“I refuse to believe that these kids are our only option.”
“As you have refused to believe from the start. And yet that appears to be the situation in which we find ourselves. It could be far worse, Colonel. They want to help. They are naturally aligned with the forces of light. They are strong, noble, brave—everything you could ask for in the war that looms ahead.”
“Fine. So we’ll use them. For now. We’ll learn how they do it, and as soon as we can, we’ll train real soldiers to do what they do. Who knows where the next attack will be. Or when. We’re going to need a hell of a lot more than these six kids.”
“It is theoretically possible to teach others to do what they do, of course. We have always known this. In fact, we are counting on it. But you will also remember that we tested military personnel long before we ever tested children. The armed forces, Colonel, simply do not favor intuitive thought. Nor does our modern, rational society, for that matter. We live in a culture of skeptics. Even those who are able to access their unconscious pathways are likely to hide that fact from the world. And those who do not bother to hide it will not be soldiers. They will be artists, musicians, inventors—dreamers of every variety. But I do not have to tell you what you already know, what you have seen for yourself.”
“For God’s sake, Professor, you can’t expect me to sit back and trust the security of this nation to a bunch of kids and dreamers.”
“Of course not, Colonel. Not all of it. Just the part that requires them.”
60
Atlanta
“I call dibs on the pterolycos,” Sam declared. She stood in the living room of the Presidential Suite, looking out over the skyline of downtown Atlanta, the floor-to-ceiling windows affording her a bird’s eye view of the city. She imagined flying on the back of the majestic creature, its thick, silver fur clutched in her hands as they leaped off the balcony together into the sky, and the very idea of it made her smile.
“Hey! I want a pterolycos!” Kaitlyn protested.
“Sorry,” Sam said, shrugging her shoulders, as though the matter were simply out of her hands. “Too late. I called dibs.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Mackenzie said, laughing.
“What would you get, Grid?” Kaitlyn asked her.
“I’m going to wait and see what Tick-Tock ends up with, and then I’m going to get Sketch to find me something in Ammu’s book that can beat it up,” she declared.
Sam rewarded her with a wry glare, and Mackenzie laughed again. She sat, at the moment, on the couch next to Sketch, watching as his most recent composition took shape.
“Really?” Mackenzie asked him, pointing at a section he had just filled in, and he nodded silently while his pencil continued to glide across the page.
“Is that another illustration for your book, Ammu?” Daniel asked. He held his guitar idly as he sat on the floor, currently between melodies, his back propped up against the overstuffed chair Kaitlyn was sitting in.
“I do not believe so,” the man replied, smiling knowingly. “This particular work is in honor of today’s festivities, I think.”
The book that served as Ammu’s catalog of spirit creatures had been printed almost a century earlier, the most recent edition in a long, unbroken line of copies produced since the original collection. Because summoning had not been possible throughout the intervening millennia, the artwork had never been updated—only duplicated by hand and then eventually photographed for preservation. Ammu had suggested that the book would be vastly improved by modern renderings of the creatures within it, based on actual experience, and Sketch had readily agreed.
Ammu had bought him a new art pad for the purpose, and Sketch had accepted it eagerly, happy to assist with the project but also more than ready to abandon his practice of keeping two separate chronicles of his life, especially now that the ICIC had officially become a year-round program, so that he no longer had to worry about who might run across his darker visions and what they might try to do about them.
“And what sort of creature might you like to be your special companion, Sketch?” Ammu asked.
“I want a dragon,” Sketch said, his eyes never leaving his drawing.
“Isn’t that a little big for a pet?” Sam asked, but Sketch only shrugged.
Just then, the door of the suite opened, and Rush walked in with Staff Sergeant Miller close on his heels.
“I trust there were no signs of trouble?” Ammu asked.
“Not that I saw,” Miller reported. “Although it’s a zoo out there. But you’d have to ask Rush about any creepy crawlies. I’m only good at the flesh-and-blood security: muggers, kidnappers, assassins, that sort of thing.”
“Rush,” Ammu asked, grinning. “Did you witness any ‘creepy crawlies’ in the course of your perambulation?”
“Nope,” Rush replied easily. “All I found was this lousy thing.”
He grinned as he reached into a bag and pulled out an olive green T-shirt, tossing it in Sketch’s general direction. Seeing that Sketch still had his pad and pencil in his hands, Mackenzie snatched the shirt out of the air and passed it over to him.
“My T-shirt!” Sketch exclaimed happily. He held it up to examine it, turning it over so he could read both sides. On the front was the HRT Alpha logo, and on the back were the words Beta Invitational in large, stylized letters, with a litany of sponsor logos arrayed in three columns beneath it.
“Sorry about the size,” Rush said. “It’s a limited edition thing, so a men’s small was the best I could do.”
“It’s perfect!” Sketch declared, pulling it on over the top of the T-shirt he had already been wearing, blissfully ignoring the fact that his new prize hung down almost to his knees.
“Thanks for letting me do this, Ammu,” Rush said, turning to the man he had come to think of as his mentor, and his friend. “I promise I’ll only take the job as long as it won’t interfere with the ICIC. I mean, assuming I win, that is. I just want you to know the program is my number one priority.”
“So you have said many times this past week,” Ammu noted, smiling gently. “There is no need to thank me, or to reassure me for that matter. I have no doubt that you will be taking your place with everyone else when our classes begin in September—and we will be cheering for you proudly today.”
“I know you’ll win,” Sketch declared. “You’re the best. It’s your special pathway.”
“Yeah, about that…” Rush began, looking at Ammu and hesitating.
“Yes?” Ammu prompted.
“Well, I don’t think it probably matters now… at least, I hope it doesn’t… but there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”