The Song of the Orphans

by Daniel Price

  Jonathan shook his head. “That was Sebastian, another friend of ours. When the scientists took us in, they took away our old clothes. Heath was freaking out about his jersey, so Sebastian made him a new one. The kid loves it. He won’t wear anything else.”

  Hannah thought the shirt smelled a little ripe. “I’ll sew him a spare.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Just make sure it’s number 44, Ahmad Bradshaw. That’s important to him, for some reason. And don’t expect him to thank you for it. It’s just the way he is.”

  “Who were the scientists?” Zack asked him.

  “They had a weird name. The Azral Foundation, or something like that. They found us right after we arrived. Gave us a big sales pitch and then took us back to their fancy lab.”

  Zack bristled at his memories of his first six weeks on this world, of Sterling Quint and his ill-fated team of physicists.

  “We had the same thing in California,” he told Jonathan. “We thought we could trust them, but they were just holding us for the Pelletiers.”

  “Who?”

  Theo motioned to the segmented bracelet on the coffee table. “The people who gave us those.”

  “Oh.” Jonathan frowned at the golden remnants. “We never knew their names.”

  Amanda squeezed the crucifix on her necklace. She was still recovering from a long and stressful night. She was in no mood to talk about Esis and company.

  “Any triggers we should avoid with Heath?” she asked.

  Jonathan laughed. “Shit, I could fill a notebook. Don’t serve him yellow food. Don’t sing off-key. Don’t touch him in a way that limits his mobility. And don’t, for the love of God, say anything bad or wrong about the Beatles. That’s a shortcut to a very bad day.”

  Mia eyed him worriedly. “What happens? Does he get violent?”

  “No. He gets quiet.”

  He took another bite of his sandwich before playing a slow and pleasant melody, an untitled work of his own creation.

  “When we first met Heath, the poor kid was just . . . gone. He wouldn’t say a word. Wouldn’t look at anyone. He just spent all day in the common room, staring out the window at the pond and the swans.”

  Hannah cooed with sympathy as Jonathan continued his ballad.

  “We took turns sitting with him, feeding him, trying to get him to talk. Guess we all got attached to him. The one time the scientists tried to take him away . . . God, we went batshit. I seriously thought Josh would kill someone.” He raised an eyebrow at Zack. “Your brother could be scary.”

  Zack smiled wanly. “He had anger issues.”

  “I can’t lie. We didn’t get along that often. We had a lot of squabbling in the group, us being New Yorkers and all. But when it came to Heath, we were on the same page. It’s like he gave us something to fight for, you know? He was a piece of our world.”

  Amanda understood completely. She’d only known Mia for minutes before she realized she’d kill or die for the girl.

  “The scientists tried to win us back with gifts,” Jonathan continued. “Josh got a weight set. Sebastian had a whole gourmet kitchen set up for him.” He tapped the face of his guitar. “I got this beauty.”

  He changed his tune to a bright and peppy Beatles song, one that all the Silvers recognized.

  “So there I was, playing ‘Day Tripper’ on my brand-new toy. Suddenly I hear a high voice behind me. ‘You’re doing it wrong.’”

  Hannah covered her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  Jonathan smiled at her. “I turn around and there’s Heath looking me right in the eye, as calm as a Sunday. He says, ‘Your timing’s off. You’re too fast in the opening. You can’t rush the opening.’ I thought I’d gone nuts. That was right when our powers were starting to . . . let’s just say I was questioning a lot at the time.”

  He stared at the floor, lost in thought, his fingers moving slowly across the fretboard.

  “Well, that opened the lid. Heath was talking, but only about certain things. Movies, music, sci-fi, he could go on and on. But when we’d ask him about his parents, he closed up like a clam. So we kept it light. Talked about small stuff. By September, he was like a whole different kid, but . . .”

  The music stopped. Jonathan lowered the guitar and tapped a nervous beat on his thigh.

  “This one night, at two A.M., he just started screaming and he wouldn’t tell us why. We figured he was having a nightmare or something. So I took him to a quiet corner of the building and played some music to calm him down. We were only there a few minutes before he freaked out again. He said, ‘We have to go! We have to go! They’re coming!’”

  Zack tensed up. Mia reached across the sofa and held his hand.

  “I don’t know how he knew,” Jonathan said. “But he did. And while I was trying to convince him that everything was fine, the Gothams were on the other side of the building, killing our friends one by one.”

  Peter closed his eyes. Jonathan fixed his heavy gaze on Zack. “We were running down the hall when your brother found us. He had Carina in his arms but she was already . . . there was nothing we could do for her. The three of us were about to make a break for it when this big-ass guy with a gun showed up.”

  Zack nodded mournfully. “Rebel.”

  “Josh told us to get out of there,” Jonathan said. “So I took Heath and ran while your brother went the other way. He took Rebel on, head to head. Faced him like a goddamn warrior.”

  Amanda could see every crack in Zack’s façade. He was fighting like hell to keep from crying. It took every ounce of her willpower not to leap across the table and hold him, Esis be damned.

  Jonathan took a deep swig from a soda bottle, then rested his guitar against the side of his chair. “I brought Heath to the city,” he continued. “I was born and raised in New York and I thought, ‘Hey, how different could it be?’ Jesus. It was like a whole ’nother planet. While I was out all day playing songs for nickels, Heath stayed home in our one-room rathole. I don’t even know what’s holding him together. The poor kid’s lost everyone he ever loved. Twice.”

  “Not everyone,” Hannah reminded him.

  “Yeah, true. He’s constantly afraid that I’ll die on him. And he’s afraid of making new friends to lose. That’s the real reason he’s putting up a fight here. You guys have a long road ahead of you.”

  “We can handle it,” Amanda assured him.

  “I hope so, because he’s worth it. The kid has his issues but he’s got a good heart. He’s smart as hell.”

  He smiled softly at Hannah. “And just wait till you hear him sing.”

  Everyone took a moment to roll their necks and arch their backs. Only Theo remained still in the far corner of the room.

  “He knew Rebel was coming,” he said to Jonathan. “Does he often see things before they happen?”

  “You’re asking if he’s an augur.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s not.”

  “He’s not,” Amanda said simultaneously. “He’s tempic.”

  Jonathan eyed her strangely. “Yeah. How did you . . . what’s the deal with you and him? You’ve been eyeing each other all morning.”

  “All tempics are connected,” Peter explained. “They can sense each other’s energy, even from a distance. If Rebel had tempics in his group that night, and I’m almost certain he did, then Heath probably felt them.”

  Amanda fumbled with her hands. “What did he mean when he asked me about the wolves?”

  “That’s just . . .” Jonathan stumbled over his words. “It’s how his tempis comes out.”

  Even Peter was thrown by that. “He makes . . . wolves?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Tempic wolves.”

  Jonathan threw his hands up. “The first time I saw them, I nearly crapped myself. His wolves look like candle wax, but they move and act just like the
real thing. But he has them under control. I swear it. Those things never hurt anyone. They’ve just done a little . . . property damage.”

  Hannah took issue with his definition of “little,” but she kept quiet.

  “And what about you?” David asked Jonathan.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I assume you have a power of your own.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I . . .” He paused just long enough to unnerve the others. “Mine is either useless or awful, depending.”

  “On . . . ?”

  “It’s hard to describe,” he attested. “I’m better off just showing you.”

  He pointed to the four curved pieces of his bracelet. “Does anyone have any interest in keeping those things? Because once I’m done, they’ll be gone forever.”

  Hannah stared at the glinting metal, her mind flashing back to her last encounter with Azral. “I’m okay with that.”

  “It’s fine,” Peter said. He eyed Jonathan anxiously. “Should we . . . move back?”

  “No. You’re safe.”

  He flexed his fingers as if he were preparing for another guitar recital, and then brusquely flicked his hand. The golden fragments fell silently through the coffee table. The carpet swallowed them like a cloud.

  Theo sat forward, dumbstruck. “Wait. What just happened?”

  “They dropped,” Jonathan said with a sigh. “That’s what I do.”

  David traced a finger across the glass surface of the table. Not a scratch or crack.

  “Intangibility,” he said. “You turn solid objects into phantoms.”

  Jonathan nodded. “Except gravity still gets ahold of them. So down they go. Every time.”

  “Down where?” Mia asked.

  “Through the floor. Through the basement. Through everything, I guess. That bracelet’s probably a half mile down by now. For all I know, it’s falling all the way to the center of the world.”

  Zack swept a cautious hand across the carpet. “How is that even possible?”

  “How is it temporal?” Theo asked.

  “There’s still a lot we don’t know about time and matter,” David speculated. “Until tempis came along, scientists believed there were only four physical states. But tempis has proved itself to be a unique fifth, a substance that’s neither solid, liquid, gas, or plasma. Maybe Jonathan’s talent is a molecular inverse of the process that creates tempis, a chronokinetic phase shift that converts solid matter to an ethereal sixth state.”

  Jonathan blinked at him. “Who are you?”

  “The son of a physicist,” David humbly replied. “I could be wrong about all of it.”

  Mia looked at Peter. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

  He sat back in his chair with a pensive expression. “Yeah. We’ve had some droppers in my clan. It’s an extremely rare ability. These days, there’s only one person who can do what Jonathan does.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened. “Please don’t tell me he works for Rebel.”

  “No. He’s just a boy.”

  “Oh good. Thank God. No offense, Jonathan, but . . .”

  He waved her off. “I get it. Believe me. I told you my power’s either useless or awful. On objects, it’s useless. On people—”

  “That’s awful,” Hannah said. “They’d fall for miles. They probably wouldn’t die until they hit lava.”

  “Magma,” David corrected.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And they’re much more likely to suffocate,” he theorized. “Assuming their bodies even survive the transition.”

  “Okay, thank you, David.”

  Jonathan gave her a tight smile. “I’ve dropped some trash and a couple hundred roaches. That’s it. The closest I came to killing a person was last night, when you and I were up against the wall. But you found a better way to save us and I’m glad. It’s not something I’m eager to try.”

  “I wasn’t worried about you,” Hannah assured him.

  “Me neither,” said Amanda. “If anyone should have a power like that, I’m glad it’s you.”

  “Well, you’ve only known me an hour.”

  “Yes, but it’s obvious to all of us that you’re a good person.”

  Zack and Mia nodded in agreement. Peter shook a finger at the ceiling. “That boy up there would be dead if it wasn’t for you. You carried him for months and you did it with kindness. Now maybe Heath’s not the kind to say thank you, but if you believe in Heaven like some of us do, then you know that his loved ones are smiling down on you right now. They’re thanking you every day.”

  A trembling laugh escaped Jonathan. “Wow. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Probably nicer than I deserve. I gave you guys the Hollywood version of the story. I left out all the nights I yelled at Heath when I shouldn’t have, all those days I almost gave up. Sometimes I got so goddamned tired that all I wanted to do was ditch him at a convent and drink myself stupid.”

  He turned to Zack. “And there are other times, especially now, that I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I see Rebel again. If that son of a bitch ever comes at me or Heath, I won’t think twice. I’ll drop him straight to Hell.”

  Zack understood all too well. He too had the power to kill with a thought, and he thought far too often about rifting Rebel dead.

  Jonathan took his silence for a rebuke. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not so good after all.”

  “No. You are. It’s just—”

  “—complex,” Peter finished.

  “Complex how? We didn’t do a thing to your people. What possible reason could they have to kill us?”

  The Silvers fell quiet. It had been six months ago in this very room that Peter first told them about the coming apocalypse. In hindsight, they could have happily used another week or two of ignorance.

  Peter rose from the couch and cleared the dishes off the table. “Listen, you had a rough night. You lost a whole lot of blood. Why don’t you get some rest? Tomorrow, we’ll tell you everything we know. You’ll hear what we have to say and then you’ll decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  Jonathan balked at their matching expressions, an overwhelming look of sorrow and anguish.

  “About Heath,” Amanda said. “You’ll decide what to tell Heath.”

  SEVEN

  As Jonathan and Heath settled into their new life in Brooklyn, a curious death occurred on the other side of the country.

  Arnold Hyde Macklin was a staple of Seattle talk radio. The wiry old man had been gracing the airwaves for decades, with his smooth honey baritone and his slow Virginia drawl. The Arnold Hyde Macklin Hour was his daily pulpit from which he was free to complain about all the modern things that bothered him: feminists, Leninists, libertarians, pescatarians, men who were too skinny, novels that were too fat. Every morning brought a whole new reason to weep for society.

  And nothing infuriated him more than America’s increasing dependence on temporal technology.

  “Time is cruel for a reason,” he told his listeners. “To make us stronger and more resilient. But these days, we bend the clock whenever it strikes our fancy. Got a booboo on your finger? Go to the reviver and erase it from memory. Your precious poodle getting on in years? Goodness, better reverse the creature so you can deny the inevitable. This isn’t progress, my friends. Quite the opposite. Temporis is turning us all into dainty little children. Mark my words: these machines will be our literal undoing.”

  Though nothing could have persuaded him to embrace timebending, he’d eventually opened his heart to tempis. His four-bedroom house on Mercer Island had the most elaborate barrier safeguard system available: tempic gates, tempic safes, tempic doors, and tempic windowshields. His home became a fortress with the flip of a switch. Even Macklin could admit that was kind of cool.

  “We live in dangerous times,” he’d explaine
d to his listeners. “When it comes to protecting my home and son, I’ll take whatever help I can get.”

  One can only imagine his surprise on the morning of April 6, when he returned from a weeklong hunting trip, deactivated his barriers, and found seven vagrants camped out in his living room.

  Macklin barely had a chance to raise his shotgun before one of the intruders, a malnourished teenage girl, hit him square in the chest with a tempic fist. His body flew like a rag doll through the living room window, then struck the front lawn in a shower of glass.

  The rest of the morning was a muddled blur for Arnold Macklin, Jr., who’d been standing ten feet from his father when the tempic fist struck. The portly young man leaned forward in a rocking chair, staring vacantly at the rain while Seattle police came in and out of the house. Their investigation lasted fifty-six minutes before Integrity swooped down in a fleet of black aerovans and sent the policemen home.

  “Not a word of this,” Oren Gingold had told them. “If I see one mention of tempis in the news, I’ll wipe my ass with all of you.”

  The agents moved through the crime scene with quiet diligence—bagging evidence, waving scanners. No one took interest in the victim’s son until Melissa found him. She fetched him a glass of milk from the kitchen, then crouched at his side.

  “Mr. Macklin, Arnie, is there someone I can call for you? A friend? A relative?”

  Arnie examined the milk with dull, glassy eyes. “It was just me and my dad. There’s no one else.”

  Melissa patted his arm with sympathy. She knew from government files that he was of subnormal intelligence, just a few points above the federal disability limit. Maybe she could use her newfound clout to pull a favor from Special Services.

  “Arnie, in about five minutes our ghost drills will show a vivid reenactment of your father’s death. I don’t think you want to be here for that.”

  “I already saw it.”

  “I know.”

  “The girl hit Dad and then they ran. The woman said it was Dad’s fault.”

  “I’m sorry. The woman?”

  “Yeah. She was black like you but she had less hair and she wasn’t as pretty. She stopped in the doorway and said it was my dad’s fault. She said he shouldn’t have raised his gun.”