Hadrian's Rage (27 page)

“You know, Dean, these questions aren’t working for me.”

“Why not?”

“They’re good. They’re really good, but they are not addressing why you and I broke up. They are not helping us deal with the reason you left me and the scar, the bleeding, festering wound you left inside my heart.”

“Oh, babe, oh, babe, I’m so sorry. I left you because I was angry at the world—and because I was confused within myself. I felt I had to be someone new. Someone I’m not.”

“And what is that?” Geoffrey is no longer looking Dean’s way. His left hand dangles over his left leg while his right hand cradles his face. His torso is slumped over while his upper back vibrates in a desperate attempt to combat his expression of grief.

“A straight man.”

Geoffrey looks up, stunned. “I don’t understand. You’re not gay but you’re not straight.”

“That’s right.”

“Because you’re really bi?”

“Yes, I’m bisexual, Geoffrey. It just turns out my first sexual attraction was with a girl. My second sexual attraction was with you. But this isn’t just about sex anymore. This is about love, and I love you. I have loved you from the start. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. I always said I loved
you like a best friend, but if that was true, then I’d’ve been more like Will, wouldn’t I? He never once reached out to Mike, and the one time they did have sex, Will was so drunk he didn’t even know what was happening.” Geoffrey almost laughs. Both men remember Will Middleton coming to live with them after that experience. He swore he would never go back to Mike, but then Mike had voc’d and shared the news that Will’s application for a child had been approved, his sperm had been matched with an egg, and a surrogate goddess had been found for them, so Will had a change of heart. He wanted his child raised in a stable home, with two parents, so after Mike apologized and promised never to try to seduce Will again, he agreed to return home so the two of them could co-parent their child—the child who would become Todd Middleton.

“All right,” Geoffrey whispers, “you’re bisexual. So where do we go from here?”

Dean smiles, “Why don’t we finish answering question eight and take it from there.”

“All right,” Geoffrey replies with a smile as he wipes his eyes, retrieves a handkerchief from his housecoat pocket (no wasteful tissues in Hadrian), and blows his nose. “But you have to promise that we move slow.”

Dean nods and smiles in agreement. “Slow it is.” His smile widens as he remembers,
Just like the first time we made love. Only this time,
he tells himself,
it is my turn to be gentle.

Four years have passed since President Elena Stiles was elected as our president, and our country is gearing up for another election campaign with the hopes of our electing a president who will stand by principles established by the founding families. What we don’t want, Hadrian, is another president like Elena Stiles, who, even though she may be the genetic descendant of one of our founding families, has been slowly whittling away at the four cornerstones of our great country. The legalization of heterosexuality is a blight on our country’s good name. With heterosexuals feeling emboldened, it is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain control over population. Het’ros have called for equal rights in marriage and for the right to be able to propagate without government control. IVF isn’t good enough for them. They want the “natural” approach. Well, we have seen what heterosexuality has done to our planet. The last thing our country needs to do is to embrace heterosexuals amongst our own, and yet, this is exactly what President Stiles is proposing. Even though she signed in the Anti-Strai Propaganda Law when she was first inaugurated, she slapped all good gay conservative folk in the face by changing the exile law for all but one form of strai behavior. Everyone knows strais can’t control their libidos and that any strai behavior leads to the one sexual act that impregnates a woman.

As well, President Stiles, acknowledging heterosexuality as a viable sexual expression is putting Hadrian’s female population, young and old, at risk. Have we forgotten the horrible attack? Although this attack took place almost thirty years ago, it should still burn indignation in the heart of every Hadrian citizen. The simple fact is, Ms. Stiles, we do not want heterosexual barbarians in our midst, which is why I, and all true blue Hadrian citizens, will be voting for Cooper Johnston come Election Day.

Cooper Johnston may not have pure founding family blood running
through his veins, but he knows what Hadrian wants and needs most. Good old-fashioned Hadrian patriotism!

Vale!

Devon knows that if the games Frank devised are going to have any real chance of success, Frank must be freed of his ankle restraint. Convincing the general to deactivate the program controlling the tactile tattoo, however, will take a bit of verbal jostling on the young lieutenant’s part.

“In order for these games to be as realistic as possible,” Devon begins, “my team cannot know where or when this attack will occur.”

“And you won’t.” The general isn’t giving in.

“Actually, sir, we do know the where at least. Frank’s team will have to attack somewhere in the three-mile circular radius of his prison zone.” Devon sounds matter-of-fact about this, but deep down, he is motivated by the desire to give Frank something no one else can—freedom from his restraint. “His team won’t even be able to go deep enough into the tree line to evade detection.”

The general’s head drops, his brow contorting in its usual manner when he wants others to believe he is thinking seriously. “Valid point, Lieutenant. I suppose this means Private Recruit Hunter will not be participating in the games because his ankle restraint is far too restrictive.”

“But, sir.” Devon is stunned that the general is actually considering leaving Frank out of the very training strategy he created. “You can’t, in all good conscience, refuse him participation?”

“What are suggesting then? That we confine the attacks to Frank’s—what did you call it—his prison zone? No, you are correct in your assessment. We need to think rationally about this and allow the attacking team to select a time and place to attack anywhere along our defense grid and, as you pointed out, that is a full fifty miles.”

“No at all, sir. What I am proposing is quite simple.”

“Well, go on, speak; I’m not a mind reader.”

“I propose you release Frank from his restraint,” says Devon, adding quickly and with hands up as the general’s hackles are beginning to rise, “only for the duration of the war games.”

Relaxing slightly, the general expresses some interest. “Go on; I’m listening.” He retains an air of aggression by crossing his arms over his chest.

Taking advantage of the general’s willingness to consider the possibility, Devon proceeds: “If Frank’s team can hit us anywhere along the fifty-mile radius of our defense zone, then my team will have to react quickly; we will have to be on the ready at all times and everywhere in order to detect where and when his team might hit, as well as discover the attack before his team can do any material damage. These games,” Devon stops and smiles; Frank’s idea was brilliant, “will force our men and women to consider the possibility of an attack every second they are on duty, and even when they are not, they will know they must be ready without warning to be called upon for action.”

“Yes, of course; I understand the pedagogy. I helped work it out with Private Recruit Hunter.”

You did no such thing,
Devon muses.
This is Frank’s idea, and you just reap the credit by being his commanding officer—prison ward is more like it.
Still, Devon knows better than to deface a senior officer, so he responds accordingly, “Of course, sir. What I mean to say is that, in order for us to reap the full benefit of your plan, Private Recruit Hunter needs to be free of his restraint so his team can act and think exactly like the enemy. No enemy, of course, is restricted, so Frank can’t be restricted. And having Frank out there is critical since—you said it yourself, sir—he thinks outside the wave.” Then, pausing for effect, he adds, “If these training games prove as effective as we believe they will, then you will be presenting this strategy, no doubt, to the commanding officers at all the other gates. We both know Frank Hunter’s genius, and if given free rein, he will provide you with excellent results, results which will no doubt elevate the Midwest Gate, under your command, as the most effective at repelling the enemy.”

“Yes, yes, you are right. Hmmm…”

“What is it, sir?” The general’s pause has an ominous air to it.

“I’m just wondering if I need to inform President Stiles of this decision, or at the very least, Judge Julia Reznikoff. She is the head of Hadrian’s judicial system and the one who sentenced—”

To cut one’s general off is a huge risk and a potentially career-ending
move, but Devon does so anyway. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, were you not given sole charge over Frank Hunter? Is this not a decision for you to make?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right.” Tapping into the general’s vanity proves useful. “Of course, this is my decision to make, and if you believe it is in the best interest of the games, then we must deactivate Private Recruit Hunter’s ankle restraint for the duration of the mock attacks.” And with that, Devon’s reasoning prevails and General Birtwistle is persuaded.

The very moment when the general turns off the program for his tactile tattoo, Frank is filled with a flush of joy and anxiety. Close to five years of his life have been spent chained to this one restricted area, but now he is free to roam wherever he might,
for the duration of the games,
he reminds himself grimly. Funny how one simple thought can so easily deflate one’s sense of joy, but Devon’s glee on meeting him outside his “prison zone” more than makes up for the dour reminder. Devon lifts him up, swings him around, and starts dancing him around parts of the Wall he had never set foot on before. Frank is easily swept up by Devon’s
joie de vivre
and is soon laughing and dancing freely.

Outside the Wall, deep inside the tree line, Frank has to contend with the grumblings of soldiers not used to any sort of deprivation. Their misery, however, fails to dampen Frank’s thrill. Not only is he outside the Wall; he is free to think and act as he will. His first move is to speak to Mid about the attitude amongst the ranks. Mid is the commanding lieutenant of Frank’s team. Mid is not her real name. Kimberly Westgate was dubbed “Mid” almost as soon as she stepped off the tram two and a half years ago when she first arrived for training. Not even her rise in rank could remove the “call sign” given her, so much so that the majority of soldiers only know her as Lieutenant Mid, forgetting she has both a first and last name attached to her person.

“Mid,” says Frank, ignoring her rank and treating her like a subordinate. Mid is not in the least bit offended. Lieutenant Rankin and General Birtwistle both made it perfectly clear to her that this was Frank’s platoon and hers in name only, despite the stupid laws pertaining to Frank’s sentence that refuse him even a “mock” rise in rank. When approached, informed actually, about her role in the games, Mid readily agreed, even though her voluntary
submission was far from required. The chance to work under the infamous “Shooter” (Frank’s call name) and learn his strategies, techniques—just to catch a glimpse of this man’s thought process is akin to being in Antinous’s bed for Mid—is all the enticement Mid needs to agree to retaining only the guise of her rank. As explained by the general, Frank will give her the orders, and she will relay them to the platoon. But Mid had other plans. As soon as Frank approached her the first time out in the field, she cut him off in order to inform the platoon of their situation since she intends to run things.

“All right, you jarheads, listen up. Geller!” The sudden sharp whip of her tongue startles the youth, who is kicking at leaves beneath his feet. “Stand at attention when I address you.” This curt reminder causes all the soldiers to stand even more erect. “We all know who Private Recruit Hunter is. You call him ‘Shooter.’ Well, out here, he is your commanding officer. Out here, you will call him ‘Lieutenant’! You will salute him and do whatever he says, even if it means digging yourselves a latrine. Is that understood?” When she does not get an adequate response, she yells out the question, punctuating each word. “Is. That. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the group of soldiers chime in reply.

“For the duration of the games, I will be acting as the lieutenant’s first officer, so don’t think I’m lower in rank than you. And if any of you step out of line, refuses one of Lieutenant Hunter’s orders, or attempts to pull rank on him in any way, when these games are over, you will have me to contend with.” Not a one in her platoon doubts the ramifications threatened. Lieutenant Mid is seen as a fair commanding officer compared with the rest, but when a recruit is out of line, she doles out severe punishment. No one in Frank’s platoon is willing to risk Lieutenant Mid’s threat of sanction.

“There,” Mid says to Frank. “Now I won’t have to play the fool and your leadership can run a lot more smoothly. I am your second lieutenant, sir. Please proceed to address your platoon.” With that, Mid stands to attention and salutes Frank. When, noting through her peripheral vision that no one in the platoon has followed suite, she turns on them and shouts in her most commanding voice, “Salute your senior officer. NOW!” The entire platoon falls into line and obeys.

Frank smiles, returns their salute, and takes a moment to offer Mid his gratitude. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”