to my displaying my metaphorical soft underbelly to another Good Man.
I landed on the terrace. I was fairly sure that Javier would be in his office at this time of day. And if he weren’t, then he would come there soon.
His office had glass doors, though there were curtains on the inside that could be closed, they weren’t. Through them, I could see Javier sitting at the desk, and I felt a sudden wave of relief. Something—I wasn’t sure what—had made me feel as if all my friends had vanished, as though I were now a stranger to everyone, the only one of my crowd left.
But Javier looked much as he had. He was turned sideways to me, looking at a reader on his knees.
He was, as he had been, a small man and as slim as Nathaniel Remy, though of course on a much smaller scale. Olive-skinned with startlingly hazel eyes, he’d been a favorite with all the women in the hangouts my broomer lair had frequented. And he’d been surprisingly good in a fight. So good, in fact, that my larger size had given me very little advantage in our one and only dustup.
The rest of his office looked empty, and the door was locked. I knocked at the door.
He looked up, then jumped. I never saw him open the drawer, but there was a gun in his hand, and he was standing, facing me.
“Easy,” I said. “It’s me, Lucius.”
He stared at me, the burner firmly pointed at my midsection. If he fired, it was going to make far more of a mess than that, because it would go straight at the glass, first. Depending on how that glass had been made, it could do anything from melt to burst outward and fly at me in shards. “Don’t be stupid, Javier. It’s Lucius Keeva.”
His mouth opened, then closed. Then he frowned, and came to open the door for me. He pocketed the gun. He looked me up and down and frowned. “So, that’s how it is, is it?” he said. “You escaped after all. We wondered at your being caught so easily.”
“I didn’t escape,” I said, puzzled. Did he imagine I’d spent the last fifteen years living rough, like some sort of twenty-fifth-century Robin Hood? Maybe he did. Now that I thought of it. Never-Never was a secret prison for a reason. “Well, not until yesterday.”
He frowned at me. Then shook his head, as though what I’d said was completely nonsensical. “Just as well,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you that the idea that the Sons of Liberty could penetrate into your house and kidnap you like that had me in a bit of a worry. Not to mention, of course, that I didn’t want you dead.” Those last words seemed weirdly perfunctory and caught my attention so much—did Javier want me dead? In the name of all that was holy, why?—that it took me a moment to realize the weirdness of what he’d said before.
Sons of Liberty? The same people who’d kidnaped Max and killed him? Was he confusing me with Max? Was something wrong with his mind?
No, wait, perhaps that was the cover story that people had been given. I’d always assumed my condemnation, and later Ben’s death, had been public, the subject of holos and sensies. But perhaps not. Perhaps it had all be so fast and so odd because they couldn’t risk making it public. And perhaps the cover story had involved the Sons of Liberty, though I didn’t even remember hearing of them at the time.
Perhaps, I thought with sudden alarm, the Sons of Liberty were a made-up group, used to disguise executions the Good Men committed but couldn’t admit to. It would certainly explain things better than the odd idea that they were the armed branch of the Usaians who had never before showed a tendency to do more than pray and hope for a Messiah to lead them to their long-destroyed continent.
I tried to formulate a response, cautious enough that Javier wouldn’t think that I had lost my mind, but which would lay the groundwork to explaining the truth to him. Only I never got to, because he was looking at me, and grinning. “Some body you got yourself,” he said.
I landed on the terrace. I was fairly sure that Javier would be in his office at this time of day. And if he weren’t, then he would come there soon.
His office had glass doors, though there were curtains on the inside that could be closed, they weren’t. Through them, I could see Javier sitting at the desk, and I felt a sudden wave of relief. Something—I wasn’t sure what—had made me feel as if all my friends had vanished, as though I were now a stranger to everyone, the only one of my crowd left.
But Javier looked much as he had. He was turned sideways to me, looking at a reader on his knees.
He was, as he had been, a small man and as slim as Nathaniel Remy, though of course on a much smaller scale. Olive-skinned with startlingly hazel eyes, he’d been a favorite with all the women in the hangouts my broomer lair had frequented. And he’d been surprisingly good in a fight. So good, in fact, that my larger size had given me very little advantage in our one and only dustup.
The rest of his office looked empty, and the door was locked. I knocked at the door.
He looked up, then jumped. I never saw him open the drawer, but there was a gun in his hand, and he was standing, facing me.
“Easy,” I said. “It’s me, Lucius.”
He stared at me, the burner firmly pointed at my midsection. If he fired, it was going to make far more of a mess than that, because it would go straight at the glass, first. Depending on how that glass had been made, it could do anything from melt to burst outward and fly at me in shards. “Don’t be stupid, Javier. It’s Lucius Keeva.”
His mouth opened, then closed. Then he frowned, and came to open the door for me. He pocketed the gun. He looked me up and down and frowned. “So, that’s how it is, is it?” he said. “You escaped after all. We wondered at your being caught so easily.”
“I didn’t escape,” I said, puzzled. Did he imagine I’d spent the last fifteen years living rough, like some sort of twenty-fifth-century Robin Hood? Maybe he did. Now that I thought of it. Never-Never was a secret prison for a reason. “Well, not until yesterday.”
He frowned at me. Then shook his head, as though what I’d said was completely nonsensical. “Just as well,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you that the idea that the Sons of Liberty could penetrate into your house and kidnap you like that had me in a bit of a worry. Not to mention, of course, that I didn’t want you dead.” Those last words seemed weirdly perfunctory and caught my attention so much—did Javier want me dead? In the name of all that was holy, why?—that it took me a moment to realize the weirdness of what he’d said before.
Sons of Liberty? The same people who’d kidnaped Max and killed him? Was he confusing me with Max? Was something wrong with his mind?
No, wait, perhaps that was the cover story that people had been given. I’d always assumed my condemnation, and later Ben’s death, had been public, the subject of holos and sensies. But perhaps not. Perhaps it had all be so fast and so odd because they couldn’t risk making it public. And perhaps the cover story had involved the Sons of Liberty, though I didn’t even remember hearing of them at the time.
Perhaps, I thought with sudden alarm, the Sons of Liberty were a made-up group, used to disguise executions the Good Men committed but couldn’t admit to. It would certainly explain things better than the odd idea that they were the armed branch of the Usaians who had never before showed a tendency to do more than pray and hope for a Messiah to lead them to their long-destroyed continent.
I tried to formulate a response, cautious enough that Javier wouldn’t think that I had lost my mind, but which would lay the groundwork to explaining the truth to him. Only I never got to, because he was looking at me, and grinning. “Some body you got yourself,” he said.
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