John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

Steinfeld snorted. “The opposite. Cowardice. You wanted to be killed, man. And I understand how you feel.” He put a big, clumsy hand on Roseland’s shoulder. “But… if you desert us that way, you are a coward. You paid attention when they trained you. You are a good shot. You are motivated. We are undermanned. We need you, Roseland.”

Roseland swallowed, hard. The lump didn’t go away.

Across from him was an old subway billboard advertising a cocaine fizz. “ COU-COU! La Boisson De Vos Jeune Petiller! ” A swatch of light from behind them fell onto an old, dusty billboard photo of a young woman’s sparkling eyes seeming to fizz the same color as the drink in her hand. She was a satire of being alive, he thought.

Seeing, in his mind’s eye, her pretty blond head exploding the way Gabrielle’s had. Gabrielle falling…

What was that old Rickenharp song lyric?

Something like: Just bein’ alive is the Original Sin… And steppin’ outdoors is givin’ in…

But Steinfeld needed him. Torrence needed him. They needed him alive.

“Yeah,” Roseland said. “Okay.”

He looked down at the subway tracks, into the river of shadows.

The boat was heading downstream, back to the gendarme marina. The other guests had gone forward, were standing at the rail of the prow, praising the sleekness and speed and stability of the boat. But they held on to the rail for dear life, fighting queasiness as it went through choppy water set up by another boat.

Watson had decided he wanted a drink after all. He went down the stairs to the afterdeck, made himself a Scotch and water at the temporary bar set up there. He was alone on the deck but for the solitary silhouette of an SA bull, standing guard at the rail, staring out over the wake, his back to Watson.

And then suddenly the boy Jebediah was there. Coming from the bathroom below, Watson supposed.

Jebediah was staring up at Watson accusingly. “You didn’t think God would let you get away with it, did you?” the boy asked smarmily.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve been trying to talk to Rick Crandall for two months. He always took my calls before. He was always willing to see my father. Now he won’t see anyone, won’t take calls. And those videos of him. They’re fake. I’ll tell you what we think, my father and I. We think he’s dead. We think you killed him.”

Watson was unable to resist looking around to see if anyone was within earshot. The noise of the boat would prevent the guard from hearing. The others were well forward.

“It’s true, isn’t it,” the boy said, with his childish self-righteousness. “I can see it in your face.”

Watson took a deep breath. To think that once he had rather admired this pestilential little bugger. Well. This was a sticky wicket, as his father had been fond of saying. He sipped his Scotch, and then said, “Don’t be absurd. I can arrange a meeting with you and Rick, if you like.”

“You can?” The boy’s eyes widened.

“Quite.” Thinking: Can’t even stall this thing. He mustn’t so much as breathe a word of this to anyone. “And anyone else you’ve told. We’ll bring them along, have Rick reassure them.”

“It’s just me and my dad. He didn’t want me to tell anyone until he’d decided what to…” The boy’s voice trailed off as he realized he’d said more than he should have.

Watson looked at his watch. They’d be at the marina in ten minutes. There wasn’t much time. “Wait here. That guard is carrying the, ah, communications codebook for me. He always contacts Crandall for me, you see, it’s a security, ah, method.”

The boy nodded. One good thing, despite his precocity, he was still a boy. He’d swallow any technical-sounding spy gibberish you fed him.

Watson went to the guard at the taffrail. What was the man’s name?

Stuart. Jock Stuart. Big, muscular, balding fellow with bristling red eyebrows. He’d been hinting about a transfer to England.

“Jock,” Watson said. “Open your helmet.”

Stu moved the curved mirror of the helmet aside, looked at Watson. “Jock—I can fiddle you a posting in England, anywhere you like, but there’s something messy you’ve got to do for me. Not only will you get the posting you want—you’ll get a promotion. And even a nice bit of cash. This little thing you’ve got to do, you’ve got to do very discreetly. It’s a sort of purge, in a small way. Something only you and I will know about…”

Jock nodded. “Very good, sir. How can I be of service?”

A minute later, Watson returned to the boy, waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Hold on here a moment, Jock will explain the top-secret procedure for seeing Rick. Maximum security these days, you see.”

The boy did a poor job of hiding his skepticism. “But why the video animation…”

“It was a security procedure. Rick will explain. Actually—best you come forward with me a minute. See if we have time to arrange this now.”

The boy frowned, not quite believing Watson, but following him up the ladder. They went to the small crowd at the forward rail. Wind and fine spray on their faces. The others greeted them. Clearly saw Watson arriving with the boy. Watson looked around as if gauging the boat’s whereabouts, then nodded to the boy, pointed his chin aft.

Puzzled, the boy shrugged and returned to the aft deck. Alone.

Right, Watson thought, you wanted to see Rick, boy, you’re going to see him.

No one but Watson, who was listening for it, heard the faint sound of a cry, and then a splash coming from the rear of the boat. The others were a little tipsy, and busy drinking.

All but Giessen, who was watching Watson closely.

The loading dock at the lab was a drafty place. It was a chilly, damp evening, an unseasonal mockery of summer, and Cooper wanted badly to be indoors. He didn’t take to cold well. He fantasized again about moving to some place warm. Gibraltar, say. Only, in a warm clime the hot sun was dangerous for an albino. There was always something wrong with any place he chose to live.

Where was the sodding bastard who was bringing his supply?

Cooper hugged himself, glaring at the bugs, bugs dusty white as an albino, banging themselves against the single two-hundred-watt bulb overhead. The insta-platform was barren; the alleyway was empty but for a few bits of gravel. There was nothing to look at. One could only wait, growing more impatient with each passing second.

He wished he could have brought his coat, but they’d have noticed that in the lab.

For the fifth time in five minutes, he thought of getting past the checkpoint at the other end of the alley by sneaking out with his supplier, hide in the back of his truck. But he was frightened to try it. Frightened of the SA, frightened of what the supplier might do later. Might blackmail him, hold him hostage or something. Some sort of criminal drug dealer, after all. Capable of anything, he supposed.

Soon the Security chief would check up on him and notice he was not in the building.

Cooper tried to think of his projects—of his triumphs on two fronts.

Experiments in crowd control through activation of socio-biological triggers; development of the primary Racially Selective Virus. And then there were the “puppies.”

He was a bloody Renaissance man, a Da Vinci, is what he was, with these interdisciplinary triumphs, and no one appreciated it! Of course, he was only a partner on the Viral Program and the development of the subhuman work force, not too terribly hands-on. But he’d helped conceive it, helped guide it, and he was head of department. They were his projects too.

But not only was he underappreciated, he was in effect incarcerated. Had been under house arrest in the lab living quarters for weeks. It was enough to drive a man dotty.