by JA Huss
"Don't even pretend like you know what's going on here, Junco," he laughs, "because I know better. Your father didn't tell you anything unless he had to, I'm one hundred percent positive of that."
"I got a message from my mother, Aren. And it said you're working with those rebel Subjectives up in the Northern Territories."
His expression shows confusion, and I may not be an expert in reading people, but I'm fairly sure this is real. I hesitate for a second, doubting myself.
He looks down at me and the good buddy routine from the scrub is gone now, "Junco, you better shut your fucking mouth and stay out of the way or I swear, this night will not end well for you."
I get the feeling that we're not yet on the same page, but there's something there. Might not have hit it on the head, but I came close. "More threats?"
"You want something from me? Or not? Say what you mean because I don't have time for games."
My smile is back. "Hey, I'm a free agent now, right? Sell my skills to the highest bidder, sound familiar?"
His confusion continues and this almost makes me stop. My inner cynic is screaming that there's a problem with my theory on what's going on here, but there's no time to backtrack and think it over. I'm past that now, it's move forward or give up.
I move forward.
"I want a rank within the MR equal to yours, Aren. Shit, you're not real clever, are you?"
I see the satisfaction spread out from the corners of his mouth as his lips turn up in a slight smile before he checks it. I might not have all the little details worked out perfectly, but this hits home with him and that's all that matters. "How do I know if I can trust you?"
"Aren," I sneer at him with contempt now, "I tortured my own father, helped an avian kill a state scientist, and assassinated several high-value targets on direct orders of Rural Republic Command, all of which is on record somewhere in that house."
The whine of a hovercopter fills the late afternoon and I grin, making it as bright as I possibly can. "Give me some credit. We're both hip-high in the same shit, remember? But I'm sick of you ordering me around, I'll play nice if you do, but you gotta get the fuck off my back and leave me alone." I shrug off his death grip on my arm one last time and walk away, waiting to see if he plays his card.
But he holds it.
Like Sun Tzu says, all warfare is based on deception. That shit rings true no matter what century you're in.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Back under the princess room I let out a deep sigh and laugh a little. Then abruptly stop because it makes me feel a little crazy.
Junco, he's all in, don't underestimate him.
Yeah, yeah.
I shrug off the internal warning and go look in the closet to find an appropriate outfit for the council meeting. In the end I choose garments that look like I have a hard time taking them off for laundering.
Favorites.
The t-shirt is a faded olive green with a few small rips in the seam near the left shoulder. It's a few sizes too big and states proudly, Snipers do it from behind. Must have stolen this one out on maneuvers. I slip it on and tuck it in, leaving a gap in the front for access to my SEAR. I pull on a pair of forest camo-patterned fatigues and the same old field boots I just took off. I slip on the double-arm shoulder holsters and then fill them with the electromag 9Mv Boltblaster and the TZi .357. A sage-green flight jacket that has definitely served me well, if the ripped lining and pockets full of stale cigars are any indication, covers it all up.
The princess room mirror projects my outfit for scrutiny and I nod to myself, check the sparkling tiara clock on the bedside table, then lie down on the unicorn bed and put my hands behind my head to relax. I have no intention of showing up on time. Aren needs me now, so let him come get me.
I cycle back to my mother's message for lack of other things to think about. She was always beautiful, in a traditional rural kind of way, and we share a lot of the same facial characteristics even though I now realize that isn't physically possible. We both have the same heart-shaped face, though she has a pair of perfect dimples in her cheeks when she smiles, while I have none of that cutesy shit going for me at all. The dimples never materialized in the video, she never smiled, but I assume they are still there. Not typically something that disappears over time.
Her hair in my memory is medium length, more blonde than brown, and ends naturally in a slight upturned flip. Again with the cuteness. In the video she made last week, the day of my father's funeral to be exact, her hair is more gray than blond, severely short, and her previously bright blue eyes have dulled down to a slate color reminiscent of some of the guns I have on the rack downstairs.
My own hair is more brown than red and my eyes are nothing but an angry swirl of brown, black, and green. I've been told they're the perfect shade of hazel. As if hazel was even a color. It's not. It's just a term used for eyes when people can't describe them with one word.
In the video her mouth was drawn tight in a line that perfectly mimicked the emptiness of a distant horizon. Not at all like the mouth I remember as a child. I have full lips and upturned corners that require a little extra attention to make them even out, let alone frown. This feature makes me out to be more approachable than is professionally comfortable. The flat line of indifference is a better way to go in my opinion. Lowers expectations of chumminess upon first impression.
Her outfit was the only thing that connected us. Crisp military-issue uniform of an advanced rank, planed out flat from the steam press. I can be crisp when I want to and I have the service uniform in the closet to prove it. But I haven't worn it lately. Not even to the funeral.
I take a deep breath and play the message back in my head. Even though a lot of it was about me, the message wasn't really for me. A propaganda piece for the benefit of her political party. The Subjectives' benefit, I correct myself. Her people these days, apparently. The ones she really works for. I suppose that's debatable though, since she comes right out and states on the video that she's double-gunning for the MR as well.
Nice.
Scattered loyalties are awesome, especially when they're all fake.
The Subjectives are just the most recent cult of personality taking root up north in the wilds above the Front Range and extending up into the Tetons in the old American state of Wyoming. That area is unincorporated and has been since the Succession Wars ended back in '98. As far as I can remember, no one's given the place a second thought since then.
I suppose the world will have a whole new outlook on the philosophy of Subjectivity come morning. Hope they've got bunkers dug out in those tits, because if my mother is telling the truth, then this whole area will be up in flames real soon and I envision a steady stream of retaliation hellfire up in Subjective Land come morning.
Slag must be in on it since he was the one who delivered the cube to me, but why even bother informing me at all? Why not just get that shit out to the media herself? Makes no sense. Maybe she figures since I killed the bastard who had her deported I was also interested in joining her little make-shift military. Maybe she thinks that she can lure me up there to take part in whatever fucked-up plan they have going?
She's wrong.
And not just for the obvious reasons, like abandoning me when I was little. This whole military thing is getting real old, real fast and I'm just not sure I'm into it anymore. After tonight I can see a nice long reprieve from killing and drama. A vacation somewhere maybe, that's what I need. That floating metropolis they have out in the middle of the Atlantic sounds pretty fucking nice right about now.
Nope. I'm not interested in her wars, regardless of who she's got on board with her. And to be honest I'm a little put off that she had to drag me into it at all. Now Selia's gonna broadcast it all over the fucking world and I'll forever be connected to her outrageous acts. Just so I can get a simple little message to the family of the man I loved. Hell, we'll probably both make it into the history books. Double agent Carolinia Coot and sociopathic
Rural Republic sniper daughter, Junco Coot, implicated in the Mountain Republic invasion of 2152.
Unexpectedly, I let out a laugh. What a crazy bitch. At least I know I come by it honestly.
Sort of.
At any rate, it's out of my hands. I did what she asked and got a message out to Charlie's family in the process. What Selia does with it from here is her problem. Personally, if I were Selia, I'd burn those papers and melt that cube down in a bonfire the first chance I got. But something tells me Selia is a go-getter.
The knock on the door finally arrives and I instinctively check the tiara clock. 6:01. Once again, the laugh just comes out. Aren is either restless or fastidious about punctuality. I lean on the first one and swing my feet out of the bed, straighten my guns a little, then walk to the door and pull it open.
I half expected CP to be the one to walk me to the conference room, but it's not him. The strange soldier greets me and smiles. "Commander sent me, Junco. They're all there and waiting."
I thank him and walk towards the conference room. There is a disturbing amount of activity around the house and, as I peek out the windows, on the grounds as well. A serious bit of build-up has happened in the past few hours. The guards knock and open the double doors of the conference room for me as I approach and when I step in I realize I've interrupted. They are all standing, facing this way and that, hands in the air, as if to make a point. But their talking stops abruptly.
I take a deep breath and survey the room and Aren practically scrambles over to me to break the silence.
"Junco, you've arrived. I'm sure you know everyone here, right?"
I look at each person individually, all the elders I've known my whole life, and Slag. My eyes stop there and Aren takes the cue. "You remember Slag, right, Junco?"
I stare up in Aren's eyes and realize he's lost. Has no idea who I am or what memories are available right now.
Slag nods as he eyes my inappropriate choice of clothing, but doesn't give off a vibe either way. Aren pulls the chair at the bottom of the table open for me to take a seat, but I ignore him and push it out of the way so I can stand near the edge. I don't look at him, but I don't have to see his face to feel his rage.
It doesn't matter.
I snap off the names of each of the remaining elders in my head as my gaze quickly travels around the large glass and chrome table. How these five fuck-ups managed to escape the wrath of Tier that night in the church, I'll probably never know.
Oran Alger is a big guy, built like a pillaging Viking with a blazing head of red hair, complemented by a beard that is an even more shocking orange. Substantial arms poke out of his massive body and he's wearing coveralls. At least I'm not the only one underdressed.
Tarik Darzi is the only bachelor in the history of the Council, and that's the way he'll stay because he's as gay as a songbird in the spring. I think the Council was surprised when he was elected last term because he's one of only half a dozen people who have ever decided to emigrate to the Rural Republic in my lifetime. We are naturally suspicious of strangers and even though I really do love my country, it's not a place you'd ever want to emigrate to.
Abe Cavello is a dentist who works in the MR. People wanted to throw his ass out the last election, but his father was a Council Elder for a long time so money changed hands and that was that.
Hogan Bosco is just an ordinary farmer who grows wheat and soybeans in the southwestern part of Council 3. He's loaded but refuses to farm with a tractor so every spring he's out there in his field walking behind his horses for fourteen hours a day. He's known to go a little crazy before planting season is over. My father sold him horses regularly so he's been at our house lots of times.
And finally Old Sam whose brother was the actual one elected, but died the second week in office. Sam took over and no one stopped him. I admit I never thought that was weird until now.
Five men of the community, an MR field commander, a RR Colonel, and me. Just a wild girl who can shoot straight under pressure.
Slag is standing in the back corner, behind Aren. His arms are crossed in front of his chest and he has a bemused look on his face that I don't actually care for. It implies I'm the entertainment.
"All right, gentlemen, let's start the show, shall we?"
They mutter and one or two object, but it's Aren who stands up. "Junco," he says, trying to placate me with fabricated congeniality, "I've already explained to the Council what's going to happen and why you're here so–"
I see Slag wince out of the corner of my eye. "Aren, you have no idea why I'm here, so sit down and shut up."
"Who the hell–"
I jump up on the table in a single two-footed hop, my field boots crashing against the thick glass, and growl at him. "Shut the fuck up, Aren!" I slip the SEAR out from my shirt and switch it on in one fluid movement, then look at them all one more time, beginning with Aren.
"Let's cut the bullshit and presume you all know what this is and what I plan to do with it, OK?"
Their mouths are open in surprise, but each nods in agreement.
"Now, I don't know what Aren's just told you, but let's also assume that too, is complete bullshit."
Once again they nod. I check out Aren and he's about to open his mouth when I shake my head at him. "Shhh, Aren. I'm not interested." My gaze shifts to the Elders. "What I am interested in, gentlemen, is the truth about one certain night two weeks ago in which each of you," I glance back to Slag and point to him with my weapon, "with the possible exception of you, witnessed me take this little SEAR knife," I wave it around casually in the air, "and do some very horrific things."
I wait for them to digest the situation and glance back to Aren, who is enraged, but as far as I can tell, still holding it down. For now. I throw him a smile, and this sets him back in his chair a little, but makes Slag furrow his brow.
I walk back to the end of the table where Abe is sitting. "Did you see me in the church the night I cut my father and sentenced him to death?"
He nods. I look at the next in line, and raise my eyebrows. "Don't make me repeat the question, Hogan, yes or no?" He mumbles out a yes. I continue down the table and elicit a yes, or something close to it, from each of them. "Great, we're on track here." I glance back at Aren and the sweat is pouring off his face. "How about you, Aren? Did you see me in the church that night?"
Every head in the room shifts to him and he stands up abruptly, knocking the large conference chair back into the window facing the courtyard. "Junco, I'm going to ask you to leave the room right now or I will be forced to disable you, probably resulting in your death."
"Aren, if you have nothing to add, shut up and sit down. I'm not in the mood." He resists and I walk towards him and catch his eye with the bright glow of the SEAR.
I stare at him until he grabs the chair and complies, his finger busy fiddling with something on the arm rest.
"Now we get to my question, my Honorable Elders, the only thing I want from you. And when I get it and I'm satisfied that it is the truth, you can leave here and we can put this all behind us. Because I don't want to know what you know about my so-called childhood." Most of these guys probably don't have any idea, but Sam is older than them and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
I stare directly at Sam as the rest of them squirm. "And I don't want to know about all the times you turned your head when they took me away to the Stag."
All of them visibly relax with my revelation and I feel a dry heave coming up in my stomach. I push it back down with everything else that's trying to come up.
I look over at Slag now, meeting his gaze, but I continue speaking to the men around the table. "Because I don't need you to tell me those things. I already know the answers. And gentlemen, I am here to tell you that a time will come when you'll stand in judgment for your silence and reap your reward."
They don't look at me, but I continue, "And who knows, that night might be tonight. But it's out of my control."
Abe the dentis
t, the last guy to my right, speaks up. "I'm sorry, Junco."
I look down at him and nod. "Then Abe, how about you be the first, then, huh? Just answer my question. No matter who told you to stay silent. Even, Abe" – I stop here and stare into his eyes – "if it was me who told you to keep quiet. Understand?"
He nods. I look up at Aren and I see panic in his eyes, but I continue. "When you saw me torture my father, Abe – who did my father promise me to in order to get me out of the RR?" He swallows hard and the sweat is pouring down his face. "You can say it, Abe, go ahead." He looks across the table to the other Elders, then his gaze travels down the line of men and stops at one. He lifts his hand and points.
Chapter Thirty-Three
"You fucking psycho bitch!" Aren shouts. "We had a fucking deal, Junco! You wanted to do this, that insane memory bullshit is twisting the truth again! This whole thing was your idea!"
I walk towards him, my boots thumping hard on the glass table top. Aren pushes back from the table, but Slag is behind him so the chair pins him in. "Aren."
"You signed on, Junco! You signed on! We had a deal. You, your father, and me. This was always the plan, Junco, just listen!"
I stare down at him. "Tell me why I wanted my father dead, Aren."
He calms down a bit and his voice comes out in a low growl. "You signed on, Junco. It was all your idea."
"No, Aren. I don't think so."
"You wanted out of the RR and I said I'd take you. Your father wanted it, I wanted it, and you wanted it. You were done killing, Junco. And the MR said they'd take you. You wanted this."
"Even if I did, Aren, then I was insane at the time because I cannot even imagine a life like the one you're describing. Now, back to the question, why did I want my father to die?"
He stares at me, evil and hatred projecting out of him like the stench of a three-day dead mule deer out on the prairie.