Chapter #62Two Chances at Escape by: Seuzz   Frank--and then Joe--and then Nash--and even Blackwell--spend almost half an hour explaining it to you. They can't put a number to it, or rank it as a high probability or a vanishingly low one, but there is a chance that you would be immune to the Libra spell that turns people into statues. "Maybe nothing would happen to you," says Frank. "And then you're screwed. Maybe it would do the same thing to you that it does to everyone, and then you're screwed again. But maybe you get turned into a golem, and they put a mask on you, but you're still yourself. You learn everything they learn, and can act just like them, and they can't get inside to see what's inside you. And in that perfect disguise, as one of them, you work against them. You'd track down the Libra, get it, and bring it to us."
"Where would you be?"
"Away. Hiding. Developing alternate plans." Frank's cheek twitches. "Praying that you're still yourself."
"This is a huge thing you're asking," you say, and your gut sinks.
"I know," says Frank. "And there's no pressure. None of us want to leave you behind. Every one of us--" He indicates himself and Joe and Nash and Rick. "We want you with us. We want you to be one of us."
Well, that almost settles you on refusing, for you'd like to be with them. But then you catch the double meaning in that last sentence. You're sure Frank didn't mean it, but "you, one of us," also means acting now as one of them. And if you're sure of anything, it's that any of these four ... magicians, or whatever they are ... would leap onto the book and set themselves aflame, if it stood even the tiniest chance of saving the others.
"I'll do it," you say. And there's no hesitation, no doubt, no regret, no second-guessing in your words.
But Frank glances over at Rick, whose eyes have been fixed on you the whole time. "Good enough for me," he says quietly. "Welcome to the Stellae Errantes, Prescott," he adds.
It's very quiet for a moment. And then Joe claps you on the shoulder, and draws you into a brief, manly hug. When he releases you, Nash marches up and smartly shakes your hand. Rick just nods at you from the sofa. James stares at you, and you see horror and tears in his eyes. But he slides up, and with a hard swallow shakes your hand.
You don't look for more congratulations, but there's a touch at your elbow, and you turn to find Blackwell behind you. "Mr. Prescott," he says quietly, and slides a clammy hand into yours.
And then Frank gestures you to follow him out the doorway. "We're going to leave in a few minutes, the rest of us. You'll have to stay here, and let them take you. Don't be afraid." He puts his hands on your shoulders, and stares deep into your eyes. "Never be afraid."
Something like steel slides up your spine, and your chest and chin rise, and though nothing comes out, your mouth opens in a wordless shout of challenge. Frank smiles.
And then his face freezes. He stares more deeply into your eyes, and gasps. "We will meet again, Will," he murmurs. "I see it. I don't know how, or where, or under what circumstances. But I see it. We will meet again." You feel a tremble run through his hands.
* * * * *
They make some light preparations, including a furtive phone call, and then gather near the front door. You linger near the library. All of them except James seem to know what to expect; your classmate, like you, can only watch nervously.
Joe turns, and gives you a thumbs up.
And then the spirit settles about the house.
You assume it's a spirit, though you've never felt one and have no idea what a spirit feels like. But surely this is what one feels like.
It's like an immense weight, and like an immense lightness, all at once. The air and light, without changing, seem to become very bright. The walls and ceiling remain close, but they seem to drop away. You raise your head and stare straight up, mouth open. You expect to see castles and battlements and pennants and trumpets; pillars and shining windows and polished porticoes. Higher and higher the thing--whatever the unseen vision is of--seems to soar.
Then you see it for what it is.
It's a vast throne.
"Good-bye Will," a voice says. "And Godspeed." You drop your eyes. The front door is open, and the others are gone. But Frank remains. For the briefest moment he seems clad in shining mail. The impression fades as he turns, leaving him in a jersey and blue jeans, and he walks out the door, and closes it behind him.
There is no noise, unless the ringing in your ears is a great fanfare, and the moment hangs timelessly for what might be an eternity before it fades, leaving the dingy and dirty abode of Aubrey Blackwell behind. The loss is crushing, and your legs wobble as you totter back into the living room, to collapse upon the sofa. You wonder vaguely what all that was, and how it could have helped the others escape. But you're all too soon distracted by the sound of shouts and running feet, and the crash of boots through a doorway. You look up as men in armor swoop through the door. You sit, unresisting, as one of them grabs you and slams something heavy against your face.
* * * * *
You don't know how long you'd been out, but you'd woken in a gently rocking van. There were some big men with you, still in armor and masks, but they'd said nothing and you'd said nothing to them. You'd just laid back and waited. Maybe it was still that surge of strength you'd felt from Frank, or maybe it was your own sense of resignation, but you'd felt very calm, and your heart beat quite slowly and regularly.
When the van had finally stopped, you'd been bundled through the darkness into a nondescript building and hustled roughly--despite your lack of resistance--along a white hallway and thrust into a kind of waiting room with a table and a chair and a mirror. That's where you are now, and have been for-- Well, there's no clock on the wall, but it feels closer to an hour than to thirty minutes. You've been pacing and sitting in the chair; the fretfulness you feel has less to do with worry than with boredom. But now--
The door opens, and a man in a uniform comes in. He looks middle-aged (around fifty), and his brown moustache is flecked with white. His hair is thin, but he's still got quite a bit of it covering his scalp. He is trim and holds himself erect. His eyes are grave, but there's a gentle note in them. "Hello, Will," he says. "I'm Colonel Lord."
You stare back at him. "Really?" Your tone is challenging, but not belligerent.
He holds your eye for a moment, and a small smile--equally mixing amusement and sadness--appears on his lips. "No, not really. But close enough."
He closes the door and indicates that you can sit, but you lean against the table, gripping it as you stretch your legs out. "I'm glad we finally have you here, Will," he says. "I've been worried. I watched that high-speed chase on the TV, and I don't mind telling you I was very frightened for you."
"Uh huh."
He doesn't react to your skepticism. He just holds your eye, patiently and kindly. "Yes," he says. Then he steps to one side. "Would you like to go home now?" He indicates the door.
Well, that does cause you to blink. "What do you mean?"
"I mean just that. You can go home now, if you like. Your family is waiting for you. Your father and mother, your brother. Caleb and Keith. All your other friends. Life goes on. So does yours. Or it can. You only have to choose it."
Now you do fold your arms, and glance between him and the door. "It's not real," you say. "They're not real."
"They're as real as you want them to be, Will. Treat them as real, and they are real."
"They're just masks, riding around on dead things."
"And what are you, Will, except a mask of flesh riding around on a skull?" There's nothing hateful in his tone; in fact, he sounds slightly regretful.
"That's different," you sputter.
"Is it? It's all in the way you treat people. And old habits are hard to break. It will be rather strange at first, I'm sure, but within a few days it will all seem quite normal. Within a few weeks you'll have mostly forgotten that anything has changed."
That's a crock, you think. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. You can walk out now. Your dad's already here to pick you up."
"You sent SWAT teams after me, and now you're just going to let me go?"
"Well, there is one complication."
"A ha!"
He actually laughs at your skeptical expostulation. "Your family will be moving. You stand a high risk of being kidnapped by those people you were running around with yesterday and today. We're going to put you in a kind of witness protection program. You'll have to move to a new city, but we can arrange for all your friends to go with you."
Your head spins a little in confusion. "Witness protection? You'd give us, like, new identities?" That will lead to the next thought. "Would you give me a new identity? New face and all that? A mask for me?"
"That's not necessary," the colonel says. "You've a nice enough face, and you can keep it. Just take the new life."  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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