ANOM: Awakening (The ANOM Series Book 1) (16 page)

“He
wasn’t just yelling, okay? The man was screaming in her face.”

“So
what? So what if he was?” Lara shrugged. “Nyx didn’t seem to care. She didn’t
strike an officer.”

“Nyx
was terrified!” Jeremy jumped to his feet and paced around to the back of the
chair. He was at the end of his patience. Lara wasn’t there, and if she wasn’t
going to believe him… He tried to take a deep breath—tried to calm himself.

Finally
he looked up, back at Lara. “Listen, you want a story for your notebook? Write
this down: I’m fourteen years old and I’m getting bullied in school. It’s this
group of boys and it’s every day and it’s bad. I mean really bad. So one
morning I sneak into my dad’s office, and I try to pick the lock on his gun
safe with a paper clip.

“So
my dad comes in and he catches me. I mean, I got the paperclip all twisted into
the lock, and he looks at me and says, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

“And
I look up and I just tell him the truth because I don’t even care anymore; I
say, ‘I need your gun.’

“And
he just stares back at me, hard. ‘Why?’

“And
I tell him again, ‘I need it to scare the kids at school. I need to make it
stop.’

“So
you know what my dad does then? He takes out his keys, right there in front of
me, unlocks the safe, and hands me the gun. I mean he puts it right in my hand,
and I’m thinking, ‘This is it. I guess I’m really going to do this.’

“But
then before he lets go of the gun, he looks at me, right in the eye, and he
says, ‘Bullies and cowards trade in fear. Real men rely on action.’ And just
like that he walks out of the room.”

Lara
still sat, silent, but now her eyes had softened. She didn’t seem angry—not
like before—and Jeremy could feel his own resentment slipping away.

She
edged back in her chair, “So what did you do—after your dad left?”

“I
put the gun back in the safe and went to school. And the first thing in the
morning, as soon as I walked through the doors, this guy named John Charles
Pierce pushes me into the lockers. He was the worst, and I remember he’s
standing over top of me, laughing. And his friends, they’re all behind him laughing,
and I didn’t do a thing. I just acted like it didn’t bother me. I didn’t say
anything, and I didn’t do anything. I just stayed down until they left. Then I
waited… until lunch. I waited for John Charles Pierce to sit down at his table
with all his friends, and then I walked up to him and I hit him in the face
with my history book as hard as I could—broke his nose.

“He
fell back in his chair, screaming, grabbing at his face, blood was everywhere,
and I jumped on top of him and hit him for all I was worth until someone pulled
me off. I got suspended for a week, and they called my dad to come pick me up.
He took me to Friendly’s for ice cream, and neither one of us said a word about
it.”

“Did
that stop it? No more bullies after that?”

Jeremy
laughed. “No. I got in another fight the same day I came back to school. Same
kid. But I wasn’t scared of him anymore, and that’s what made the difference.”
Jeremy leaned forward behind the chair. “And I’m not scared of Ellison now. You
can write whatever you need to write in your report. It doesn’t matter. I made
my choice.”

“You
act like you don’t care,” Lara scribbled a quick note on her tablet, “but I
think it’s actually the opposite. I think maybe you care too much. Like with
your father—”

Jeremy
pushed back from the chair. “I’m not talking about my dad.”

“And
why not? You keep bringing him up. He’s obviously someone you care
about—someone you admire.”

Lara
waited, letting that last sentence hang between them. Jeremy could feel her
watching him now. She was looking at him closely, studying his face, his
posture, how he held his hands, and Jeremy remembered why they were there—why
they were
really
there.

This
was Lara’s job. She was there to analyze him and report. Period. It didn’t
matter that she was an Anom; she was a psychologist first. At the end of the
day, she didn’t care about him or his dad, no matter how much he wanted to
believe otherwise.

Jeremy
thought back to those first months after his dad died. He went to see a
counselor then too. Twice a week, every week, and she always asked the same
dumb question—made the same demand: Tell me about your father. She would ask it
in different ways, just like Lara was asking now, but it always boiled down to
the same thing.

She
would ask. He would answer. Then she would write. That’s when Jeremy knew his
answers didn’t matter. It was all just part of a dance; a pattern of rehearsed
steps everyone followed because that’s all they knew. So he stopped going to
the counselor. Jeremy decided he wouldn’t waste the memory of his dad on
someone like that, and he certainly wouldn’t do it now.

Lara
said, “Do you think your dad would have helped Nyx like that?”

“Probably
not, because my dad’s dead.” Jeremy’s voice went suddenly flat.

“You
know what I’m asking. If he were alive—”

Jeremy
turned away. “I’m done. Sorry.”

“G-Force…”

Jeremy
stopped and looked back, already halfway to the door. “Listen, I want to call
you Lara. Is that okay? Just Lara. And I want you to call me Jeremy. I can’t—I
don’t want to be just a code name.”

Lara
shook her head. “I don’t think we can do that. There’s a protocol about these
things.”

“In
here then. It’s… It’s important to me. It’s Jeremy, okay?”

Lara
looked at him, and Jeremy knew exactly what she was doing. She was looking for
those big emotions again, trying to read him—trying to see under the words. She
would probably pick up on his anger—that much was obvious—but what else would
she see? Fear for what she would say next? Was that feeling big enough for her
to see?

Finally
Lara said, “Okay. We can try it, but
just
in here. Agreed?”

“Yeah.
That’s fine.” Jeremy turned back for the door.

“Jeremy,
wait.” Lara’s voice stopped him. “You know we’re not really done, right?”

Jeremy
answered without looking. “I know.”

Then
he opened the door and walked out.

It
was two o’clock in the morning, and Major Ellison was still awake. He didn’t
mind. He sat at the small round table in the corner of his room, staring
straight ahead, lost in thought. A single fluorescent was on, and it washed out
that whole corner of the room in a pale, cold light.

Ellison
sat at the table wearing pale blue boxer shorts and his white undershirt, his
hands folded under his chin. He had been sitting like that for almost an hour,
trying to think. He would catch hold of an idea and try to trace it back to its
source, only to get lost along the way. And so he would start again at the
beginning. And again—like chasing a ghost.

Ellison
reached down without looking and raised a glass of tepid water to his lips. He
had tried to sleep an hour ago. He got in his bed and closed his eyes, but
after five minutes, when he was still awake, he stood up, went to the sink, and
poured the glass of tap water. Then he sat down at the table.

He
looked back at the bed. In the shadows on the far side of the room he could
still see the outline of Mirror curled up under the thin sheets. It was two
o’clock in the morning, and Ellison knew he should be asleep too. Lesser men
would hear that word—“should”—and they would let it consume them. Not Ellison.
He didn’t care about “should.” He was awake, and it wasn’t a problem. It was a
circumstance—one he chose to accept.

Ellison
felt like the one man on Earth who could see the truth. There were no real
problems in life, only circumstance. He could either accept his current
circumstance or he could change it. It was that simple. Of course some
circumstances were harder to change than others.

*****

The
door to the briefing room kicked open, and Ellison marched inside. He still
wore his gray and white camouflaged fatigues from the training exercise,
although the whole uniform seemed in a state of disarray. A wide swath of mud
stained his right side. The back of his shirt was untucked, and somewhere
during the training exercise he had lost his cap.

As
he entered the room, he unslung his pack and dropped it against the inside
wall. Then he threw down his rifle next to it and stalked to the front of the
room. He knew his face was still flushed crimson with anger. He could feel the
warmth—the blood rising through his neck and flooding his cheeks and brow. He
tried to take a deep breath—to regain his composure—to stop himself before he
made another mistake.

Colonel
McCann walked into the room, an electronic tablet in one hand and his Army mug
in the other, and from the look on his face, there wasn’t going to be time for
pleasantries.

Ellison
drew himself up to attention and fixed his eyes on the colonel.

McCann
stepped behind the lectern at the front of the room. He sipped from his mug,
and then he tucked the cup away on a shelf inside the podium. He looked down at
the tablet, reading. Ellison understood it all. McCann was making him
wait—giving him time to stew—simply because he could. It was a subtle reminder
of rank. Petty, maybe, but no less effective.

Finally
McCann looked up, and he was ready to start. “You can stand at ease, Major. In
fact, why don’t you go ahead and have a seat.”

“Yes,
sir.” Ellison’s voice was crisp—measured. “With your permission, sir, I’d
rather stand.”

“Have
a seat, Stuart.” McCann’s voice was icy now. Ellison had heard it like this
before, although rarely when addressing him. It was McCann’s version of a
warning. Ellison knew as much, but he didn’t care.

Instead,
Ellison raised his voice. “Permission to stand and speak freely, sir?”

“Goddamnit,
Major!” McCann roared. “Is this really how you want to do this? Fine! Then let
me start by saying there is not one second of today’s exercise that you did not
invent some new way to screw up. You failed to lead your men for most of the
day, and when you actually gave an order, by god, it was the wrong one to give.
You’re supposed to be my Executive Officer on this base, and instead you’re
acting like some goddamn wet-ear recruit. You embarrassed your rank today, you
embarrassed yourself, and you embarrassed me. Now do you want to take your
goddamn seat, or do I need to keep going?”

Ellison
sat down in one of the chairs. He knew his mistakes. If McCann wanted to point
them out, one at a time, that was his prerogative as base commander. Ellison
could accept that.

McCann
stepped around the podium and grabbed the chair next to Ellison; he pulled it
around so they were facing each other and sat down. “That’s better. Now, Major,
in your own words, I want you to tell me what happened?”

Ellison
sat forward in his chair. “You saw what happened, sir. We received good
intelligence on the enemy flag from our Anom, so I ordered the team to start in
that direction. We got clipped by an ambush. My first thought was to hold our
line. I was going to push a man up and around their left flank to put pressure
on their flag. Make them choose—”

McCann
stared back. “And how the hell were you planning to do that? You lost two men
in the first thirty seconds of that fight. You lost your aerial support soon
after. How were you going to pressure their flag with a three-man team?”

Ellison
knew McCann was right, but he still needed an answer. “I’m not sure, sir, but
we were going to find a way. Adapt and overcome—”

“Christ,
Stuart,” McCann laughed, and all the anger and ice were gone from his voice.
“You are hands-down one of the best soldiers I’ve ever seen. It’s why I
insisted they make you my EX-O, but if you aren’t the most stubborn son of a…
What did you think was going to happen out there?”

Ellison
started, “If we had gotten around their flank—”

McCann
shook his head. “You’ve got to start using your Anoms correctly. That’s your
tactical advantage. The blue team has numbers. That’s their advantage. You’ve
got a team of freaks on your side. You need to start playing to your strengths.
That’s how you adapt and overcome.”

“With
all due respect, sir, I’ve tried that. I try to give them orders. I go over
tactical strategy. I treat them like part of the team, but…” Ellison’s voice
trailed off.

“Go
on, Major. Speak your mind.”

Ellison
swallowed. “They’re not, sir. They’re
not
part of my team. They’re not
soldiers, and that makes them reckless and insubordinate. If today was real— if
I ever have to give them a real order—if I have to depend on them, it puts my
whole team at risk, sir.”

McCann
folded his hands. “And that’s why we’re training, Major. It’s why I need
you
training them. You’re the best I’ve got, Stuart.”

Ellison
had heard this argument before. It always ended the same way, with McCann
getting exactly what he wanted. His base—his prerogative.

McCann
sat back in his chair studying Ellison, and for a long time he didn’t speak. It
always made Ellison uncomfortable, sitting across from the colonel with nothing
but the silence between them. He felt like a child sent to the principal’s
office.

Finally,
when McCann spoke again, his voice was still warm. “I want you to tell me the
rest of it, Stuart. Tell me what that business was after the exercise.”

Ellison
shifted in his chair. This was the part he was waiting for. This was the conversation
that mattered.

“I
got attacked, sir. Assaulted—”

“By
the Cross boy?” McCann said, filling in the story.

“By
him and Gauntlet both. They both came after me. I have witnesses.”

McCann’s
eyes narrowed. “And why were you reaching for your sidearm, Major?”

There
it was—that was the real question. Everything else—all the talk about the
exercise and the assault—that was just a prelude. Going for his gun—that was
the real mistake, and Ellison knew he would have to answer for it. At the time
he didn’t care, but now… Depending on how hard McCann was willing to push,
there could be real consequences—the kind that could ruin a career. But it
wasn’t at that point—not yet—and Ellison still had one ace up his sleeve.

He
cleared his throat and looked back at the colonel. The old man’s voice spoke
friendship, but his eyes said something else. Ellison could see the danger
there, hidden just under the surface.

Ellison
twisted uneasy in his chair. “I reached for my weapon to defend myself. At that
point I had already been struck once by G-Force, and I felt my life was in
jeopardy. You saw what he did to the door yesterday.”

McCann
turned his head to one side, and Ellison knew the colonel wasn’t convinced—not
entirely—but it was enough. There was enough doubt to give McCann a way out, if
he wanted to take it.

“Bullshit!”
The voice came from the back of the room—Loud—Familiar—Irish. Ellison turned
around and saw Hayden leaning against the back wall. He was wearing a gray suit
with a large crease running jagged from the left
shoulder down to the waist. His shirt was white, unbuttoned at the collar, and
his tie had been discarded along the way. His hair was pulled back in a
ponytail, and his lip curled over his stray tooth.

Ellison
wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there. Was he listening the whole
time? Why didn’t he see him when he walked into the room?

Hayden
pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, shaking one out between his
fingers as he spoke. “We both know you weren’t scared for your life. You got
knocked into the mud by some kid, and you were pissed, so you went for your
gun.”

Ellison
didn’t answer. His mind raced ahead. He knew Hayden must have an agenda— knew
he was leading him into a corner—but Ellison couldn’t see the endgame. If he
said the wrong thing now…

“Come
on, Major,” Hayden chided, stepping forward. “You really think we’re going to
court martial you over this? You don’t have any idea what this is about.”

Ellison
fumbled for an answer, “I have a right to defend myself when I believe my life
is in danger. Under directive 521—”

“Enough
of that,” Hayden cut him off. “You were angry, and you’re a racist—or whatever
we’re going to call people like you who hate people like them—and so you wanted
the kid dead. End of story.”

“I
have a right to defend myself.”

“The
only time you were in danger is when you reached for that gun,” Hayden said.
“And I’ll tell you something more, Major: If you had actually managed to draw
your weapon, Gauntlet would have carved you up before you pulled the trigger. I
can promise you that.”

Hayden
raised the cigarette to his mouth and lit the end. He took a long drag. Then he
rocked forward on the balls of his feet, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Between you and me, you’re lucky you’re such a coward. It probably saved your
life.”

Ellison
exploded to his feet, pushing both his hands out at Hayden, but the other man
was quicker. He was already spinning away. Ellison followed, his right fist
back and loaded for a cross. Then he saw Hayden’s hand tucked under his jacket
and around his back, reaching for a weapon, and Ellison froze.

Hayden
peeled the cigarette out of his mouth with his left hand as his right hovered
behind his back. “I can play the self-defense game too, Major. Or are we ready
to be honest?”

“Enough!”
Colonel McCann bellowed, stepping between the two men. “Stand down! The both of
you!”

Ellison
was breathless now; he pointed his finger back at Hayden. “Colonel, I’m placing
this man under arrest. I want him taken into custody and held on charges of
murder.”

McCann’s
face went suddenly ashen. “What are you talking about, Major? Whose murder?”

*****

Ellison
drank again from the glass of water as he sat at the table, still no closer to
sleep. He had been chasing the same thread of an idea, and now he was back at
the same knot. He looked down at the yellow legal pad resting between his
elbows on the table.

Near
the top, in black ink, Ellison had written a name: MCCANN. He had circled it
twenty, thirty, maybe a hundred times with a pen. The ink was heavy and still
looked wet on the page.

Ellison
had always liked McCann. He was a good officer, and in Ellison’s opinion, a
good man. He trusted the colonel, and that trust was born from experience. More
than that, it was
reinforced
by experience. With McCann, Ellison always
knew what he was getting.

From
the bottom of the ink circle around McCann’s name, a black line stretched
halfway down the page, and like the circle, it was traced and retraced a
hundred times. It ended at another circle, and inside this circle, another
name. Ellison turned the notepad around so McCann’s name was upside down on the
bottom and he could read the new name on top: HAYDEN.

Hayden
was, in every way, the opposite of McCann. They had been together at Fort
Blaney for two years, but Ellison still didn’t know the man—not really—and he
certainly couldn’t trust him. That much was obvious.

Ellison
turned the notepad again. He let his eyes drift over the page, running from
McCann’s name down to Hayden and then back to McCann. Finally he focused on the
black line connecting the two. This was the thread. This was the knot. Ellison
stared at the page. He knew the answer was there; he just couldn’t see it. Not
for himself. Not yet.