Wild Thing (24 page)

Rationally, Harmon knew this was all simply part of Godsson's elaborate delusion.  Knew that they argued over fantasies.

One small part of him, though, continued to whisper, “but what if…?”

Now they all waited, tense, not quite certain when the episode would begin.  The
attack
, as Godsson and Sara would say.  The mad mage, however, was very clearly far more worked up and nervous than was normal even for a tri-annual attack, and Harmon was sure this was because he was genuinely fearful that something would happen to Sara.

It was gratifying, if a little surprising, to see that Sara had apparently succeeded so well in gaining the madman's affection.

For her part, she stood on the sturdy wooden bench that had been set up against the side of the corridor opposite the cell, as solemn and alert as any of the adults as she stared at the small window.

The intercom system was turned on, the sound of Godsson's measured pacing a wearing beat against the collective nerves of the watchers.

And at the instant of sunset, the attack began.

The only sign was Godsson's invocation of his dauntingly-powerful protective circle, its golden light blazing forth from the small window.  But as usual, the barrier appeared to offer little protection to him, and soon Godsson was writhing, twisting and dodging, muttering incantations, prayers to his heavenly father, and physically fighting something only he could see.

Harmon saw Sara flinch, her little hands closing into white-knuckled fists, and she stared at him accusingly, the thought “w
hy don't you go in and help him?”
clear in her expression.

She was too young to learn what had happened on the one occasion they
had
tried that.  That would be something to share with her much later.  If ever.  There
were
limits to the stress levels he wished to subject her to.

Seeing that no one was offering to help her “friend,” she turned her small face determinedly back to the window, squinting against the glare.  He and each of the shamans stepped forward to look through the window, taking their turn at trying to See what bedeviled the solitary figure.  But there was just the man, magic flaring from him as spells of daunting power shocked through the air of his cell, to no obvious
effect
–
and with even less
meaning
to their strange shapings.  Some, Godsson directed inwards at himself, and it was generally at those moments that his cries grew desperate.

Though as the grunts, moans and shouts continued, they did not build and build as they had three years ago, just before Sara had interrupted.  Despite himself, despite the obvious self-torture, Harmon found himself relaxing slightly.  He ached for Godsson, yes: only the stoniest heart would remain unmoved.  And he himself, Godsson's therapist, who knew the man's mind better than most, felt the pain more keenly.  But still, this episode looked to be less intense even than the episode six years earlier, bucking the generally upward and worsening trend.

Probably due to Sara's “help” three years earlier.  Though whether that help had been real or simply a kind of placebo effect was impossible to say.

He hoped it was only the latter.

For a short while, then, Godsson's cries eased, as they sometimes did, and the man seemed to use the time to gather his breath and resolve, his hands held out before him as if he gripped something.

Harmon jumped – everyone in the corridor did – as suddenly Sara cried out.  'That's it, Godsson!  You're winning!  Push her back, push her
back!'

She stood, vibrating with tension, every muscle clenched, sweat on her brow and her face red and screwed up, but she stayed where she'd been told, there on the simple wooden bench, and shouted encouragement to her friend.  'I know you can do it!  Force Her back! 
Hurt
her!  Tear Her up into little pieces!'

Sara's hands, he saw, were once more clawing unconsciously at the air, as though she imagined herself in the cell with Godsson, fighting alongside him.  The image of Sara suffering the same fate as either of the previous two poor souls who had once tried that was suddenly so vivid he sagged against the wall.

Tears streamed down her face as she continued to shout, bouncing slightly on her viewing stand as she stared inside.  Harmon watched her Imaginally, noted the intense patterns of emotion, her aura vivid and reaching out slightly.  Nothing magical, however.  Just a small soul utterly focused on her friend in his hour of need.

Harmon looked along the corridor, noting the emotions and auras of the shamans, the agents: all, in varying degrees, in empathic pain; suffering and emoting along with the madman raging in his cell.  All except Mr Smith, who registered faint amusement.

Harmon had always suspected the man to be emotionally impaired.

The attack continued.

Strangely, though, Godsson seemed to be gaining ground, gaining the upper hand rather than “winning” through sheer endurance.  That served only to stir Sara to more extravagant cries of support, of caring; dare he say it, of love.  Was she so desperate for affection she dreamed she could get it from the madman?

More surprising still, the attack finished after a mere two hours, when the golden light finally winked out.  Usually, Godsson's episodes lasted until two or three a.m.  And until Sara's dramatic intervention three years before, they always ended with the inmate a worn wreck, collapsing unconscious onto his bunk, or even the floor, as if only sheer willpower had kept him going.  But Sara's earlier help had eased Godsson's need to exhaust himself so severely – though that positive change had eroded with each passing year.

But now, he staggered to the window of his small room, and Harmon saw his eyes meet Sara's.  For once, though, Harmon found himself unable to read the expression there.  Godsson's eyes then turned to Harmon, and he frowned, clearly thinking dark thoughts.

For her part, Sara slumped back against the wall, panting hoarsely, as if she had driven herself to her own limits.

When Harmon looked back at Godsson, he saw the man nod to his ward, as if acknowledging her
support
; surely not her
help
?  Then he simply turned his back on all his watchers and laid himself on his bunk.

Harmon went to Sara, who collapsed gratefully forward into his arms, falling asleep almost at once.  'Gentlemen.  Ladies.  I believe the episode is over for this year.  I will put my daughter to bed.  If you need me, call.'

In complete silence, then, he walked between the agents and the three shamans, who parted silently, as he carried Sara up to her room.

The next morning, Sara had not been in her room, and he began searching for her, concerned regarding possible traumatization, especially considering how extremely she had reacted, how deeply she had engaged with Godsson's grueling theatrics of the night before.

Instead, the moment he stepped through the doorway of the cafeteria at breakfast time, she'd flung her arms around his waist, bow and arrows clutched in one hand, and proceeded to gush thanks for letting her “help Godsson”; demanded to know if she'd been good enough; and asked whether she would be allowed to help each year.  Before he could answer, she then explained that she and Faith were going to be hunting the invisible monsters; and pleading for him to buy and “magic” some more arrows for her.

He had barely responded to all that, in a generally positive sense, before she had flashed a grin and darted from the room on her way to the front entrance.

He felt rather as if he had just been spun around by a small whirlwind.

Looking around, he saw her bowl, plate, glass and cutlery already being stacked back in the glass-fronted cupboard by the washbot, and the male orderly – Dwight? – raising one eyebrow in question.

'How'd it go last night, Dr H?  Well, I reckon?  Sara looks extra full of beans this morning, if that's possible.'

'She does, ah, Dwight, doesn't she?'

'It's Dwayne, Dr Harmon.'

'Ah.  Of course.  Yes, I had planned to give her a thorough examination, but I think that can wait until later in the day.  Yes, her attendance at the episode seemed to be a definite positive.'

'Chill.  What'd she mean about magic arrows?  What monster?'

Harmon waved a dismissive hand.  'Merely a game, Dwayne.  Something to keep her amused, active, and shooting at things other than orderlies.'

Two steps forward, one step back
, Harmon later mused as he ascended the basement stairs on his way back to his office.  Worryingly, Godsson had begun equating the biblical figure of Lilith with d'Artelle, and seeing signs of Sara's “infection” by the thing spawned from that death.  He had even urged Harmon to bring Sara into his cell so he could check her for himself.

Over my dead body,
Harmon had thought.
 

Chapter 25 

Sara had taken to hunting the invisible monsters on her own.  It was getting too dangerous to take Faith along with her: too dangerous for
Faith
.  Faith seemed not to really understand what they were doing, and mostly just followed along looking puzzled while Sara dodged and twisted to avoid their touch.  And Faith was just hopeless at avoiding them.  Robo had even wrapped around Faith once, and made her go all strange.  She'd actually
whined
; then gone sort of dopey and just trotted off.

She'd acted weird for days, afterward.  Even Mr Shanahan had noticed.  He'd wondered if Faith was getting older, less wanting to play.  But with enough teasing, and pleading, and begging, and offering to play Faith's favorite games – which mostly involved chasing – after a few days she'd come back to her old self.

Since then, Sara went on her special hunts
solo
.  Which meant alone, but sounded a lot more grown up.

It was still rare for her to find either one of the invisible monsters – either
Her
or Robo – but
She
wasn't around much any more.  Thank goodness.  The trouble was, she wasn't sure Robo was, either.

At least, not really around.  ’Cause either Robo was getting creepier, or he was changing.  She wasn't even sure Robo was really Robo anymore.  He seemed colder.  Not at all funny. 
Sticky,
somehow, like he'd learned from Her how to wrap around people.  He was actually getting kind of scary.  As scary as Her, only in a different way.

And she was pretty sure her magic arrows weren't working anymore.  Not at all.

Even the thought of being
touched
by the new Robo made her skin kind of shrink.  She found herself shaking her head just at the thought.  Somehow she knew it'd be real bad if she let the new Robo get her.

She wasn't quite sure why she was even hunting it, anymore.  The game was no longer any fun at all.  The new Robo had even started to act like it was maybe hunting
her.
  She'd also discovered that if she showed any fear, it seemed to see her better.  Actually, it was the same if she got angry with it, too.  She'd learned she had to stay very Huntress-y: very calm.  In its own way, the new Robo, or the grown-up Robo, was almost as creepy as
Her
.  But at least he never tried to talk to her, asking to go for “rides.”

Okay, so maybe the new Robo wasn't quite as creepy as Her.  But she wasn't so sure it was really a good idea to be hunting either of them, anymore.

She was worried about Godsson, too.  Sure, it was cool that she was allowed to be there during his battles – but also, awful.  It just didn't make sense, the way they all simply stood around and watched.  Why didn't they help?  And couldn't they see
She
was getting stronger?

Sure, last year hadn't been so bad, but she just knew, somehow, that this time was gonna be a lot worse.

And she still hadn't thought of anything she could do, even now she was practically fourteen!  There oughta be
something
she could do to help her friend.
 

Chapter 26 

Six months later, on a cold, still winter's afternoon, Sara sat in Harmon's office, completing the history quiz he had set her.  With little more interest than she herself displayed in performing her studies, he reviewed her results.  The logs of her online sessions showed, as he had expected, an improvement over her previously minimum “attendance” efforts.  He had let her choose her own avatars for her synthetic instructors, and was hardly surprised to find she'd chosen popular figures from the trid shows she favored.  The monthly license fees were well worth the hours they saved him from otherwise having to spend instructing her himself.

He did wonder, though, why she had chosen “Sleena the pixie warrior” for her math instructor.  The small creature looked quite feral, with those long teeth.  He couldn't see the connection.

The female adventurer/investigator “Miss X,” whom she had chosen as her Science lecturer, at least made a modicum of sense.  Perhaps, though, the choice of the cyborg dog “Argon” as her English teacher was most surprising.  Yet he did not think she had made that choice from any sense of irony.

He put the smartsheet down, satisfied with her results this month.

History, of course, was an entirely different matter: far too dangerous and open a subject area to leave to any kind of automated or self-directed study.  No,
that
he made sure to cover himself.  There were far too many potential information sources that would interfere with his own aims for her.

He had carefully designed today's history test to ensure she would meet the minimum standards required for a pass mark.  It was somewhat difficult, considering the areas in which he saw negative value should she learn too much.

As she completed the quiz, her final score, 62%, transferred across into her online records, and she smiled at the pass mark.

'Can I go now, Uncle?'