Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls (18 page)

I stretch my senses; the feeling from the box is glee? And sorrow? Odd. Making as if I am about to press a sequence, I clearly mark the emotions, find them shaping into words.

“This is the end…” the box hums.

I remember Abalone and the safeguards on her tappety-tap.

“This thing destroys itself if the sequence is done wrong!”

“Yeah,” Jersey says. “That's why we need to be kinda careful—it won't take any conventional tampering and the gal who knew the code series isn't exactly in a position to tell.”

“Oh.” I don't like the image that flickers into my mind. “Let me see if I can get it to tell me. There's one problem.”

“What?”

“I think it kinda wants to blow up.”

“A kamikaze key box? Give it up, Sarey.”

“No, Jersey, things
are
, but I read them in part because of their associations. That's why some things are null to me.”

“So if the person who associated with this didn't give a shit about dying, then this might not either?”

“Yeah.” I bite my lip. “I never thought that much about it before, but that feels right.”

“Do what you can”—he leans back—“and be careful.”

Again, I concentrate, shutting out Jersey, the room, everything except the key box. This I hold in my left hand, positioned so that the dimple is in the upper left-hand corner. When I feel again the presence of the humming, I lower a finger toward the upper left corner. The humming does not change, even when I abort the move at the last second.

Disgruntled, I sit back. If it doesn't care, how can I fool it into telling me? Most inanimates do have an ego of sorts; this, though, doesn't seem to. Or does it? When I first tried, it did seem to react; therefore, this behavior now must be a feint.

Tossing it onto the coffee table, I grin at Jersey.

“Got it?” he asks excitedly.

“Nope”—I smile, trying to radiate indifference—“and I don't even care to try and find out.”

Is it my imagination or do I hear a faint squeal of indignation from the box? Betwixt and Between tilt their heads, hearing it also. With an effort, I ignore the box, putting all my energy into projecting my view of our consensus universe, trying to force Jersey to see things the way I do.

When he rubs his eyes and stares up at where Athena is chasing a moth around a ceiling light fixture, I know I have won.

“What the hell…” he mutters, then, “You're doing this, aren't you, Sarey? Why? Why aren't you working on deciphering the box?”

“I have my reasons.” I smile. “Who cares about a silly code anyhow? Jersey, we can have anything here. Why are we sitting snacking in a living room?”

Jersey looks shocked and even Betwixt and Between look from the bowl of corn chips they are decimating. But the whine from the box is so clear that even Jersey hears it.

“You may have something,” he says a bit stiffly, noticing apparently for the first time that the stocky blue dragon on the table is no longer inanimate rubber. “What do you want?”

“I want to go home,” I reply, the longing in my voice stronger than I'd intended. “Look!”

I point dramatically overhead where a miracle has taken place. Gone is the ceiling, gone the light. Athena is sweeping up into the rope-webbed spaces within curving grey metal walls. A rope ladder drops and swings slightly, alluringly, in front of us.

“It's the Jungle, Jersey,” I say, “the best place I've ever lived. The Free People are away, I see, so it must be night.
C'mon, let's go. If we anchor the ladder, the climb won't be so bad.”

Jersey hesitates and I sense him trying to overcome my reordering of our reality, but he has no power over my homesick and guilt-torn heart. What had started as a ploy is becoming only too real and I can barely keep from climbing away.

I pick Betwixt and Between up, brushing chip crumbs from my shirt, feeling their claws anchoring them firmly to my side. Athena swoops and circles to my left shoulder. Jersey seems insubstantial, the Jungle more and more real by the moment.

“Coming?” I say, my foot on the ladder's first rung.

“Sarey, I…” Jersey is saying when a shrill voice from the table screams, “Up left! Down right! Again! Again! Again! Up right! Down left! Again! End.”

I quickly repeat the code. Jersey grabs his computer pad and hammers in the instructions.

Then suddenly the world is torn away from me and I slump in the annex, crying wildly, my hands still curled to grasp the ladder and climb away.

D
R.
H
AAS TRIES TO KILL ME THE NEXT MORNING.
I
GO OUT TO
the fountain to sit with Dylan's too-silent presence as has become my custom. I am sitting there, trying yet again to make sense of why all I get from this spot is a sensation of pain, when I notice something sparkling among the pebbles on the fountain bottom.

Idly, I dip my fingers into the water to fish it out.

A strong, humming jolt comes from the water. My arm bones quiver as if suddenly the bone has been stripped away and only the marrow remains. Leaping back, I stumble, crashing into my guard, who has rushed from her customary place in the cooler doorway.

“Sarah, what's wrong!” she cries, catching me before I fall.

“He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword,” I reply, cursing inwardly that I cannot be more precise.

“What?” she says, setting me on my feet and going to look at the water. “Something cut you? Hey, what's that?”

“No!” I grab her arm back from the water's edge and she stares at me as if recalling that I am mad.

“Easy, Sarah, take it easy. I just wanted to see what was shining down there in the water, that bright silver thing.”

I continue shaking my head, refusing to release her arm. “I do not see the hanged man, fear death by water.”

She wrinkles her brows. “You're saying the water's dangerous,
amiga
? Not something in it?”

I nod. She is close enough to the truth and won't just dip her hand in. Still, I try to clarify.

“The fateful lightning,” I repeat.

“Lightning?”

I nod eagerly and she puzzles for a moment.

“Lightning's in the water?”

“Bingo!” I cheer, trying to applaud, but finding my right hand still trembles deep within.

“Jesu Domine!
You could have gotten electrocuted!” she exclaims, realization spreading across her square, dark features. “Me, too. Come on,
amiga
. I'll make a call, then take you to see the infirmary and check that hand.”

Dr. Aldrich himself tends me. Miraculously, there is no serious damage, but he decides that I should not go on the interchange that day.

“Take her to her room and make certain that she rests.” He hands Margarita a paper envelope. “If she won't—or can't—give her these. Oh, and she'd better keep clear of that fountain. We don't want any other accidents.”

Margarita nods and escorts me back to my cell. While she
is helping me to change, a report comes over her radio. Much of the technical babble is meaningless to me, but I follow enough to understand that my “accident” is being explained as a result of corroded insulation on a power cable to the pump.

No mention is made of the sparkling lure, and Margarita has apparently forgotten it, her attention galvanized by her narrow escape from death and my part as her savior.

“You had no reason to do that,
amiga
,” she says, tucking Betwixt and Between in next to me. “I've not said a friendly word to you since you come here. I don't break my contract, but I'll keep a good eye on you now.”

Later, when I wake from a deep, dreamless sleep, I find a bowl of cut flowers brightening my colorless room. I don't need to read the note to know who has brought them.

I am certain that Dr. Haas arranged my accident, but I have no proof beyond my growing knowledge of her duplicity and awareness of her malice. I decide to not even mention my latest suspicion to Jersey. I prefer that he continue to see me as an “angel” he wants to help.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. The shock has worn me out and I sleep much of the time.

When evening comes, I have a visit from Jersey. He has showered and is wearing a brightly colored shirt and cotton trousers. From somewhere he has even dredged up a tie.

“Hey, Sarey, I heard you had an accident today.”

I smile demurely, choosing to emphasize my condition by not replying. I see the effect instantly. Jersey has grown accustomed to the chatterbox of the interchange. My silence hurts.

“Smile for me, honey”—he looks anxious—“big now.”

I valiantly bare my teeth and Jersey's lip trembles just slightly. He leans to awkwardly pat my leg.

“Aw, really scared you, did it, baby?” He looks pensive. “Dr. Aldrich says no up-time today, but we'll go tomorrow. I'll let you show me that Jungle again.”

I smile, too touched by his concern to refuse him the gratification of cheering me up. He stays for nearly two hours, playing chess. We are well-matched—his knowledge of strategy is excellent, but my memory is good and once I see a play I can use it for my own.

Oddly, I find myself comparing him to Abalone. An idea comes to me then, but under the dual impediments of language and the watchful videocams I restrain myself.

I am too exhausted not to sleep well, but I awaken early. As I am stripping to dress, my cell's door bursts open and Margarita races in. She tosses my robe to me.

“Wait,
amiga
, just a minute. You not know, but those horny bastards in the vid room, they get up early jus' to watch you shower.”

She stands on one of my oversoft chairs, bouncing slightly as she neatly duct tapes over the front lens. She does the same in the bathroom.

Jumping down, she says, “There. Now, I do my job and stay here while you shower and dress. You don't gotta be a skin flick star.”

I hug her and, seizing Betwixt and Between, head into the bathroom. My shower, even with the door open so that Margarita can make certain I don't do anything drastic, is
the most privacy I've had since I've come to the Institute and I enjoy it immensely.

“You like the flowers?” she asks while I'm dressing.

“The flowers, they were radiant with glory and shed such perfume on the air,” I answer, nodding.

“Good, I'm thinking, maybe I bring you a fish tank—a little one, since the big doctor says you not to go outside anymore.” She grins. “Yeah, I think I do that.”

Quotations for thanks seem insincere and so I hug her again. She escorts me to Comp-C and waves a cheery goodbye.

Fortified, I go in and don't even flinch when Dr. Haas hands me my beaker. A faint wink from Jersey warns me to be ready for the mule's kick but I find being spread out across a universe no easier despite his warning. Again, I come to myself sprawled on the floor of Jersey's sitting room.

“I'm not sure that whatever overdose she could concoct for me wouldn't be better than that, Jersey,” I say, struggling up, finally accepting his hand.

“You're just saying that, Sarey,” he assures me. “You like being in control of yourself. I can tell.”

“Control?” I meet his eyes. “I wonder if I have ever been in control of my own life?”

“Not of your life, Sarey.” Jersey doesn't smile. “Of you.”

“Hmm.” I am reluctant to admit that I see his point.

“Sarey, you never pressed for exactly why Dylan needed the ‘services' of my machines, but you must remember that he wasn't…” Jersey blushes, aware that he's on a delicate topic.

“Crazy? Or at least autistic?”

I see that Betwixt and Between have found a bag of French fries and concentrate on helping Jersey to see my addition to our consensus reality.

“Yeah, that. You know he could talk normally.”

“Yes, I seem to remember that.” I look at him and shrug. “I was pretty small when I left the Institute and they blocked my memories or something because I didn't remember him or them until I heard Betwixt and Between telling Conejito Moreno about Dylan.”

“Conejito Moreno?” Jersey shakes himself. “Sarey, Dylan's ‘accident' was probably pretty deliberate. You see, he drank some corrosive; I think it was a cleaner. It made a mess of his throat when he started throwing it up. He didn't die, but he couldn't talk.”

I wince, wrapping a hand around my throat, understanding the silence and pain whenever I found Dylan's memories in the inanimate. Betwixt and Between have stopped eating and large tears are rolling from their bright ruby eyes.

“Dylan killed himself?” I ask, gathering my dragons close.

Athena lands near, cooing and hooting softly. Jersey seems to see, but does not allow himself to become distracted.

“Yeah”—he pauses—“He did. I don't know exactly why he did it when he did, but he hung himself. They didn't have cameras in his room like in yours.”

Much makes sense now. I fight back my grief for the pale-eyed boy, for the man I would never know and soothe my wildly sobbing dragons. I wonder if he was permitted any other inanimate friends and if they weep for him in
some dark closet or if they were tossed along with the rest of the trash.

Jersey's face goes blank and slack for a handful of heartbeats; I know he is getting some message from outside of the interchange. Then he refocuses, notices for the first time that a rope ladder again leads into the strung reaches.

“They want to know if we're ready,” he says. “Shall I give the go-ahead?”

I nod and he fingers his screen. When he reaches into the chest this time, he extracts two plastic slips, much like cred slips except one is pink and the other a painful chartreuse.

“These,” he explains, “are access cards for an account—more accurately, one is the access card and the other is a dummy. Your job is to figure which is which—only the man who carried them knew for sure and…”

“He's in no position to tell,” I complete. “I get the picture. This shouldn't be too hard.”

“Make it hard,” Jersey suggests. “I mean, when you know don't tell right off. I'll signal that you're working and we can talk without making them suspicious.”

“Okay.”

I reach out with my inner hearing and almost instantly can tell. One card is dull and mute. The other chuckles steadily. A moment more confirms that the silence is indeed inertia and not a layer of concealment. The pink card is effectively “dead” the chartreuse is our target.

Without telling Jersey my discovery, I put the cards on the table. “Want to see the Jungle? I'll show you my hammock and tell you all about my Pack.”

As his answer, Jersey stands and grasps the ladder. I go up
in front to show him the ropes. He follows more slowly. When we get up to a Cub's platform in the lower reaches, I look down.

The sitting room is gone and Head Wolf's tent is pitched in its customary spot. Only the emptiness is atypical of the Jungle I knew, for even at the busiest parts of the night there would be someone around: sleeping, eating, screwing, singing softly.

I sigh with longing and spin tales for Jersey—carefully mentioning only those of the Pack the Institute already knew. He listens with fascination.

“Sounds like a primitive paradise,” he says when I pause, “a simple—if brutal—Law, a patriarch, survival of the fittest.”

“We weren't primitive!” I object indignantly. “We had lights and running water and even computers.”

“Computers.” Jersey's interest banishes his doubt. “How odd!”

“Not really.” I smile, remembering the soft, happy murmur of Abalone's tappety-tap under her fingers. “One of my friends was so good that she could find anything on the datanet—anything at all.”

My words are a challenge and I know that Jersey hears it, but I let it sink without pursuit. This complex is a sealed world, just like the first place, and neither Abalone nor anyone else will be able to see in unless someone opens a window. I've let Jersey know that someone might hear if he called—what he will do is up to him.

Finally, we climb down and relay the information about the cards. Then we are drawn back. When I come to myself
in Jersey's annex, I realize that I am still quite weak from the accident. Still, I have enough energy left to be touched that Margarita has somehow managed to trade duty shifts and is there to take me back to my cell.

Warning me to leave the lights off when I undress, she locks the door behind me.

Although I am bleary-eyed with exhaustion as I stumble into the cell, I do notice the small hexagonal aquarium on the table. A lovely silvery fish with a luxurious fantail is swimming lazily above gently shifting sapphire glass pebbles. She darts shyly into a green crystal castle when I put Betwixt and Between on the table, but peers coquettishly out almost before the trail of bubbles from her retreat has dispersed.

Betwixt gives a low wolf whistle and Between growls appreciatively. Chuckling sleepily, I settle the disgruntled owl on the headboard and go to sleep.

Morning comes and the chunky, brown-haired woman I remember from the day my head was shaved buzzes my door to wake me up.

“Hey. I'm Holly. Margarita asked me to guard in here so we can do without taping your shower.”

She looks vaguely embarrassed.

I smile and go off cheerfully. Holly doesn't get chatty, but I am still touched that Margarita was able to get her help—probably at some cost. Dylan must have made friends at the Institute, too. I wonder where they are.

Comp-C is empty when I arrive, but both Dr. Haas and Dr. Aldrich come in almost immediately. They are tight-lipped and dismiss Holly without a word.

Voluntarily, I take my place on the fluid plastic chair, even bending to assist Dr. Aldrich with the hookup. Conversation has become a pleasure that I anticipate and realize that I would miss if I left this place.

In my peripheral vision, I see motion from by Jersey's chair. Something troubles me, though, and I have just realized what it is when Dr. Aldrich stands back, giving me a clear line of sight.

Jersey is nowhere to be seen; Dr. Haas is linking herself into the computer interchange in his place. I want to ask, but can only gape. Dr. Haas appears to understand.

“Wondering where Jersey is?” she says with a sweet smile. “He won't be joining us—he was caught breaking one of the rules and isn't allowed out of his room.”