Chapter 13 #2
“Yes. She’s thrilled, as expected. Taylor was raised for this purpose.
Aside from that, she is in her element. She’s wanted to see live combat for years.
” A halfhearted laugh bubbles from her. “She was disappointed to learn she and Hunter would be doing assassinations and not leading troops. For better or worse, she’s gotten her wish. ”
All of these are good points, but I can’t appreciate the logic.
I know Taylor is a solider. I know she’s an assassin.
I know she’s got a general’s mind for war and a hunger for justice.
But I also know that she’s a teenager. I know she’s a human.
I know I don’t want to lose her. I know a lot but lack any certainty, or the ability to change the situation.
Destruction and white-hot streaks of gunfire dominate the screens.
People dodge bullets and run, or they don’t, and fall to the ground.
Others pull the bodies off the streets and into safety.
It’s hellish. We watch together for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of Taylor.
As much as I want to believe she’s on her way home, I know she’s not.
She’s on one of these streets, fighting, shooting.
Taking the city, block by precious block. Eventually, the screens go black.
They don’t go black. I pass out. When I awaken, the room bustles with people.
A glance at a digital clock tells me it’s 13:45.
After laborious mental math, I deduce it’s almost two in the afternoon.
Much of the violence on screen has waned.
Mostly it’s carnage, empty streets and bullet casings.
No Taylor. I’m not sure if I’m thankful for that or not.
After scrounging around for a meager lunch, a curt solider directs me to Delilah in an office on the lobby floor.
A major divergence from the plush brothel she used to call home.
The four walls are barren, and her desk is an antiseptic white with rusted metal legs.
Delilah taps away at a personal computer, no bigger than an open children’s book.
Silently, I sit in the chair on the other side of the desk, eyeing the scattered papers strewn around her computer.
No text is discernible from here and it looks very official, with the Order’s circular logo stamped on each one.
Once she’s finished typing, she releases a sigh and smiles at me. “Good afternoon. Did you sleep well? That couch isn’t as comfortable as the beds, you know.”
I shrug. “I’ve slept on worse. I did stay in Taylor’s cabin for weeks.”
Delilah chortles and leans back in her black, wheeled office chair. Her eyes sweep across the room, nostrils flared. “Not quite the Piccolo mansion, but it’ll do. Well, until they’ve fixed up my actual office. Then I can be free from this dungeon and have a window, like a civilized person.”
Impatient for information, I rudely inquire, “Any word from Taylor?”
“No.” My heart and my eyes drop to the floor, fists clenched together. Delilah places her hand on one of my hands. “Lucy, I am going to be honest with you. The way it looks, I don’t see Taylor leaving the city in the near future.”
“Near future?” My voice ascends its available octaves. “How long is that? What am I supposed to do?”
“It could be days, weeks, or months, I truly do not know. In the meantime, you will be my assistant,” Delilah supplies easily. “It lightens the load for me, and provides you with a constant stream of information on Taylor as it becomes available. Does that sound okay to you?”
No, it sounds terrible. But I don’t have a viable alternative because throwing a temper tantrum probably isn’t productive. Could be worth a try, though. No, I better not. Can’t risk alienating the only person in this organization who actually likes me. “What would my responsibilities be?”
She rises from her chair and perches her backside on the desk in front of me. “Help me with correspondence and handle personnel. I’d like to make sure everyone has their needs met, and I cannot do it alone.”
I’m sure she’ll come to regret this decision, like everyone else who puts faith in me. However, it is better than bumbling around like a lazy idiot, proving true what these people already think of me. “I’m not sure I’ll be any help, but I’ll try.”
“Nonsense, you’ll be an asset.” She tips up my chin. “I know you’re upset. I’m upset too. But we cannot let it overwhelm us. That’s when we’ve failed her. And I don’t think Luciana Piccolo is going to settle for failure.”
A weak, wry smile lifts my lips. “Okay.”
Delilah grins—tight enough to split at the seams—and soothingly rubs my still clenched fist, running her fingers through my hair. My cheeks blush and my dilapidated body grows warm, partially relaxing under her succoring touch. “Okay, darling. Let’s get to work.”
Hours turn into days.
They set up Delilah’s office in a converted studio apartment and it quickly becomes a hub of activity.
My “room”—a one-bedroom apartment—flanks one side of the office, her apartment the other.
We spend our days bogged down in plans and reports.
Mostly I keep people away from Delilah, functioning more as a secretary than an assistant.
I don’t mind, though. It tethers me to the ground when my troubles threaten to lift me away.
It’s awkward at first, but eventually I begin to understand how to filter the soldiers and assess their needs. In what I think is some sort of reward system, every couple of days a new piece of equipment arrives in what quickly becomes my office, as Delilah is often called away.
First, a television connected to the camera system. Then, a radio tuned to Taylor’s frequency. Several days later, a machine that spits out update reports. It passes the time.
Days stretch into weeks.
I learn the names of the equipment. Receiver, connected directly Taylor’s uniform camera.
N-tel, the tiny machine where I get my daily, sometimes hourly, updates on troop movement, major skirmishes, and confidential intelligence.
The radio is still just a radio, but it is my favorite of the three, because every so often a bored group of soldiers will sing to pass time.
A drunken sailor’s song beats fuzzy silence.
Propping my feet up on my windowsill, I stare out into the rainfall splattering against the asphalt. It should be snowing, but the temperature holds steady above the point of freezing. I wonder if it’s raining in Detroit. I suppose I could change camera feeds and check, but I don’t want to risk it.
A soft knock breaks my reverie, and a young man approaches my desk.
Though he’s well-groomed and wearing an off-duty Order solider uniform, he is peculiar.
Scrutinizing him further, I pin down the reason for my unease as I watch him walk toward me.
It’s fear, curling off him like electricity crackling around a live wire.
“Name and rank?” No more “Hello, how are you?” for me. This is my etiquette now.
“PFC Nathan Rodriguez, ma’am.”
His deep, Southern drawl tells me before my holo-dex can that he comes from the Southeast. Twenty-two years of age, both parents and seven other siblings listed as Order members. Two of them KIA.
“What can I do for you, Rodriguez?”
He nervously rubs the short goatee on his chin and then returns to the rest position, hands behind his back.
“I, um, I didn’t know where to go. I been having trouble sleeping.
The doc on site said I’m fine, but, um, I’m tired a lot.
When I sleep, I get these bad dreams, man.
” He snaps his attention to me. “Ma’am. Sorry.
Anyway, I don’t wanna see no shrink, but the doc won’t give me meds. Some L would be great.”
Lunum pills used to fly around at Upperclass parties I attended back in New York.
Intended as a sleep aid to provide a full seven hours of euphoric rest, if you crush half and snort it, you can trip for hours.
Derek and I did it once, but I chickened out and didn’t take the whole dose.
Becoming addicted to escaping reality is too Brave New World for me.
“Have a seat, Rodriguez.” I don’t know why the doctor wouldn’t recommend the drug if his problem is inability to sleep. As the computer accesses his medical records, I turn back to him. “I see you did some fighting in the Southeast.”
“Yes, ma’am. I was there since before McGovern’s assassination.
We’d been fighting Rangers for months. I been fighting almost two years.
Last few months got real bad, though. Rangers least had the decency to fight like men.
Children and women who ain’t fighting was spared.
They take prisoners. You know, real stuff.
But here…” He leans back in his chair and rubs his facial hair again.
“They didn’t fight with no honor. I watched them kill kids.
They execute any Order troops they got pinned down. ”
His med-file has long since popped up and he’s certainly healthy enough for Lunum, but I don’t think putting this boy to sleep is the answer. As he speaks, the fear wrapped around him loosens. I’m going to heed Taylor and Delilah’s advice, and listen.
I know how hard that is for you.
Hearing her voice in my head is both a blessing and a curse. I feel closer to her, and more confident, but it also stabs me in the gut. When Rodriguez realizes I’m looking at him and listening, he clams up. I lean forward on my desk and clasp my hands together.
“Look, Rodriguez, I am not a shrink. If you need to talk, go ahead. Nobody is listening to you but me. And trust me, I’m nobody.”
He chuckles softly and props his elbows on his knees. “That ain’t true. You’re a Piccolo. And you got this swanky office. Leader De La Rosa trusts you.”
“Leader De La Rosa is trying to keep my head on straight. She would have me sweeping floors if she thought I was any good at it.”
Rodriguez gives me a strange look. “You know someone fighting?”
“Yes.”
“Family?”