Secrets: Chapter 26

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Chapter 26

James had the taxi drop him off at a mall instead of his apartment. Why go home? There was nothing for him there.

He wandered. Almost all the people he passed were retirees loitering on benches, drinking coffee from the food court in their patchy outfits from better days. The air smelled old, like their lives were overripe.

James stopped in front of a book store. How long had it been since he'd read an actual paper book? Did anyone still do that? He worked at a library, so apparently people did, but he wasn't one of them.

James browsed mindlessly through the racks, not really seeing books. He needed to think, but trying made red rage boil up until he was in danger of losing control. How had he ended up in the position of weighing his mother's existence against his loyalty to his oldest friend?

But that was a false dichotomy that August was leading him into. In reality, there were other options.

Why not go directly to Donald?

Donald was nauseatingly rich and successful. To James, the amount of money required to maintain his mother's care was essentially infinite. To Donald, it was a child's allowance. The man could probably buy the hospital if he wanted to.

James had never brought it up because he hated to put his responsibility on anyone else. He had accepted Angela's assistance because she was part of his family, and his mother's, at least in a way. Even contemplating asking Donald was humiliating without end.

August's offer was different. She wanted something in return, something that only James could provide. Accepting payment was only natural.

What bizarre morality. How could it be bad to ask for help from a friend, and somehow less so to accept help from someone using him to break the law? When had his compass of right and wrong been magnetized to such a twisted pole?

James stopped in front a rack of "deep discount bargains," also called junk that someone wanted to get rid of. Familiar uppercase letters on the spine of a thin volume caught his eye.

The NSA, UCC and Donald Marsh—the Secret Underbelly of Information Science. The inner cover was subtitled, What the Internet Doesn't Want You to Know.

"Good eye you have there, young man."

James turned to find the shop clerk, a mustachioed character in an anachronistic bowler hat, coming around the counter to greet him.

"Do I?" James re-examined the book's cover. It was blank except for the title and the author's name: Stephen Cruze. Not at all the usual sensationalized conspiracy nonsense.

"Sure do." The old man leaned forward on a polished walking cane. "Great history to that volume."

"History? It's two years old."

"Lot can happen in two years, son. Did you know, the author tried to publish on the internet, and was rejected by every digital publishing company, even the free ones? And that when the author started trying to give the story away on forums and self-publishing sites, he was blocked at every turn? He was finally able to publish through that little-known paperback house. As soon as the first edition was printed and sold, know what happened?"

"What?"

"They went bankrupt. Only a few hundred copies of that book around. By rights I should be charging a premium, but seeing as no one wants it, be a little pointless."

James turned the book over in his hands. "You seem to know a lot about this, for a story that was suppressed left and right."

"I should. I wrote it."

James turned to stare. "You're Stephen Cruze?"

The old man laughed. "Course not. It's a pseudonym. The trouble I had trying to get that thing published, figured it was wiser if I was a little less known."

The book probably contained all the same non-information as August's scrapbook. The shopkeep's story was intriguing, but he could have made the entire thing up on the spot to make a sale.

"What can you tell me about UCC?" James said. "Other than what everyone already knows."

The old man waved a hand at the book. "Read it. It's all in there. And truth be told, I'm sick of the whole thing."

"How much is it?"

"Take it. Good to have someone interested, 'specially a young fella who probably learned most of what he knows from the internet." The man looked around and then leaned in close, even though the shop was empty. "Print books don't change once they're written. But the internet might be changing every day. Who knows when you'll go to find something, and the answer will be only what they want you to see. How would you know?"

***

The walk home was long and cold. The punishing bite on his cheeks and ears afforded James a perverse sense of being alive. Maybe he was developing a masochistic tendency—at this point, why not?

The book was in his pocket, though the way the man talked about the internet as if a shadowy they were behind it was a mood-killer. Nobody controlled the internet.

His phone beeped. He didn't want to hear from anyone, but couldn't quite abandon it. If something happened at Joseph Stenton, the nurses would try to call.

A text message.

hey. james. look, dunno what happened and guess it aint none of my damn business. just lettin ya know the falgarde invitational is at 6. that dumb girl keeps sayin not to bug you but i ain't never seen her look like this. its been weeks. same with kana. donald.

Donald actually calling him James said more than all the contents of the message.

The book was pretty short; shouldn't be hard to finish it before six.

***

Falgarde's stadium was nothing like the Colosseum: it had a modern look, all steel and concrete and glass, similar to UCC headquarters. Falgarde in general was more contemporary than Laurentia. In a world of magic, imagination and theme took the place of physics and financing.

There was a huge crowd out front. James wandered around to the side, a three minute trip owing to the size of the place. Only one person was at the participants' entrance, on the ground with bare knees drawn up.

"Don't just sit there," James said. "It starts in two minutes."

Casey slowly met his gaze. There was a red spot on her forehead from pressing it against her knees. Her bangs were disheveled, normally sparkling blue eyes vacant.

"You ... came," she said.

"I feel like beating the hell out of somebody. This way, I won't get arrested."

"You came," Casey said, and sprang to her feet. She took two running steps forward, then slammed to a halt on an invisible leash, looking haunted. "Uh, y'know, I..."

"Save it, or we'll be late."

"Oh, right. Right! Uh, let's run!" Casey reached out to grab his arm, then stopped and bit her lip so hard she was nearly puncturing the skin. "Sorry. Sorry. Uh ... this way..." She opened the door for him, then took off at a jog down the hallway. Without turning around, she said, "...and thanks."

"I'm only here to fight."

"I don't care," Casey said, between breaths and pounding footfalls. "Thanks."

James felt the acid trickle of guilt trying to burn him up inside, but his mind was too full of the book he had read. The tension and frustration bloating him like an overstuffed Easy Chair would be released if he could just hit something, and have it hit back.

***

The first match lasted less than two minutes.

An official informed them that the next match wouldn't be for at least an hour and that they could leave and come back. Jaleet had already disappeared, never uttering a word. As James was deciding where to go, a hand tugged his sleeve.

"Um, hey ... wanna go watch the other matches 'n stuff...? I could call Kana 'n the guys ... I mean ... only if ya want."

Casey stood with feet turned inward, eyes on the floor. Her fingers caught just the barest edge of his sweater. The guilt from earlier came hissing back up in a poisonous wave.

James rubbed his face with his hands. "I guess."

"Really?!" Casey's eyes shot up toward his face. "H-hang on, just lemme call! Uh, I can do it while we walk!"

James started down the hall. Casey followed, one hand on her phone and one still pinching his sweater.

This was the main reason he hadn't come back since the bar. At this rate, Casey would just barely creep back in the door to his isolation before it slammed again. And broke her heart, again. And that was the least of it.

With what James had read in the book, his picture of reality was teetering. If he sided with August, he was betraying his best friend. If he sided with Donald, he was turning a blind eye to what might be the biggest secret on earth, unlikely as that seemed in the rational light of day.

Casey's world should be a place where the most difficult thing was waiting for her brother to come home. And Kanade was already shouldering some sort of burden without having to worry about James as well.

They arrived at one of the upper cheering sections, standing room only. Casey finished her calls and texts and self-consciously relinquished her grip on his sleeve.

"Um, Kana's comin. Sara too."

"Okay."

They watched the matches for a few minutes in silence. James didn't really see. He should be studying the opposition, but couldn't care enough to bother.

"Um ... hey," Casey began, leaning against the chest-high concrete safety wall, holding the edge. Her fingertips were white. "I'm real sorry ... 'bout before. I didn't know that sometimes the only way to help is just to try not to hurt someone worse. Kana told me that." She took a deep breath. "So I get it. When you're here, you just wanna escape, right? I was the same when I came. I won't try to break that by bein too ... real. I'm sorry, so can we just be like game friends 'n do fun things 'n not worry? I promise I won't bring any of that stuff up anymore so ... please?"

How many times had Casey rehearsed that speech in case she got to deliver it? Certainly more times than James had rehearsed his own about how it would be better to stay away.

Whether he liked it or not, there were still people that he cared about. In both worlds.

"Okay. Let's agree to that for now. But I'll be watching to make sure you don't get too real."

A weak joke of reconciliation, but Casey's solemn nod left no doubt that she took it seriously. "I won't." She turned back to watch the match, looking exactly like a person trying not to look happy, worrying that might constitute a breach of trust.

Was this less or more cruel than what he had done to her before?

***

Even on a casual outing, Sara was every inch the Scythe; it rose up over her shoulder, a black steel sentinel. Her predatory awareness was as ubiquitous as her blankness, reinforcing the impression that something about her was just different. Aside from the swanky leather, aside from the mocha skin and the hair that fell in curls and the eyes of smoky jade, aside from the ramrod posture of a marine recruit in a wig, Sara was not just eccentric. She was—

"Heya, Sara!" Casey raised a hand in greeting to one of the few people for whom she had no nickname. Sara nodded in response.

James observed until Sara's eyes spun to him. He nodded and turned back to the stadium floor.

While pretending to watch the matches, he listened to Sara: her measured breathing, precise movements, metronomically steady heartbeat—there was no mistaking it. She was different.

"So, Sara," James said, concentrating on listening and feeling. "Where did you grow up?"

"New York."

"I know it's rude to ask a lady, but how old are you?"

"I prefer not to say." No inflection whatsoever. She didn't sound as if she preferred anything.

"I see. Any favorite bands or music?"

Sara hesitated for the first time. "I like Stars and Dreams."

"Aww ... thanks, Sasky!" Casey said, with a grin.

All it took to acquire a nickname of one's very own was to compliment Casey's band. Where had it come from? Sa(ra) + Scy(the) = SaScy = Sasky?

"Do you like to sing?"

"I am learning."

"You seem to enjoy a good battle."

"Defeating opposition is my primary strength."

"No doubt. Why don't you participate in tournaments? They seem right up your alley."

James knew he had struck on something when Sara delayed responding for several seconds. Her heart and respiratory rates increased very slightly.

"I cannot participate."

"Why?"

"My father will not allow it."

Casey was watching with wide-eyed curiosity.

My father will not allow it.

Just how old was Sara? To claim that her father was still in charge of what she could and could not do made her seem quite young. She didn't look less than early twenties, but teenagers were growing up fast these days. She couldn't be less than eighteen, the Shattered Land age restriction.

James brought out his cell phone and poked around to bring up the calculator function. "What's the fourth root of 130,321?"

"Nineteen," Sara said.

"Have you always been able to do that?"

"Yes."

"Fourth root?" Casey said. Her brow wrinkled up like a bulldog's.

On one side was Casey, who didn't even know what a fourth root was. On the other side was a girl who could extract the root instantly in her head.

Though, Casey was just as atypical as Sara in her own way. Disregarding her talent for Shattered Land—described as monstrous by two separate people who were qualified to know—she had also debuted as a professional performance artist in front of fifty thousand people to multiple standing ovations. Kanade was in the same boat, and then there was Donald Marsh, the genius who had taken his company to the top of the gaming industry overnight, surpassing the limits of what had been thought technically possible. And, of course, there was the redoubtable August Evans, international secret agent and deadly poker shark.

How had James come to be surrounded by such ridiculously exceptional people? It couldn't be coincidence that had drawn them all to the same place at the same time. What was the focal point around which everything revolved?

"Unrelated topic, but I'm surprised you can still go out in public without being mobbed by fans," James said, addressing Casey.

"Well y'know, ahahaha..." Casey twirled a lock of her hair. "Got my phone set to private now ... I mean it was nice 'n all, but I wasn't doin much 'cept answerin calls, so ... the admins put me on hidden. Same for Kana."

"Are you performing again soon?"

"We're gonna do some smaller shows next month, like for publicity. But we're gonna focus on studio stuff. We're not really doin it for ... y'know, money. We just like music 'n want everyone to like music too."

What had happened to the nearly infinite anger James had brought with him? Casey had drained it away as easily as it had built up. What kind of insane thing had he done, raging at her in the bar? Was he out of his mind?

Yes, he was. And had been for seven years.

"Hey! Kana!"

James looked up as Casey waved over his shoulder.

"Hey! Over here! Dang, girl, pay attention..."

"Ah ... sorry, little distracted ... again," Kanade said, making her way through the stream of people lining up for the concessions. "Um ... hey," she said in the general direction of James, without meeting his eyes. "Long time ... no see."

"Yeah," he said.

"Wow, nice hair!" Casey interrupted the moment with laser precision. "Platinum streaks?"

"Um, yes. Just a little." Kanade ran a hand through her shoulder-length waves, the raven black accented quite effectively by a few white-blonde highlights.

"Dang, I wanna try."

"Yours is already almost this color..."

"Oh. Yeah, but uh, I could do some dark or somethin ... is that like game only, or for real?"

Kanade toyed with some of the platinum ends. "It's real."

"Awesome! Oh man, tomorrow I'm gonna get brown on the way home."

Kanade watched Casey start tugging at locks of her own hair, trying to pull them around to look at them. "Are you having a good day or something?"

"Oh." Casey blinked and then flashed a smile. "Y'know, just another day at the office!"

Kanade smiled back. "Okay then."

They all leaned against the concrete divider, looking out over the currently unoccupied arena floor. Kanade interposed herself between Sara and James, leaning in until he could feel her breath on his ear when she whispered, "Thanks."

"I didn't do anything."

"You came."

The hubbub had notched up during the intermission. More people were crowding the walkways, eager for refreshment. James spoke up to be heard over the din.

"What about you? Here to watch? Even though you don't like this sort of thing?"

"It's ... not so much that," Kanade said. "Well, maybe it is. Since you guys made it this far, you should have your own cheering section."

"No golfclap," James said. "If you're here to cheer, cheer."

"Admonishment in advance, noted," Kanade said, and smiled briefly. "You're a mentalist, so shouldn't you hear either way?"

"On the field of battle with blood pounding in my ears and a fistful of carnage in either hand, I don't have time for golfclap."

"Yes, you're definitely a writer."

"I know, right?" Casey said. "Ain't he weirdly poetic sometimes?"

"I don't want to be called weirdly poetic by a singer and songwriter."

"That's like, different though, 'cause ... uhhhh ... right? Know what I mean?"

"Nobody does if you say it that way."

The three of them bantered. Sara listened rather than contributing, but at times seemed to be enjoying herself, in a subtle and hard to define way. After a while, James was so relaxed that it was easy to fool himself into thinking the moment could last.

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