write home about.
Borland snarled, swung his legs off the couch
and poured himself a drink.
He rolled the cool glass over his lips and
remembered the clinic.
No. That was bad. The worst .
Things hadn’t gone well.
CHAPTER 2
The unmarked cruiser left Borland at the curb
with barely a nod or a minute to pull his bags out of the back seat
before the driver completed the circular loop of asphalt and tore
away. The car pulled out with a lurch that caused Borland’s door to
swing shut.
That after a long drive through Metro morning
rush hour traffic with Borland’s guts nagging the whole way. The
driver had said little as he navigated the crowded streets.
That would have been fine because Borland
didn’t want to talk, considering his destination; but it ended up
pissing him off because the driver had to know who he was. He had
to know something about Borland’s past, if not about the recent
events in Parkerville.
A week after his release from
decontamination, there had been a gathering in the Metro HQ
auditorium. Closed to the public, it included a long-winded and
rambling speech from Superintendent Midhurst. Brass chipped in with
an equally boring talk of lost heroes.
The higher ups had decided to link the squad
memorial with Borland, Hyde and Aggie’s official reinstatement to
active status. Someone up the chain had decided the reactivation of
retired captains would somehow seem hopeful against the background
of Stationhouse Nine’s first devastating win. Lots of people in
uniform died so words had to be said, but Parkerville was shut down
and the threat slowed if not stopped. The Variant presentations in
Metro seemed to be leveling off—for now.
The dead baggies had been cremated long
before the memorial, while the surviving squad was still in
quarantine.
Borland had felt cheated that they combined
the events, and worse that he and Aggie had to share the stage with
Hyde’s hooded, but scene-stealing mystery. The old cripple had
opted to ride his wheelchair to the event, even though Borland had
noticed the cuffs and leggings of a new skin-shell suit protruding
from his long black coat. He could have walked.
Playing the sympathy card .
He’d seen him at the stationhouse, mostly
healed from his wounds, moving on his legs and canes like a
mechanical toy.
But he got back into the chair for the big
night.
Borland had trouble narrowing it down,
especially since he’d consumed the better part of a mickey before
the event, but there was something different about Hyde as he
rolled across the stage.
He wouldn’t say “confidence,” but there was
something in the way the freak held himself that spoke of willing
compromise. If Borland didn’t know better, he might have thought it
was pride.
Hyde didn’t save his daughter but he had
tried. Was that all it took?
Just trying?
I’ll have to try it some time ...
Memory of Hyde’s daughter caused a twinge of
guilt, caused Borland’s chest to cramp and draw him gasping back to
reality.
He’d done some terrible things.
And Brass knew most of it .
But not all and the information they shared
created a checkmate.
Nobody could talk. Or everybody had to.
Borland realized he was still in place,
glaring down the driveway after the cruiser.
A thought had struck him: The driver acts
like he knows ...
But Borland knew his first years of service
back in the day had enough uncomfortable truths and rumors attached
to warrant some suspicion if not outright disdain or hostility.
Never get a break .
He winced as he hefted his bags and turned.
The action brought a hard and painful tug from his hernias.
Borland stood where the flattened wheelchair
curb led up to a short sidewalk that crossed a narrow lawn to the
front of the building.
It didn’t look like much. But that was a
trick of the eye.
He knew from the website that the Shomberg
Clinic was a sprawling complex of hospital rooms, dining areas and
operating theaters hidden behind a ‘false front’
Borland snarled, swung his legs off the couch
and poured himself a drink.
He rolled the cool glass over his lips and
remembered the clinic.
No. That was bad. The worst .
Things hadn’t gone well.
CHAPTER 2
The unmarked cruiser left Borland at the curb
with barely a nod or a minute to pull his bags out of the back seat
before the driver completed the circular loop of asphalt and tore
away. The car pulled out with a lurch that caused Borland’s door to
swing shut.
That after a long drive through Metro morning
rush hour traffic with Borland’s guts nagging the whole way. The
driver had said little as he navigated the crowded streets.
That would have been fine because Borland
didn’t want to talk, considering his destination; but it ended up
pissing him off because the driver had to know who he was. He had
to know something about Borland’s past, if not about the recent
events in Parkerville.
A week after his release from
decontamination, there had been a gathering in the Metro HQ
auditorium. Closed to the public, it included a long-winded and
rambling speech from Superintendent Midhurst. Brass chipped in with
an equally boring talk of lost heroes.
The higher ups had decided to link the squad
memorial with Borland, Hyde and Aggie’s official reinstatement to
active status. Someone up the chain had decided the reactivation of
retired captains would somehow seem hopeful against the background
of Stationhouse Nine’s first devastating win. Lots of people in
uniform died so words had to be said, but Parkerville was shut down
and the threat slowed if not stopped. The Variant presentations in
Metro seemed to be leveling off—for now.
The dead baggies had been cremated long
before the memorial, while the surviving squad was still in
quarantine.
Borland had felt cheated that they combined
the events, and worse that he and Aggie had to share the stage with
Hyde’s hooded, but scene-stealing mystery. The old cripple had
opted to ride his wheelchair to the event, even though Borland had
noticed the cuffs and leggings of a new skin-shell suit protruding
from his long black coat. He could have walked.
Playing the sympathy card .
He’d seen him at the stationhouse, mostly
healed from his wounds, moving on his legs and canes like a
mechanical toy.
But he got back into the chair for the big
night.
Borland had trouble narrowing it down,
especially since he’d consumed the better part of a mickey before
the event, but there was something different about Hyde as he
rolled across the stage.
He wouldn’t say “confidence,” but there was
something in the way the freak held himself that spoke of willing
compromise. If Borland didn’t know better, he might have thought it
was pride.
Hyde didn’t save his daughter but he had
tried. Was that all it took?
Just trying?
I’ll have to try it some time ...
Memory of Hyde’s daughter caused a twinge of
guilt, caused Borland’s chest to cramp and draw him gasping back to
reality.
He’d done some terrible things.
And Brass knew most of it .
But not all and the information they shared
created a checkmate.
Nobody could talk. Or everybody had to.
Borland realized he was still in place,
glaring down the driveway after the cruiser.
A thought had struck him: The driver acts
like he knows ...
But Borland knew his first years of service
back in the day had enough uncomfortable truths and rumors attached
to warrant some suspicion if not outright disdain or hostility.
Never get a break .
He winced as he hefted his bags and turned.
The action brought a hard and painful tug from his hernias.
Borland stood where the flattened wheelchair
curb led up to a short sidewalk that crossed a narrow lawn to the
front of the building.
It didn’t look like much. But that was a
trick of the eye.
He knew from the website that the Shomberg
Clinic was a sprawling complex of hospital rooms, dining areas and
operating theaters hidden behind a ‘false front’
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