J Bryan - Dominion

Lucia snorted out a laugh, then covered her mouth. “I don’t mean to laugh. I’m sure she is very organized.”

“I’m serious. She arranges my shirts from lightest to darkest.”

Lucia laughed again.

“She alphabetizes the soups.”

“You’re joking.”

He shook his head.

“Does she have kind of…you know…” Lucia gestured towards her own head. “Sickness?”

“I don’t think so. She takes a lot of pills.”

“Sounds like it.” Lucia jumped from the car and landed gently in the sand. “We should get back. Maybe we can organize the doctor’s soups.”

It was another two days before Ruppert could remember his programming sessions with the Captain and, with Dr. Smith’s help, eliminate the commands. Smith declared him a “free agent,” with his power of choice and self-direction restored.

“As much as I have enjoyed the company of both of you, I believe you’re ready to move on,” Dr. Smith told them over a meal of vegetable stew thickened with dried grains. “Lucia, do you feel safer working with him now?”

“I never worried about my own safety.” She cast a long look at Ruppert. “I guess he’s okay.”

“Thanks,” Ruppert said.

“Daniel,” Smith said, “I want you to understand something. Until this point in your life, you’ve served a dangerous master, but one that more or less protected you for your usefulness. You have no protection now. You have made yourself an enemy of the state. You must remain alert and guarded at all times.”

“Sounds like my old life,” Ruppert said.

“No,” Lucia said. “Your old life was a safe little walled suburb. You’re not a pet anymore. I sprung you from the cage, but now you’re out in the wild.”

“I think I’m liking it,” Ruppert said.

Lucia glanced at her watch. “Sunset. We have to get going.” She and Ruppert began to gather up their dishes.

“Don’t worry about it,” Smith said. “Scrubbing them will distract from my abject boredom.”

Lucia hugged the old man.

“You stay alert, too,” Smith said, looking Lucia in the eyes. “This is on your shoulders now.”

“I can handle it,” she said.

“If I had any doubts about that, I would not have put you in charge. Promise me you’ll return when you can.”

“I promise,” she said.

Dr. Smith shook Ruppert’s hand, then gripped it tight and looked him directly in the eyes. Again Ruppert was reminded of the intensity of Pastor John’s stare.

“The older man from your memories,” Smith said. “The psycho in George Baldwin’s office who observed you.”

“Yeah?”

“I am almost certain his name is Dr. Reginald Crane-the ‘doctor’ refers to economics, not medicine. I believe he is the PSYCOM agent in charge of your case. It’s his mess to clean up, after all. I sincerely hope that you will never find yourself in the same room with him again. But if that unfortunate event does come to pass, you should address him as ‘Duckers.’”

“Why?”

Smith broke into an impish grin. "At prep, Reggie lived in Eton House. Behind Eton House was a small duck pond. One April morning, a 6 ^th grade science class and two teachers-on a nature walk, you understand-discovered him on the bench by the duck pond, cutting class, official school trousers unzipped. He was in full John Hancock position, as one boy called it. They called him the, excuse me, Lucia, the 'Duck-Fucker,' which, by process of evolution, abbreviated to 'Duckers.' He hates it.”

“Was he actually fucking a duck?" Lucia asked.

"No," Smith said. "However, they said, the ducks were watching. Thank you, Daniel, for helping us,” Smith said. “Be careful out there.”

Lucia drove them out of the cave, again without headlights. There was more moonlight tonight, enough that Ruppert could discern the shapes of the rock formations among which they passed at an alarming speed. If he remembered correctly, it was almost half an hour until they would reach a paved road.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“North. It’s going to take most of the night. I might even let you drive some of it.”

“My own car? Thanks.”

“Tomorrow,” she said, “you’re going to meet Hollis Westerly. You really, really need to not kill him when you see him.”

“I won’t.” Ruppert thought about it. “Keep me back from him anyway, just in case.”

“Oh, I’m definitely doing that,” she said. “Please, Daniel. Don’t make me take a stab or a bullet for this prick. That’s going to be very hard for me to do.”

“I promise.” Ruppert leaned back and watched the stars pass overhead.

Ruppert smelled moisture in the thinner, cleaner air as they climbed north, up into the mountains of northern California. Lucia navigated the twisting roads in the early morning dark, while searching through radio channels for an alternative to the Dominionist preachers and angry talk shows that dominated the airwaves under the Department of Faith and Values approval process. She found a 1950s-style doo-wop station, sighed, and let it play at low volume.

“I never think to bring music,” she said.

“Try the satellite.”

“I tore out your uplink, remember? You can tell by the way we’re not being chased by Hartwell Services and Terror.”

“Right. Do I get any clues where we’re going, or what we’ll be doing there?”

Lucia pulled the car off the road, onto a dirt patch marked as a scenic overlook. She parked and killed the engine.

“You didn’t have to stop.”

“Look ahead.” She pointed.

Ruppert looked for a long moment before he could see a pulsing blue aura at the edge of the trees and rock faces ahead.

“What’s that?”

“Roadblock,” she said. “We almost drove into it.”

“Why would they have a roadblock in the middle of the mountains in the middle of the night?” he asked.

“Either they’re sweeping for smugglers, or they’re looking for someone specific. Hopefully not us.”

“What gets smuggled through here?”

“Everything. Drugs, books, people.”

“You think they’re looking for us?”

“I don’t want to find out. I’ve got a solid ID with me, but we don’t have one for you yet. And they’ll run your car, and then Terror will know where we are.”

“Great.”

“We should have gotten rid of it already,” Lucia said. “I was planning to do that at our next stop.”

“Let’s go back, then,” Ruppert said. “There must be another way around.”

“There might be,” she said. “Maybe smaller roads. We could check a map, but…” She gestured to the cavity where the satellite uplink had been. “I just don’t know my way around here. I’d kill for a phone right now.”

“You don’t have one?”

“You think I'm on the grid? A phone is just a portable tracking and listening device. I’m not paying money to bug myself for them.”

“Mine’s back at my house.” Ruppert thought it over. “What about those emergency call boxes?”

“They just link to the state police,” Lucia said. “Who we’re sort of trying to avoid right now.”

“But they hook into the grid, don’t they?” he asked. “Can you break into them?”

“Wait,” Lucia said. She opened her battered duffle bag, next to Ruppert’s Italian leather suitcase on the back seat, and removed the highly mutated remote control, along with a palmtop computer. “That might work, actually.” She connected a data wire from the computer to the remote. “But if it doesn’t, we’ll be telling them where we are.”

“What were our other choices?”

“Wait here until the roadblock breaks up,” she said. “Which could be a couple of hours, and they might send patrols down this way. Or we can go back and try to find another road, and get ourselves totally lost.”