Early Byrd (7 page)

"We're taking the others as well," the
Canadian declared. "Plan B is in effect."

"Right," the American agreed. "You, traitor.
Help the fleabag up onto his feet."

I frowned. Dad had taught us that it was as
wrong to call an Artemesian a
fleabag
as it was to call an Asian man like Mr. Li a
slant. In fact, there wasn't anything much worse.

"I require no assistance, Li," Rapput
declared. Then he rose, his shattered arm cradled in the other.
Along the way a single groan left his lips. "Though I'm sure you'd
have been willing."

"Fleabag first," the American continued,
raising his voice as the background firing increased. "Then you,
traitor."

Our companions obeyed their orders. Rapput
eased himself down onto the bare steel floor that would normally
have anchored a middle row of seats—apparently they'd been removed
for this trip. They searched his robes thoroughly, and our teacher
as well. Then Mr. Li tried to lower himself down alongside the
alien . . .

. . . and the Canadian kicked him in the
knee just when he was at his most vulnerable. "Don't you even
think
about trying anything," he hissed from between
clenched teeth. "I recognized that stance—I'm a black belt
myself."

Li merely nodded and smiled despite what
must've been terrible pain. "Of course."

"Of course!" the Canadian snorted, clearly
seeking cause to be offended and finding none. Then he climbed into
the passenger seat as the American and Linda squeezed in on each
side of Tim and me. It was a tight fit. "Execute phase two!" the
northerner cried out into the ever-increasing gunfire. "Now! Now!
Now!"

The driver started the motor and threw the
van into gear. We went surging across the parking garage until . .
. we were surrounded by white vans! A dozen or more. Never stopping
for a moment we all jostled and juggled for places in a single-file
line as we headed for the exit together.

"Looking good," Linda offered.

"Not home yet," the American muttered.

Then the motor roared and we emerged into
daylight, the firefight now so intense that it sounded like strings
of firecrackers going off in every direction. Another disguised man
carrying some sort of military rifle reeled into our lane. His face
was all bloody, so maybe he didn't know what he was doing. Anyway,
another van knocked him flat onto the pavement directly in front of
us. Our brakes squealed, but the Canadian man shouted. "No! There's
no time! Run him over!" And we did exactly that. Ka-thump,
ka-thump! It was awful; I swear I heard his bones crunch.

Then we were out on the main roads, circling
blocks and changing lanes and going in and of garages until no one
could possibly know which white van was which.

"All
right
!" the American finally declared,
once we were out all by our lonesome riding down a country road
without any signs of pursuit. "I think we've actually pulled this
off!" And the Plan B version at that!"

"Honor compels me to inform you," Rapput
began, "that you are in gross violation of the Treaty of—"

"Shut up," Linda interrupted. "I'm
so
damned sick of your kind giving orders to decent human-type folks!"
Then, aiming carefully, she kicked his wounded arm.

"Aaaah!" he cried out, hunching over and
cradling his arm in agony. "Aaaaaaah!" Then he passed out
altogether.

"He's still bleeding," Li observed, staring
submissively at the floor. "Worse than ever, in fact. He's worth a
lot more to you alive than dead, I'd guess. Or don't you know who
he is?"

"We know," the Canadian replied from the
front seat. "Oh, how
well
we know!" He hesitated a moment,
then turned around in his seat. "Do you know how to take care of
him, traitor?"

"I can make a good guess."

"Then do so, if you wish." He passed a
first-aid kit over the seat to Linda, who in turn handed it to Li.
"You're right. We can always make him dead later. That's never any
problem at all."

13

We changed vehicles twice on that long trip. Once we
switched to a bright red minivan parked inside an abandoned gas
station covered in so much dust that no one must have been inside
in years, and the second time a couple hundred yards up a rural
driveway that snaked around through the underbrush on a long
journey to nowhere. The kidnappers let Tim and I go to the bathroom
at both places and even had warm pizza and ice-cold soda waiting
for us at the gas station. But they didn't offer Mr. Li anything,
nor so much as checked the odd-looking splint he'd made for Rapput.
When we came back from the bathroom, however, Rapput's arm bones
weren't sticking out anymore and Mr. Li's face was all pale and
sweaty. I was glad—it didn't seem right to leave the bones sticking
out like that.

Our final vehicle was a Land Rover, which
not long after dawn jounced us along what might optimistically have
been called a logging road for perhaps an hour until we came to a
wide river with a squat, tough-looking boat on it. We had to walk
across a plank to get aboard and that was scary; the water was
absolutely racing past underneath our sneakers, and it was probably
awfully cold since it was still spring and we were so far north.
But everyone made it okay except the driver, who was left behind.
Again, no one helped Mr. Li with Rapput—they didn't even offer. Our
uncle moaned once and blinked; it was still pretty dark, and we
learned Artemu eyes reflect light just like a cat's. But he didn't
hold out long, not with the pain being so bad and him having lost
so much blood.

Normally Tim and I would've enjoyed the boat
ride. We'd never been aboard anything that floated except an
aircraft carrier before, and that was so big I didn't think it
really counted. The American, who we’d learned was named Sam,
noticed right away how impressed we were and explained that it was
a jet boat and didn’t have a propeller. I didn't really understand
what that was all about, except that it quit being so scary when we
hit rocks after he told us the hull was designed for exactly
that.

The boat was equipped with several thermoses
full of hot coffee, and Linda seemed genuinely sorry that no one
had considered how unlikely it was that either Tim or I would care
for the stuff. "It's okay," she said from behind the smile that
reminded me so much of Mom's. Or at least it had until she'd kicked
Uncle Rapput in the shattered arm. "We'll cook you up some oatmeal
and flapjacks with real maple syrup once we get to the cabin. And
that's just for breakfast. Fat boys, you'll soon be! Tell me, do
you guys like poutine?"

"Mr. Li is probably getting pretty hungry by
now," I pointed out. "Thirsty, too. And someone should at least
offer water to U—To Rapput."

"They'll be just fine as they are," Sam, the
American, assured us. "The longer they go without, the easier
they'll be to handle." His eyes narrowed. "I know you probably
think these two care about you, But they don't. It was a lie, I'm
afraid. A
huge
lie, just like this whole Treaty business is
a lie. We won every battle, so how could we have lost the war?" He
looked at Li as if expecting to be contradicted, but he said
nothing. Neither did Tim or I—there didn't seem to be any
point.

Sam frowned then turned to the Canadian man
who seemed to be in charge of it all. Currently he was busy driving
the boat. "Hey, Yukon! You mind if I start debriefing the boys now?
The sooner we get started, the sooner it's done and over with."

He shrugged. "Suits me, I guess. Be sure to
take notes."

"Right," Linda agreed, pulling out a
smartphone.

Then Sam began asking us questions, one
after another. They started out simple, but right from the
beginning I didn't see why we ought to make things any easier for
them. Who were we? Robert Herman and Timothy Scott Smith, I heard
emerge from my lips before Tim had a chance to contradict me. Where
were we from? Boise. How had we become hostages? Because our Dad
was a stinking
collaborator!

"A lawyer from Chicago," Tim added, his eyes
glittering with pleasure as he embroidered our story even further.
After all, Dad always said the only people Americans despised more
than congressmen were big-city lawyers. "He works for the mayor. We
never saw him once after the divorce. He doesn't care about us at
all, I don't think. Just his secretary that he married. That's why
he let them have us as hostages." Tim loved tall tales for their
own sake, and I was rather fond of them myself. I'd told a slightly
different story to Linda earlier, yes. But this new one was so good
she seemed to have forgotten it entirely.

"That entire city is a nest of
collaborators!" Linda hissed, striking the boat's rail in rage. "A
blight on humanity!" Meanwhile Tim beamed at me, and I pressed my
knee against his, the gesture invisible through the blanket we'd
been given to share. It was our secret way of saying "good job!" to
each other. So long as we told them what they wanted to hear,
they'd unquestioningly accept it as the gospel truth. Adults
usually did, after all, especially the stupid ones. And as for
these
particular
adults . . . If they'd known how to "think
things all the way through," as Mom had worked so long and hard to
teach us to do, they'd not have been who and what they were to
begin with.

"We know who the fleabag is," Sam continued.
"We've already convicted the bastard as a war criminal in absentia,
and I expect that once we have proper arrangements in place we'll
be carrying out the judge's sentence."

"Sentence?" I asked.

"Death by hanging. It's slow for their
kind—their necks don't break." He sighed. "Though I guess we'll
have to nurse him a little first. No point hanging an unconscious
man." Then he pointed at Mr. Li. "Now, who is
he
? And what's
his part in all this?"

I gulped, but this time Tim was quicker. "He
knows Dad through Chicago University. He's some kind of
sick-ologist or something. Supposedly he's along just to make sure
we get on the ship, but his real job was to learn everything he
could about the Gonther Clan along the way." My brother twisted his
face up like he was thinking extra-hard. "You might even call him a
spy, kind of. On our side."

"Hrrrmph!" Sam declared, scowling. He didn't
want to believe it, yet we'd already spoken so much self-evident
truth that he had difficulty branding us liars. Then he turned to
Li. "You'd put human kids on an alien ship, Mr. sick-ologist? Leave
them alone to be taken off to god-knows-where and have
who-knows-what done to them?"

"Someone had to do the job regardless," he
countered. "So why not an expert observer?" Then he shrugged. "I
picked up what I could. Who knows when it may be of use? We have to
learn what we can when we can. No opportunity can be lost if we're
to emerge victorious."

Sam frowned again. "All right. I almost shot
you out of hand. But now I can see where at least you deserve a
fair trial. Which you'll get, though it'll be awhile."

"Thank you," Li replied, perfectly sincere
as far as we boys could tell. "Am I allowed to ask under whose
jurisdiction I'm to be tried?"

Sam blinked. "Don't you know by now?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. Should
I?"

"I'm a Regional Vice President of the Rocky
Mountain Free State." He nodded at Yukon. "He's our Senior
Vice-President."

Tim and I looked at each other, but the name
didn't ring a bell for either of us.

"Ah!" Li replied, looking suitably impressed
even though I was fairly certain he'd never heard of them either.
Then he looked down again. "You're right. I should've guessed."

"Damn straight!" Sam declared. "We're the
biggest, most powerful legitimate government on the continent!"

"'Legitimate' meaning non-collaborationist,
of course" Linda explained. "Someday soon we'll be running it all!
And then you'll see the fleabags running in terror, by god!"

"By god!" Yukon echoed from his seat at the
helm. Apparently he could hear a lot better than he'd let on. "But
for now . . . Linda, cover the prisoners, and Sam, go tend to the
bow line. Our last stop is just around the next bend."

14

The cabin didn't look like much—
wasn't
much,
actually, until you realized only a small part was above ground.
From the outside, it was just another trapper's shack with a
half-collapsed roof and a set of beat-up solar panels tracking the
sun. But the visible part was only a sort of vestibule, which also
served as a combination guard post and kitchen. Two armed men sat
there, and they didn't smile at us. Down below there was a long
series of tunnels—we never saw the ends, so I don't have any idea
how far back into the hill they went. Maybe it was an abandoned
gold mine.

The upper shafts were dry and relatively
clean, insofar as anything with a dirt floor can be clean. While
there was always a dank chill in the air, at least our hosts had
provided Tim and me with our own room, complete with bunk beds and
heavy quilts.

"I get the upper!" Tim declared the second
we were ushered in; he beat me to it largely because the lower bed
was made up with a comforter identical to the one I'd left behind
in Montana, with cartoon race cars all over it. I guess the sight
sort of threw me; so much had happened in so little time!

"I'm afraid we don't have TV way out here,"
Sam said from the door as we explored our new domain. "Nor much in
the way of video games or even inside plumbing, though I've
requested some handheld thingies for you to play with. Right now
all we’ve got are a few magazines, and most of them, ah . . .
aren’t suitable for the young. So it's going to be pretty boring
for a while. Beats being taken hostage though, right?"