Harsh Lessons (36 page)

Huh.
  She'd thought they'd just been being kind, in stopping them.  She'd really,
really
tried hard to stay awake in them.

Her workouts continued unabated with Dojo, though she was now coming away from the sessions with worsening injuries.  But the Doctor was always ready to heal her.

Something was definitely wrong with him, though.  He looked tormented, more often than not.

Which pleased her.

Though maybe he still cared about her –
a little
– since it had been him who'd pointed out she was getting injured more often by Dojo
because
she was improving; pushing him beyond his comfort zone. 
That
had been a huge relief.

But the rest of it
…
.

“This is for your own good, Leeth,” he'd say.

She shook her head.  She didn't understand how it could be.  Or how he could even do it.  She didn't know how she managed to keep quiet.  But she'd vowed to herself she wouldn't let him make her cry out.  Even if all the suites were so well sound-proofed even
she
could only hear through them by putting her ear to the doors.

She'd given up trying to tell anyone what was happening.  Every time she tried, she just looked like a broken thing.  She flushed, remembering her first attempt.

She'd been in the Rec room, trying to
write
it down but only managing to scratch a few spearing lines into the paper.  She'd just snapped the pen, and was still struggling back from the confused chaos in her head when Emma came in, and frowned down at her.

'Leeth?  What's the matter?'  Emma had sat beside her on the couch, putting one hand on Leeth’s thigh, the other across her forehead.

Trying not to panic, not to rush, despite the humiliation of Emma finding her like that, she'd
eased
her thoughts free from the gray confusion.  When she could think again, she found herself leaning into Emma, and pulled away.

At first she'd said nothing; just remembered, cautiously, what she'd been trying to do… trying to write; to sneak up on the thoughts.  She wet her lips. 
Surely
, she could break his control?

She'd stared down at her hands.  Her fingertips.  'It's at night, I have to, I have, he….'

She shook her head, confused, and turned to meet Emma's concerned eyes.  She saw Emma turning her words over, recognizing her anguish… beginning to put the pieces together!  Excitement seared through her.  But then she was pulling Emma's face to hers, plunging her tongue inside; a compulsion to interrupt and distract suddenly overpowering that excitement, twisting it instead into a fever of desperate need.

For a moment, Emma froze, then pushed away, even as Leeth herself fought to remember why she found Emma so urgently desirable.  Why she wanted to tear away their clothes….

Emma fled.

It wasn't until her pulse had returned to normal, till the strange scratches on the paper and the broken pen reminded her what she'd been trying to do, that she'd remembered.  And then worked out that the Doctor had programmed in
yet another
layer of fail-safe.  She'd almost cried, then.

She seemed to be crying a lot, these days.

With James, she'd tried more carefully, and just ended up making strange gubbling noises, her mouth opening and closing as she fought the fog.

Fighting it head on was not going to get her anywhere, she'd decided.

And if disturbing sounds sometimes whispered in the corridor outside her uncle's suite – well, she never showed any sign of ill treatment, did she?  And she certainly couldn’t voice any complaint.

She spent long hours jogging, once she'd discovered the programmable running surface in the small room annexed to the main gym.  With VR goggles she could go almost anywhere in the world.  She'd danced through Piccadilly Circus at three am in the morning – the small room's air conditioners blasting her with chill gusts to match the real location's conditions – and run lonely through the bustling street markets of Marrakesh, ghost-like in the cheerful crowds.  She'd slogged up high cold trails through tough-looking low scrub with tiny purple flowers in a place called Scotland, and anonymously joined a virtual marathon in the French Alps.  That had been wonderful – the scenery and sound along the route recorded in high fidelity.  Leeth lost herself in the illusion of mountain vistas and the leafy beauty of the sinuous alpine road.

That
had gone badly wrong though, when suspicious calls from the other contestants for "Runner Grrl's" equipment to be re-certified led to a backtrace intrusion attempt.  Nelson's firewalls had stopped it, but drawn the Department's attention to her activity.

Mother had called her irresponsible; but why did the equipment have net access if it wasn't supposed to be used?  That question led to a refresher course with Nelson on network and security basics.  In the end though she talked Father into upgrading the running surface to the same model the SAS used, and by innocently asking if connecting an interactive multimedia feed was beyond Nelson's abilities, she was soon "familiarizing herself with the local area" through live data from New Francisco's streets.  Neutral buoyancy drones, still used in the apparently-unkillable reality TV shows, were still common enough to be a nuisance rather than an oddity.

Running through live streets, though, became strangely depressing.  The combination of the Department's security requirements and privacy legislation meant she couldn't talk to anyone, couldn't jog her little drone into interesting shops or offices.  She was like some spirit condemned to run the streets.

She liked the deserted places best.  When she was alone, she could pretend she was real.

On her way to rescue Marcie.

And then she remembered that the Department had drone-mapped records of all the storm-water channels and sewer and train tunnels, ruined and fractured or not by The Big One.  And begun studying in earnest.

Carefully noting closed-off entrances to underground tunnels.  Especially, those near the Department.
 

Chapter 43 

Emma and Preacher, once more between missions, were relaxing in the rec room.  Emma in one of the soft, high-backed leather lounge chairs, had her attention focused on a newssheet – her “Do not disturb” sign.

Preacher went to the wall behind her, switching it from opaque to check the deserted pool area.  Keying it off again he slouched over to the billiard table, set up a few balls and played for a while.  Then left that and roamed the room, examining each of the oil paintings, hung on the three wood-paneled walls.

At last, tossing himself down into one of the chairs opposite Emma, he broke the silence.

'So how're things here now?'

Emma looked up, coolly polite.  'Mother and Father are well.  Eagle, as usual, isn't around.  I only got back the day before yesterday myself.'

'What about the others?'

She shrugged.  'Dojo seems happy.  I handed in my expense accounts to Checkbook, and he nodded and ignored me.  So he's obviously happy, too.

'Little Brother's taught himself welding.'

Preacher glared at her, but Emma just looked coolly back.  They both knew who he was really asking about.

'So all right.  How's our mage – and the girl?'

'Well, I don't see the Doctor very much, but I had Leeth for a session this evening.  She seemed a bit frustrated, I thought.'

'Lucky you,' leered Preacher.

Emma blushed.  'She kept asking what she had to do to show she was ready for a mission.  I told her, just work hard.'

Preacher snorted.  'She's too young.  I reckon they'll wait another year.'

'She'd burst.' 
And sooner, rather than later
.  Leeth had changed, since her friend Marcie had gone into hospital.  Since things had not gone at all as she had promised her.

'So?'

She stared at the man, hard.  'I really don't understand you, Preacher.  Just what would it take for you to admit she's doing well?  That she could be a real asset?'

'Prove it.  On a real mission.'

'Which you think is still a year away.'

'Yah.'

'But I just told you, I don't think she could bear to wait that long.'

He sneered.  'Gee.  Too bad.'

'I wish I knew what you've been working on for so long.  It must really be very unpleasant.'  She lowered her reader to her lap and ordered the visual feed to route directly to her optic interface, leaning back and shutting her eyes to make it obvious she was virtually leaving the room.

Preacher threw himself down full-length on the leather sofa.  He'd just gotten himself settled when a faint scuffing noise made him tense up.

'Preacher, have
you
seen Uncle?'

Raising his head he saw Leeth in the doorway, and relaxed again, stretching back out.  'Nope.'

She sighed tiredly, limping as she crossed the room to ease herself down opposite him in the seat along from Emma. 
Even her drama school lessons were proving useful.
  But she hid that thought.

She was dripping with sweat, and breathing hard.  She also had a spectacular welt running from just above one knee to disappear beneath her faded denim shorts.

'Whoa – vish!  How the chit'd you do that?'

'Oh, I've just been training, with Dojo.  Uncle will fix it – only I can't find him.'

'You
still
training with Dojo?'  He looked across at Emma, and her closed eyes.  'We'd all finished our course in six weeks.'

Leeth shrugged.  'I'm still learning stuff.'

Preacher smiled.  'I guess we can't all learn at the same pace.'  He didn't add that Nelson had also encoded much of Dojo's training into their chips.

'Anyway, Dojo said we couldn't continue till I was mended.  So now I'm gonna have to wait.'  She eyed Preacher speculatively.  'Unless
you'd
train with me, instead?  Maybe you could teach me some stuff Dojo doesn't know?  He said you know…
dirty
fighting?'

Preacher looked across at Emma, who must have shut her ears off too, since she’d ignored the entire exchange.  A slow smile spread across his face as he looked back at the girl.  'Well, maybe I could, maybe I could.  Some tricks I've picked up on the streets, yeah.  In real fights.  I'm pretty busy, but I guess I could spare you fifteen.'  He smiled.

'Really?  Gee, thanks, Preacher, that's really nice of you!'

'Hey, it's just the kind of bod I am.'

Five minutes later, Emma turned from the coffee machine at a groan from the doorway.  'Good lord!  What happened to you?'

Preacher ignored her and limped painfully across the room to the small bar, holding his jaw and walking very carefully.  He began scooping out crushed ice onto the towel over the bar top.

Leeth bounced in.

'Emma!  Would
you
like to spar with me?'

Emma looked from her, to Preacher, then back to Leeth.  Her eyes widened.

'Oh, Leeth-'

'Little
bitch
,' muttered Preacher.

Leeth looked down at her feet to conceal her grin.

Emma was surprised by her own reaction to that.  It seemed a long time since she'd last seen Leeth smile.

'Hey, I'll see if I can find Uncle.  Okay?  I still need him to fix this,' she said, indicating the huge bruise on her upper thigh, 'and he could do you, too.' Then she was gone.

Preacher gathered up the corners of the towel and held it to his face.  The breath hissed between his teeth.  'Little bitch,' he muttered, again.

As Harmon completed the healing, Preacher cleared his throat.  'Mind if I ask you a quick question, Doc?'

'Of course.'

'It's about your Practical Psychology course.  Leeth seems to be finally starting to get into it at last, yeah?'

Harmon thought there
had
been an improvement in recent weeks – apparently Emma had spoken to her – but he simply nodded, wondering where Preacher was heading.

'Teaching her how to make other people like her, how to persuade people to do things she wants – she's picking it up really well, isn't she?'

Harmon allowed himself a small smile.  'Beginning to, yes.'

Preacher leaned forward.  'Is there anything stopping her from using it here, on people inside the Department?'

Harmon looked as if he'd just been struck.  'On
me,
you mean?'  Suddenly, his expression was cold, even dangerous.

Preacher gestured airily.  'No, not you, of course.  Why would she try it on you?  I meant us – the agents.'

Harmon stared off into space.  'Of course.  How could it not be so?  I should have seen this some time ago.'

With a quiet smile, Preacher let himself out.

With the man gone, Harmon sighed, his expression abruptly changing.  Was
that
supposed to be an example of subtle manipulation?  He wondered what Leeth had done to Preacher to inspire the indirect attack.  He
could
ask, but she’d probably have not the slightest clue.

Harmon closed his eyes, one hand massaging his forehead.  How his horizons had shrunk!  Dealing with mental pygmies – with one or two notable exceptions – trapped in a sterile, airless prison buried under living earth and Warded at the few exit points as strongly as the Institute had been; his research project almost halted, and his own talents wasted on healing brainwashed mercenaries or providing simplistic psychological analyses of uninteresting business leaders. 

And all while the magical elephants in the room loomed over everything: the impossible creature that d'Artelle's death had spawned, and which had hunted Godsson for fourteen years.  Until Leeth's intervention.

And that
other
creature, that Godsson had summoned?  "Robo," Leeth had called it.

The existence of those things had implications for the entire theory of magic.  Yet here he sat.

And Eagle's
other
peculiar demand, regarding the long-dead trillionaire, Feyborn, and what the Dragon Lord Emperor of China had said of her.