Coming of Age (8 page)

He threw her a quick look and slowed down to a more reasonable pace. “No, that's okay. I guess … it's not easy to lose your teekay and get tossed suddenly into school at the same time, you know.”

“I understand. I'm sorry. Do you want me to go away?” She held her breath, afraid he would say yes, yet feeling intuitively she needed to offer him that choice.

“I guess not,” he said and managed a smile. “You came all the way out here to see me; I guess the least I can do is be civil.”

She smiled back. “So … tell me about life as a teen.”

And for the next half hour he did just that. They arrived at the park and sat together on a bench as he poured out the fears and frustrations of his new life. Lisa listened attentively, striving to keep her own feelings in check as his stories seemed to confirm her worst fears about the coming Transition.

Finally, he ran out of words, and for a few minutes they sat together in silence, watching the rays of the setting sun streaming through cracks in the growing cloud cover. “Thanks for listening,” he said at last, reaching over awkwardly to squeeze her hand. “There isn't really anyone I can talk to like that at the school.”

“Didn't some of your friends from the hive go with you?” she asked. “I thought Chase and Hari—”

Daryl snorted. “Chase is a furhead. Joined some stupid club and now he's too good to be seen with someone like me. And Hari—” His voice caught. “Hari tried to kill himself a month ago. They took him to a hospital, and I don't know what's happened to him since then.”

“I'm sorry,” Lisa said softly, feeling a lump in her throat. Hari'd seemed like a nice guy. Something inside her demanded she change the subject, before she could think too much about what that implied about Transition. “Daryl … the main reason I came to see you tonight was to ask you for a favor.”

His hand, still holding hers, seemed to stiffen a bit. “What kind of favor?” he asked cautiously.

She took a deep breath and braced herself. “I'd like you to teach me reading.”

“Me?” He made a sound that was half snort and half laugh. “You gotta be kidding. I'm barely keeping up with that myself.”

“But you could teach me the things you already know,” she pointed out. “You could lend me books and show me what the words are.”

He swiveled on the bench so as to face her, his hand pulling back. “You're not joking, are you?” he said, frowning into her face. “What do you want to waste time with reading for when the whole
sky
is open—” His voice cracked and he fell silent.

“Because I'm afraid of Transition,” she said. The words were harder than stubborn Nines to drag out, but he'd been honest with her earlier and she knew down deep a half-truth wouldn't do here. “I don't want to start school cold, without any idea of what's going on.”

“The rest of us had to,” he said, almost harshly. “Why should you get special privileges?”

“Why should I get stuck behind the other preteens my age just because my stupid body isn't changing?” she countered, dimly aware of the strangeness of that argument. “I'll be stuck with girls a year or even two younger than me by the time I get to school.”

“You're complaining about an extra year of teekay? What kind of stupid furhead
are
you, anyway?”

“I'm not complaining about
that,
” she snapped. “I—oh, grack,” she sighed, giving up. She'd never been good at keeping her reasoning clear in an argument. “Daryl … please help me?”

His face softened a little. “I don't know, Lisa,” he said, running his fingers over the hairs on his chin. “I'm awfully busy here—a lot of schoolwork, and I'm trying to earn some extra points on the work crews.” He grimaced. “At least that's one thing you won't have to worry about after Transition. You've probably earned enough points to go straight through medical training if you want. I wish I hadn't messed around so much when I was a preteen.”

“Any way I could help?”

“Don't I wish.” He hesitated. “But maybe there's something you
could
do for me.”

“What?”

He licked his lips. “Would you … give me a ride?”

“Sure. Where to?”

“Just … around.”

She got it then. “You miss flying, don't you?”

“Well, wouldn't you?” he flared, as if ashamed to admit such a desire.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I'm sure I will.” Standing up, she offered her hand. He hesitated, glanced around, and finally took it; and together they rose into the sky.

It was, at the same time, one of the greatest and one of the saddest flights Lisa had ever made. Even with her teekay wrapped around his entire body—which she knew from girlhood experience damped the instinctive fear of falling—he clung tightly to her hand the whole time. Drawing on her memories of flights they'd taken when he was her preteen overseer, she tried to duplicate the aerial maneuvers he had seemed to enjoy the most … but whenever she snatched a glance at his face she saw no pleasure there, just a frozen mask that could have fit a Nine trying not to be afraid or a Six trying not to cry. She tried everything she could think of, but his face never changed, and she finally gave up and returned them to the park.

For a long moment afterward he just stood there, staring off somewhere past her right shoulder. “Daryl, are you all right?” she whispered anxiously.

He stirred, brought his eyes back to focus. “Yeah,” he said. He took a deep breath, let it out as if expelling a bad smell with it. “Thanks.”

“It wasn't very good, was it?” she said. “I'm sorry; I did the best I could.”

“I know. It wasn't your fault.” He looked at his watch. “Come on, we'd better start back. I can't afford to lose points by being late.”

They started back toward Lee Intro, Daryl once more taking her hand. “If you'll tell me what went wrong, maybe I can do better next time,” Lisa said, a bit hesitantly.

“There won't be a next time,” he told her, staring straight ahead. “It's … not the same as flying by yourself. But it's too much like it.”

“Oh,” she said, not understanding at all.

They didn't speak again until they were in sight of the school. “You really want to learn reading?” he asked.

“Very much,” she nodded. “And I can't do it alone. I
need
your help.”

“All right,” he said decisively. “Come back on Saturday—I'll meet you in the park at nine o'clock. Don't let anyone see you fly, okay?”

“Sure.” Her heart was beating faster with the surprise of his answer; she'd expected he would turn her down after that disastrous flight. “I—thank you, Daryl. I don't know how I can ever pay you back.”

“Maybe we can figure something out later,” he said, his voice sounding too casual.

“Sure,” she said, getting the feeling she was missing something significant.

“Good. I'll see you Saturday, then.”

They had reached the outside door now. Daryl stopped and turned to face her. “Good night, Lisa,” he said; and with the briefest hesitation leaned down and kissed her awkwardly on the lips. Before she could recover from her surprise he was gone.

For a moment she stared at the door, feeling the tingle of his kiss on her lips.
What was
that
all about?
she wondered. She'd heard about things like that from some of the other preteens, but the whole idea had always seemed silly and even a little bit repulsive to her.

Still …Turning, she headed down the sidewalk in the direction of the Paris Introductory School Daryl had mentioned. If suffering through a few scratchy kisses was the price she had to pay to learn reading, she was willing to do so. She just hoped that was
all
he wanted; the rumors about what came after kissing were positively grisly.

Two blocks later, well out of sight of Lee Intro, she lifted from the ground and headed for home.

“I
SPEAK THE TRUTH,”
the Prophet Omega said solemnly, hands raised palm outward to the group of kids sitting cross-legged in the sun-drenched glen.

“The Truth,” they repeated in unison.

“Search your souls for that which is impure,” Omega said. He stole a glance upward as a small shadow passed over them: four more kids arriving, from the direction of Tweenriver and Ridge Harbor. “Replace the impure with the Truth.”

“The Truth.”

“To remember my words is to learn; to learn is to grow; to grow is to rise above Transition. The Truth shall set you free.”

“The Truth.”

“Meditate, all of you, on the Truth.”

“The Truth,” they repeated one last time and fell silent, their heads bowed.

Omega brought his hands together, checked his watch. He'd timed things well; there would be just enough time to turn the initiates back over to an acolyte and get back to the tabernacle. “Amen,” he intoned.

“Amen.”

There was a rustling as the kids got to their feet and glanced around, surreptitiously easing the kinks out of their muscles. Omega looked beyond the circle and nodded, and the preteen acolyte standing silently in the shadows came forward. “Heirs of the Truth,” she said, her voice causing them to turn. “You have glimpsed the future as it can be, the inner power that can survive even the dark evil of Transition. Now you must show your sincerity, for the deeds of the body mirror the Truth in the soul—”

Omega didn't wait to hear the rest of the spiel but slipped away through the trees to the side of the glen and began working his way back up the small ridge that separated Initiate Grove from the main part of the site. He could trust Camila to do a good job; unlike some of the other senior acolytes, she was genuinely and uncynically sold on the work ethic he preached, and was therefore the best person to sell it to new converts.

He stopped for a moment as he topped the rise, ostensibly adjusting his royal blue robe but actually admiring his handiwork. By anyone's standards it was an impressive sight. Nestled halfway up one of the most majestic peaks in this part of the Tessellate Mountains, the site of the future Temple of Truth was a raw wound in the tree-covered stone. Flitting around it were perhaps two hundred kids, teeking chunks of the stone out of the mountainside and taking it to a dump site two ridges away where it wouldn't mar the natural beauty of the valley below. They were working with a will, digging out the chunks as if their future happiness depended on it.
The work ethic is such a useful tool,
he thought with satisfaction.

The tabernacle—a large tent divided by internal partitions into various smaller rooms—was set up almost directly beneath the temple site. Omega had ordered it put there as a mark of trust in his followers' skill with the loose boulders overhead, a little touch that had encouraged them to be careful to catch even the gravel the digging generated. Omega's quarters were in the tabernacle's rear, accessible through either the main part of the tent or a private entrance. Entering via the latter, he quickly changed from his blue robe to a dazzling white one and donned an elaborately embroidered, gilt-edged stole that had once belonged to a genuine priest. Exactly on time, he stepped out into the main meeting room.

A small crowd of kids waited for him there, grouped near the far end under the watchful eyes of two senior acolytes. Omega raised a hand in the Sign of Truth and intoned a few appropriate words of blessing before walking over to the “confessional,” two chairs facing each other surrounded by a gauzy curtain.

Senior Acolyte Axel Schu was waiting there for him. “Good afternoon, O Prophet Omega,” he said, the slightest twitch of his lip showing how seriously he took the title. “A full quota of confessors for you today, mostly from Ridge Harbor and Barona.”

Omega nodded. Saturdays were always like this, as kids who were too far away to come on weekday evenings flocked in by the dozens. Of course, the extra workers were good to have, but having to spend a full three hours in confession was a pain in the butt and usually a waste of time besides. “Fine,” he told Axel. Stepping into the gauze booth, he settled himself in the fancier of the two chairs and composed his brain and face for the task ahead.

It wasn't really anything like work, of course—he'd seen to that when he'd set the whole thing up—and the first four confessions went by as smoothly as puréed oatmeal. Unlike the standard Catholic confession, Omega's concerned itself less with personal shortcomings and more with the way the world around the confessor either demonstrated or denied the “Truth” he taught. That particular emphasis was always harmless and occasionally netted him a nugget or two of useful information.

Today turned out to be one of those times.

The fifth confessor—a police righthand from Ridge Harbor—had hardly begun when he dropped a small bombshell into his monologue: “… and they think a fagin has kidnapped him.”

Jerking his mind back to full attention. Omega quickly replayed his short-term memory. A child taken from a park in broad daylight? Unbelievable … and dangerous. “It is evil to steal children away, to hide them from those who may show them the Truth,” he put in solemnly. “Do the police know who is responsible for such a foul act?”

The preteen shook his head. “Detective First Tirrell is still talking to people who knew him.”

Tirrell. Great. Omega felt a gentle shiver work its way up his back. Putting Tirrell in charge meant Ridge Harbor was deadly serious about getting this fagin … and he knew from experience how often intense investigations turned up the wrong thing entirely. So far his cult had largely escaped official notice, and it would be the height of unfairness for him to get caught in a net meant for someone else. He would have to find some way to caution his pupils to be extra discreet without having to tell them why it was necessary.