by Ned Rust
A horrible realization dawned as he tried to focus his eyes through the swirling spots in his vision: his golf bag was right there on the grass next to him—but the gun was gone!
He kicked the bag over in case somehow the weapon had ended up underneath. It wasn’t there.
He reached into his fanny pack for his BNK-E so he could initiate the weapon’s homing signal, but now an equally if not even more horrible feeling overcame him—the spare ammunition was still there, but his BNK-E was missing, too!
Only decades of training kept him from outright panic. He judged the sun’s position hadn’t radically shifted—probably he hadn’t been unconscious for more than half a deuce—then he reached down to his ankle to make sure his ceramic combat knife was still there. His assailant hadn’t known about that, at least. He removed it from its sheath and, as he did so, noticed something wrong with his knuckles. In blue permanent ink, N-I-C-E was spelled out on his left knuckles, and F-A-C-E on the right.
He tamped down his anger. He had to stay rational. Clearly the enemy combatant was employing psychological warfare, was trying to discomfit him, was trying to throw him off his game.
He tucked the blade up inside the sleeve of his Tommy Hilfiger jacket and inspected the putting green beneath his feet. Head down, he walked four, five, six meters and finally spied the telltale impressions—long, thin footprints that could only belong to the enemy combatant. He followed them a few meters and confirmed that there was only the one set—the creature was alone.
Lips closed and without a sign of worry or strain upon his bruised face, he hurried along his enemy’s path.
Novitiate Frank Kyle followed the trail down the gently curving green. His target was sticking to the winding but easy-to-navigate fairway. His surgical augments allowed him to sprint at over fifty kilometers per hour, and he took full advantage of them as he turned off the course and sprinted up the wooded hill to the south. Hurdling the old stone wall at its crest, he half hoped to see his targets on the next green, but instead, standing next to a golf cart in the middle of a gravel path were a middle-aged man and woman. Each was wearing a Tommy Hilfiger golfing outfit identical to his own.
His stomach surged upward as if he were standing in an elevator whose cables had been cut. He considered running back the way he had come—running with abandon, running till he dropped from exhaustion. But there would be no point. They would overtake him as surely as the night. He dropped his shoulders and went to meet his fellow novitiates from—and competitors for—Prefecture One.
“Nice face,” said the broad-shouldered woman, Novitiate Sara Michel.
“Yes, I expect the contusion will last a good while,” admitted Frank Kyle.
“Is that all just contusion?” said Novitiate Greg Andrew, his voice dripping with unkind amusement.
“There’s writing on your face, brother,” said Sara Michel, pursing her perfectly glossed lips as she held out her BNK-E.
Frank Kyle put his hand to his face.
The screen of Sara Michel’s BNK-E pushed upward, quickly adopting the shape of a man’s head. Frank Kyle recognized the subject of the communications holograph and quickly lowered his hand, which had begun to tremble.
“Are we correct in observing that you have lost your BNK-E?” said the deep-voiced, dark-eyed head. This was none other than Victor Pierre, Rex’s very first novitiate here on Earth. Rumor had it that it was he who had personally overseen the last winnowing—the elimination of unfit novitiates after the annual review. The fact that he was personally involved in this, was directly communicating from his European post, was a terrifying sign.
“Mirror app, horizontal inversion,” said Greg Andrew to his own BNK-E, and passed it to Frank Kyle, who now saw on his forehead the words BAD MAN.
“Oh,” said Frank Kyle.
“Let’s get moving, shall we?” said Sara Michel.
Frank Kyle briefly stared into Victor Pierre’s depthless, data-dilated eyes.
“I have another call. We’ll debrief later,” said the head, and promptly melted back into Sara Michel’s screen.
“Did you at least get a good look at the enemy combatant?” asked Greg Andrew as he gestured for Frank Kyle to get into the golf cart.
“Umm,” said Frank Kyle, marshaling his thoughts, “lagomorphic, maybe forty-one, forty-two kilograms.”
“So you got beat up by … a bunny,” said Sara Michel.
Frank Kyle ignored the taunt. He’d still beaten them to the target. And he had known they weren’t going to be supportive. Until and unless they made the final twelve, they would remain his competitors, not his friends.
“It’s not a flier, at least—it can’t have gotten too far,” he said as he sat. “It was heading southeast—”
“Rex has cut short the mission,” said Sara Michel.
“We,” said Greg Andrew, “have a vid conference in less than a deuce.”
Though his mouth had gone entirely dry, Frank Kyle found himself swallowing. He wondered if he’d have a chance to wash his face before then. Not that it probably mattered.
CHAPTER 45
To Dream, Perchance to Sleep
The next thing Patrick knew it was daytime. He was awake and lying upon the narrow strip of grass behind the garage.
He was glad to be back home, back in the real world. But he couldn’t help feeling a little wistful. He’d been proud of himself for deciding to join Oma, and that adventure with her and the giant had been genuinely exciting.
But there was no question about falling back asleep here, about getting back to the dream. The grass was wet and he was stiff and sore and thirsty and he absolutely had to get back inside and clean up the kitchen before his parents came back and he found himself grounded for the rest of his life.
His being outside behind the garage like this wasn’t any big mystery. He must have staggered out when the kitchen had filled with fumes, and then, obviously, passed out.
He hurried around the garage and crossed the yard to the side door—the same door through which he’d let out the cat.
There were voices down the hall. His father’s—and Neil’s, and Carly’s, and maybe Eva’s.
And while he knew he should be worried about being in trouble, he realized suddenly, acutely, that he had missed them all—really actually missed them. He burst through to the kitchen door, knocking right into Neil.
“Hey, buddy. What’s that on your face!?” his older brother yelled, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“What!?” asked Patrick, anger and embarrassment clutching at his chest.
“No way,” said Neil. “Hey, everybody—PATRICK’S WEARING MAKEUP!”
CHAPTER 46
Executional Assessment
Rex turned down the Creed album, put his hands behind his black-turtlenecked back, cleared his throat, and began the meeting. The ocean view faded and the windows went entirely black. One hundred twenty tiles illuminated around him, each containing a middle-aged face—men and women of all racial and ethnic descriptions, though wearing nearly the same humorless expression.
These were the remaining candidates, the novitiates, for Earth’s first Deaconry.
Rex gave a cool smile and addressed his virtual audience. “I apologize for the interruption but Novitiate Kyle from Prefecture One is here to recount highlights from his recent mission, and I wanted us all to witness the debrief in real time. Novitiate Kyle—if you please?”
“Oh, uh, yes, Your Awarenence. I tracked the subject from the insertion point to a golf course at latitude 41.14534, longitude minus 73.83089, approximately two kilometers to the east. Somewhere between insertion and my intercept, the visitor made contact with four humans—juveniles, all approximately age four and therefore on the lower spectrum of witness reliability.”
Rex raised his dark, well-tended eyebrows. “Please remind us how this might impact your mission objectives, if at all?”
“Well, of course I had to address that situation, too. ‘Failure to manage risk is mi
ssion failure,’” he said, reciting a line from the training manual.
“Indeed,” said Rex, smiling. “And how did you proceed once past this decision juncture?”
“I picked up their trail and, by approximately one point four-two dunts, I achieved contact.”
“And then?”
Novitiate Frank Kyle wondered if the pounding in his head was visible to the camera as he proceeded to recount everything that followed—from his discovery that his neural alarms had been muted to his getting knocked unconscious (presumably by the enemy combatant) to his discovery that his equipment had been stolen—right up to the point where he encountered his fellow novitiates and was taken back to regional headquarters.
“And, so,” said Rex, his words staccato with impatience, “how would you characterize the overall success of your mission?”
“Umm, 42 percent, Your Awarenence.”
“Really? Tell us, how did you arrive at this figure?”
Novitiate Frank Kyle tried to assume a confident smile but it looked more like he was trying to crimp an invisible piece of foil with his lips.
“Well,” he said, coughing softly, “successful assessment is half of mission success, but I of course lost my equipment and had to give myself a deduction there.”
“But you give yourself some credit?”
“Yes, Your Awarenence. I tracked and located the enemy combatant, plus I personally discovered it had the ability to access my neural network, which certainly would be unprecedented, so it seems to me that—”
“And did you visually register the enemy combatant—did you actually see it?”
“Well, umm, not entirely.”
“And the lost equipment? You are referring to your field-issue rifle and BNK-E?”
“Yes, Your Awarenence.”
Rex’s eyes wandered upward thoughtfully. “Anything else go missing?”
Victor Pierre gave a little bark of a laugh. He was the only novitiate who could have gotten away with such a piece of spontaneity in front of Rex, and everybody—himself included—knew it.
“No, I did a thorough inventory and—”
“You also lost an opportunity, did you not?”
“Well—”
“And you lost us time, didn’t you? You lost valuable time for our team, for this world, and for the Minder himself?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, I—”
“A manner of speaking?! Are you accusing me of communicating information in a roundabout or colloquial fashion?”
“Of course not—I—”
“Quiet. I actually am inclined to concur with your self-assessment.”
Novitiate Frank Kyle breathed a sigh of relief.
“But let’s put a minus symbol in front of it.”
“Uh,” said Novitiate Frank Kyle, more than just his hands shaking now.
Rex, too, seemed to be shaking—with rage. “You are personally responsible for setting our mission back dunts if not entire days. Your assignment was simple and you managed to let yourself be overtaken by an enemy combatant that had only moments to prepare itself. Tell me: How strong is an organizational chain?”
“As strong as—as—its weakest link.”
“And, for the good of mankind and the three worlds, are we to be a pillar of strength, or a puddle of weakness?”
“Please, Your Awarenence—”
“Are you not answering a very clear, direct question?”
“A pillar of strength, my master!” shouted Novitiate Frank Kyle.
“To my mind the only positive thing to come out of your utter failure is, perhaps, some confirmation of the theory that our enemies possess the ability to compromise our neural implants! Unless you disrupted them yourself?”
“Sir, I would never—”
“Which is actually not all that surprising since this agent came from Ith, where they may have had a chance to learn the technology. You agree with me that it’s not that surprising, don’t you?”
“Y-yes,” stammered Frank Kyle.
“So, it’s actually quite fair to have expected us to be prepared for such a thing, is it not?”
“Well, I—I—”
“Shh,” said Rex, raising an index finger to his lips as 238 other judgmental eyes joined his upon the quavering novitiate.
“How do you feel about beta-testing human subjects, Novitiate Kyle?”
“Beta testing?” said Frank Kyle, closing his eyes. “It’s necessary to advance technology.”
“Your informational implants, your strength, your speed—they all are the fruits of human testing, are they not?”
“Of—of course.”
“And MoK collars—they, too, come from such testing, do they not?”
Frank Kyle blotted at his sweat-beaded forehead and nodded enthusiastically.
“So, are you in favor of testing beta-rated technologies on humans?”
“Yes, Your Awarenence!”
“Good. Because we wouldn’t want you to arrive at—which facility is it, Novitiate Pierre?”
“KF-1, sir,” smiled Victor Pierre.
“We wouldn’t,” continued Rex, “wish for you to arrive at KF-1 harboring any hypocrisy or cynicism.”
“KF-1? The collar facility?” asked Frank Kyle.
“Yes, in fact yours is all ready.”
“Mine?”
“Shh,” said Rex, putting a slender finger to his lips. “It’s a brand-new prototype. We may have finally cracked a key component of the verbalization issue. We may finally be able to control the subject’s speech.”
“But you can’t do this! I am inn—” said Novitiate Frank Kyle, leaping toward the camera in desperation.
Whatever else he said didn’t get picked up. His microphone had been shut off and two large men in black suits came up behind and pulled him out of frame. Then the feed went entirely blank and his tile disappeared.
“And so,” said Rex to the remaining 119. “Let’s use this as a cautionary tale, shall we?”
Every head nodded; a few, following Victor Pierre’s lead, even smiled.
“Any fresh progress to report on the enemy combatant, John Michael?”
The visage of a muscular man with wire-framed glasses and a dimpled chin moved to the center spot on Rex’s screen.
“No,” replied the man, “we still haven’t relocated the creature, Your Awarenence.”
“Well, if there are no results to report by EOD, then I trust you, too, will be prepared to let me know how you feel about human beta testing?”
John Michael blanched but smiled gamely. “There will be no further failure, Your Awarenence.”
“Good,” said Rex. “Because I’m sure I could find another who would be willing to prove him- or herself at this juncture.”
John Michael bowed his head and his tile receded back to its place.
“And,” continued Rex, “will somebody remind me who’s now on point for the Ministry of Communications—Cathy Lauren, is it?”
“Yes, Your Awarenence,” said a thin-lipped blond woman in a royal blue turtleneck as her face tile moved to the center of the screen.
“How’s the cover-up story coming?”
“We’re ready, Your Awarenence.”
“All right, give me the elevator pitch.”
“Your Awarenence?”
“Gah!” he exclaimed in frustration. “It’s in the white paper! You know, if you only have an elevator ride in which to pitch somebody, what do you say that gets them leaning over the plate?”
“Apologies, Your Awarenence,” she said, looking like she was blinking back tears. “My elevator pitch is, ‘Ag-Gen, the company that created the recent sheep-goat hybrid, is behind the creature, and they must be punished.’”
“And we expect the scientific establishment, such as it is, to go along with this idea that this company could have really done such a thing? Made a giant rabbit-like creature?”
“Yes, we’ve identified all key opinion gatekeepers and will ensure that the
y play along.”
“Good,” Rex said, and then was silent a moment.
The woman’s face tile shrank and resumed its former place among the many.
“And,” he continued, “am I to understand the juvenile witnesses are still with their parents?”
“Yes.”
“And no indication of them reporting the creature’s existence?”
“If they told their parents, the parents have chosen not to disseminate.”
“Who in their right mind,” snorted Rex, “would believe a bunch of four-year-olds saying they saw a giant bunny?”
The 119 remaining heads nodded gravely.
“Still,” he said. “We should consider apprehending them once we have the enemy-combatant situation buttoned down.” Which, he reflected, would require a good deal of his personal attention. He scowled and dismissed the tiles with a wave of his hand. The Pacific Ocean reappeared, and the neatly produced, inspiring strains of Creed came back up.
CHAPTER 47
Underground Movements
“Am I what—wait!—what!?”
Patrick opened his eyes.
In the flickering lightning he saw that Oma was looking at him and that they were still plunging through the forest.
“Are you okay?” she repeated. “You yelled out in your sleep.”
“I did? What did I say?”
“Um, dillhole I think is the word you used.”
“Huh,” said Patrick, wiping his mouth in case he’d been drooling, not that anybody would have been able to tell in the rain and dark.
“Nightmare?”
“Kind of,” said Patrick. “How long was I asleep?”
“A good dunt or so.”
The storm had quieted somewhat and the music thumping from the giant’s earpieces was a bit more down-tempo than the former Green Day–sounding song.
“We should be almost there,” Oma continued. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
“What do you mean?”
Even in the dark, the look Oma gave Patrick made him realize he’d just asked a pretty stupid question. “You mean running away—all this,” he corrected himself.