The Society by Lilith Saintcrow
He was about to start talking when two things happened at once. The first thing was a crash and tinkle of broken glass as the teargas canisters were lobbed through the front window. The second event was the sudden death of the lights.
Damn Sigs, coming in under dampers. He was already moving. “Don't breathe,” he yelled. “Gas! Hold your breath!” He had her by the waist, swinging her around, his body between hers and the window in case they fired. They won't. They want her alive. How am I going to do this with three civilians? Goddammit, I should have just snatched her myself.
Then he was scrambling, half-dragging her, as she screamed breathlessly. The hallway was utterly dark. He lifted her off her feet and dragged her toward the kitchen. His lungs burned. Clear air there, take a breath, hold it.
Two coughing sounds. Shots fired. Goddammit. Delgado's pupils expanded to catch any stray gleam of light. Gas drifted through the air, sucking back through the broken window. The back door was open. Cold air kissed his skin. He clamped his hand over Rowan's mouth. “Stay quiet,” he hissed in her ear. “I'll take care of you, Rowan, just stay quiet. Please."
She didn't respond. If she started to choke on the gas, he would have that to worry about as well.
The kitchen was a shambles. Delgado met the first Sig with a strike to the throat, the man folded down, his larynx crushed. The other man shot again, missed both times. By that time, Delgado cleared leather and popped him twice. The Sig crashed to the floor. Del was dimly aware of the crash as the front door gave. If it's a standard Sig team they're waiting for the points to get her out the front door. They must have identified the dad and the other woman through the window. If it wasn't for Henderson calling me we might already be caught. They think Rowan's upstairs. That'll give me a few seconds to get her out of here.
He looked for Rowan. She had scrambled forward on her knees and was by the butcher-block table, holding her father's limp body. “No!” She probably thought she was screaming, but the only thing coming out was a choked whisper.
Delgado leaned down. His hand closed around her arm. “Move,” he barked. “Come on, Rowan! You can't help them now."
The woman—Hilary—lay crumpled on the floor, her sleek dark head a mess of hamburger. The Major had taken one in the chest and lay unmoving in Rowan's arms. She shook him, frantically, still making that choked mewling noise that tore at Delgado's heart. “Come on!” he said. “They'll be coming down the stairs and sweeping the house next. Come on, Rowan!"
She looked up at him, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “What's happening?"
He hauled her up, trying to be gentle, and remembered she had bare feet. Can't afford to holster the gun, might have to drop another Sig if they have units waiting on the side. He bent and hefted her over his shoulder. “Sorry, Rowan,” he said, and his boots crunched over broken glass. “Goddamn."
There was a shuddering impact, probably against a bedroom door upstairs, that shook the whole house. No time to calm her down. No time to do anything but get her out. Cold hit his skin in a wave, and his entire body felt full of electric prickles. Danger—and her. She wasn't screaming, but she was struggling ineffectually, beating at his back and trying to twist free.
"I'm sorry, Rowan,” he said again, and moved faster.
Chapter Eleven
Everything was going too fast for Rowan. He opened the car door and dumped her onto the seat, almost bashing her head against the edge of the doorway.
"Move over,” he said, and she blindly scrambled for the passenger side. The car was black, a two-door model. She made it to the other side and started frantically scrabbling at the door lock. It wouldn't budge.
At that moment, all the fight went out of Rowan, like water going down a drain. She actually felt her will to resist slip away. Her hand dropped down, and she pulled her knees up on the seat and hugged them, making herself as small as possible. Tears slid hotly down her cheeks. There was a limit to what she could do, and what exactly did this man want? It was a nightmare, only a nightmare.
He dropped into the driver's side. Rowan took a deep, shuddering breath and stared out the windshield. Her feet ached with the cold. Daddy. Her shocked brain reeled.
There was a huge black van with a trailer parked in front of her house, its lights turned off. Her house was completely dark, the front window broken. Oh, God, Daddy.
The man closed the car door. “Got to get moving,” he said. “Are you hurt? Rowan? Are you hurt?" He didn't precisely yell, but his tone was harsh. He dug in his jacket pocket and produced his cell phone.
"N-n-n-n—” Rowan shivered. She couldn't finish the word. The car was cold, and her feet were bare. The sweater did nothing to keep her warm. Her teeth started to chatter. She stared as shadows detached themselves from the van and tramped through her front yard, surrounding her house. Now there were lights—flashlight beams. She saw a light flicker upstairs.
They're searching the house, she thought. Searching for what? For what? Why would someone want anything in our house?
"It's Delgado,” the man said into the cell phone. “I need a diversion. The Sigs have cleared the house. Two casualties.” A pause. “No, I got us both out. No net, just a single unit on primary penetration. They just now sent in the net. Don't give me a goddamn editorial, General. Give me some help."
They shot my Daddy, she thought, and Delgado glanced over at her. She shivered, pulling away from his gaze. They shot my Daddy. Oh my God.
"She's in shock, and I'm not too goddamn happy either. Get me out of here, General.” Another pause. “Okay.” He hung up. “We're going to wait for a distraction,” he said quietly. “Then we can get out of here. Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, numbly. “Daddy,” she whispered. His blood still coated her hands. They had shot him in the chest. Shot her Daddy. “What the hell is happening to me?"
"They want you, Rowan,” he said quietly. She got the strange idea he was trying to be soothing. “Because of what you can do. They're Sigma, a black-sector government division. They take psionics and drug them, brainwash them and turn them into weapons. Nasty."
It was as if he was speaking a foreign language. Rowan blinked at him, then stared out the windshield at her house. “Why do they want me?” she heard herself ask.
"Because you're very special, Rowan. Don't worry. I'm going to take care of you.” His eyes moved smoothly over the house and the black van.
"Who are you?” she whispered. “What have you done?"
"I didn't do anything, Rowan. They tried to pick you up this morning, and I stopped them. I didn't think they would take a risk like this so soon in the game. They must want you very badly. I'm sorry. I really am. You don't deserve this.” He didn't look at her; he was too busy watching the house. “Sorry about dragging you, too, but we had to move fast and there was broken glass on the floor. Your feet."
My feet? What the hell, someone just shot my dad and he's talking about my feet? “Hilary,” she heard herself say.
He looked at her. The car was parked in a pool of shadow, taking advantage of two overgrown pine trees blocking the glow from the streetlight. Rowan couldn't remember how he had managed to get her into the vehicle. He'd carried her, cutting through the weak spot in the hedge between her back yard and the McClellans. She remembered the grasping feeling of the junipers grabbing at her hair. “I'm sorry,” he said again.
Rowan let out a dry, barking sob.
A tiny thread of sound interrupted the tense silence inside the car. He flipped his cell phone open. “Delgado."
Whatever he heard must have been good news, because he twisted the key in the ignition. The car purred into life. “Waiting for it,” he said, and then, “Okay.” He closed the phone, dropped it into his breast pocket. Then he put the car in gear and freed the emergency brake. “I promise I'll explain everything, Rowan. Right now I have to get you to a safe place, where you can have something to eat and warm up a bit. Half an hour, forty-five minutes at most. Can you do that?'
He nodded as if she'd said something profound. “Don't be frightened, Rowan. I won't hurt you. I'm here to make sure you aren't forced into anything."
Don't be frightened. I won't hurt you. Memory lit up like a klieg light inside her head again. She fastened on it. It hurt less to think about last night that what had just happened. “It was you last night,” she said again, numbly. “You're one of them, aren't you?"
"No. They'd probably take me down, Rowan, and try to drag me in for brainwashing. Look, I'll tell you everything soon. Right now I need to get us out of this, okay? I'm not going to hurt you, I swear it. I was trying to find a safe way to break the subject to you."
"My dad,” she said. “Hilary. You could have helped them. Warned them. Why didn't you?"
The car drifted slowly past her house. Rowan's heart leapt into her throat. She stared at the black van, then at his profile. His dark eyes were on the road, his mouth drawn into a thin line. He had a gun under his left arm. She knew that because he had shot one of the men in black. Otherwise he was dressed normally—jeans, a navy-blue T-shirt, a hip-length black leather coat, a pair of Doc Martens. He looked normal ... but maybe he wasn't. “My priority is you, Rowan,” he said.
Why does he keep repeating my name? she wondered. Nurses did that at work to calm down an hysterical patient. Keep saying the name over and over, soothing the person. “Who are you?” she asked again.
"Delgado,” he said grimly. He guided the car slowly around the corner onto Smyrna Avenue, flipping the headlights on. “Society operative attached to Henderson's unit. Specializing in covert operations and infiltration, interrogation and assassination. I measure a six-point-seven-five on the Matheson scale. You rate about an eleven, I'd guess. If not more."
"What are you talking about?"
The car accelerated. “The Matheson scale is a scale for the rating of psionic power. You're a psi, Rowan. Psionic."
"No I'm not,” she whispered. He knows. He knows what I am. God, please don't let him tell anyone, please don't let him hurt me.
He shrugged. “The Society will help you, if you want. They'll teach you how to control it."
"No.” Her throat was raw, she could barely speak. “You're one of them. You're one of them."
"No. Did I try to snatch you in the parking lot? Did I shoot your father?” He shook his head. “If I had my way, I would have made contact and waited until you could trust me."
"No,” she said, and buried her face against her knees.
"I'm sorry, Rowan."
"Shut up,” she said, her voice muffled by her knees.
He shut up. He turned left—Rowan peeked—onto Sigell Avenue, past the gas station Dad liked to visit because it was full-service.
Daddy. Daddy.
She sobbed, tears soaking into her jeans. He flipped the heater on. Welcome warmth stung her feet and hands. The man said nothing, just drove. Rowan knew she should be watching where he was going so she could get back home, but her eyes just wouldn't focus. She couldn't think, could barely even breathe.
When he slowed down for the last time, Rowan looked up in time to see an antique iron gate opening. As soon as he drove through the gate, she gasped. It was like sliding through a plastic film—and as soon as the film tore and the car was inside, it snapped closed. The air was suddenly curiously dead, as if she was inside a bell jar. The little prickles of electricity running over her skin intensified. “Where is this?” she asked.
"A Society clean house, shielded from the outside. Feels good, huh?"
It didn't feel good. It felt like she was suddenly, utterly naked. Rowan shuddered. “You're crazy,” she said. “They killed my father. What about Hilary?"
"I'm sorry.” His mouth was a thin line again. “I didn't know Sigma would move in so quickly. It's my fault."
"No,” Rowan said dully. “I'm a freak. I've always been a freak."
"Not a freak, Rowan. A psion. There are more than you think.” He pulled up a long graveled driveway to a slowly opening garage door. “Don't worry right now. We'll get you something to eat and—"
"I want to go home."
He pulled into the garage. Rowan looked over and saw a neat row of cars, all dark-colored, and two black vans with heavy privacy tinting. And a shabby blue van parked at the very end that looked vaguely familiar.
She was too tired to think about it. Her entire body hurt. Her head pounded, an agonizing dry pain. Daddy.
"If you go home, Sigma will scoop you up and fill you full of Zed. That's a bad thing, in case you're wondering. I'd hate to have to come and collect you."
"I don't believe—” she began.
He shut the car off, set the parking brake, and looked over at her, his dark eyes glittering. “I would come and get you, Rowan. I've seen psionics that get taken by the Sigs. Mind-shattered hulks, most of them, and the rest just like dogs on a leash. You don't deserve that. I'm sorry, and I'll watch over you. Okay?"
Rowan buried her face against her knees again.
He finally got out of the car. The ticking sounds of cooling metal echoed inside Rowan's head.
He opened her door. “Come on. You can rest soon."
"I want to go home,” she repeated dully, staring at the dashboard.
"It's not safe, Rowan. Just trust me a little longer, okay?"
What else can I do? she thought, and the numbness rose again. Daddy. They shot my daddy.
He said nothing else, just offered his hand.
Rowan finally uncurled enough to slide her legs out of the car. The concrete floor was cold. She swayed. He shut the car door and took her elbow, his hand strangely gentle. “This way."
He led her through the garage and up one step, through a door, and into a small wood-floored room that held a rack of coats, with boots in a neat row underneath, and an incongruous washer, dryer, and laundry sink. The floor was warmer, and she swayed again. He steadied her.
Footsteps resounded. Rowan flinched.
"Steady,” he said. “It's my boss. You'll be all right.” His tone was kind, just a low murmur. Rowan looked up at his face and saw that his eyes were flat and dark. He looked worried, a vertical line between his dark eyebrows. “Don't worry. You're not in any trouble."
"Dammit, Delgado, you disobeyed a direct goddamn order!” The man was tall, with bushy iron-gray hair and steely eyes, wearing a long black coat that whispered as he moved. The light glinted off his metal-rimmed glasses. He walked stiffly, and as he rounded the corner his coat flapped open. Rowan saw a gun in a holster under his left arm.
"General,” Delgado said, “may I present Rowan Price? She just saw her father and best friend murdered by Sigs."
Rowan took a deep breath. She saw the taller man blink just before she started to scream.
* * * *
The only thing that calmed her down was a sedative patch. Delgado didn't want to do it, but she wouldn't stop screaming even when her voice broke. It took the patch a few minutes to work, and he spent the time trying to calmly talk to her, keeping his voice pitched low and soothing, especially when Henderson called Cath in and the Mohawked girl had burst into the room, skidding to a stop and frightening Rowan even more.
When the drug hit, she slumped all at once. He caught her and carried her to the bed. The safe room was done in green and blue, no windows but a gas insert fireplace. She hadn't tried to escape. She'd just kept screaming, backing away from him, and struggling against his hands. Getting the patch on her had been problematic, too. He'd had to invade her comfort zone and slip the clear plasilica square on her wrist while she struggled to get away from his hand, which was closed around her upper arm. She'd been so busy trying to get away she hadn't even noticed the patch. And he'd avoided touching her skin, even though he'd wanted very badly to just take her in his arms and let her scream herself out.
Catherine let out a long breath from the doorway. Henderson had apparently thought that another woman
Henderson sighed. “That was not pleasant,” he said dryly. “Explain yourself, Delgado."
"The Sigs moved in and did a full-scale penetration on her house,” he said. “Killed her father and her friend. I got her out of there and called for a distraction so I could finish the extraction. They must want her really badly.” He laid her down on the bed and pulled the quilt up over her. Her hair tangled over the pillow.
"It's not surprising,” Cath said. “Want to know her index?"
Henderson ignored her. He looked at the woman lying on the bed. “How fragile is she?"
"Very,” Delgado answered. “We have to get her out of the city."
"Oh, wow.” Catherine grinned, her earrings swinging as she moved. “Delgado's got a girlfriend."
"Catherine, if you don't have anything useful to add, can you please be quiet?” Henderson said mildly.
Cath shut up. The chain on her belt jingled as she fidgeted.
Henderson studied Delgado for a long moment. “All right. We'll get her out of the city. I don't want you to disobey another order, Del. Okay? I need you."
Delgado nodded. “Sorry, General."
Henderson shrugged. The dim lamplight was kind to his ravaged face. “It couldn't be helped. If the Sigs got her we'd be fighting her in a month or two. This way's better. Good instincts, Del. We'll tear it apart in briefing later. For right now, I'll take you off active and make you her mentor."
Delgado shook his head. “She won't respond well to me. “They never do. I've never had a neophyte before."
"Then it's high time you learned.” Henderson unfolded his arms and straightened. “It's either that or a full-scale court-martial. I need you too much to do that. So from now on, you're responsible for getting her trained."
Delgado shut his mouth and nodded.
Henderson waited another few moments, as if gauging his silence. “Well,” he said, “if she's that fragile, the Sigs would have broken her in less than a day. Probably best this way, though we still have faulty telem rigs. Goddammit. We'll leave in twenty-four hours. Have her ready to go by then."