Armageddon’s Children

TWENTY-SEVEN

LOGAN TOM SPENT the remainder of the night keeping watch in the hallway outside the door he had tried unsuccessfully to pass through earlier. Realizing that the gypsy morph was in all likelihood the boy called Hawk–the one he'd unfortunately let pass him by on the street before coming into the building–he had determined to wait for his return. Hawk would be back soon, Owl had insisted. He had gone to the compound to visit his girlfriend. She would not say anything more than that. No one quite trusted him yet. Candle, more than the others, believed he was there to help. But it was Owl who made all the decisions, and she was taking no chances.

So, despite everything–or perhaps because of it–she had steadfastly refused to let him enter their quarters. All she had been willing to agree to was letting him remain in the hallway outside the door. She had promised that they would not make up their minds about him until Hawk's return. She promised that they would not try to slip out the back or flee into the city and that they would let him cast the finger bones again when Hawk returned.

Then, having left his staff lying on the floor where he could reach it, they had backed into their lair and closed and locked the door. There had been no argument from any of them, including Candle, that he should be allowed to come inside.

So he sat in the hallway all night with his back against the far wall, facing the door and waiting. He slept off and on, but never deeply and never for very long. He had time to think about what he would do once he had determined if the boy Hawk was, in fact, the gypsy morph. How hard would it be to persuade him of his lineage? It was one thing to offer your help; it was another to gain acceptance. None of these street kids knew anything of Knights of the Word. Why should they? But it made his job just that much more difficult. There was no reason for the morph to trust him any more than these other street kids did.

There was another problem, a potentially bigger one. Would the morph even know what it was supposed to do once it had been told what it was? O'olish Amaneh had seemed confident that all the pieces would fall into place once the morph was found. But Logan was suspicious. In his experience, few things ever seemed to work out the way you expected. Mostly, something went wrong.

Dawn broke, and Hawk had not returned. Logan rose and went down to the street and looked around. There was no one in sight. He stood there for a long time, willing the boy to appear. But the street remained empty of life.

He took a deep breath and exhaled. Something was wrong, and he was afraid that it was going to change everything.

He needed a bath and something to eat, but he gave up on both and went back into the building. He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and knocked on the door to the lair of the Ghosts. This time the door opened immediately and Owl wheeled into view, the other street kids trailing silently.

"He hasn't come back?" Logan asked. Owl shook her head. "Will you try to find him?" "I don't know. Has this ever happened before?" She tightened her lips. "No. He meets Tessa secretly, and then comes back before it gets light.

Usually, he takes Cheney, but Cheney is hurt, so he left him behind. Hawk has been taking chances lately with Tessa. Someone in the compound might have found out about them. I've warned him that these meetings are dangerous. The people in the compound don't like street kids."

Logan nodded. "I know how they think. I've encountered it before. They don't like anyone who lives beyond the walls. They can be very hard on outsiders."

"It might be worse here. Tessa was stealing medicines from the compound stores to help street kids. Hawk asked her, and she agreed. If they found out about that…"

"Can you get inside the compound to find out?" asked the girl with dark hair and intense eyes.

"Maybe." He shrugged. "Maybe not. They don't have any reason to help me. A lot of them don't even like me."

The dark–skinned kid pushed forward and looked back at the others, blocking Logan off. "We don't need him. He ain't got nothin' useful to offer us.

Ain't got nothin' but that staff. At least we got weapons. We can find out for ourselves about the Bird‑Man."

"Shut up, Panther," snapped the slender girl with the straw–colored hair and the fierce eyes. She looked back at Logan. "Will you try to find him? Will you go to the compound and ask?" Straightforward and to the point. 'All right," he agreed. "Do you want any of us to go with you?"

He shook his head. "Stay here. Let me see what I can learn on my own first. If that doesn't work, I'll come back and we'll try something else."

He went down the stairs without waiting for their reply, his mind made up about what he was going to do. He had come a long way to find the gypsy morph, and he wasn't about to give up on it now. The Ghosts meant well, but they would only get in his way if Hawk was inside the compound. His best chance of reaching the boy was to speak with the compound leaders. Assuming Hawk was still alive.

He got a block away before he stopped to throw the bones, unable to wait any longer to make certain there was still a reason to go on. But the bones formed up on the square of black cloth, pointing down the street and toward the sports complex that he already knew was serving as shelter for the compound members. He had seen it from the highway coming in and recognized it for what it was–another futile attempt by a dying civilization at staying alive, another false hope that protection from the world could be found by hiding behind walls.

He picked up the finger bones and put them back in his pocket. He wished sometimes he could find a way to convince those who lived in the compounds that they were inhabiting their own tombs. He wished he could make them see that there was no longer any safe place in the world, and that their best bet was to keep moving. But he knew that thousands of years of conditioned thinking was standing in the way of any real change, and the advice of one man wasn't likely to overcome that.

He caught sight of some of the other denizens of the city as he went, their furtive, shadowy movements giving them away. Another would have missed them entirely, but his training and the magic of his staff revealed their presence to him. Mutants: some of them dangerous, some not. Some were solitary, some tribal, but the humans who had not mutated shunned them all. He wondered what would become of them in the future that Two Bears had prophesied.

He reached the compound without incident and walked up to the main gates, not trying to hide his approach. If he was to get anywhere, he must be direct.

Guards atop the walls challenged him when he came into view, and he stopped where they could see him, calling up his name and order of service. One of the guards, at least, knew what it meant to be a Knight of the Word and told him that someone would be right down. He waited patiently, studying the complex, noting its defenses. It was heavily fortified; its inhabitants would be well armed. An attack would have to be massive and sustained if it was to succeed.

Not that it wouldn't. Eventually, they all did.

A small, metal–clad door opened to one side of the main gates, and a man stepped through into the daylight.

"Morning," he called out, walking toward Logan. "I'm Ethan Cole, Chairman of the Compound Directorate. What brings a Knight of the Word up this way?"

His voice was flat and perfunctory, and his manner was brusque. There was no offer of anything to eat or drink, no invitation to come inside and rest, no small talk, and no time wasted. Get it said and get it done. It wasn't difficult to get an accurate measure of Ethan Cole. He was perhaps fifty years of age, of average size and ordinary looks, nothing unusual about him, nothing odd. But he spoke and walked in the way of a man used to wielding authority. Logan had met men like him before. They were always the same.

Logan leaned on his staff and waited for the other to get close, then said, "I'm looking for someone."

Cole frowned. "Here?"

Logan nodded. "I've come halfway across the country to find him. I think you might have him inside. He's just a boy. His name is Hawk."

"Hawk," the other man repeated and shook his head. "No, I don't know anyone by that name."

Logan studied him a moment, letting the weight of his gaze settle.

"Something you should know about Knights of the Word. Whatever you might think of us, we always know when we are being lied to. Maybe you have a good reason for doing so here, but I would appreciate it if you would stop wasting my time.

I am tired and hungry. I haven't washed in days. I don't have a lot of patience for this. What's the problem?"

Ethan Cole hesitated, and then shrugged. "No problem. I'm just being careful. You say you are a Knight of the Word, but how do I know what you are? Things have been a little uncertain around here. We lost an entire foraging party last week. They went out fully armed and equipped and they didn't come back. Just disappeared."

"It happens. I'm sorry about your people, but my presence has nothing to do with them. I've been following a trail, and it led me here. I don't know anything about the boy's history with this compound or even this city. I just know he's inside your compound. He is, isn't he?"

He waited. "All right, he's here," Cole admitted.

"Is he a prisoner?"

"He is."

"What has he done?"

Cole took a deep breath and blew it out in exasperation. "He and one of our young girls stole some medical supplies. They've been meeting outside the compound for some time—a violation of our rules, of course. We found out about the girl a day or so ago and caught the boy trying to meet up with her again last night. It wouldn't matter so much if they hadn't stolen the supplies. But they did, so it does."

The way he said it suggested that things were not going to end well for Hawk and the girl. Logan glanced past him to the gates and walls. "I would like to speak with the boy."

The other man pursed his lips. "I don't know about that."

"What is it that you don't know, Mr. Cole? I told you I've come a long way to find him. I need to make certain he's who I think he is."

"It won't make much difference if he is or isn't. Stealing from our medical stores is treason and punishable by death. He and the girl will be thrown from, the walls at sunset."

Logan hid the twinge of fear that tightened his throat. "Then it won't

hurt to let me see him for a few minutes now, while there's still time."

Cole shifted his weight. "We don't usually allow outsiders inside our walls."

Logan straightened. "Is that how you see me? As an outsider? I guess I find that hard to understand given the nature of my work. In any case, it shouldn't matter here. My request is a simple one. You shouldn't find it difficult to grant."

"I don't know you. I don't know anything about you. But I do know something of Knights of the Word. I'm told you possess unusual powers, magic or arcane skills. Given that, letting you inside our walls seems an unnecessary risk. I don't see what purpose it will serve to let you speak with this boy. You can't help him. The law is quite clear about what's to be done in these cases."

Logan nodded as if he understood, although the only thing he really understood was that Ethan Cole was starting to irritate him. "I'm not interested in your compound laws or what they mandate for offenders," he said. "I'm here to determine if this boy is the one I have been looking for. It seems he is, but I need to speak with him to make certain."

"But if he is who you've been looking for, what then? Will you then demand we set him free? Will you try to take him by force if we don't?"

Logan sighed. "You're getting ahead of yourself. I'm not looking to make trouble. Just let me speak with him. When I'm finished, I won't ask anything further of you."

The other man studied him, undecided. "I won't let you bring any weapons inside."

"I have my staff of office," Logan said. "Nothing else."

"You'll be searched. I'll need to have you speak with the boy in his holding cell." The other man shook his head. "I'll say it again. I don't like this. I don't see why I should agree to it."

Logan folded his staff into the cradle of his arms. "You should agree to it because it is the right thing to do. I told you the truth. I don't know this boy. I don't care about the girl or the medical supplies or any of the rest of it. I am here for one reason and one reason only–to find out if this boy is the one I am looking for. I can't do that if I don't speak to him. He can tell me what I need to know, and then I will be gone from here." He paused, staring at Ethan Cole. "Why are you so afraid?"

Cole flushed at the rebuke, looked as if he was about to make a retort, then thought better of it and simply nodded. "All right. Come this way."

They went back through the doorway and into the compound corridors. Logan allowed himself to be searched, permitted the guards to run their hands over him. It had been a long time since he had allowed anyone to do that. But when they tried to take his staff, he stopped them, telling them that his oath of office wouldn't allow it. Cole shrugged the matter away, seeing the staff as ordinary humans were meant to see it, and beckoned him ahead impatiently. Having made up his mind to allow this, Cole clearly wanted to get it over with. A phalanx of guards accompanied them as they wound their way down a series of corridors and then descended into the bowels of the complex. Everything was formed of concrete and steel, smooth and functional and indestructible. Logan hated places like this, found them stultifying and deadening, tombs for the living. He found no comfort in walls and gates, gained no sense of peace or reassurance from their vast bulk, and felt disconnected from the world whenever he was inside them.

But he kept his feelings to himself, focusing on what he was here to do, a small excitement beginning to build at the prospect of completing his journey.

He did not allow himself to think beyond the possibility that Hawk was the gypsy morph. He would not worry yet about what he would need to do if he was. The nature of this undertaking, grave and dangerous, required that he not think past the moment. This was difficult for him to do. He had learned to stay alive by thinking ahead. But thinking too far ahead here might result in a mistake that would reveal his intentions to Cole and the others who warded this compound.

They must not be given any reason to look on him as a threat.

They were deep inside the compound when Cole halted before a steel door, one of several that lined the corridor in which they stood. He signaled to the guard on duty, and the man produced a key that unlocked the door. The door swung open, the guard stepped back, and Cole gestured for Logan to go inside. Logan almost hesitated.

"I'll need a light," he said. "So I can see after you've closed the door."

Cole handed him a battery–powered torch. "Make it quick. Just call out when you're done. Someone will be right outside."

Logan took the torch wordlessly, switched it on, and walked past him into the cell. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and he could hear footsteps receding into the distance.

Hawk stood directly in front of him, not six feet away, squinting against the brightness of the light. He was slender and not very tall with a shock of ragged black hair and eyes so deep–set they seemed black until the light revealed a hint of green. He wasn't imposing in any way, didn't appear at all impressive, and gave no indication that he might be anything other than what he seemed to be. Logan directed the torch beam toward the floor, letting the boy's eyes adjust.

"My name is Logan Tom," he said. He turned the beam on himself to let the boy have a good look, keeping it in place as he talked. "I'm a Knight of the Word. Do you know anything of our order?"

The boy shook his head, said nothing.

"Your friends told me where to find you," Logan continued. "Owl said you had come here to meet Tessa. I guess that meeting didn't work out."

The boy made no response, watching Logan closely.

"Your name is Hawk?"

The boy nodded.

"I'm looking for someone. I think you might be him." He waited, and then gestured at the floor. "Sit down with me. I'll show you something interesting."

He sat cross–legged on the floor, and after a moment or two, the boy joined him. Logan placed the light to one side, its beam directed across the floor in front of them so that the pale wash illuminated them both. Then he lay down the black staff, reached into his pocket, and extracted the black cloth and finger bones of Nest Freemark. He spread the cloth on the floor carefully, smoothed out the wrinkles, and looked at the boy.

"This is how I found you," he said.

He tossed the finger bones onto the cloth, and they scattered like bleached sticks. For a moment, they lay where they had fallen. Then they began to move, forming up into fingers and a thumb, taking shape as Nest Freemark's right hand. Logan saw the boy start in shock, then settle back to watch, wonder mirrored on his lean face.

The bones came together, a slow connecting of joints, a fitting together of pieces until the entire hand was in place.

The index finger extended, pointing at the boy.

Logan took a deep breath and held it, waited a moment to be sure, then moved the cloth so that the finger was pointing away. As soon as he did so, the bones shuddered and began to move again, readjusting so that they were pointing at the boy once more.

Logan exhaled softly. "There you are," he whispered.

Hawk looked at him, uncomprehending. Leaving the bones where they were, Logan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Let me tell you a story, Hawk," he said.

IN THE HALLWAY outside, the guard stationed on watch was pressed against the door, his ear at the crack between door and jam, listening. Ethan Cole had told him to do so, to try to learn what this man wanted with the street boy.

Ethan didn't trust him, even though he had agreed to let him come inside the compound. Ethan didn't trust any outsiders, which was probably what had helped keep the residents of the compound safe. Best not to trust anyone you didn't know; the guard knew that much about the world. When it came to outsiders, you could never be sure.

He listened hard in the near silence, but all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. The steel door was too thick; it muffled all sound from within. It would have been better if they had left it open a crack. Then he might have been able to hear something. But Ethan would never agree to take a chance like that. The door had been opened to let the man in and it would be opened to let him out again, and those were the only times it would be opened until sunset.

The guard shivered as he thought about what would happen to the boy and the girl when the sun dropped. He thought about how they would be taken to the highest walls of the compound and pushed off into the fading light. He thought about how they would scream helplessly as they fell. He thought about the sounds they would make when they struck the concrete at the base of the walls. He had seen and heard it all before, and he had hoped not to have to do so again.

He waited a moment longer, and then stepped back impatiently. Trying to listen was a waste of time. He walked a few yards down the corridor to where his folding chair waited and sat down.

WHEN LOGAN HAD finished his story, the boy said, "Are you telling me I'm not human?"

Logan hesitated. "I really don't know what you are. You were born to a woman, so I guess that makes you human. But you were something else first, a creature of magic, and she was always gifted with magic of the same sort." He shrugged. "What difference does it make? What matters is what you're supposed to be now."

The boy looked at him a moment, and then shook his head. "I don't believe any of this. I guess you do or you wouldn't have come this far. But those bones could be telling me anything."

Logan nodded. "Maybe, but I don't think so."

Hawk was silent a moment. "Didn't you say I was supposed to know what to do after the bones found me? If I'm this … whatever it is."

"Gypsy morph."

"Gypsy morph. But I don't know anything more now than I did before. I don't have any idea at all what it is I'm supposed to do. Or what everyone thinks I'm supposed to do."

"You have visions. Candle said so. You have dreams about the boy and his children. Maybe that's some of it."

Hawk sat motionless, staring off into space, his thoughts unspoken. He was working it through, trying it on for size, but not finding anything that fit.

Logan could see it in his face, in the shifting of his eyes. He was a boy sitting in a cell waiting to die, and this latest madness was too much for him.

Why he didn't seem to know who he was or what he was supposed to do surprised Logan. He thought it would all be made clear once he found the morph. Logan wondered suddenly if there was something he had forgotten.

Then, abruptly, he remembered. He gathered up the bones and held them out.

"Take these. If you are the morph, they belong to you. They are your mother's bones. They might help you remember."

Hawk looked at the bones, then at him, and shook his head. "I don't want any part of them. I just want you to take them away."

"If I do that, what will happen to you then? They're going to kill you."

Logan kept his hand outstretched. "And Tessa. What about her?"

The boy said nothing for a long time, sitting back, looking at nothing.

"She told the judges that she was carrying my child," he said finally. He looked up again, meeting Logan's gaze. "I don't know if it's true or not." He shook his head slowly. "Doesn't matter, I suppose. None of it matters. Even if I am who you say, even if the bones are my mother's, it doesn't change what's going to happen to me or to Tessa."

"Or to the Ghosts?" Logan asked. "They seem to believe in you. The boy and his children. They mentioned that right away when I told them I was looking for the gypsy morph and what the morph was expected to do. They say you are a family. What happens to them?"

"I don't think I can do anything for them." Hawk's words were laced with bitterness. "I can't save them or Tessa or anyone. I can't even save myself from this."

He looked at the floor again. "Or my child, if there is one."

Logan gave him a minute, and then said, "Take the bones. Hold them. Let's see if they give you any answers."

"No," Hawk repeated. Then his eyes lifted and met Logan's. They stared at each other for a long time. "All right," the boy said finally. "Give them to me."

Logan leaned forward and dumped the bones gently into the boy's palm. Hawk looked at them, a glimmer of whiteness against the dirt–streaked flesh of his hand. Then slowly he closed his fingers over them.

Logan waited expectantly.

"Nothing," Hawk said finally. "It's all a …"

Then his eyes snapped wide, his mouth fell open in shock, and his slender body went rigid, his muscles cording, straining against what was happening to him. Logan started to intervene, then checked himself. Better to let this play out. The boy was shaking now, his body jerking in whiplash fashion. He was trying to say something, but the words came out as small whimpers. He clasped the fist that held the finger bones to his breast, hunched over as if to find a way to absorb the bones into his body, and began to rock forward and back.

"Hawk?" Logan whispered to him.

A white light bloomed from the center of the boy's body, a small blossom at first, and then a bright cloud that all but enveloped him. Logan backed away despite himself, edging toward the darkness, not understanding why, but feeling that his presence was invasive and perhaps even dangerous. He watched the light steady and then begin to pulse in a rhythm that matched the rocking of the boy.

Hawk continued to make indecipherable sounds, lost to everything about him, gone completely into whatever catharsis the bones had generated.

The rocking and the pulsing continued for a long time, and then died away in an instant, leaving the boy hunched over like a fetus, pressed down against his hand and the bones and the floor with the wash of the electric torch casting his shadow in a tight, dark stain across the concrete.

"Hawk?" Logan tried again.

The boy's head lifted slowly and his face came into view, his features stricken and his skin damp with his own tears. The green eyes were filled with a mix of wonder and recognition, of understanding that only moments earlier had been lacking. He stared at nothing, and then at Logan without seeing him. He was looking somewhere else, somewhere only he could see.

His throat worked. "Mother," he whispered.

OWL WAS SUPERVISING preparations for moving, organizing and dispatching the others on tasks designed to gather together their stores and belongings. She had decided that morning, when Hawk failed to return and Logan Tom set out to find him, that whatever else happened the Ghosts were leaving. She no longer trusted Pioneer Square, no longer felt safe, no longer believed they belonged in this part of the city. She had half decided this before, after their terrible battle with the centipede, but now she was determined. They would move to higher ground, farther back from the waterfront, up in the hills behind the city where they were out of the underground tunnels and sewers and away from the tall buildings. There might be less concrete and steel to protect them inside the residences and low–rises, but there might be fewer monsters, as well.

Besides, she thought, they were at the start of the journey Hawk's vision had foreseen. The boy and his children were about to set out, just as she had told them in her stories. There was no reason to think about staying any longer.

She glanced around their temporary living quarters, trying to determine if she had forgotten anything. She regretted having to leave some of what they had built and scavenged, the heavier appliances and equipment, the things that had made their lives marginally easier. But they would find and build others and make new accommodations. She looked at Cheney, lying in one corner, head lowered between his paws, one eye partially open and staring at her. Nothing wrong with Cheney; he was back to his old self. He looked asleep, but he wasn't. Sometimes she thought the big dog never really slept, that he only half slept and was always just this side of dreaming.

Panther trudged through the door, dropping a pile of blankets and clothing in front of her. "Got us two wagons, carts, whatever, to haul this stuff. Can't take too much, though. We got to pull it uphill, and even the Bear can't do that for long." He looked around expectantly. "Any news? He back yet?"

She knew whom he was talking about. "No. Can we take some of the drinking water containers off the roof? We might have trouble finding new ones. Or even drinkable water."

Panther shrugged. "We can take what we want. We just have to make choices." He paused. "What if he don't come back? What if something's happened to the Bird‑Man?"

She started to answer him, already knowing that she didn't have the answer he needed, when she saw Cheney's big head lift from the floor, his dark muzzle pointing toward the open door. Then he was on his feet, his look expectant and eager.

Hawk, she thought at once.

Panther, seeing the shift in her eyes, turned to look. "What?" he said.

Logan Tom appeared in the doorway, holding the black staff of his order in both hands, his visage dark with knowledge and foreboding.

"Hawk is the gypsy morph," he announced before the question could be asked. "But he's also a prisoner in the compound. Tessa, too."

"You couldn't get them out?" Owl asked, wheeling her chair forward until she was right in front of him.

Logan Tom shook his head. "Not without a fight. They caught Hawk trying to meet her, but they already knew about them. They found out about the medical supplies she was stealing for him. They held some kind of trial. They've sentenced both of them to be thrown from the walls at sunset."

"Today?" Owl exclaimed. "That's only four hours from now!"

Panther stalked forward. "You said you was supposed to protect the morph!

What happened to that?"

Logan shrugged. "They were expecting me to try to break him out. Maybe they were even hoping I'd try."

"So you gonna do nothing, Mr. Knight of the Word?" Panther was furious.

Logan met his gaze and held it. "No, Panther, I'm going to do what I came here to do. I'm going back and get Hawk out. Tessa, too, if I can manage it.

Because now they won't be expecting it."

He reached out and tapped the boy on his shoulder. "And you're going to help."