Freedom - 5 (Young Justice in Genosha)

by D Benway

I'm at the wheel, steering the boat into the shallow inlet where I've planned to have lunch. The wind isn't strong, so we're moving at a pretty slow pace.

"Cool," says Cassandra, for the hundredth time this morning, as she gives the cliffs a once over.

Majestic, yes. Crenelated, yes. Blood-red rocks in bright sunlight cannot in any sense of the word be considered 'cool', except in their sense, and that's the only one that counts in this brave new all-American world.

I hold a steady course without difficulty. Cassandra is here with me in the boat, dressed in of all things a golden silk sari. As with everything she wears, it somehow contrives to completely hide the shape of her body. It makes me wonder what she's hiding. Teeth, if I were to believe the daft things my father used to tell me.

Bartholomew and Cecily are in the cabin. Bartholomew is working away at some game or other in there, as the sun is too bright out here. Cecily is wearing some sort of dress that looks painted on. She's lying on the bunk, completely prostrated. It seems that she's never been on a small boat at sea before. None of them have, and I've never had anyone on it since Bruce gave it to me. It's designed so that I can sail it by myself, and I have. I've yet to take first place in a regatta, but I've sailed into and out of Hammer Bay without using the motor ahead of the storm, something that a half dozen 18th century mariners failed to do. Then again, Bruce was with me, that time.

They are here for two reasons. First, so that I can find out what they know about the banner on the tower, and second, so that I could get Col onto the boat. He's on the foredeck, and once we were out of sight of the cottages on the coast, he took off all his clothes and lay on the deck. I can't see him properly, the way he's lying. I see his shoulder, rounded and rippling. I see the deep furrow along his spine. When he took off his trousers, I saw in life what I had seen only in the pictures in the files. A completely smooth band of flesh ran from the base of his spine between his legs and up to his navel. No scars, nothing except a tiny imperfection in the form of a mole. I know that if he kissed me in that place, I could deny him nothing.

"You've got it bad," says Cassandra.

"Excuse me?" I say, glancing at Col.

He hasn't moved. If there's one thing I know about Col, if he's asleep he's dead to the world. If he isn't, he can't resist staring at whoever is talking. I wonder if she knows this, too. Surely she can't be having any carnal thoughts about him.

"For him," she says, nodding at Col. "You want him."

"It's none of your business what I want," I say.

"Is it is his business?" she says.

"His business?" I say. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean, you keep staring at him," she says. "It's kind of obvious to everyone in sight you have a monster crush.

"I don't wish to discuss it," I say.

"What do you think he's told me about you?" she says.

Oh God. What could he have said? Perhaps he laughed at me.

"It's none of my business," I say.

"That's what he said you'd say," she says.

"Really," I say.

"Do you have any interest in girls?" she says.

"Not really," I say.

"How do you know?" she says.

"I simply do," I say.

"My mother told me there's no such thing as a homosexual person, only homosexual acts," she says.

I glance at Col. No movement. I glance in the cabin. Cecily moans, and Bartholomew does as Bartholomew does. I glance at her. She's staring at me with huge blue eyes. Her hair is a light green this morning.

"Why can't you leave this alone?" I say.

"Because it's important," she says. "I need to know if I can trust you. If you can't be honest about this, how do I know we can trust you?"

Oh Christ. There's no way out of this that isn't going to hurt. I have to know if Col's involved.

"I've known since I was eleven," I say. "I found some, er, postcards when I was looking for my tennis racket in the attic. I found them in my great-great-grandfather Ghandi's possessions."

"You're related to GANDHI?" she practically screams.

"To a Gandhi, not the Gandhi," I say, casting a glance towards the still-sleeping Col. "I had two Indian great-great-grandparents. A touch of the tar brush, as they say. Not that it shows, unless you consider how black my hair and eyes are."

"Well fuck me," she says.

"No thank you," I say.

"So your grandfather had some naughty postcards?" she says. "Naked women? Naked men?"

"Naked men," I say. "Some my age. I found them, um, arousing. I kept them in my night-table. One evening something frightening happened, and when I cried out my father came and found me with the cards spread out upon my bed."

"Bummer," she says.

"He beat me so badly I couldn't walk properly for a fortnight," I say. "He burned the cards. He told me if I ever indulged in such perversion again, he would murder me."

"Oh fuck," she says. "Did you charge him?"

"With what?" I say. "He broke no law here."

Things are getting blurry. This can't be happening. I have to keep this under control. I must see clearly where I am going, to steer this boat into a safe harbour.

I feel the warmth of her hand on my arm. It's soft, so very soft.

She stands up to embrace me. She's taller than I am. She holds me. No one's ever held me. Not since I was seven and my mother left to buy groceries and never came back.

We lose the wind. The boat lurches to one side. The boom comes across.

"Down!" I yell.

She takes us both down and we land in a heap on the deck. I'm completely tangled in her sari. I'm looking into her eyes. She looks so much like a boy. She grimaces.

"Hey," she says. "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?"

I'm aroused. This cannot be happening. She is so close.

"Hey, back off!" she says, pushing my lips away. "What the hell was that?"

"I-, I don't know," I say, and then I do it again, and then I'm flying up and away, then falling down.

Just before I hit the water, I see Col raise his sleepy head. When I fight my way to the surface, the boat is ten feet away. There are sharks in these waters. I make for the side. Cassandra reaches out and hauls me out of the water with one spindly arm. She's holding me at arm's length, half a metre above the surface of the water. She's not even standing on the deck, she's floating above it. Her eyes are filled with tears.

"No means no," she says. "Understand?"

I nod.

"Then get this thing anchored, let's get lunch, and let's get the fuck out of here," she says.

* * * * *

That wasn't supposed to happen.

I know what I am. I'm what Bruce is, and what some of the other boys are. I become aroused at the thought of naked men, not naked women. I really have no idea of what a naked woman looks like. How would I? The Chosen burned every picture with nudity in it during the old regime, then burned the books with illustrations of those pictures. They still censor the films, although now it is ostensibly out of respect to women. I could use the workstation, but then Bruce might find out. I know from school what naked men look like, and I know what happens when I think of Col.

I've never expected that I would have an easy life. My perversion is still considered to be a disease here, if acted upon. It is certainly grounds for expulsion from school, should such behaviour be seen in public. Even so, I know I'm not alone. I've had pashes on other boys twice before, and once I did something dirty. I was no closer physically to him than I am to Col now, and all that became filthy was a part of my hand. We were both so embarrassed that we've never been able to say a word to each other since.

If this were another time, it would have been easier. If it were still the early days of the last century, as we so often pretend that it is, I could have gone on to school in England, possibly to Cambridge. There, I might have joined the Apostles, and had picnics by the Cam with others of my kind, chatting discreetly about the higher things in life, and only engaging in our baser lusts in the quiet of our rooms. Even so, no matter how much I turn it over and twist it in my imagination, I can't ever picture Col there except in terms of a midnight dalliance with a grocer's boy.

We're all in the truck now, with Cassandra driving. Her mother requisitioned it from the UN compound. It's a bloody huge thing set up like a lounge, with a refrigerator, air conditioning, and about three hundred separately motorized features. We're almost at the outskirts of the city.

I've made a mess of things. Col and Cassandra flew off somewhere right after she fished me out of the bay, and they didn't return until I had the boat back in the dock. Cecily couldn't stand up properly until she was back on land. Col and Cassandra keep exchanging glances in the front seat, but they haven't said anything. Only Cecily broke the silence, with occasional stories about how various athletes had been cheated out of medals at different sports. Bartholomew had left us at the dock and set off on foot for the school. Based on what Col has told me, Bartholomew probably did the 30 kilometres in under five minutes.

We're stopped at a light. It's turned green.

"Left," I say, thinking that she's forgotten the way to go.

"What do you think?" she says to Col, ignoring me.

"Let's do it," says Col, glancing at me a bit uncertainly.

She turns right.

"No, no, this is the way to-" I say.

"Shut up," she says. "I know where I'm going."

We drive in silence. I can feel how uncomfortable Cecily is. She knows where we're going, too.

We drive down the Port Nelson Road to the Haddon Hill Roundabout. It's often on the news. It's where the mutant gangs leave their victims. We head down Artillery Rd, and along the edge of Freekville. The buildings here are cinderblock, with corrugated steel roofs. Some are painted bright colours, most are not. They don't have windows, and often don't have doors. There are a small number of cars scattered about, but most of them have been stripped of anything salable. The few people whom we see all stare at the truck as we drive past them. Most of them are bald. Almost all of them are unencapsulated mutates.

We're in the townships now, the ones built for the guest workers when we didn't have enough mutates for everyone. They came here from India and Africa, finding this dismal place better than whatever Godforsaken hole they'd come from. Some of those Godforsaken holes may be wealthier than we are now.

There are no guest workers here, any more. They now live in the deserted factories and 30 to a house in what used to be the poorer parts of Hammer Bay. The mutates switched places with them after the Troubles. Freekville's supposed to be pacified, but the map in that conference room had this area colored in for some reason. I certainly don't see any signs of Magistrates. I'm not sure exactly where we are.

"You sure you know where we are?" says Col.

"Yeah," says Cassandra. "I've been here plenty of times with Mom. She's doing a book on this place."

"I think I should fly up and take a look," says Col.

"No," says Cassandra. "We don't want to attract attention."

As if we're not already. I can see a group of people we've passed pointing at the truck. I steal a glance at Cecily. She's pale as a ghost, and I don't think it's the aftereffects of the sea voyage. All of us have heard the stories about what happens to those who take wrong turnings late at night and end up in Freekville.

"There it is!" she says, pointing at something in front of us.

The Fields.

It's a huge concrete structure, many times taller than the buildings around it. It looks like a stadium, but no sporting event was ever held there. The circle cross emblem of the church is still above each entrance, only partially effaced. The complex is square, a kilometer long on each side. Cassandra brings the truck to a halt in a street alongside the thing.

"Go and find them," says Cassandra to Col. "On foot."

"Right," says Col.

He gets out of the truck and vanishes into an alley.

"Why are we stopping here?" says Cecily.

"There's somebody Rob needs to meet," says Cassandra, taking out a clove cigarette and lighting it.

Cecily and I glance at each other.

"DeVries?" says Cecily. "I understand he lives down here."

"Maybe," says Cassandra.

Cassandra's lighting her fourth clove cigarette when we hear the scream. It's so high-pitched, it has to be a child's scream. We look up and down the street. I can see half a kilometer in each direction, and I can't see anyone. It seems to be coming from The Fields.

"Shit," says Cassandra. "Wait here, and don't leave the truck."

"NO!" screams Cecily. "For pity's sake, don't leave us alone here."

I'm so terrified at the thought that I can say nothing. The scream, again.

"Get a grip," says Cassandra. "We're only a block from DeVries' headquarters. This is the safest place around here."

"But there's no-one about," says Cecily. "Who can we call on for help?"

"It always looks like this," says Cassandra, now floating a good 10 metres up. "Back in a sec."

She vanishes into The Fields. I've never seen a human face take on the colour that Cecily's has.

"Steady on," I say.

I reach out and take her hand. She closes her hand around mine, crushing it in an iron grip.

"Sorry," she says. "Forget how strong I am sometimes."

"I don't suppose that you're really one of them in disguise?" I say.

She laughs. It is a very ugly laugh, made for the occasion.

"No, no," she says. "It's from what you have to do to win at athletics. What a bloody waste."

"So I can't rely on you to defend me?" I say, half-joking.

"If I had my archery kit, I could perhaps amaze our assailants with a dazzling display of target shooting," says Cecily.

"But there are no assailants," I say. "There's no-one about."

"And we're next to DeVries' headquarters," she says. "They're no doubt watching us at this very moment, keeping us under surveillance."

"Yes," I say. "We're as safe as we can be."

There is no one in sight. It is totally silent. There are no further screams.

"Robin," says Cecily. "I think we're going to be badly hurt."

"Nonsense," I say. "It's simply that this area is completely deserted."

I think I would be far more convincing saying this if I were not completely drenched in sweat. I look up at the sky. Freekville is at the southern end of The Rand. The aid workers and the scholars tend to congregate at the north end of the Fields, which were built here to encourage converts among the guest workers. The Fields are on a slight rise and, if I look out the front window, I should see the cranes of the harbour. Instead, I can see them over the cinderblock buildings behind me. We're on the wrong side of the Fields.

"What is it?" she says.

"Nothing," I say, looking at the cranes.

"Oh," she says. "They killed people here, didn't they?"

"I don't believe so," I say. "I think they came here to burn things. Cars, items of clothing. I was told that once they even burnt an aeroplane."

"Not before," she says. "During the Troubles. This is where they burnt all the apostates that they caught."

No. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

"Robin?" she says. "My God, Robin, I forgot, I'm sorry."

"I have to get Col," I say.

I can't keep it in. I can't let her see me like this.

"Cassandra said that we should stay!" she yells, trying to catch me before I'm out the door.

I avoid her, but only just.

"Going to get Col," I manage, as I race for the alley.

I don't turn around. I don't want to see her face, as she's starting to scream out my name.

The alley is whitewashed. It is longer than I thought. There are no windows on the buildings, nor are there any in the narrow street that it opens into at the other end. I can go right or left. Col went one of these ways. We have to be in the right place. He could not have gone too far. Left. It ends in a wall 20m in. There is a steel door on my right, but it's locked and hasn't been opened in years.

I've made a mistake.

I have to get back to Cecily.

I turn, and find my way blocked by something out of a nightmare. It's wearing what looks like an old fishing net as a skirt, and a flak jacket that someone appears to have died in. It's bald. I can see a colostomy hose snaking out of its side, into an old gas mask pouch. It's got a plasma beam weapon, pointed straight at me.

"Boer?" it says, in a voice that suggests that a Boer is something fit only for immediate extermination.

It's male, I think.

"No," I say.

"Nemecko?" it says.

"No," I say.

"Franchese?" it says.

"No," I say.

"Anglais?" it says.

"No," I say.

"Look Anglais," it says. "Don't abide liars. I've killed five liars already today."

Oh God.

"Norsk?" it says.

"No," I say.

Its eyes narrow.

"Xhosa?" it says.

"Yes," I blurt out, in Xhosa.

He stares at me. I stare at him.

"Silent night, holy night," he sings, out of key but in Xhosa. "All is calm, all is bright. Come on, sing along."

I make sounds. I can't sing, I'm too frightened, but he doesn't notice until he finishes all four verses.

"Hah hah hah hah hah," he says, mechanically, as if he's laughing. "It's been so long since I've met a fellow Xhosa."

He has blue eyes and blond hair. I look more like an Xhosa than he does.

"Yes," I say in Xhosa. "We are certainly far from home."

"We must sing some more songs," he says. "God Bless Africa."

It's the South African anthem. All I have to do is remember the words.

"Wait," he says.

Then he's gone. Not as in, he walked away, or flew away. Gone. Vanished. Perhaps he's where Cecily is.

Run.

10 metres.

5 metres.

Around the corner, the Fields towering at the end of the street, as large as my grief.

No-one ahead of me, no songs to sing.

Around the corner where-

Where Cassandra is standing with Cecily, who is gray as chalk and shaking like a leaf. The truck is exactly where I left it, except that it is now upside down, resting on its roof. It wasn't meant to rest on its roof, and all of the windows have shattered, even though the roof itself has not caved in.

"Where the hell did you go?" Cassandra screams at me.

"To get Col," I say.

"I told you to stay with the goddamn fucking car!" she says. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

"My fault," says Cecily.

"Like hell," says Cassandra. "I told you to-"

She's interrupted by a moan as Cecily starts slumping down against the wall that she's leaning on.

"Oh shit," says Cassandra, floating over and catching Cecily before she hits the pavement.

"We need to lay her out," I say. "To elevate her head, to loosen her garments."

"Fine," says Cassandra. "You do that."

"Me?" I say, but Cassandra's already airborne again.

"You," she yells back. "And don't fucking well move an inch from there."

I can't quite satisfy that requirement and look after Cecily. Her pulse is weak, but steady. There's no obvious sign of bleeding, nor is there any sign of injury. Perhaps she was attacked by a mutant. No. Can't think about that. If she was, then I'll never knew what hit me either. Loosening her clothes would be difficult. They are so tight, it is as if she weren't wearing any. I'm ready to go back to the truck for shears when she starts to come around, saving us all a great deal of embarrassment.

* * * * *

They flip the car over in three seconds. The wheels are still on it and Cassandra eventually manages to start the engine, but Col opens a door and then we can't get it closed again because the frame is bent. I tie it closed with a bit of rope that Cassandra found in the back. Two years of Scouting prove to be useful for something.

Cecily sleeps most of the way back.

Cassandra rakes me over the coals for leaving the truck. Col mutters supporting admonitions. Neither seems to be willing to admit that they had taken a wrong turning. Worse, they don't bother to give me any hints as to what the whole thing might have been about.

They leave me at the house, and drive off. I find a message waiting there for me from Bruce, but I can't reach him on the celphone. I leave a message saying that there's nothing new to report.

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