more stare downs with the lake waves, and then finally a long rest period with Derek, Tara, and Powell on a high sand mound. They watched with much interest as the lighted sailboats glided to and fro over the blue waters until a fog bank rolled in from the north and obscured their view.
Although the AIs could not express emotions via facial movements, Derek would later report to Susan Boward that he believed the DATs were thoroughly enjoying themselves at their 'birthday party' with the Greens, and that he would debate anyone who suggested otherwise.
As the day evolved into early dusk, the team broke up into small groups. Bautista, Roger, Herschel, and Chang acquainted themselves with the open bar near the backyard bar-b-que. The DATs were still on the beach with Derek and Tara. Kuiper, Walters, and Z were in the living room with Bernie Greene discussing venture capitalism and IPOs. Hillerman and Brady had disappeared into a large subdivision of the backyard with Dot Greene about an hour earlier. Broussard, more bored than nosy, had finally decided to leave the drunks at the bar and follow those two and see what they were up to. He g
ently spread the branches of a thick privacy hedge and spotted the three of them crowded around a surprising but familiar sight: a wooden perch topped with a magnificent brown-and-white bird of prey.
Somehow Brady had heard him and motioned him over. Somewhat embarrassed, Broussard ambled over with his hands in his pockets. "Hey! Pretty bird," he said amiably.
Brady held up a bloody morsel of food to the bird's beak. "She's a beauty."
"A peregrine, right?"
Dot Green smiled at him. "Do you know birds?"
"A little. I worked in a raptor rescue program back in Nevada. We had several of these guys out there."
Hillerman admired the creature. "Then you know how smart they are."
Broussard thought back to some of the lazy, obnoxious birds that he had been exposed to at Lincoln Hills. "They certainly have lots of personality," Broussard stated diplomatically.
"Yep. This little girl's name is Plahnbie, and she's riding back to Redstone with us."
"Oh?" That surprised Broussard. "Um, you know we aren't sure if the DATs are cool with birds yet?"
"They are."
Broussard's eyebrows arched. "They are? How do you know that?"
"She's been socialized with them for over two months now. The colonel's idea," Hillerman replied. "No problems whatsoever. We've got it on videotape. Ask Roger to show it to you."
This was news to him. "Oh. Okay. Is Plahnbie joining the program?"
"No. Separate issue." The three humans closed ranks. Hillerman gestured towards the bushes