Toy Soldiers

by Dabeagle & Ryan Bartlett

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Chapter 5

Harlequin

Sunday passed quietly, except for the harassment that Pat was getting for his faint of the night before. How they found out, I don't know. After breakfast I was returning to my room when I saw Cass sneaking out of another bedroom.

“Cassidy?” I asked. He stopped dead, as if someone in authority had caught him.

“Yeah, Harley?”

“What are you doing? That isn't your room.”

“I snagged a few bucks. I want to go with you and Tim to Starbuck's next time.”

“But it's not yours,” I replied.

“I figure Pat owes me,” he said defiantly.

“Cassidy, I didn't protect you from him so you could take advantage – like he would.”

“You think swiping a few bucks is like stuffing your dick in someone's mouth?” he hissed.

“I think stealing and forcing yourself on someone are both wrong. Steal, and I won't help you.”

He vacillated in the hallway, and for a moment I thought he would forsake my protection, but he returned the money, giving me a deep scowl as he did so. I sat and read my book, finishing it. I went to the living room to see if there was more from the same author, but was disappointed. The volume I'd read indicated there were more adventures to be had.

“What's wrong, Harley?” Cass asked.

“I wanted to read the next volume, but it's not here.”

“So? Go down to the library.”

“The what?” I asked.

“You know, where they keep all the books?” he asked as if I had no intelligence. He waited for me to respond and then his mouth dropped. “You've never been?”

“No. Take me?”

“I can't, no privileges, remember? Ask Kara.”

I did. She was happy to take me, and a short ride later brought me to a squat building that seemed to be of no import from outside, but inside! Row upon row, shelf upon shelf! I marveled at the collection, and Kara seemed to enjoy my delight.

“You like the sight of all these books?”

“It's beautiful,” I replied. “How can I tell if they have the one I want?”

I learned how to find books I wanted, and the next book in the series was taken out for me, on the residence's account. I spent the rest of the day happily reading in my room, with occasional interruptions by Cass. After dinner he followed me back to our room, and rather than try to read, I decided to give Cass some attention – after all, he seemed to not get on with the other boys.

“So, you stole a car?”

“Yeah. More than one – I just got caught that time,” he said, sounding as if he were pleased with himself.

“Why?”

“Get away from my dear ol' pops. I call him pops because he likes to pop me in the face, or pop me in the gut or pop me on the side of my head – whatever's handy, really.”

I felt a pang of sympathy for Cass, someone who had not been shown how to defend himself and was now a lawbreaker for attempting to escape. I assumed taking money and getting on a bus or simply walking hadn't occurred to him, or perhaps there were other reasons. I decided to ask.

“Shit, yeah. I ran away eight or nine times. They always bring me back to him. It's like I'm property.”

I found this disturbing, not only for him but for my own situation.

“Why would that happen?”

“Hell if I know,” Cass shrugged. “This place is better than home, as much as it blows. It's a lot better since you got here, though. Pat backed off for a while – do you know what happened to him last night?”

My instinct was to not tell him. While information like I possessed was useful, in the wrong hands it became dangerous. I wasn't fool enough to think I was 'the right hands', but I knew Cass wasn't yet responsible enough. “Yes. Please don't ask; I can't tell you.”

“Why not? I could defend myself, then,” he said, irritation in his voice.

“Defensive measures can easily become offensive. Unless you develop your judgment, it becomes more of a liability to you than an asset.”

“What are you talking about?” he snorted.

“Defending yourself is stopping someone from harming you. Stealing from them afterward is vengeance. Vengeance has its place, but you are provoking Pat in the hopes that I will defend you. That is poor judgment and taking advantage of me.”

“I just wanted to get even,” he said sullenly.

“He will be poked and prodded by the medical community to determine why he passed out. Should he make another attempt and continue to pass out, he may not be able to stay here if they feel it medically necessary to move him. Patience. Beating him to a pulp would be satisfying, but cause more problems than we can deal with.”

“That...makes sense.” Cass admitted slowly. “Is it okay that I still want to kick his balls so hard he shits them out?”

“Assuredly.”

“That sounded like the word 'sure' was in there, so I'm going to take that as a yes – 'cause I have no idea what that word means.” Cass smiled. I frowned.

“Cassidy.”

“Uh oh.”

“Uh oh?”

“You never call me by my full name. You know, like parents do when you're in trouble? You got that whole parent tone thing down. I am never telling you my middle name!”

Something in his words tickled a memory, gossamer threads of a past life. Gone.

“Cassidy, your school work is terrible,” I told him.

“So?”

“Have you ever heard the expression 'knowledge is power'?”

“Sure. Teachers use it all the time.”

“Does it not make sense to you?”

“Depends on the knowledge, I guess. How does high school make any difference to me when I leave it behind? I'll probably quit at 16 anyway.”

“Cassidy,” I said sternly, “you aren't stupid. You are capable of learning. Being ignorant is a choice, and should you decide to remain ignorant, then it lowers you to the level of a Pat or any other moron you can think of.”

His face screwed up in a scowl. “Did you just compare me to Pat?”

“You failed your last math test. What did he get?” I asked.

He shifted uncomfortably. “He failed.”

“Then in math, are you any better? You have an advantage, which is your intellect. Don't squander it, or you'll always be in the same class as the Pats of the world.”

Cass fell silent, thinking over my words, perhaps. I picked up my book and began to read.

Forest Greene was slim upon his arrival. Like many he cried the first night, but he was warned to stop by the next cycle or he wouldn't see another. The example made of the beautiful Kelly was frozen in all our minds.

Forest had been near me that first night. Some of us would watch over our new squad mates, remembering all too well the confusion of being transferred in. They were always ten.

Forest would whisper to himself, over and over for the first week or so; I couldn't be sure of the passage of time. I heard him the second sleep cycle, as I lay awake on my pallet. He kept saying, 'I'm not Forest. My name is Derek.' In the end he was under the green like so many of us before, but when I thought of him, I always remembered – he was not Forest. He was Derek, once.

Sage

I wiped the last remnants of my tears from my cheeks and rose from the bed. My joints felt stiff, as though I’d been asleep for a long time, and I did some stretching to work out the kinks. I immediately noticed my cold symptoms were gone. I felt fine, good even, considering my situation. I found the clothes the doctor mentioned on the counter and studied them before putting them on.

Until my escape I had no memory of ever wearing civilian clothes and was surprised to find them on the counter instead of a fresh uniform. The underpants were plain white briefs and there was a pair of dark blue wool socks. The socks matched a long sleeved blue t-shirt and a fleece vest to be worn over it. It looked like a civilian model of the tactical vest I’d worn during urban pacification training. The final items were a pair of khaki pants with pockets like combat fatigues and brown hiking boots.

I dressed and examined myself in the mirror. I looked like a suburban teenager going for a hike in the woods – the proverbial Boy Scout. I studied my youthful face and realized why The Director had selected me for this mission. Yes, I’d been trained as a scout, but there was more to it. The Managers, and by proxy The Director, knew everything there was to know about us. We were under constant surveillance. They knew older boys like Harley and Brunswick protected younger boys like me. Aside from India Green, I was the youngest of my squad. The Director hoped my youthful appearance would ignite Harley’s protective instincts and buy time for corporate security to arrive should I meet him face to face.

When I realized what I was being used for, my stomach felt sick. I hated everything about this mission. I hated the objectives, and I hated the fact my life was not my own and I had no choice but to obey.

An orderly brought me breakfast, and I ate it simply because it was expected. It had been drilled into us that we were not children – we were soldiers, and soldiers followed orders. Soldiers did what was expected when it was expected without hesitation. When I was finished with the food, my guards returned and led me out of the facility and past the main gates. We found The Director waiting for us with two of his guards at the tree line where the woods began. He was holding a blue coat that matched my shirt and a blue backpack.

“Good morning, Sage,” he greeted me.

“Director, sir,” I acknowledged.

“You sound better. How are you feeling, my boy?” he asked. His tone was almost warm, as if he cared about the boy he was speaking to, not the soldier he commanded.

“I am fine, sir,” I replied robotically.

“Excellent,” he smiled. “You’ve been asleep for five days. The cold virus should be out of your system.”

“Five days,” I mumbled to myself. I couldn’t believe I’d slept so long. It gave Harley a great head start, but I understood why the Director wanted me healthy. If I passed out and died in the woods, I’d be a wasted asset.

The Director continued to smile and held out the coat for me. I slipped it on, and then he handed me the pack, which I slipped over my shoulders.

“In addition to your standard kit you’ll find a satellite homing beacon in the pack. Are you familiar with its operation?”

“Yes, sir,” I nodded. Standard kit for a scout included two liters of water, a few prepackaged meals, as well as some power bars. There was a first aid kit with antibacterial ointment, bandages, splints, sun screen. I had a poncho for the rain, extra socks, a flashlight, binoculars, night vision goggles, a map, compass and Ka-Bar survival knife. Communications equipment like the homing beacon weren’t standard issue, but they were commonly included, and I was well versed in their use.

“Very good.” The Director rubbed his hands together. “What are your primary objectives?”

I didn’t think about the question; I didn’t need to. Training took over; and I snapped to attention as I sang out, “Objective one, ascertain the path taken by my target the night of the escape. Objective two, track my target’s path of egress. Objective three, make visual contact with my target, activate my homing beacon and maintain surveillance of the target until corporate security arrives, Director sir!”

“Secondary objectives?”

“Secondary objective one, avoid face to face contact with my target unless absolutely necessary. Objective two, avoid contact with civilian authorities. Objective three protect the contents of my pack; do not allow it to fall into the hands of civilian authorities. Objective four, present myself to corporate security for extraction once the target has been subdued.”

“That’s my little soldier.” The Director clapped me on the shoulder. “You have your orders. Go fetch.”