“Uh-huh,” said Prospero. “Right, because my father adores me. It’s well known.”
Stark’s smile flickered but the lights stayed on. “He has gone to great expense and trouble to make sure that everything in this lab is state-of-the-art. Your father is a great man, Cadet. He is a true American and a patriot. I am proud to call him a friend.”
“And does he call you a friend? Do you go out on man dates? What’s it like to blow a man like dear old—”
The blow knocked the rest of the words from Prospero’s mouth. Stark was old but he was not slow, and he had refined the techniques of punishment and brutality over many years. The back of the commandant’s hand caught Prospero in exactly the right way to knock Prospero in nearly a full circle and detonate bombs behind his eyes. As Prospero staggered, the commandant stepped forward and clamped one hand around the boy’s throat and locked the other around his scrotum. The pain was unbelievable and the force lifted Prospero onto his toes. Stark leaned so close that his lips brushed Prospero’s cheek as he spoke.
“Listen to me, Cadet,” hissed Stark loud enough for only the two of them to hear, “and mark me. If it were up to me I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. I wouldn’t buy water from you if I was on fire. You are a useless, ungrateful, psychologically fractured piece of shit who isn’t worth the calorie burn it would take to stomp you to death.”
Prospero could not speak. The pain stole his voice and left only a tiny squeak in his throat.
“But your father is a great man and he is a patron of this academy,” continued Stark. “For some reason that I simply cannot fathom he seems to care about you. If you had any idea how much money he paid to repair the damage your little stunt caused you would shit your pants. And then he paid double that to have these computers and pieces of equipment flown in from companies all around the world. There is more money in this equipment than it takes to run this academy for five motherfucking years.” He gave the boy’s scrotum a squeeze that tore a scream from Prospero, which Stark stifled by increasing the pressure of his choke. “Now… I don’t know what kind of mad scientist Dr. Frankenstein bullshit he thinks you’ll get up to with this stuff, but he is paying the light bill around here and that’s enough for me.”
Stark used his double grip to walk Prospero back and then slam him hard against the front of a massive mainframe computer. Prospero’s head banged hard off the metal and fresh fireworks burst in front of his eyes.
“You will respect your father and you will goddamn well show respect for me, Cadet Bell. You can have all the access you want to this lab and these machines, and your father even secured positions for four research assistants who have advanced degrees in physics and engineering. Imagine that, responsible adults who are here to work with you and jump when you yell ‘frog.’ But let us be crystal clear, Cadet. You will never again speak ill of your father and you will never — ever — disrespect me again. Your father does not want you marked, boy, but believe me when I say that there are things I can do to you — things I would enjoy doing to you — that would leave no marks at all. Not a one.”
Another squeeze, this time with a sideways twist. Prospero begged him to stop, but the words were again squeezed to silence by the stricture on his throat. The edges of the room began growing dark and indistinct.
“This is my school, my house, Cadet,” said Stark, his spit flecking Prospero’s cheek, “and while you are here you belong to me. Body.”
Squeeze.
“And.”
Squeeze.
“Soul.”
With a grunt of effort Stark rammed him backward once more and then stepped back to allow Prospero to fall. The boy thudded down hard on elbows and knees, gagging and weeping, his forehead pressed against the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I didn’t know what to expect when we landed. I hoped we’d see the rest of Echo Team standing there. Lydia Ruiz, Montana Parker, Brian Brandon Botley, and Sam Imura. Instead we were greeted by a bunch of marshmallow men. A dozen techs and twice as many armed SPs in white hazmat suits. The shore patrol guys all had their guns in their hands. Not pointing at us, per se, but not pointing away, either. It was a statement.
One of the marshmallow men stepped up and identified himself as the base commander. “Captain Ledger,” he said crisply, “we are glad to see that you and your team are back safe and sound.”
It was an unfortunate choice of words and it hung like a bad smell in the salt air. Pretty sure none of us were either safe or sound.
“Yeah,” I said, “we’re peachy. What’s the drill here? What are your orders?”
“Sir,” he said, “we need to get you off of this airstrip and into the biohazard unit.” He held up a BAMS unit and the lights were flickering between red and orange.
One of his men pushed up a cart on which a heavy steel drum was positioned, its lid tilted back. We knew this drill. Everything we had went into the drum. Weapons, tech, radios, and clothes. Everything. Then the SP closed and sealed the lid and it was wheeled off toward the back of the biohazard unit. Another tech hosed us down with some kind of chemical that smelled like ass and tasted like shit. We stood there buck naked in a hot breeze, shivering as if the Antarctic winds had followed us. They handed us blankets and we wrapped them around our shoulders, achieving neither modesty nor warmth.
“Thank you for cooperating,” said the officer. “I know this is difficult.”
Top mumbled something very foul about the man’s mother, but halfway through it his eyes rolled up and he fell. Bunny caught him and lifted Top’s limp body. Bunny is enormously strong, but he was also sick. I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. His skin was as hot as a furnace. Doctors and orderlies in heavy-duty white rushed to help us. Accepting the burden of Top Sims, guiding Bunny and me into the chamber, catching us when we fell.
INTERLUDE THIRTEEN
“Major Sails,” said Bell, smiling like a barracuda as his guest came striding across the carpet, hand extended. They shook and he waved her to a seat. “Scotch?”
“Do you have bourbon?” said Sails.
“No. Can’t stand the stuff. I have thirty-year-old single malt.”
“That’s fine, thanks.”
He filled two glasses and handed one to her, then he sat on the edge of the desk, choosing the position so that he was set higher than her, making Sails look up as they spoke. Bell was aware that she knew the trick, but knowing it and not being affected by it were worlds apart.
“So, do we have something to toast?” he asked. “Or are you here to threaten me some more?”
Sails raised her glass. “A toast, definitely.”
They clinked and drank. “I like the sound of that. Tell me.”
“Before I do,” she said, “I heard that your son had a bit of an accident at his boarding school. Something about an explosion?”
“What of it?”
“He’s been continuing to work on his God Machine?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” she said. “Was he hurt?”
“No. He remote fired the machine from another room. Kid’s crazy but he’s not stupid.”
“An expensive failure,” she said.