The last time I helped a Non-pact, it took about thirty seconds flat, but it stuck with me for days. All I did was get him a fair price on a loaf of bread from a greedy baker who was ripping him off, but it felt like I was saving the world. It felt good, unexpected, and right. That was a power trip in itself. After 260 years of being powerless, I sucked up the power like it was air.
The train pulls into the station and Mr. F stands without speaking, expecting me to follow him. Kara called him Mr. Friendly. She was always quick at sizing up people. I walk cautiously behind him, noting that his limp, which was quite pronounced when we first met, is now gone. Was it all an act? I try to stay focused on him and watchful of the strangers I pass, but the minute we step outside the train station, I find my gaze wandering, recognizing street corners, landmarks, and buildings. I feel the remnants of my past reaching out to me, and I almost feel like the Locke I used to be.
Boston.
Home. My home.
Sure, it’s changed. A lot. After 260 years, I wouldn’t expect anything else. I already saw some of the changes when I was here with Kara, but we only stayed for a single day and I was too busy running or hiding most of that time to really notice the details. A lot of the shops have been converted to housing. Except for food, apparently no one goes to stores to buy things anymore. Tourism seems to be the only thriving tradition of the past—trinket and tourist shops crowd near busy corners. I note that the newer buildings are colorized with a white reflective surface, which explains why the city looked like a glowing geode in a bird’s nest when I first viewed it from a distance. Paved streets have the same reflective color. Is this their attempt to counteract urban warming? Even though it looks like they’ve tried to keep the architecture historically accurate, details like this scream that I’m not in the Boston I once knew.
But there are still touchstones, vague ghosts of the past that float in and out of view, streets I walked with my parents, a corner café where I hung out with Jenna and Kara. And then, unexpectedly, a more recent ghost—the alley where Gatsbro beat me up. I’ve changed since then. It won’t happen again.
I’m expecting that we’re headed for the abandoned boarded-up buildings to the south of Boston, the outskirts where proper citizens never venture. That’s where the Network hid me and Kara the last time I was here. Instead he seems to be on a steady course toward the Commons. It’s getting dark now, and as we head down the center path of the Commons, I lengthen my distance behind him. Something about this doesn’t seem right. Non-pacts don’t congregate in public places. Where’s he leading me?
We’re only a short way in when he loops around and doubles back the way we came and heads down Tremont Street. He walks with his head lowered, not looking at the occasional passerby. I keep my head up. I’m not afraid and I want to know who I’m passing. A few look at me, quick glances perusing my appearance—or maybe they’re only noticing my coat. I’m still wearing my freebie government issue. Proudly. Let them think what they want. The black fabric billows and snaps in the breeze.
Mr. F turns at King’s Chapel and walks along its dark unlit side, then slips into the recessed doorway of the weathered building opposite from it. I don’t remember this building being here before, but I follow. It’s dark—very dark—which is the one thing that still makes me freeze up, but I don’t let him see my weakness. I strain to see and I do. I feel the rush behind my eyes, and the dim red outline of something begins to take form. I can see more than Mr. F can, I’m sure, and as we walk down steep steps, I know before he does that someone is waiting at the bottom with a bat poised to strike.
“Stop,” I whisper. “There’s someone there.”
“There better be,” he answers. “Or we’ll all end up dead.”
The Team
I sit at a table with a woman, the man with the bat, and Mr. F. They stare at me curiously, maybe suspiciously. I’m getting better at reading faces but it’s hard to read theirs, because the lighting in the room is very dim. They lean back in their chairs, capturing the shadows over their faces like they’ve done this before, accustomed to guarding their identities. We’re waiting for another man. The basement is damp and smells of mold. I hear water trickling above, maybe through old leaky pipes.
Mr. F grumbles something under his breath, almost in a dialect, mostly unintelligible. I catch enough to know that he’s annoyed with the waiting, but then, he seems to be pretty much annoyed with everything.
A light flips on, and they squint against the brightness over the table, looking away.
“He’s here! Welcome, Locke!”
A man strides across the room and holds his hand out to me. “I’m Carver.” I stumble to my feet and reach my hand out to him. His handshake is firm and I note that detail in the same way my father would have. He’s well-groomed, not rumpled like so many Non-pacts are. His clothes are cheap but laundered and curiously pressed like he’s meticulous about his appearance. He looks directly into my eyes. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t know exactly when you’d arrive. I see you’ve already met your team.”
I look at the three still sitting around the table and then back to Carver. “My team? Uh, no, we haven’t met yet.”
“No?” Carver looks at Mr. F.
Mr. F shrugs.
Introductions are made. Livvy, Jake, and Xavier. Xavier? I offer the tiniest smirk to Mr. F on hearing his name.
I turn to Carver. “I don’t know what you mean by team. To be honest, I don’t know anything about this Favor. Father Andre only said—”
“Please, sit down. We’ll tell you all the details soon, but first we need to know everything about you. And I mean everything. If you haven’t guessed already, this is no ordinary Favor. A lot’s riding on it, and we don’t have much time. We need to know all about you and everything you can do—and everything you can’t. Then we can begin your training for—”
“Hold on just a minute. No one said anything about training. I can’t be here that long. I need to get to Manchester.”
“Please.” Carver leans across the table. “Whatever you need in Manchester we’ll have others take care of it. Jake here, for instance. He’s my behind-the-scenes man. Good at details like that.”
Right. I already witnessed how good he was in a dark corner with a bat.