All That We Are (The Commander Book 7) Page 14

  “Good enough.” Polly turned to Tonya. “I need to get moving on this before we get smacked down by the first Focuses.”

  “What are you going to do, Polly?” Tonya said.

  Polly peaked her fingers and stared at Tonya. “Win over the Council, of course.”

  Gail Rickenbach: January 13, 1969

  “I don’t remember saying any such thing,” Linda said. Gail paced around the manse’s office, phone in hand, silently shaking her head. “I must have been wasted.”

  Linda was an inventive enough Focus to figure out how to get high as a Focus and to think up the Young Focus League, likely at the same time, but getting the League to do anything was well beyond Linda’s capabilities. Focus Cooley’s penchant for running a hedonist household model didn’t help, either.

  “You did,” Gail said. “Ahem. ‘The League’s a disaster and it’s all my fault. You want it, you can have it.’”

  “Oh, right,” Linda said. She snorted. “I was just grousing about misplacing my address and phone number ledger. Once I found the ledger I sort of, well, you know, changed my mind.”

  So much for her gentle phone call to remind Linda to send over the League information, Gail thought. “Let me help you,” Gail said. “There’s so much the League could do to help other young Focuses.”

  “Ugh!” Long pause, while Linda breathed erratically and Gail tried to tune out the sound. “Sorry. I scored some ibogaine last night, an African hallucinogen, and I’m still seeing things that aren’t there.” Gail had no idea what ibogaine was, save that this was Linda, and her trick let her get high involved using unfamiliar drugs in amounts that would kill everyone in her household if cut and distributed. She had no reason to doubt Linda’s comment. “How about a newsletter? A newsletter would help.”

  “To do a newsletter I’d need some news,” Gail said. “To get news I’d need to know how to get in contact with the other Focuses in the League.” Back to the original reason for her call.

  “Tell yah what,” Linda said, a scheming tone in her voice Gail recognized, from every one of her Focus conversations. “If you agree to do a newsletter, I’ll have my people copy my ledger and send the copy to you.”

  “I’ll agree,” Gail said. After hanging up, she headed back to the hall and found her pile of clean clothes all lonely and by itself, where she had left them to hold her place in the shower line. Just a quick call to Linda, just a moment while she waited... She counted towel clad bodies in the shower line. Five people still waited. They hadn’t saved her place. Gail frowned.

  “Gail!” Gretchen Carlow said, standing at the head of the line and wearing a shockingly bright orange towel wrapped around her torso. “You have some business today?” Gail normally waited until later to take her shower.

  “I’m heading over to Focus Mann’s household for lunch,” Gail said. She didn’t much like Wendy Mann, a beginner Focus who had Nazi household boss down to a fine art, but dealing with the other Detroit area Focuses was her job. At least when not bird-dogging the household leadership team, doing wedding planning, moving juice, dealing distantly with the Crows, and solving yet another household interpersonal crisis. Or working on finding the household a new place to live when their six months in the Church ended.

  “Take my spot, then!” Gretchen said. Gretchen must be in a better mood today than normal; she often thought the only reason to do a favor for her Focus was to get something out of the household. From what Gail read, Gretchen was just being pleasant.

  “If you don’t mind too much,” she said. To the others in line: “I’m doing a cold shower, so don’t worry about how long I’m taking.”

  “This would be so much easier if you used a little hot water,” Helen Grimm said, the one person in the hall who was mostly dressed. Easier meant ‘normal’. Helen ran the shower, and despite being one of Gail’s Transform attendants and by definition special, she still had a problem with extreme Focus strangeness. Though Helen had gotten better in the past couple months.

  “All I have to do is imagine last summer, and I’m just as warm as I need to be,” Gail whispered back.

  As she showered she composed more of her own book in her head, one she suspected would remain forever unpublished. Her book covered the details of her transformation from a normal into a Focus. It did have possibilities, though, for slicing into articles for this Young Focus League newsletter. She would have to pass everything by Beth first, though, to make sure she didn’t put too much emphasis on her personal special tricks. If she put parts of her book in the newsletter, this would give her a leg up on Van in the writing-on-Transforms gig. Now that he had finished his dissertation, they were back to the old nudge-nudge competiveness they had early on in their relationship. Besides, he owed…

  Shower door knocks interrupted her reverie. “Gail!” Sylvie said. “Telephone. It’s Whisper!”

  “Hair full of shampoo!” Gail said, bellowing back, and furiously started to rinse.

  “Sorry about the wait,” Gail said, trying to keep the towel she wrapped around her long hair from falling off her head. She had already flashed the shower line when she lost the towel wrapped around her middle while adjusting her head towel. In a more normal setting, normal not including her being a Focus, her fumble should have elicited at least one wolf whistle or at least some ‘cover it up’ jocularity. Instead, she got nothing but a stunned pin-drop silence. “I’m glad you called, Whisper. How are you doing?”

  “I’m a Crow. How I’m doing doesn’t matter,” Whisper said, his voice the raw whisper Gail expected.

  Crazy Crows. “I’ve met Gilgamesh. Cut him and he bleeds,” Gail said. “I care about how all people are doing.” The nerve of that policeman last week, saying ‘listen, Focus, if I shot you I’d get a medal, so shut the hell up’ still irked her. Kurt hadn’t been speeding. She was sure.

  The phone clattered. Whisper had dropped the handset, Gail realized.

  Here we go again. She had set Whisper off somehow, though she had no idea what she said that might have panicked him. Even the far more confident Gilgamesh panicked and nearly fled whenever she twitched wrong. She was surprised Whisper decided, now, to talk to her over the phone after her cringe-cringe meeting with Gilgamesh, after all the mistakes she and her guard detail must have made to get the reactions they squeezed out of him.

  Eventually, Whisper came back. “Bad image in my mind,” he said. Whatever. “I hope you aren’t still demanding you need to meet me in person, because that isn’t going to happen. Pardon my grumpiness.”

  “Grumpiness pardoned,” Gail said, covering her mouth to keep from laughing. “How can I make things easier for you? I mean, you’re going to be doing my household a service with this dross removal, although this isn’t going to matter as much now as it will later, when we move into our new place.”

  “Make things easier? Well, you can take your household, all of them, out to a park or something. On a regular basis,” Whisper said. “That way I can get at the good dross and clean it out better.”

  “Sure. No problem,” she said. By her count, she had agreed to his request three times already. Either Whisper had memory problems or he just needed extensive reassurance. “I know you can’t live here, but I talked it over with my people, and they decided that we could provide you with food. We don’t know what else you lack, though.”

  “Hmmph.” Whisper paused. “I’d hoped Gilgamesh would have gotten into this subject, but now that I think about it, I just realized that in his exalted position as an Arm’s partner, he hasn’t had to worry about living the real life of a Crow for quite a while.”

  Arm’s partner? Gail tried to visualize someone as skittish as a Crow partnering with someone as forward and rude as Arm Keaton, and couldn’t make the image work. Whisper had to be mistaken, likely exaggerating how closely Gilgamesh worked with the Arms.

  “All I know is that you live ‘out of town’, sir,” Gail said.

  “Sir? You honor me too much,” Whisper said. “I d
on’t live in Detroit proper, but that’s beside the point. I don’t live in a functional building.”

  “No shelter? That’s horrible.”

  “You wouldn’t mind either, once you got used to it,” Whisper said. He had a point; she had just taken a cold shower and hadn’t minded at all. “Your Transforms wouldn’t enjoy my home, but they’d probably live; unfortunately, the normals in your household would die. I enjoy my place most of the time, but I do have a room to hide in during the rain and snow. Besides, I have Marla to keep me warm. If I want to get warm.”

  “What or who exactly is Marla, anyway?” Gail said. Whisper often mentioned Marla in his letters; her household had a betting pool going on over what Marla was. Kurt, doubling as house bookie, had ‘blanket’ giving even up odds.

  “Gilgamesh didn’t explain this, either? Kid’s far too young as a Crow,” Whisper said. He continued muttering comments under his breath, none of which sounded friendly. Gail made an encouraging noise to prompt Whisper, and he continued. “Marla’s a Sweater.”

  Damn. John Bracken’s guess would win the pot, then.

  “Well, if you need any more clothes, we can provide some.”

  Whisper bubbled confusion. “No, no, no, Focus Gail. A Sweater is a type of Monster. Marla’s my friend, or at least she is after I tamed her. We look out for each other.”

  Well. Helen’s bet that the Crow was delusional would take the pot, then. “I see,” Gail said. “How about a little cash, then?”

  “Cash? I could use some cash. Loose change, nothing big. Don’t have a bank account, of course.”

  Of course.

  ---

  Focus Wendy Mann’s household lived in an older Hamtramck house, large enough for an extended family, but not a Focus household. After they parked, Kurt and the day’s bodyguards escorted Gail and Sylvie up to the front door, where they rang the doorbell. Wendy’s people let them in and escorted them to Wendy, who supervised the kitchen and looked hassled.

  “There you are,” Wendy said. “I thought that was you at the door.”

  This was the first time Gail had been invited to Wendy’s place, and she didn’t like the tense and oppressive ambience. She already knew Wendy followed Focus Adkins’ advice, becoming the household dictator. Gail hadn’t realized this household would get under her skin so quickly.

  “Hi,” Gail said, forcing out the politeness. “You wanted to talk?”

  Wendy nodded. “Let me finish up here for a moment.”

  Gail and her crew kept back as Wendy gave the kitchen crew detailed instructions for lunch and corrected one of the lunch crew, a woman Transform in her late twenties, who tried to fry boloney at too high a temperature. The woman grew so flustered by her Focus’s attention the boloney ended up on the stove.

  Wendy was a short and petite woman, with a long beakish nose and dark brown hair, nearly black, that turned from luxurious to lifeless about five inches from her head. She was starting to develop the Focus accentuated good looks, but still had a few wrinkles; Wendy had been in her late thirties when she transformed. Given the smattering of gray in her old pre-transformation hair, Gail guessed Wendy had several children as well.

  Wendy led them off to the covered back porch of the house. “Sorry about the mess,” she said, dumping newspapers off the old wicker furniture, “but this is the only place in the house quiet enough for me to think.”

  Gail weighed a response as she sat, wondering about what it said about a Focus so bothered by her own cramped and crowded household. “No problem.” She repressed the urge to bark about Wendy’s Nazi ways. Kurt, Sylvie, and the bodyguards stood, as did a couple of Wendy’s people. No extra chairs.

  “I’ve come up with some problems, and I’m wondering if you can help,” Wendy said. Right down to business. Good. The shorter the time Gail had to stay here the better.

  Gail bit back the socially expected ‘I’ll be glad to help’, which among Focuses probably wasn’t the right thing to say under any circumstances. “What sort of problems?” She did wonder what help she or her household might be able to give; Gail wasn’t a paragon of household organization, nor did her household roll in cash. Much the opposite.

  Wendy glanced around the porch. “Is it okay to talk around your people about, well, strange things?”

  “Yes. Although if it would make you feel better, Gordon and John don’t need to be hovering here,” Gail said, indicating the two bodyguards. Wendy looked relieved, so Gail sent them off, leaving her with Kurt and Sylvie. “Sylvie’s my number two, and Kurt is her husband and my head of security. Everything I know they know as well.” Which was worth at least two snorts, perhaps three. Any attempts to keep things from her still somewhat friendly old best friend, current Focus’s aide and fellow cub reporter, Sylvie, was futile, and Kurt was nearly as bad about being nosy.

  “I see.” Wendy sat up straight, stiff and formal. “Arm Keaton, who decided to befriend us and train us, thinks the household model my mentor provided me isn’t good enough, and she directed me to ask you for help. She also told me she worked with you, but not in the same way.” Pause. “Arm Keaton isn’t chatty, so if I’m reading more into her words than she intended, I apologize.”

  Gail sat back for a moment to think, parsing Wendy’s comments, which invited at least fifty questions. However, the other Focus’s emotions, black and fearful, didn’t invite any questions at all. Underneath Wendy’s surface emotions was one obvious question: ‘Why the hell did the Arm order me to try and learn anything from this crazy hippie chick?’

  “First, I wouldn’t advise you to copy my household model,” Gail said. “It’s too personal to my own personality and style.” Beat. “Sylvie, it isn’t that funny.” Sylvie tried to hold back her mental laughter but couldn’t; at least she kept her giggles inside. Gail flickered her eyes back to Wendy. “Can you tell me about your days? How you spend your time?” Gail had given household organization quite a bit of thought during her time as a Focus, and she had sent many of her questions and ideas on the subject past Tonya, who either feigned amazement over them or shot them down as utterly impractical. Often at the same time.

  “Sure,” Wendy said. She gave Gail a detailed description of her day. Gail winced.

  “You’re not delegating at all, are you?”

  Wendy shook her head. “How can I delegate? I can’t trust any of them. Besides, Wini thinks it’s too early for me to be deviating from the basics.”

  The problem emerges. “I suspect Arm Keaton disagrees,” Gail said, gently prodding.

  “I don’t think so,” Wendy said. Unsure. “She didn’t say anything specific.”

  Yah. “This is a test. She wants you to figure this out. Arms do that, from my limited experience.” Goddamned Arm Keaton was one test after another, at least for Gail.

  “But how can I delegate anything to this batch of fools?” Wendy radiated exasperation.

  “I have a question,” Gail said. “How many kids did you have, before?”

  “Four,” Wendy said, a low whisper. This was part of her inner blackness; she had lost her children after her transformation. Many Focuses did; this problem was one of the few reasons Gail was glad she transformed so young. “The oldest, Mike, is eleven.” Wendy looked ready to give up on the crazy hippie chick and start barking; she didn’t see the relevance of Gail’s question.

  “All of us Focuses start out limited by our pre-transformation experiences,” Gail said. “I was always the self-reliant one and didn’t know anything about taking care of people, which caused a few problems for my household early on.” Kurt and Sylvie didn’t say a thing, thankfully. “Your experience is with young children, who are notoriously difficult to delegate things to.” Gail guessed Wendy’s style of mothering hadn’t leant itself to any delegation to her children; Gail’s obnoxious parents delegated far too much to her at an early age. Although they had built up her self-reliance by doing so, her well-expressed self-reliance still caused quite a few problems.

  Gail p
aused and tried to think like a dictator Focus stuck in Wendy’s position. To her disgust, the solution came easily to her. “You need to find someone smart and talented among your people, someone good enough to keep down a job if it wasn’t for the anti-Transform prejudice. The person doesn’t have to be a man. For you, the person has to be a Transform. Give them a household responsibility, say kitchen management. Watch them, don’t correct them, but do punish them when they make management mistakes and support them when they don’t. Cut them slack at first about the mistakes their underlings make until they have the basics of management down, then do the punishment and support routine for the mistakes their underlings make until they master this, as well.”

  “If they get good at kitchen management, won’t they try and take over the household?” Wendy said, parroting something Focus Adkins must have said to her.

  “You want them to take over the household,” Gail said. “That’s the goal. What you don’t want them to do is take over you. You have the juice on them. If you’re firm, they won’t be able to, no matter how successful they are at managing the rest of the house.”

  Sylvie’s face turned the brightest shade of red Gail had ever seen. Gail reached over and took Sylvie’s hand. “I could have done this. I always knew how,” Gail said. Sylvie nodded, slowly. “All I have to do is think of how my bleeping father would do things and remember all the stories he told about car dealership politics. But this isn’t right for me.” Morally wrong and grotesquely evil, she didn’t say. Gail didn’t have any problem giving advice to Wendy; Gail would rather see a well-run dictatorship than a badly run one any day. Wendy appeared stretched so thin by shouldering all the responsibilities she had to be making her people miserable. Thus, her tense household.

  Wendy took a deep breath. “But if they’re running the household, then they’re getting the prestige of doing so. It’s not my household anymore.”