A Season For Slaughter Part 24

"Well, I could tell ya," he replied in a slow, laconic tone. "But then I'd also have to hit the big red switch here that opens up the cargo doors... and that would purely drop the pod right out the bottom of the airplane again. And y'know, those things. .h.i.t the ground a lot harder when there are no chutes attached. Tell ya what-why don't we just say you were picked up by the Blue Fairy... ?"

"I get the picture," I said. "Thanks."

"Yer welcome, I'm sure. Over and out."

Siegel looked at me, eyes wide. So did the others. I returned their curious stares with a noncommittal shrug and a grim shake of my head. "I dunno. Your guess is as good as mine-"

"Boy!" said Siegel, with exaggerated respect. "Those fairies can be mean!"

-actually, my guess was a whole lot better than theirs. I just wasn't going to voice my suspicions aloud.

We fell silent then, each of us lost in our own private thoughts.

Mostly, we thought about Reilly and Willig and Locke. Valada began weeping softly, Lopez put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close; she comforted Valada the best she could, even though she still looked p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l herself. Siegel just curled up inside the sh.e.l.l of his own frustration and sulked: I thought about other things. I'd handle my grieving later. In private.

There was a thing I'd learned in the Mode Training. What you resist, persists. If you don't let yourself experience something, you stay stuck in it. You drag it around with you. It's incomplete. If you let yourself experience it-truly experience it, not just take it out and process it and play with it and tell the story one more time, but truly experience it-then all the energy you've invested in it is discharged, and the whole thing is finally over and done with. It stops chewing at your consciousness and just disappears into the past.

I didn't understand what Foreman was talking about for the longest time, but when I asked him to explain it, he just said not to worry. "In life, understanding is the b.o.o.by prize. Just sit with it-" he said. "You'll get it."

So I sat. Later we did an exercise, a process, an exorcism, call it what you want.

Whatever. There wasn't any wrong way to do it. All you had to do was be in the room and listen to the instructions. The instructions were to think about all the terrible things that everybody had ever done to you. Think about all the betrayals, all the frustrations, all the rejections, all the manipulations and con games, all the times you'd been dominated and controlled and abused-all the times you'd been beaten up and beaten down.

Foreman and his a.s.sistants had prowled up and down the aisles, whispering, cajoling, stroking, murmuring, suggesting, prodding. "Who hurt you?

"Who struck you? Who injured you? Who knocked you down and held you down and made you cry? Remember the moment? Remember what it felt like?

"Think about the employer who made all those promises to you, the one who always knew all the right things to say, the one who turned out to be a hypocrite and a bully and a vindictive coward-wasn't he just the same as the school-yard bully who used to hara.s.s you every day, picking on you and teasing you until you didn't even want to get up in the morning and go to school? Remember what your crime was?

You were funny-looking or stupid or wearing the wrong clothes or just not one of the in-crowd "Oh, here's one. Think about your lover. The one who hurt you so badly. The one who left you for someone else because he or she liked f.u.c.king someone else more than he or she liked f.u.c.king you. Think about all the people who have left you.

Think about all the times you never got a chance to say good-bye-or get even.

"And what about your mother and father? Don't you have some feelings about them? Some unfinished business perhaps? Some anger or grief? Something you still can't forgive?

"Think about all the crimes that have been committed against you-and all the crimes you've committed in response. You've been holding all that anger in for how many years now? And when it does come out, doesn't it explode in your face?

Doesn't it come out at the wrong time? Isn't it always aimed at the wrong person?

You know why? Because you've been suppressing it all your life-all the anger, all the fear, all the grief "Do you know how much energy it takes to hold it in? It takes all the energy you've got. It takes your whole life. Well, right now, I'm telling you to let it out.

That's right. Let the tears flow. Let them come. Let it all come up. Just let it flow and flow and flow. Now's your chance to express everything you've been resisting all your life-"

And we did. I did. I surprised myself. I didn't think I had that much pain in my life. I thought I had handled it all. I thought I was handling everything well. Only here and now, in the middle of the of the Mode Training, the incredible emotional whirlpool of tears and rage, it all came flooding up like the dark oily blood of the shambler nest. Everything was soaked, drenched, submerged, and ultimately drowned in the all-pervasive goop. The noise of all that energy releasing, all that pain and sorrow and madness-it was what Dachau must have sounded like.

There was more to the exercise, a lot more. One by one, as we reached the peak of our emotions, we were led forward to a great empty place-I was handed a club and given a chance to bash away at a huge towering mannequin. At first I felt silly and embarra.s.sed, but then the mannequin started speaking to me. It was crudely animated, and its lip movements didn't even match the voice that came bellowing out of it. But then it started saying those terrible things, all those terrible words. It spoke with both a man's voice and a woman's voice, it was all the voices at once of all the people in the world, and it was saying all the hurtful things that had ever been said.

"You're not good enough. You're not big enough. You're not strong enough. You're not good-looking enough. You're not talented enough. You're not smart enough."

And I took the club and bashed and smashed and thrashed, I went at it like something possessed, obsessed, so furious with rage, I didn't know what I was doing, my mind was gone somewhere else, and all that was left was pure, the physical elemental spark of being, expressing the one thing it truly felt-the urge to kill-and I beat upon the mannequin until it collapsed weeping on the floor, and I collapsed weeping too, spent and drained and sprawling. helplessly across it, then the next thing I remember, I was being helped to my feet by the nurturing team and sent gently into the next part of the process, a mindless circling walk, a herdlike emptiness, all of us together, as each of us finished the violent part of the process, exercise, exorcism, call it what you will, we were sent here to circle and walk it off, sent to come down on our own, parachuting into pink mindless bliss, circling like vacant madmen and madwomen shambling through bedlam. Circling until we recovered our verbal selves enough to smile helplessly, tears still streaming down our cheeks, eventually, somehow, recoveringbut feeling different, changed, transformed.

Later, much later, after this part of it was over-after we were feeling clean and whole and deliciously new and empty, I asked Foreman, "What happens now?"

"Now?" he asked. "Now you start filling yourself up again with new problems.

Only now, because you've enlarged yourself, they're going to be much larger problems-and you'll handle them and grow to handle the next set of problems, which will be even larger."

"It never ends, does it?" I protested feebly.

"Yes, it does," he said.

"Oh, good-when do I get to that state?"

"When you die." He laughed. We all did. Even I laughed. The joke wasn't just on me, it was on everybody. But he was right. It never ends, it just goes on and on and on, until you die. And that's the most frustrating and angering thing of all-that it doesn't matter how many goals you score, the game of life is still called on account of darkness. His phrasing, not mine.

But I remembered-later on, after the training was completedhow easy it had been to let it all out. I remembered how good it felt to be empty. I wondered if that was what enlightenment felt like, or just exhaustion. It didn't matter. It was a different place to be, and it was one that didn't hurt.

So one night... we'd had an argument, Lizard and I. It was a stupid argument-we'd started quibbling about what to do with all the money we were going to win in the lottery, and somehow the discussion had gotten into, "That's just like you-" and from there, it had progressed to, "You know, that's the thing you do that drives me so crazy-" Soon we were las.h.i.+ng out crazily at each other and saying terrible things and it didn't matter who was right and who was wrong-we both were wrong and the argument was so stupid, so petty, we should have both been thoroughly ashamed of ourselves. Only neither would admit it first. She'd gone into the bedroom to rip the sheets into shreds, and I'd gone into the bathroom to stand in the shower and swear, still wearing my clothes. After a bit, I peeled them off and threw them at the locked door, where they thumped and slid wetly to the floor. I lay down in the tub and let it fill around me with water so hot I could barely stand it. I turned lobster red, stewing and simmering and still burning with frustration. And then I remembered the power of the breakthrough process, exercise, exorcism, call it what you will-and without thinking, I began to rage, lying in the tub, I began to slap the water and scream. I forced it up from my gut, a wave of physical violence, I forced it out my throat, forced it all out through my whole body as hard as I could. I was amazed at how small a channel my body was, at how long it was taking to funnel all that fury through such a tiny orifice into the world. I kicked my legs and flailed with my arms, splas.h.i.+ng and thras.h.i.+ng in the water, making as much noise as I could-as well as tidal waves of foam and suds and hot water. There was more water on the walls and floor than there was in the tub when Lizard finally came breaking through the door, alarmed and frightened and crying, running to me. She'd thought I was having a seizure-and I was in a way-but this one was voluntary. But by the time she'd battered down the door, it was over, and I collapsed spent into her arms, too exhausted even to explain what I had been doing. I held on to her, and she to me, and I got her thoroughly wet, she ended up climbing into the tub with me, and I apologized for scaring her, and she peeled off her clothes, and we refilled the tub, and I explained that I was raging-and then I had to rea.s.sure her that I hadn't been raging at her, but at myself for being so stupid and so blind and so bullheaded, and I begged her forgiveness, and she begged mine, and then we laughed together at how silly we both were and we began was.h.i.+ng each other and . . and one thing led to another, and we put our heads together and our arms together and then the rest of our bodies fit together naturally too; and finally we put our souls together again the way we were supposed to be in the first place. I nearly drowned in that bathtub. It was okay. I would have died happy.

I smiled, remembering. I liked making up with Lizard Tirelli better than anybody.

But I'd learned something that night. I'd learned that I could handle my grief or rage or fear or whatever other pain might come along. I could handle it alone, by myself, without help, if I had to, in the privacy of my own bathroom. All I needed was a mop and a bucket.

I hadn't really thought about the set of luggage I'd collected in the past few days.

Not really. I'd just carried it about, with a mental note to check it with the first bellboy who came along. Only n.o.body had come. I knew what I was going to have to do when I got home. Either the bathtub or-that was a thought. I could go down to the gym. They had mannequins there. I could program a couple to act like a general and his pet sycophant. After that... well, I didn't know what I would do after that, but at least I'd be in a place where I'd be much better able to handle it, whatever it was.

I had a pretty good idea who the Blue Fairy was-or at least, who had sent him.

The Uncle Ira group had to be patched into the circuit somewhere. I didn't think I was likely to find anyone who'd answer the question truthfully, but it was a question I had to wonder about. Why did the Uncle Ira group consider us-me?-important enough to rescue? Or maybe it wasn't me. Maybe Uncle Ira had some reason to be interested in the specimens we were carrying.

That was an uncomfortable thought. h.e.l.l. It was something else to be angry about-that the specimens in our cases were more important than our lives. Except-I had made the same decision myself not more than an hour ago. I had decided that these specimens were more important than the lives of Reilly and Willig and Locke.

And I had seen the consequences of that decision close up.

I was going to be a long time in the bathroom. I had a lot of crying to do.

The stingfly larvae is not a parasite. It provides a unique digestive service to the host organism.

Inside the gut of the grub can be found large colonies of digestive bacteria. While an individual grub is usually host to only one, particular species of microorganism, there are many different species of digestive bacteria. A sampling from the stomach of the average gastropede shows that there are at least twenty or thirty different kinds of microorganisms active in the grubs of any given host.

These symbiotic microorganisms break cellulose molecules down into digestible starches and sugars, enabling not only the grub to survive an otherwise indigestible diet, but also the host organism that contains the grubs- Tne bacteria in the grubs help to feed both their hosts simultaneously.

-The Red Book, (Release 22.19a)

Chapter 27.

In Transit "Contentment is the continuing act of accepting the process of your own life-no matter how hasty it gets."

-SOLOMON SHORT.

We were on the ground for less than five minutes at San Antonio. We taxied to a stop, the pod was lowered from the cargo bay the door popped open, and we were Pointed toward a waiting chopper by a faceless woman in helmet and goggles. She waved insistently, almost angrily with her batons.

"Come on, let's go," I said, swinging my helmet and the autolog cases. It was obvious We weren't going to get either answers or courtesy here.

"You mean we're not gonna visit the Alamo?" Lopez asked. "One of my ancestors won a famous victory there-"

"Save it for later, Macha," I said. "This isn't a good time for that stuff." I shoved her with my shoulder in the direction of tho chopper; its rotors were lazily stropping through the air. I probably pushed her harder than I should have, but I wasn't feeling in the best of spirits, and there was some business I was impatient to attend to. I noticed that the air-taxi had no insignia of any kind. Interesting, but inconclusive. I climbed aboard with a sour feel in my gut. I wasn't looking forward to our arrival in Houston.

The door slammed shut behind me, and we lifted off the ground before I even had a chance to find a seat, let alone strap in. I fell into one of the backward-facing chairs at the front. The surviving members of the team were looking at me with puzzlement. "What the h.e.l.l is going on?" asked Siegel.

I shook my head. Better they shouldn't know.

But Siegel wasn't satisfied. "Come on, Captain. This isn't standard. We should have been met by a debriefing team. And a medical squad." After a beat, he added, "And a chaplain too."

Lopez grunted. "Yeah, what gives? This isn't right."

I sighed. I looked at my boots. I wondered what my feet were going to smell like when I finally pulled them off. I wondered if there was a way I could leave the room before I unlaced my boots. I scratched the back of my neck idly. I did a whole performance of laconic, good-natured captain. I met their eyes again. They weren't convinced. So I shrugged and said, "You want my best guess? Blue Fairy Airlines doesn't like us. I don't think they want our repeat business."

"Just once-" Seigel said, "could we have a straight answer?"

"Somebody doesn't want us leaving a trail. The less we know, the easier it is for us to not say anything."

"Would you translate that into English?" Valada said, pulling off her helmet and pus.h.i.+ng her dark hair back out of her eyes. She looked mightily annoyed.

I puffed my cheeks and made a horsey sound as I let the air out of my mouth.

"Look-I agree with you, yes, there's something going on. But obviously it's a need-to-know operation, and you and I do not need to know."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because n.o.body told us. That's why."

Valada looked like she wanted to throw her helmet at me. Instead, she hung it on the hook next to her seat and shook her head in frustration and anger. "This is f.u.c.ked," she said. "You know that? Really f.u.c.ked."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know any more than you do. And I'm not going to speculate." I put one hand to my ear and pointed toward the ceiling with my other.

Valada looked unconvinced. Siegel mouthed a silent "Oh." Lopez said something in Spanish, too rapidly for me to translate. Something about cojones, something about la verdad. I wasn't sure.

I looked around the inside of the aircraft; it was a stock model, not quite military, not quite civilian, not quite government-issue, and not quite anything else either.

Nondescript. I tossed my helmet aside and put my feet up on the cases in front of me. Abruptly, something occurred to me. I looked up at the wall behind me-I thought I'd seen a telephone there! And it wasn't a military phone either! It was a civilian line!

I plucked it out of its holder and punched in my ID number. Amazingly, it worked. I got an immediate dial tone. I hesitated, my finger poised over the b.u.t.tons.

Who to call first-?

Lizard didn't answer. And no, I didn't want to leave a message.

Dammit. Who else? Dannenfelser? Not a good idea. Tempting, but not a good idea. Oh-I punched for Marano. She answered almost immediately. "Marano here."

"This is McCarthy," I said quietly, but also very intensely. "What the h.e.l.l happened to you?"

"Captain!" She almost shrieked in my ear. "Where are you?"

"We're in the air." I glanced at my watch. "We should be home within an hour.

Where did you go?" I demanded.

"We got the special withdrawal signal-" She sounded confused.

"What special withdrawal signal?"

"Huh? Didn't you get it?" Her puzzlement was sincere.

"Slow down," I said. "Tell me what the signal contained."

"A coded message-it came over the red line. Do not acknowledge, maintain total radio silence, do not attempt to communicate, just head toward these coordinates as fast as you can for immediate pickup."

"We didn't get any signal," I said, "for the simple reason that it was never sent.

We were deliberately-" I stopped myself before I said anything else. Civilian lines were supposed to be secure, but n.o.body really believed it. "Uh, look-" I said.

"There must have been a mixup. I'll straighten it out when I get back. Don't worry about it. And, uh-" I tried to sound casual. "You probably shouldn't talk to anyone about this until I do some investigating, okay?"

"Yessir, I'm just glad everybody's all right-" And then she realized what she'd a.s.sumed. "Uh, everybody is all right... ?"

I hesitated. I didn't know how to say it.

Marano understood the hesitation. Her voice went soft. "How bad?" she asked.

"Bad," I said. It was hard to get the words out. "Reilly bought it. And-and Willig too. And Locke."

"Oh, no-"

There was a long silence on the line. Finally, I had to ask, "Lydia-are you still there?"

She sniffed and managed to say, "Yes, I'm here. I'm sorry-"

"Don't be. Uh-we'll talk. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. She sounded as bad as I felt.