by Andy Havens
And so he was counting how many of the flat sides faced toward the farm.
I’ll do the south side of the New Farm this morning, he thought. And then, after lunch, I’ll walk around the main path and finish up the rest.
That gave him something to look forward to.
He vaguely remembered that when he’d lived outside the Farms, he hadn’t done as much counting. He wasn’t sure what he’d done instead. But he’d seemed busier with other, less important things.
The counting was important. So Tom got to work on the flat-side-of-the-pole job.
A bit later, Ken sat down near Tom. He knew not to interrupt Tom when he was counting, so he just sat nearby, in the periphery of his friend’s vision. In a bit, Tom did stop and noticed Ken.
Smiling, Tom said, “It’s a new one. Two-hundred and nine on this side. I’ll finish up the rest after lunch.”
Ken nodded. “Good. You like new ones.”
“Yes. And this one won’t ever change. It’s a static.”
“You like those.”
“I do! I can put them on the list of lists that don’t change. I like to think about that list and those numbers. It helps me get to sleep sometimes.”
Ken nodded. “I pretend to tie different tie knots. Imaginary ties. That helps me sleep.”
Tom thought for a moment. “How many tie knots do you know?”
Ken thought for a bit. “Eleven.”
“Excellent!”
Ken knew that Tom had just created a static list of “Tie Knots My Friend Ken Knows.” That made him glad.
They sat quietly for a bit, enjoying the sun and the silence, and then Ken said, “I think we could go up to the attic right before lunch. I heard them cleaning the conference room this morning and that usually means they’re having a donors’ lunch or a consultation session or something with the board or whatever. But there will be a group and food servers and lots of papers rustling and going in and out and so that will make us harder to hear up there.”
Tom nodded. “That would be fun. Right before lunch?”
“That would be best. That’s when there’s the most noise.”
“What if we miss lunch?”
Grinning, Ken reached into his robe pocket and pulled out four granola bars; two peanut-butter-chocolate-chip and two mixed-berry.
Tom chuckled. “You’re good at swiping.”
From her spot by the door, Reba Franklin, one of the day staff, saw Ken flash his purloined snacks. She almost always knew when he’d taken something. Ken wouldn’t ever get in trouble for that, even though he thought he was being somewhat naughty. He made a big show out of his sneaking in and out of rooms and halls, filching snacks and items like stress balls, mints and mouse pads. This was on the set of allowed activities for Ken. Just like Tom was allowed to walk around the grounds on the main path. He could even go into the fields a little ways before someone would go out and gently guide him back with talk of ice-cream or a puzzle. Other residents weren’t allowed outside at all but had access to music or a TV in their rooms. Some were confined entirely to their rooms but had very specific and meaningful interactions with a set group of staff or other residents. It was all in The Taxonomy.
Every part of life at the Farm was regimented according to definitions of residents, staff, activities, locations, processes and output data. Everything was monitored closely. There were both “common” tasks that took place every day for every resident, and highly specific tasks for any “uncommon occurrence” that might take place.
Reba was old enough to remember when The Taxonomy was held in paper binders in the staff lounge. Shelves of binders with codes indicating which tasks and residents and staff activities could be found within. Now every member of the staff had a tablet computer. The Taxonomy was customized for each staff member at each Center and updated regularly with data from all the various outputs around the Farm and from the other fifteen similar institutions around the world.
Of course “The Farm” was just shorthand used by the staff and residents. Because saying the full name every time you thought about your job would take half the day. The cover of Reba’s old binders – and the launch screen of the tablet app—read:
Process and Patient Documentation:
Cooperative Centers for the Long-term Care and Study
of Stuart-Warden Syndrome Patients
[Center 5]
She wasn’t sure why the staff all called it “The Taxonomy,” but it was shorter. And, like calling the place “the Farm,” it was simply part of the tradition. You run a place for almost twenty years, you’re going to get some slang.
She’d seen staff from other centers from time-to-time during cross-training visits. Their binders and apps had been identical, except for regional spellings (“Centre”) and the location number. There were a total of sixteen locations, but one of them was numbered “17” and there was no “7” anymore. Something had happened to “Center 7” and it had been shut down and all its residents redistributed to other Farms. It was often cited as a cautionary tale by upper management, along the lines of, “Sticking closely to The Taxonomy will help prevent another ‘Seven’ at your location.”
Reba had begun working at the Farm after Center 7 had been shut down, so she wasn’t sure what had happened. Neither were the staff who’d been there previously, though. They didn’t talk about it a lot. The Farm paid about 20% more than she’d earn at a similar job elsewhere, had great benefits, good corporate culture in general and relatively easy work. Once in a great while one of the residents would go off their meds or succumb to the specific delusions and mania typical of Stuart-Warden sufferers – S/W’s for short. But The Taxonomy had highly specific treatments for each patient, which was part of the appeal to both staff and the families of residents.
As the founder of the centers, Dr. Andrew Spearman, wrote in his first major study of the disease, “Stuart-Warden is a particularly cruel and creative disorder. It seems to affect no two sufferers exactly alike. Therefore, the treatment must be completely tailored to each patient. We must first tend to the well-being of each person, rather than fight a generalized war against an enemy whose outlines we only vaguely understand. We must not harm our brothers and sisters in an attempt to destroy our own ignorance.”
Spearman was widely regarded as both a medical and business genius. He’d identified Stuart-Warden Syndrome (named after the first two successfully diagnosed patients), proposed a series of reliefs that truly seemed to help sufferers, and then built a coalition around the idea of setting up permanent resident estates for any patient who was diagnosed with the illness.
It was not a particularly widespread disease, but it tended to be so profoundly debilitating, strange and potentially dangerous that sufferers, indeed, did much better in full-time, managed care situations. In fact, patients seemed so much better off after a few weeks at a center that most families and medical professionals simply referred people to Spearman’s program directly after diagnosis.
Other researchers had come and gone and had done various studies with their own results that sometimes disagreed with Spearman’s conclusions. But all their results were, over time, disproved. After nearly three decades of study and almost twenty years running the centers, Spearman was widely considered as the only recognized “voice and face” of the fight against S/W.
This was all known to Reba. It was all part of The Taxonomy. It was why she didn’t worry at all that Ken was swiping snacks and trinkets. Doing so was basically part of his treatment.
She didn’t know about his jaunts through various behind-the-scenes parts of the main home and several of the outbuildings. That would have been an “uncommon occurrence” and, per The Taxonomy, would have been dealt with very specifically. In Ken’s case, probably with additional medication, observation and psychopathic suggestion treatment.
So she watched, nonplussed, as Ken and Tom headed back to the residence section of the building, knowing that they would enjoy their “naughty” tr
eat and be back in the common area for dinner.
She’d wondered, from time to time, why the interior areas of the Farm didn’t use video cameras. There were some at the perimeter, near the fence, and some covering the roads that approached the buildings. But in other long-term care facilities where she’d worked there were often cameras in the common rooms and sometimes even in the “private” spaces such as bedrooms and bathrooms. Here there were not. Spearman preferred a lot of “people touches” in his program. He also said that privacy was important to patients and to staff. That was another thing that seemed to lend comfort to both families and various inspectors and funders. The patients were treated like guests, not inmates. They’d done nothing wrong. There were almost no incidents of anything like violence or improper behavior among patients or staff. When there had been, they were handled transparently, and by the book.
Thus there were no cameras to see Ken open the HVAC vent above his bed into a space clearly much too small for a person. No cameras to see that, regardless, he managed to shimmy in, crawl up and through the ceiling ducts and open a larger access panel in the hallway from the inside. From the outside, the panel required a biometric scan (handprint) and key-code, but there was no reason to lock a secure access panel from the inside: in fact, it would have been a safety violation.
So the panel was unlocked for 90 seconds, after which it would reengage.
No camera saw Ken shimmy back through the ducts and drop into his room, grab Tom by the arm, race into the hallway, boost his friend up by the calves and then climb up through the panel with the help of Tom from above.
With a faint “whir/click,” the panel locked into place again.
Listening for sounds of discovery, Tom and Ken grinned at each other like schoolboys and munched a granola bar each, catching their breath before crawling down the passageway to the main attic area.
Chapter 5. Intersection
Mirkir and Hayyel, like most of their kind, never really got tired. They could stay awake and alert for very long periods of time without becoming bored, restless or peeved. It was what they’d been made to do. It was possible, though, for them to become distracted. It was why they were often set out in pairs or quads and why they were given specific instructions over specific areas. On the move, it was much harder for them to maintain concentration.
Especially when there are squirrels and pigeons to be harassed.
Mirkir had lasted almost an hour.
He’d followed the Blood party as they’d led the elaph out of the garden and through the city. As they’d passed other Reckoners, the Bloods had called out with offers of merriment, celebration, dancing, drinking, fun and frolic. They wove Ways of light and sound about themselves that created a kind of floating, joyous parade wherever they went.
Sometimes, other Reckoners would reach out to stroke the dusk hind and play with it a bit, or dance a few steps alongside the Bloods. Mostly, though, they were simply tolerated and ignored by those from different Houses with, well… better things to do. Bloods were always either fighting or partying. A Bloodfest on a weekday night? No, thanks. That’s a hangover you needed to plan for in advance.
After several blocks of this nonsense, Mirkir began to grow bored. He didn’t really care if the Bloods brought the aetherial back to the garden. He did care that they’d taken it. He’d let… someone… know about it at some point. But the thing itself? Silly, flitty toys made of wood and starlight didn’t really interest him. Besides, Rain… or, well… someone… could always grow another bush thing.
He was actually quite proud that he’d ignored the first eight squirrels. They always seemed to be taunting him. Running across his path. Chittering from a tree branch.
Just sitting there. Like they do.
Fuzzy tail rats, he thought. Biting squirrels is best for all.
For some unremembered reason, Mirkir had decided centuries ago that squirrels were not just his nemesis but the enemy of all that was good and right in the world. He’d also heard someone, at some point, hint that they carried disease and bugs. Not that Mirkir could catch diseases or be bitten by bugs, but he was offended on behalf of… well… every other form of life on the planet.
Squirrel nine paused about three yards in front of Mirkir, looked him right in the eye, and piddled the sidewalk.
Challenge!!!
Offended beyond measure, Mirkir broke his pursuit of the Bloods and tore after the furry villain. For more than a block he maintained his chase, snapping his stony jaws close enough to feel the fur on his nose. Mundanes hopped out of his way, seeing a large, ugly bulldog chasing through legs and café chairs, across the street and into a dark, cluttered alley.
Where he lost the little bastard.
Huffing and whuffing like a small stone train, Mirkir grinned to himself. He never really cared if he caught the things. Just that they’d run and give him some fun. After he bit them… there was no more fun. So why worry about that too much?
So. Now what?
He could feel the pull of his garden and of the ward that bound him to observe and protect it. In the absence of a related quest – like following the Bloods – he really should go back.
So he did. But there were other squirrels. It took him the rest of the night and part of the morning to get home, and the sun was well up by the time he collected the gravel pieces of his ear that had come off as he’d exited the gate.
Hayyel was back on his perch. “Come,” Mirkir chuffed. “Report.”
The bird-stone-thing dropped from the roof to the ground and gestured with his beak. Behind the topiary hedge that had birthed the dusk hind there was a bunch of detritus – red plastic cups, some cans, scraps of paper and food refuse – and a bound and blindfolded Reckoner of some kind.
Mirkir was a little embarrassed. More intruders in garden. While I chased squirrels.
Still, though… The others were here.
“Not Blood,” Mirkir commented. Hayyel nodded in agreement.
“Hmmm…”
They both looked at the person. Some of the Houses were easy to tell by attendant Ways, clothing or behavior. Tied up in a ball? Not so much. Mirkir had seen plenty of Rain’s parties end in Reckoners being carried out due to overindulgence and exhaustion. Blood Clans were often involved, as they really heated things up and had an eye for cross-House mischief. Insensate guests would always be put in taxis or the Reckoner equivalent and escorted… well… wherever they wanted to go, he’d assumed.
Mirkir had never seen one tied up before.
He pawed over to the prone figure and snuffed around for a moment.
Male. Not young. Smells of potions and smoke. Ways feel like… Chaos. Yes. Markings here, there… signs of Chaos for sure. Breathing heavy, steady. Healthy. Not injured. Just passed out.
Hayyel chirped a questioning note.
“No idea,” responded Mirkir. “Did you see them?”
The bird gargoyle nodded and mimed dancing, drinking and falling over. Mirkir laughed. Hayyel was funny. Then Hayyel prodded the Reckoners ropes with his beak and shrugged.
Mirkir interpreted: “He parties. He passes out. They tie him up.”
Hayyel nodded.
“Weirdos.”
Hayyel nodded.
Mirkir wasn’t sure what to do. Technically, since this person wasn’t of Earth and therefore couldn’t give him orders, he belonged to Mirkir. Well, not “owned-by” but “was his responsibility.” From a legal standpoint, that meant that he should either treat him as a threat or a guest.
But which?
He sat down and went through a string of related thoughts as well as he could.
Rain shared garden with Bloods and others for these parties.
Bloods called the hind.
Bloods brought Chaos man back here.
Bloods tied him up.
He is my prisoner.
Not a threat, really. But not to be released. Not until a new Earth master gave him orders. For now, the fellow belonged to the garden.
Mirkir gestured with one paw to the roof and Hayyel leaped up to take his position on high. Then Mirkir sat down next to his prisoner to wait for…
Things.
It might take a long time, but things always happened eventually. When they did, Mirkir would be there.
Waiting.
* * * * *
Vannia was dreaming of fish when the tapping woke her up. Big, rainbow-colored fish. They were swimming and whirling in an interesting pattern and she couldn’t tell if she was one of them or hunting them or just watching, but they were pretty and…
tap tap tap
Foggy for a moment, it took her a minute to remember that she was in Kendra’s house, on Kendra’s bed, cuddled up with Kendra’s childhood friend, Mumu—a stuffed cow almost as big as Vannia. She’d heard of stuffed animals, and seen a few in stores, but this had been her first real exposure to them—a pile hidden in the back of a closet.
Why did she keep them? Vannia had wondered. But they were funny. And the huge black-and-white thing would make a nice cuddle pillow, so she grabbed it and flopped down next to and around it on the bed for a nap.
tap tap tap
She rubbed an arm across her face and looked at the window above the foot of the bed.
It was a crow.
tap tap tap tap tap tap tap
“I’m coming! Shut up! Give me a second.”
She unwound herself from the comforter and the fuzzy cow and moved to open the window. But it was one of those kind that had a weird lock and some kind of clamp mechanism and she finally just used a quick Way and the thing sprang open far enough for the bird to hop inside.
Is this Tess? Vannia wondered. The crow-thing that Kendra rescued from the Librarian’s office.
She’d never actually met the bird thing. She’d seen its Seeming – a young, “goth” woman – at the sandwich shop when she’d rescued Kendra from the Blood Thanes. Everything else she’d heard from Kendra while they’d roamed around.
“Tess?” Vannia asked. “I assume?”
“Yes. It’s me,” the crow said sharply. “Increase is on the way. Himself. With a full insertion team right behind him, I’d imagine.”