Wild Thing (23 page)

So every day, she tried to be perfect.  She knew it pleased Uncle – she knew she had to be perfect, to be good enough.  She
so
hoped she was going to be beautiful when she grew up.  She was strong, and healthy, and that was real important.  But somehow, she knew she had to be beautiful, too.
 

Chapter 23 

Sara turned thirteen and the year ended.  Approval for Harmon's radical proposal had been granted only weeks before, but Professor Sanders had been happy to withhold the news until her birthday, at the winter solstice.  Harmon was sure her thoughts would turn at that time to the summer solstice ahead, so it was with considerable relief he'd been able to gift her with the good news; long before she could start planning something unfortunate.

Her reaction had exceeded his expectations: he had never seen her so excited.  Which said a lot, just in itself.

Her face had opened in astonished delight and she'd leapt across the dining table to wrap him in a hug, much to his embarrassment and the amusement of the other three diners.

She was an affectionate little thing, and despite the need to maintain his clinical distance, he'd felt his heart warm.  He'd even hugged her in return, albeit a little awkwardly from his seated position.

The event had quickly turned into a surprisingly communal evening in the cafeteria, as he found himself having to explain to his co-worker, Simmons – and the last two of the human orderlies, the long-suffering Dwayne and Nerida – what had so excited Sara.  At first they refused to believe that Sara would be allowed to be present literally outside Godsson's cell during the annual lock-down, provided simply that she behaved well and did not attempt to disrupt things.  She would, after all, be only thirteen – 'and a half!'  But after laying out his rationale, they had all nodded, appearing to be genuinely impressed and agreeing it sounded potentially good for both Sara and Godsson.  Though Sara herself, he noted, looked annoyed by his explanation.  No doubt, she itched to point out that it was all real, not make-believe.

He would have a quiet word with her later to explain that
secretly
he was relying on her to support Godsson should the attack prove real.  It would fit very nicely with the stress induction system he'd put in place for her own hunting of the Institute's “invisible monster” with her bow and “magical” arrows.

Though heaven help them all if the creature were real.

Winter turned to spring, and spring to summer.  In just the last four months, Sara's body had begun to fulfill the promise of richer curves concealed within the slender lines of her adolescent frame.  So much so that another trip into the city was required, and one that again needed her actual presence: Harmon didn't wish to waste money on ill-fitting garments.  It would be only the second time he had taken Sara into New Francisco.

Today, Sara wore her favorite clothes – her huntress outfit – even though it was more than a little tight on her now and showed obvious signs of hard wear.  Harmon watched her playing with the security guard's “dog” while they waited for their cab to arrive.  The idea of her playing with the cyborg animal still made his hands sweat.  Suppose it activated a weapon from its arsenal?  It supposedly had armaments sufficient to deal with any individual here, even “Godsson” if it took him unawares.

Still, he could almost certainly just heal her, since Sara was most unlikely to trigger a response at that level.  And playing with the weaponized dog lessened the chance she would focus her attention on the Institute's walls and the act of leaving.  He had been most carefully conditioning her in this regard.  To her, the Institute was enough: more than a home, practically the world as far as she was concerned.  He had conditioned her to this disinterest for his own convenience.  Soon, though, he would need to undo it lest he end up with the magical archetype of someone scared to leave her room.

At last, he saw the yellow cab in the distance on the curve of road leading to the main gates.  He went to the security panel just inside the front doors, identified himself, and authorized the cab's entrance.  As the gate swung open he re-emerged, calling Sara as he descended the steps.

She looked up, surprised, then stilled in confusion.  She took a hesitant step toward him, then stopped.

He scowled.  While conditioning her toward disinterest to the outside world was working well, his Suggestions toward obedience had not shown the same improvement.  So, while one result seemed to support the effect predicted in that very recent paper from Spencer, her disobedience was evidence against it.  Either way, her recalcitrance was irritating.

'Sara!'  he barked out, letting a little anger creep into his voice.  'Come here!  Now!'

She seemed to come awake, but instead of running over to him, she first bent down to hug the “dog” farewell.  Harmon scowled.  She should not have been able to do that.

The creature followed at Sara's side as she trotted over to him, escorting her as far as the gravel area, then stopping.  Its red eyes seemed to stare knowingly, as its gaze locked on his.  Not for the first time, he wondered just how intelligent the cybernetically modified animal was.  Its stare was almost unsettling.  He was glad to turn away from it and face the approaching vehicle.

Sara bent down to it again.  'Bye, Faith!  We're going to New Francisco!  To buy presents for me!'

As she turned, straightening up in her overly-tight “hunting” outfit, Harmon noticed the disapproving look the cabbie gave her before swinging the car round in a swift circle on the little-used area.

But as the vehicle slowed, Sara flashed past him, angling toward it.  The day was hot, but Harmon went cold as she ran straight at the moving car, then launched herself at it.

She sailed in through the open rear window, bouncing heavily on the back seat even as the driver slammed on the brakes.  The car juddered to a halt, throwing her small body forward, onto the floor.

Harmon's mouth was still open in stunned disbelief as Sara got up from the floor looking annoyed.

He started to breathe again.  Gods! 
She can still surprise me
.

He moved over to the vehicle, noting that the driver's initial shock had quickly turned to cool suspicion.  'The girl seems mighty keen to get going.  You in a hurry too, maybe?'  he drawled.

'I am Dr Harmon, and the over-excited young lady is my ward.  If you're worried that our departure from the Institute might be… unexpected… why don't you check with them?'

With ill grace, Harmon endured the delay as the driver used his cab-link system to do exactly that.  Harmon fumed, but could hardly reprimand Sara for following the dictates of other parts of her conditioning.  Even if her sheer
exuberance
did sometimes exceed his expectations.

The cab swept south along the highway through the hills to New Francisco.  As Sara chattered gaily at the driver, or exclaimed in delight at various farm animals dotting the fields, or leaned out and waved at the surprised occupants of the occasional car they passed, it became obvious that Harmon's concern she led too insular a life had been unfounded.  This time he had the uncomfortable impression he wasn't so much taking her to the city as unleashing her upon it.

As they reached the Golden Gate, they both stared off across the steel-gray waters.  A minute later Sara broke the silence as the cab sped past the huge sign welcoming visitors to New Francisco.  'Where's Old Francisco, Keepie?'

'It's the same place as New Francisco, Sara.  There was a very big earthquake in ’44,' –
the same year you were born
, he mused.  'So much of “Old Francisco” was damaged – some whole districts destroyed – that after all the rebuilding, people started calling it New Francisco.  The older city used to be much more crowded, though.  Everything was more tightly packed back then because of all the extra people.'

Although she had asked, Sara did not seem all that interested in his answer.  Harmon stared out the window, remembering the Turmoil.

For those who believed in signs and portents, that year had seen a surfeit of them.  It had been a terrible time, the start of three unbelievably bad years.  The long-feared but never expected Big One; then the first deaths from the Red Plague, followed by the Second World Storm.  The fear that
this was it, the world really was ending
, had loomed like a vast cloud-bank on the horizon, overshadowing everything.  Hardly surprising, as the death toll grew to
two billion
people worldwide.

And then the Melt virus.  He shuddered at the memory of those appalling days and nights: the dreadful, oppressive fear felt by everyone, week after endless week, himself included.  Wondering day by day if you would be the next victim as you mutated into some repellent parody of a human being.

Then the final discovery that most of those billions of deaths had been caused, directly or indirectly, through the manipulations of one magically-active woman, Melisande d'Artelle…. It had been a bad time for humanity, but a terrible time to be a mage.  No wonder people's first reactions still tended toward fear and distrust.  Though things could become grim again soon, if Spencer's latest research in
Nature
was correct: that repeated exposure to a single magician really did make the recipient more
susceptible
to that mage's spells.  He winced, knowing the outrage that the discovery would provoke.  Even pedestrian healing magic would acquire a taint.  And the masses were foolish beyond belief.  Look at that whole business of global warming.  “Why didn't the scientists warn everybody
properly
about the dangers of climate change?”  People were fools.

He shook himself out of the reverie.  'Look, across there,' he said, pointing off to the south east as the row of shattered concrete pylons spotted across the bay came back into view.  'That's the Oakland Bay Bridge.  It was destroyed by the earthquake.'

Sara scampered over him to the left side of the cab, and stared out the window.

'Be finished in a coupla years,' the driver suddenly interjected.  'They're rebuilding it.  Taken 'em long enough, but.'  He lapsed back into silence.

Later, as Sara was lamenting the fact she had not been allowed to bring her hunting bow, Harmon's eyes met those of the cabbie in the rear view mirror.

'You often take her hunting in the city?' he inquired, ironically.

Sara pulled her head back inside, from where she'd been watching an eagle high above.  'No.  Uncle says I'm too young, yet.'

With difficulty, Harmon masked the dismay he felt as the driver went suddenly still.  The cabbie's eyes met his again in the rear-view mirror, taking a careful look at both of them.  Sara, pressing in against her uncle's side, smiled sweetly back at the driver while Harmon stared fixedly ahead.

The driver opened his mouth to ask a question, but suddenly seemed to think better of it and simply turned his eyes back to the road ahead.

A talk seemed to be in order,
Harmon thought.  And the sooner the better, judging from the driver's reaction.
 

Chapter 24 

Finally, the summer solstice arrived.  Sara's demeanor was very composed, bordering on mature, as she accompanied Harmon past all the military and FBI personnel.  He was highly conscious of her small hand in his as they made their way in the late afternoon, down the stairs to basement level two and then along the passages leading to Godsson's cell.  Harmon observed her closely.  It was two years since they had upgraded the security and she had been forbidden to come down here.  He had expected her to to be either excited, or avidly studying everything as she sought to identify weaknesses.  For once, however, she surprised him by behaving with a gratifying maturity.

For a moment, he wondered whether she could possibly have continued to visit? 
No.  Inconceivable
.

Briefly, he considered asking Shanahan to review all the security records anyway – until he pictured the laughter
that
would provoke: “She's even got
you
believing she can work miracles now, eh, Doc?"

It felt extremely peculiar to be introducing her to the agents who waited, alert and armed in the corridor outside Godsson's cell.  There was something more than surreal in seeing the child's hand enveloped in the armored glove of each of the heavily armed men and women, soberly shaking hands.  As usual for these more intense tri-annual episodes, the Director of the FBI, “Mr Smith,” was attending in person.

Although the man's lips had turned up in something of a sneer as he too shook hands with the young girl, thankfully he said nothing.

The three shamans, strangely, seemed to treat the introduction with genuine gravity, and he noticed that each examined her quite carefully with their Imaginal senses, before eyeing Harmon himself speculatively.

To Godsson, he had explained earlier that Sara had become so distraught that he had been presented with a choice of either sedating her, and permanently damaging his own relationship with her, or allowing her to be present to “help” if necessary, as she had three years earlier.  Harmon had simply laid out the rationale he had used to convince the higher-ups to authorize her attendance, knowing that his patient was well aware of the standard interpretation of his mostly-yearly battles.

As he had expected, Godsson, in contrast to everyone else, grew quite vituperative, calling him ignorant, arrogant, high-handed, and uncaring for his “daughter.”  Did Harmon not see the risk he took?  Did he not know that these were real, if abnormal, entities intangibly manifesting within the Institute grounds, judging from what Sara had told him?

Abruptly, though, at that point he had simply stopped talking, and Harmon was certain it was not because he knew he would be unable to convince him to change his plan, but because there was something Godsson did not wish to tell him.  Some dark secret he concealed.