Incorruptible

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Sooner or later it would catch up. The monsters had numbers on their side, and they didn’t get tired or cold, did they? She’d probably get Michael killed too, and here he was calling her kind. “Waiting tables isn’t going to save the world.” She longed to roll her window down and toss her tea into the slipstream, caffeine withdrawal be damned.

  Might as well. What was the point of anything, anything at all?

  “But kindness does, every day.” How could such a large, well-armed man sound so naïvely certain? It boggled the mind. “It matters, Jenna. And you’re kind. You can’t help it.”

  “Like you’re not?” After all, she had to admit he’d been nothing less than stellar so far. And what had he gotten for his trouble? Stabbed, and now his friends were dead too. His brothers.

  “Not usually.” Another shallow curve, the interstate rising swiftly along the face of a foothill. The trees began to rise as well, clearcut scars even more glaring because they were more infrequent. “We’ll drive as long as we can today. If that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course.” She held her cold, useless tea and stared at the ribbon of dry gray pavement, bright and innocuous under pale winter sunlight. Great stacks of cloud peeked over the foothill-shoulders, and this road was probably a bitch later in winter. Still, there was a steady stream of traffic, and Michael’s truck kept pace with smaller vehicles, passing semis like a loping herd dog at the edge of a flock. “I can take a turn at driving, too. You don’t have to do it all.”

  “I like driving.” A small, tight smile tilted the corners of his lips. “Just rest, Jenna. Try to sleep or something.”

  How could anyone possibly sleep after seeing so much carnage? Jenna dropped her gaze, staring at a white plastic lid, and decided to keep her mouth shut. Who knew when he’d get angry?

  After all, she deserved it, and that he hadn’t so far was a miracle.

  Lunch was more fast food, but she didn’t have much appetite. The place was full of other travelers, the drive-thru was packed, and Michael ordered for them both, saying he didn’t need a bathroom stop. Splashing her face with cold water didn’t help her mood, and she was glad to be back in the truck’s relative quiet afterward.

  She just couldn’t stop imagining what one of those monsters would do to the crowd.

  He set a drink container between them on the bench seat. “There’s weather ahead,” he said. “I got you some more tea. It’s not Earl Gray, but—”

  “It’s fine. Thanks.” Getting back on the freeway absorbed the next few minutes. This town nestled along a river wasn’t the largest, but its smug little houses and brightly painted business buildings had the comfortable look of old slippers. Solid, dependable, boring, safe. What she wouldn’t give to live in a little house like that, maybe with a husband who didn’t get angry. Maybe even with a couple of kids she could drive to soccer practice and sit on tedious PTA committees for. “Michael?”

  “Huh?” This time he was chewing thoroughly as he consumed his sandwich, and much more slowly.

  “Do these luminous things, the thing you think I am—”

  “Incorruptible.” There was no sharpness to the correction, just quick interest. “And I don’t think, Jenna. I know.”

  “Okay.” She decided her stomach could handle a few more French fries. It was proof that she was a horrible person, really—a decent human being would be unable to eat after seeing such horrible things. Besides, it was a stupid question, she’d been about to ask if Incorruptibles could have kids. She had her period each month except for when the stress got too bad; thankfully, she’d just finished so she wouldn’t have to worry about tampons for another little while.

  Being chased by demons while on the rag was a final indignity, one she was glad to be spared. It couldn’t take more than a couple days to drive to L.A. now, right?

  We won’t get there. You might as well face it.

  Mom’s optimism had all but deserted her. And now that she thought about it, Mom had been different, too. You and your crazy ideas, Dad used to say, with varying levels of exasperation or fondness. Jenna was in high school before she realized other people’s mothers didn’t feed every stray in the neighborhood or stop to listen to beggars’ hard-luck stories with genuine attention, didn’t almost got frostbite because they gave their coat to a homeless person.

  Dad loved her, sure, but he also thought she took it a little too far. If there’s a sad sap within fifty miles, Jen, your mom’ll find him and give him her wallet. He sometimes joked about being her guard dog, and Mom would laugh. My own Doberman, she would tease, and ruffle his hair. Sometimes they’d even kiss, and young Jenna might make retching sounds.

  Now, she’d give just about anything to see either of them again. Maybe she’d see the strange clarity, what Michael called the Principle, around Mom.

  Wouldn’t that be a trip. But why didn’t Mom tell me, if she was like this?

  They rejoined the interstate, traffic now much sparser. Painted poles along both sides of the freeway—gauges for snowplows, she thought—flickered by like lazy eyelashes.

  “What were you going to ask?” Michael was well on his way to demolishing a bacon cheeseburger. He still didn’t have any crumbs on his shirt, not even the cornmeal dusting the underside of the bun. It was ridiculous.

  “Nothing.” She stared at the mountains, eating mechanically, and the hum of the engine along with the rumble of tires was a lullaby. It was pretty scenery, especially if you imagined what it was like to be a tree getting ready for winter, retreating inside its trunk, pulling up the blankets, turning down the lights. There were aspen groves, too, shaking quivering fingers painted with the scraps of bright autumn.

  “I’m gonna try to make Las Vegas tonight,” he said, finally. “We’ll stop there so you can sleep.”

  “Okay.” It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that driving while fatigued was dangerous—but then again, he’d recovered from a stab wound to the chest, for God’s sake, and he didn’t seem to need much in the way of rest. Maybe a sleepless road trip was small potatoes. “What about you?”

  “I could go straight for L.A., no problem. But you need rest, and—”

  It probably wouldn’t help, but she could try to be just as tough as he was. “Straight through is safer, right?”

  “It’s a good sixteen, seventeen hours.” He frowned, clearly undecided. “More, because we’ll have to stop for gas.”

  “Can you drive that long?”

  “Yeah.”

  Of course he could. Why had she even asked? “I can also drive, and you can nap.” Jenna examined the unbitten half of her chicken sandwich. It was gross, and she couldn’t wait for a decent salad. Brown rice. Some fruit, even. To go into a grocery store for something to cook at home seemed the height of luxurious normalcy right now. “Right?”

  “I just don’t want to mess up.” He took another huge bite, gave it a more-than-token chew, and down his throat it went in a wad. “When we get there and you’re exhausted, they’re going to think I didn’t do everything right.”

  Good God, he’s an overachiever. “Then I’ll tell them otherwise. Right?” As if they’d listen to her. But maybe, just maybe… God. The whole thing was crazysauce.

  It really sucked that she couldn’t even think she was insane. If hallucinations were shared, they weren’t delusions anymore, or were they? She hadn’t gone for a psych degree.

  Maybe she should have.

  “Okay, Jenna. Anything you like.” He went back to eating, halting only to flick the ancient radio on and spin the dial. The AM weather report began, a comforting drone.

  She stared out the window, watching great hoods of stone rise along the continent’s spine, fabric made of dark trees slipping down their shoulders. A kind of trance swallowed her, engine-hum and heatless sunshine mixing, and when she closed her eyes, a soft inner certainty bloomed behind her breastbone. It was warm and kind, and if it was the Principle he was talking about, she breathed deeply, wiped at her brim
ming eyes, and hoped it would stay.

  Sent From Elsewhere

  She was asleep by the time the Eisenhower Tunnel swallowed them. Asleep or in the deep healing trance of an overstressed and powerful Incorruptible, since her damp eyelashes fluttered and the outpouring of grace intensified. The truck’s cab was too small to contain such beauty; the clarity moved outward in rippling rings. The mountains themselves were probably singing to her, overjoyed to feel the Principle’s conscious presence in their stony arms.

  The tunnel was a long, fluorescent-lit umbilicus, and a subliminal pressure eased as soon as they plunged into its glare. Jenna moved uneasily, her half-eaten sandwich resting in her lap along with cold fries. She wasn’t getting enough nutrition—well, an Incorruptible needed better food than roadside grease, really. Maybe they should stop in Vegas and get her something decent, let her sleep in a bed.

  The sensation of danger sliding away intensified. Not only that, but the truck’s engine-sound changed too, and once they burst from the tunnel’s westward mouth into yet more sunshine, they were on the downhill slope. The relief was almost physical, and Jenna made a small sound.

  Moving cautiously, Michael fished the sandwich and fries out of her lap, stuffing them in the wrapper-filled bag holding the remains of his own meal. They still had the cooler, full of fresh ice from the last gas station. Something in there was bound to tempt her, she’d selected everything herself.

  Utah and Nevada were next, and after that, California. It was probably even a pretty drive, when you weren’t worrying about diaboli chasing you or an Incorruptible’s fragile health. Still, his instincts were good, even if he hadn’t listened to them enough.

  “That’s gotta change,” he murmured, as the weather report fuzzed on a band of static. He flicked it off—heading downhill, he didn’t need to worry as much about a freak storm miring them on the eastern side. The truck sped up, happy to be rolling with gravity rather than against it, and Michael’s thoughts turned to the mystery of four legionnaires torn to shreds in a hotel room with their tags gone.

  His own small metal tabs, along with their chain, nestled in his jacket pocket—which was against regulations in a big way, just another sign of how much he’d deviated in long years spent alone. He’d put the gorget on at their next stop, but from here on out he wasn’t going to call in. They could afford to stop in Vegas long enough for her to get some sleep, but then he would drive, and drive, and drive until he saw the L.A. Eyrie.

  And he would take her in publicly through the front door, making as much noise as possible. He hadn’t been able to halt long enough to find a public computer, but that was probably for the best—even searching the address might trip a wire or two.

  If what he suspected was true—and it probably wasn’t, he was only a stupid grunt, there was likely a reasonable explanation even for this—she was safest that way. But even if he was stupid or wrong, he wasn’t going to go against his instincts ever again.

  Even if he deviated, even if he became what the Legion fought, he would protect her. They could kill him after he brought her in safely, if that was necessary.

  His jaw set and his eyes burning, Michael Gabon drove.

  She roused an hour and a half later, stretching in the seat. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, and a fresh flood of grace almost dragged his hands aside. They stayed nice and steady, though—at least he was still Legion enough for that.

  It was beautiful. Traces of snow scudded away as they descended, and a stark landscape of less-thick forest and deep rocky gorge swallowed them. Michael would have viewed it strictly as terrain, rating each hill as defensible or why-bother, but Jenna leaned forward, a soft disbelieving smile turning her radiant.

  “You like mountains?” It was a stupid question, one he regretted as soon as it left his mouth. But her smile widened, and if it made her even a little happier, he’d ask all the dumb questions in the world.

  “Mountains are good. I like the sea more. But…” She bit her lower lip, rubbing at her eyes. “It feels like something’s changed. It feels lighter. I don’t know how else to put it.”

  “It has.” Now he wondered for how long and by what small increments the Legion had retreated, leaving him stranded. He hadn’t noticed the slowly rising waters because they had been gradual, low heat under a cold pot—and the lobster inside. “The closer we get to L.A., the better it’ll be. More Legion means fewer unclean.”

  “Then that’s good.” She stretched again, hands clasped and legs stiffening. Once the desert arrived she’d be able to shed the parka, at least during the day. “Can I ask you something?”

  Curiosity was a good sign; it meant relaxation. He couldn’t make the traditional gesture of acceptance and attention, so he just nodded. “Of course, lumina.”

  “Please. It’s just Jen.” She didn’t know that an Incorruptible’s name was a treasure not to be taken lightly; still, it warmed him. She took a swig of her cold tea and sighed with what sounded like satisfaction. “I wanted to know… you said all the Legion are brothers, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about sisters?”

  Well, there’s the Authorities. But that answer would just muddy the waters, he decided. “We mostly choose maleness. Female forms have more flexibility, more endurance, but a legionnaire has to be brutal. We’re not subtle weapons.” Not unless we have to be. Uneven tracts of scrubby brush flashed by, and he kept an eye on a semi ahead getting way too close to the edge of his lane first in one direction, then in another.

  It was a little too early to be drunk, but maybe the driver was on a stimulant at the end of a long haul. Or simply fatigued. Mortal flesh had its weariness.

  Jenna absorbed this. “You choose maleness?”

  “Yes. Before we’re sent.” He paused, thoughtfully. She was far more alert to nuance than the average mortal. “Or so we’re told.”

  “Sent from where?”

  Sooner or later, every Incorruptible asked, so he gave the standard answer. “Elsewhere. An Authority could try to explain it; I’m just a soldier.” He expected her to ask about the Authorities, but she surprised him again.

  “Do all your brothers look like you?” Something about the question—a little too fast, a little too much stress on the final syllables—warned him. This was what she truly wanted to ask, for whatever reason. “I mean, blond, blue-eyed, the whole Kansas cornfed thing you’ve got going on?”

  “No.” I look like Kansas corn? He wanted to ask for clarification, but answering an Incorruptible took precedence. “We’re all sizes and colors. We have to be, we’re in all different mortal lands.” The Principle occurred where it willed, and only the cultural trappings of it defense varied. The diaboli often took their shapes from mortal imaginings, and each country—not to mention each century—had its mortal protectors, who the non-mortal ones often copied in structure and organization. A guest followed the rules of his host, after all. “Or at least, we were. I don’t know what’s happened, or why the entire eastern continent is crawling with unclean and no Eyries. I was just supposed to keep my head down and do my job.”

  “Which was?” A faint shade of dissatisfaction colored her tone, hopefully not with him.

  The semi ahead drifted to the right, its tires vibrating on rumble strips. Michael hoped the noise would wake the driver up long enough for the Dodge to safely pass. “Look for Incorruptibles, guard them, take them to the closest Eyrie.” The most overriding duty. Then, in descending order, he could list the rest. ”Kill the unclean, keep their numbers down. Avoid notice.”

  “Oh, is that all?” She played with her parka’s zipper tab, a series of small, thoughtful tugs. “I guess I can see why you don’t want anyone knowing about this, now. People would probably freak out.”

  Among other reasons. “Yeah. Anyway, the Eyrie’s in Los Angeles; they don’t call it that for nothing.” He meant to make her smile, but there was no sign of amusement from the other side of the cab, so he hurried to continue. “At least n
ot anymore. We’re almost there.”

  “Oh.” She studied his profile, her attention a warm forgiving weight. His marks were bathing in the grace, tingling as they worked deeper. How had he lived without that balm? “Are there any… are there any guys with red hair? Legionnaires, I mean?”

  Now why would you ask that? Maybe she had a phobia. “I don’t think I trained with any, but that was a long time ago.” Just how long, he was hoping she wouldn’t ask—mostly because he didn’t remember anymore. It was a single road, all of it—awakening, training, long years of vigil in different places, moving when ordered to, fighting when called for, killing when necessary. A continuous, taut thread, ending the moment he looked up from the grill and saw a pale, tired Incorruptible tying her apron.

  She’d given him too many easy questions; she went straight for the difficult one next. “How long ago?”

  “A long time, Jenna.” The truth was, he’d lost count of the years. He’d only been half-awake, plodding along from one day to the next, for quite possibly decades, and the only break in the monotony was the eruptions of violence when the unclean grew too bold. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You don’t look a day over thirty.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. It’s clean living.” Why was he still trying to joke, of all things? At best, an Incorruptible would regard a clowning legionnaire with icy silence for daring to presume.

  But this time, Jenna laughed. It was a gentle sound, flushing the entire truck cab with warmth, and Michael found himself smiling, the consciousness of having amused her salving some deep ache. It was good to hear an Incorruptible laugh; it was even better when it was his Incorruptible.

  That’s a dangerous thought, Michael. He sobered.

  “I guess.” Finally her chuckles faded, and she wiped at her eyes with a leftover napkin. “You don’t even swear.”