Gathering Storm (8 page)

“If all goes well, I’ll
see you back here shortly and we’ll have a drink.
Questions?”

The man – his name was
Tarriman – just shook his head no. Archer started the tumbler
rotating and motioned the man to enter. Unlike the pre-experimental
version that had taken Elora Laiken to another life, the new
transport was equipped with a smooth titanium lining that remained
both stationary and stable while the tumbler moved around
it.

When the tumbler was
whirring so fast that it was no longer visible without mechanical
apparatus, Archer closed the door and nodded to his assistant to
enter the countdown sequence. As the panel slid to lock position,
his eyes locked with Tarriman’s. He’d sworn he wasn’t going to look
any of them in the eye, but when it came down to it, he couldn’t
treat the poor devil like scrap metal. The least he could do for
the guy was give him the respect of looking at him as he sent him
to his fucking useless death. If Archer had been a gambling
personality he might have held onto some hope of seeing Tarriman
again, but he was too well acquainted with the odds to let himself
go there.

The prospect of sharing
that drink depended on Tarriman making it to the dimension where
there was both a placeholder for his life signature
and
a version of Elora
Laiken Laiwynn whose anatomical makeup matched Stagsnare biology
and whose presence had not been detected earlier than two years
before, to be confirmed by the biolocator. Of course it was
possible. They just might have to go through a couple hundred
termies on the way to bingo.

Ninety-six minutes later,
the transport “docked” with a roar and a power surge before the
whirring of the tumbler slowed. Five people waited with eyes glued
to the panel door: Archer, three assistants, and Rothesay. It slid
open with a hydraulic-sounding hiss. Empty. The compartment was
empty.

Rothesay turned away
throwing Archer a menacing look like it was his fault and strode
toward the exit while barking out two words. “Tomorrow!
Again!”

Archer stood looking at
the empty cylinder, feeling as tired as a man who had never slept
once in his whole life. He hadn’t expected to see Tarriman again so
he couldn’t explain the sudden onset of bone-crushing weariness. He
heaved a sigh and gave a simple order over his shoulder, “Notify
the family.”

Number 17

By the seventeenth day,
Archer was in the throes of his predawn ritual, staring at the LED
light on his alarm clock and thinking about how he would go about
committing suicide, if he should ever decide to check out. He
wasn’t serious. It was a game, albeit a morbid one. Just something
to occupy his mind, a way to fill the hours of silence and
loneliness while trying to elbow guilt and remorse
aside.

Archer hadn’t had a day
off since the death parade began. By the time they reached the
eleventh guy he’d stopped asking their names. It was easier to
think of them as numbers. He worked harder at not making any kind
of connection with them. He didn’t shake their hands. He didn’t
look in their faces. He ran through instructions like an automaton
and pointed to the tumbler.

So far as Archer was
concerned he was no longer a scientist or inventor or investigator.
He was an executioner, the modern equivalent of a shirtless guy
wearing a hooded mask, carrying a nice sharp ax.

When number seventeen was
escorted in, he didn’t look up. He spoke the text of the
instructions by rote, in a monotone, and waved toward the machine.
Forty-seven minutes later the interdimensional transport returned.
Archer looked at the clock so that he could log the time, but
didn’t bother to turn around when the door hissed open, at least
not until he heard cheering and clapping. His head came around to
see number seventeen shuffling toward him offering the
biolocator.

Rothesay was beaming, no doubt imagining his
next promotion.

So Archer looked at number
seventeen, really looked. He accepted the biolocator with thanks
and verified that the light was indeed green. There was a match
between number seventeen and the first stop on his tour. The
first
stop.

Archer had thought it so
unlikely that Phase Two would ever be implemented, that he hadn’t
given much thought to how he would feel about the inherent
operations of a third mission. It was looking like he’d better get
with the program fast. Because that’s how things were going to
start moving. Fast.

CHAPTER 6

BLACK SWAN TRAINING MANUAL, STANDARD
PROCEDURES.

Section II: Knights. Chapter 1, #2

A knight of The Order of the Black Swan
comports himself with honor, dignity, and in accordance with the
wisdom of the guiding principle, that service is a privilege.

Glen had found that there
were a lot of surprising things about performing the day-to-day
duties of Sovereign. It didn’t take long to figure out that it
wasn’t a glam job. First, it involved lots of lonely butt-in-chair
hours staring at spreadsheets on a monitor. Second, when he did get
to interact with other people, it was usually under circumstances
that were unpleasant for the person on the other side of his
desk.

That was never more true
than in the case of disciplining trainees. He’d never really given
much thought to the fact that the Sovereign of a training facility
acted in a capacity corresponding to that of Principal or Vice
Principal in more typical schools. Dressing down a
seventeen-year-old when he could only claim to be older by the
technicality of two plus years? It went beyond feeling ridiculous,
past preposterous, and kept going right on into the sublimely
silly.

The day that he had to
discipline Kristoph Falcon and Rolfe Wakenmann, a.k.a. Kris and
Wakey, gave him reason to rethink his suitability for the Sovereign
gig. Kris was seventeen. Wakey was sixteen, but just three months
younger. The two of them had sneaked out of trainee quarters and
stowed away on a Manhattan-bound Whister, behind the back seats of
the last row. They’d gotten a quiet, smooth state-of-the-art ride
to the city and weren’t nabbed until they tried to disembark or
decopter or get off or whatever you call it when you leave a
Whister behind. They were promptly returned to Jefferson with the
promise of punishment, to be determined by the acting
Sovereign.

The next morning they were escorted to the
hallway outside Sol’s door where Glen was inside feeling like a kid
playing “dress up”. The trainee who had been assigned as
Sovereign’s gofer from eight to eleven knocked on the door.

“Come in, Mr.
Barrock.”

Glen’s morning boy came in
with a quiet dignity that seemed mature for nineteen. “Thank you,
sir.”

Glen sighed. “Look. I know
that calling me sir has got to sound as eff’d to you as it does to
me. So let’s make a deal. If I should be cursed by ending up riding
this desk in Excel hell permanently, gods forbid, then you’ll have
to call me sir. Till then, Glen is good by me. Deal?”

The other boy grinned. “Sure.”

“So what’s going on?”

“Two for A.A., si...” He
cut off the last consonant and smiled.

“What’s A.A.,
Barrock?”

“Sovereign Nemamiah’s code
for discipline. It stands for attitude adjustment. He says
consequences are the bedrock of civilization.”

The big burgundy tufted
leather chair creaked when Glen leaned back, the corners of his
mouth curving with amusement. “Does he? And what does discipline
usually entail?”

“Well, he’s old school
about some things, but he doesn’t believe in corporal punishment,
something about knights not hitting other knights, even
knights-to-be. Actually, there’s kind of an ingenious creativity to
his approach that scares the guys more than knowing what’s
coming.”

“Scared of the unknown. I
can see that. So give me some examples. I need a feel for
comparison’s sake, action and reaction.”

“Um. Okay. Let’s
see.

“Eidelman pretended to
stumble into one of the nurses so he could grab a feel. Sol made
him cross-dress for a day, complete with wig, makeup, and falsies.”
Barrock leveled a look and gestured with his hands in front of his
chest. “Big ones.” Glen snorted while he tapped a pencil. He didn’t
actually use pencils, but he liked having something to do with his
hands. “The guys had a field day with telling him how cute and sexy
he was. And, really, between you and me, he kind of was. That’s why
some of the guys call him Queenie Eidelman.”

Glen nodded, clearly
enjoying this. “So it’s the punishment that never stops giving.”
Barrock nodded. “What else?”

“Another time, somebody
made fun of Crisp when he was close enough to overhear. Called him
a fag. I heard what Crisp said when he came down here and talked to
Sol. He said he didn’t like tattling, but that part of his job was
to assist in making sure the young twigs were bent in the right
direction.”

Glen barked out a laugh.
“He did
not
say
that!”

Barrock’s ears turned red when he grinned.
“Yeah. He did, but he didn’t give any indication that he
realized….”

“Got it. Sorry to interrupt. Go on with your
story.”

“Um, oh yeah, he was
saying that it wasn’t the principle, but the pejorative, that a
knight could be a person of character and call him gay, but the
prejudice implied by the term ‘fag’ was beneath Black Swan
ideals.

“The Sovereign agreed. He
sent me to the library to find a book and bring it back. Then he
had me go get Wakey, um, Mr. Wakenmann – and he’s one of the two
who are outside waiting right now –he had me go get him out of
class and bring him to the office. He told Wakey that his behavior
was unbecoming of a knight in training and that it would require
restitution.

“Wakey said, ‘You want me
to pay Crisp off?’ The Sovereign said, ‘No. You can’t buy your way
out of dishonor. Restitution has to be made in deeds, not currency.
Then he gave Wakey the book, which was
Love Sonnets,
and a little spiral
notebook.

“He said Wakey had twenty
four hours to complete the task and return with both items. The
spiral notebook needed to have the names of twelve different poems
from the book and each one had to have the signature of one of his
peers. They had to confirm with their signatures that he’d read
them the poem,
slowly and with
feeling
. The Sovereign emphasized that
last part.

“After coming back here
for approval, he had to take the book and the notebook to Crisp and
apologize, saying that, ‘Love must be respected in all its forms.
That is a creed worthy of a knight. Difference must be respected
when it harms none. That is a principle worthy of a
gentleman.’

“The Sovereign made him memorize that last
part.”

Glen sat back in his chair
tapping the pencil on his thigh. “Sounds like it made an impression
on you as well.” Barrock said nothing. He just nodded. “So what
have Wakey and…” Glen looked around Barrock like he could see
through the door. “Who else is out there?”

“Kristoph
Falcon.”

“Hmm. Of what are they
accused?”

Barrock smiled at the
formality of the question. “Away from quarters after hours. Away
from quarters without permission. Misuse of Order equipment and
personnel…”

“English.”

“They snuck out last
night. Stowed away on a Whister. Got nabbed on a Manhattan roof pad
and were brought back here.”

Glen wheeled the chair
around and looked out the window for a couple of minutes, leaving
his gofer waiting.

Barrock was right. He had
to hand it to Sol. Points for thinking outside traditional methods.
Points for maintaining a climate of uncertainty for the wards. The
old guy had made an art form out of designer punishments, making
them fit the crime in deliciously inventive ways. Glen spun back
around.

“Send ‘em in.”

The two boys shuffled in
and stood in front of Glen’s desk in silence. He took his time
looking them over.

“So what was your destination?”

Wakey looked down at his
feet, but Kris looked Glen straight in the eye. “Strip
bars.”

Glen’s eyebrows shot up.
“You turn drinking age without us knowing about it?”

Wakey glanced at Kris, who seemed to be the
agreed upon spokesperson.

“Little cash acts like lube. Know what I
mean?”

Of course Glen understood,
but decided fraternization could unravel the illusion of
authority.

“
No. I don’t know what you
mean. Why don’t you explain it like the well-educated gentleman
you’re supposed to be?”

Wakey spoke up. “He means that there are
some dives in the thirties that look the other way if you have a
couple of big bills ready at the door.”

Glen nodded. “And how many
rules did you think you were breaking in association with this
illicit outing?”

Kris looked defiant.

Wakenmann said, “We didn’t count.”

“Um-hum. Okay. Tell you
what we’re going to do.

“For the next three months
you will report to the pilots’ station at five o’clock a.m., Monday
through Friday. You will spend two hours every day learning to fly
Whisters. When the pilots have signed off that you’re cleared to
co-pilot, you will spend your weekends shuttling people back and
forth to Manhattan. People who are
authorized
to go. You will not leave
your Whister unless you are on the Jefferson Unit roof pad.” Wakey
glanced over at Kris for his reaction. “Last, except for pilot
duty, you will not leave Jefferson Unit for three
months.”