2. Specific Aims

It felt like one of those days, which was happening with greater frequency these days. One of those days when it paid to call in sick and bribe the doctor to make up some infectious disease that would get me out of a week of work. The problem was, unlike the millions of other bosses in the world I could have had, Rush wouldn't have any of it.

Rush, my mentor and fountain of strength, believed in the new invincibility of humanity by having faith in preset, unalterable deathdates. The days of pre-MLCS when people lived in fear of an imminent death from something inane like the flu or anthrax were over, that we only had crippling, debilitating injury to fear. Yeah. Thanks, that comforts me a lot, Rush. Basically, it meant I would have to find a pretty damn good doctor to lie through his teeth for a day off of work for me, and even then my boss's skepticism radar was fine-tuned for that to where if I didn't want to work, I'd just have to find a new job.

I don't hate my job—of course not. It's not easy to love it, though, when all I do is watch over the outback from a distance. It just isn't as obvious a connection as, say, working in customs. I understand why customs is so strict, of course, and it's not as though I want to inspect goods and people every day. Come to think of it, do they really have to inspect everything to the extent that they do? I recall the more recent science journals saying that MLCS isn't transferrable except by living skin contact between people, that an infected person touching an animal or a cadaver and the animal or cadaver touching an uninfected person wouldn't have any effect, and no one is allowed back into Australia once they've left even after testing negative for infection.

But more days than not, I find myself not quite able to comprehend the impact of my work on the protection of the quarantine zone. If I hadn't been infected, I could have been on border patrol, but that was denied to me when I wasn't born inside the quarantine area. I suppose they have their own problems being a colony of prisoners yet again, irony of ironies, but I still would have loved to visit the outback at least once in my life. Instead, like 99.98% of the population, I have free reign of the rest of the world at the expense of getting to know the exact time when I will die.

Perhaps it was just disgust at MLCS that made me long to see the outback, to be among those with the freedom from having their lives already etched in stone, or perhaps it was that it was denied to me before I was ever alive. All I know is it calls to me for help, begs me to do my job, keeps me dragging myself out of bed in the morning with the hope beyond hopes that someday there will be a cure, that perhaps in another life I may one day visit that mystical land. The district was nice, but speeding down the interstate on my chopper and breathing in fresh smog couldn't compare to what I'd only read about of that wild continent.

My intuition was humming again. Something was in the air, and it wasn't good—something besides the smog and chain-smokers huffing away in their convertibles with the tops down. I hoped that whiff of evil I scented wasn't something to do with who I was afraid it would be, yet that was always who it was when I got this feeling. I got the call at the 495 branch southbound and pulled over to answer. Rush, of course. It's always Rush—Crystal's been swamped for the last who knows how long, oddly enough, and it's difficult to remember that the last time I saw her was seven months ago.

His voice was nigh inaudible over the sounds of traffic. Over the grinding of some car's failing brakes, I told Rush where I was and that he'd have to shout. "I SAID THEY NEED YOU AT KENSINGTON," his gruff, throaty voice resonated over the tinny speaker, something that never failed to impress me. It was part of why I put up with his outlandish beliefs, that he otherwise was the very model of a role model.

It took me a moment to register what he had said. "I'm going to England?" I asked, excited at the idea of getting out of the country.

There was a brief pause smattered with static. "UM – HIGH SCHOOL."

My heart sank. Why did I let my hopes get up like that? Of course, high school. I hadn't had to go there often, which wasn't why it was the first place to come to mind. Still, I suppose I should have known—in fact, it was a little embarrassing once I realised the significance. "Okay," I replied, "I'll go talk to her. Did they say what it was about?"

"—SHE'S SPOTTING."

Great. Just the thing I needed to top off a lousy week. I imagined Rush talking to her, convinced that he could guilt the gods themselves into shaping up, but she was my charge, not his. Too bad—if there was ever anyone who needed a stable, authoritative father figure right now...

I groaned to myself, but Rush must have heard me anyway. "I KNOW, SORRY. THERE'S NOTHING THAT NEEDS YOUR ATTENTION HERE AS MUCH AS SHE NEEDS YOU. TAKE A HALF-DAY OR SOMETHING, I DON'T MIND."

It would have been nice if that had actually meant taking a half-day instead of spending that time at the high school. "I promise to wrap this up as soon as I can," I assured him, perhaps more to assure myself than anything else. "Let me know if anything new develops."

"OF COURSE."

"10-4."

Even still, hearing Rush's voice was comforting and snapped me to my senses, my version of coffee in the morning. He was all I had ever known of a guardian, and for that I felt indebted to him. As much as I felt I might deserve it, playing hooky would make me feel bad even on the rare occasion when he said he didn't mind. It wasn't as though I couldn't buckle down and get the whole day's work done in half the time, either—I just needed the motivation.

I took the ramp for Democracy and circled around to get going on eastbound for Kensington. It was nearing midday when I arrived, even when I skimmed down the shoulder, and the first lunch period was starting when I entered the school, with students hustling in and out of class, to and from the cafeteria. The occasional glance shot my way—they must not see my type around often—but otherwise I headed straight for the administration desk.

"Hello again, Jeanne," I greeted.

"Oh!" she replied. "It's been a while since I last saw you, Anna!"

"Yes, well. To be honest, I had hoped it would be longer."

Jeanne laughed. "It does seem that you come back here whenever there's a problem, doesn't it? I'd hoped you'd come by to, I don't know, visit me?"

I shrugged. "Maybe when the world's safe again I'll have the chance. It's just one thing after another, lately." She looked upset, so I tried my best to smile, but it felt – fake, with the way I'd been feeling that day. "So, uh. What did she do this time? I heard something about spotting?"

Her pleasant demeanor gave way to disappointment. "No one's really sure. We have Saga in the nurse's office with Miss Rodin, but she won't discuss what happened with anyone."

I had a sinking feeling what it was all about, but it was hard to say whether anyone else needed to know. "Well, I'll see if I can talk some sense into her."

Jeanne nodded, and I hurried to the nurse's office. I wasn't sure what had happened there before I arrived, but the nurse seemed to be at her wit's end, speaking as though shrieking as quietly as she could manage.

"Oh!" the woman gasped when she saw me. "You must be Ms. Reyes?"

I nodded. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I don't know..." She seemed despondent. "I'm not a trained psychologist! I can do bruises and scrapes, not psychotherapy. This seems so far out of my league that I just don't know what to do."

"Well, thank you for trying," I offered, glancing at Saga. The girl was sullen, with long blue hair draped over her face that parted just enough to reveal a dark smudge in the center of her forehead. "May I speak with her alone?"

"By all means." Miss Rodin gave a weak grin. "I just started here this quarter and am already failing at my job."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," I muttered, trying to be supportive but not eager to stand there talking all day. "You know how young adults are at their age."

"Mmn. Well, good luck." With that, she stepped out of the office, closing the door to give us some privacy.

"Saga," I snapped, hoping the authoritative approach would work this time. "What do you mean by this?" I strode over to where she was seated, wiping my finger over the smudge on her forehead. "Are you trying to scare everyone with your dramatics?"

"You wouldn't understand," she mumbled under her breath.

"Try me."

It wasn't clear if she hesitated out of defiance or embarrassment. I had babysat for her family for nine years, to where we were practically sisters, but in none of that time would I have realised Saga would develop into a problem child. Her mother was more often away than at home, but at least she had a mother, and one who loved her what times she had been there. Her father...

Ugh. Nine years of memories flooded my mind, and I couldn't keep up the tough act. The Rockfords had it harder than most, even ignoring that I had had it even harder and made it this far. I would simultaneously want to join their family and be grateful I wasn't.

"How's Epic?" I ventured.

"That's exactly the problem!" she hissed, gnashing her teeth at me. "How do I have a LIFE with him around? I might as well be resigned to DEATH! I'm single-handedly keeping our family afloat, and what does it get me? Nothing but being home-bound and a miserable old maid!" Her hands gesticulated in wild abandon as she unleashed her hidden anger.

Though I sympathised with her, I was also furious. "It's not his fault—"

"Do I know that? Do I know he's not doing all of this to get attention, or that he chose to be born?"

In disgust, I grabbed her by the shoulders, mustering all of my willpower to keep from shaking her. "You do NOT speak about your brother that way! If you expect to be treated as an adult, you must ACT like one."

Defiant—must have been defiant. "Maybe I chose to grow to be emotionally-stunted forever," she retorted.

"People do NOT choose to have a hard life!"

"DIDN'T you?"

I had to fight to push away the urge to turn this into a contest of wills—that wasn't the point of my being there. Saga was suffering from caretaker burnout, that was clear, but I had figured she knew how well I understood her circumstances. Was I the only one who thought of myself as an honorary member of the family? I even comforted them and gave what help where I could through her brother's diagnosis, her grandparents' deaths, her mother's—

What was going though her mind as I stared her down was unfathomable. I stopped showing emotion at that point, figuring I stood a better chance if I accepted her rejection of me as a guardian figure, letting go of her arms as I turned away. "I suppose I'd be offended if I thought you meant that," I droned, putting the ball in her court to reveal her intentions.

If she felt bad about her behaviour, I couldn't tell. If anything, she would feel too proud—maybe embarrassed— to admit she was in the wrong. Which was par for the course for adolescents.

"I just figured... All that I've done for you and your folks over the years, I thought I was more than just someone who watched you when your parents needed a sanity check. I wanted to be more than that—less a guardian and more a friend. Doesn't matter NOW, does it? I'm just another clueless adult who has no idea how difficult it is to play second fiddle to someone else's needs."

The lecture didn't seem to be working. Fine, hardball. "I just want to understand. You say I don't understand, after all, but I want to understand. How does spotting help you? Explain to me what the idea of entering half-life does to help you cope with your brother's difficulties. It's not like you'd die tomorrow, after all."

"It'd be just like dying," she moped.

"What, being an old maid?" I felt offended again, as though it was a thinly-veiled insult directed at me for living the way I did, but I reminded myself at the last moment that she couldn't know my lifestyle choices from the limited contact we'd had in more recent years.

She looked up at me this time, tears welling in her eyes. "You don't know what it's like having any boy who might take the slightest interest in you be turned off once he sees the life I have to live! School is the only time I'm free, but I can't have a life when I'm in class! And it's only going to get worse as he gets older and we can't get assistance anymore! I can't devote my life to raising a big baby, and DAD certainly can't get a better paycheck for—"

I cupped a hand over her mouth, still fighting back my irritation. "Well, your defeatism certainly won't do anything for you, will it? Hey, why not dye your hair black, wear too much eyeliner, and compose poetry about death, gloom, and emptiness while you're at it?"

She pushed my hand away. "I like my hair blue, thank you."

"Look. You're – sixteen, correct? Life isn't lived all at once. Don't even worry about dating half as much as you should be worrying about grades. Most people who get married straight out of high school find out they don't get along at all. If anything, waiting until closer to my age to get married is better, because you'll have a chance to get college behind you and secure a good job so you can support yourself in the event something bad happens to one of you. High school is nothing compared to the real world, so please don't judge life based on the limited experience of school. I guarantee you that there are so many people out there—mature MEN, not just boys—who have been down the same roads you have. You just have to look a little farther than these walls and the company of a few hundred other kids corraled into this small confines."

Saga was quiet for some time. I hoped she was taking my words to heart, but that would be a small miracle at the rate I seemed to be going. I wasn't her mother—unfortunately—and she wouldn't accept my authority. The best I could hope to be was an advocate in her father's absence.

"So what am I supposed to do," she whined, "besides die slowly?"

"Not having a boyfriend – or girlfriend – isn't a death sentence. Maybe back in the old times when someone who lived to be forty was ancient and girls who weren't married with children by age twelve were old hags, but a twelve-year-old girl with children in our time is almost certainly doomed to a life of living off welfare and minimum-wage jobs. It's tough fighting biological instincts when society says you aren't ready, and believe me when I say you aren't the only one in this position. Things will only get better for you once you're out of school!"

"How? As I said, assistance only gets more expensive as he gets older! If Dad can't afford the upkeep as it is, how is it going to get better without me around to help anymore?"

I'd been there for her father's parents' deaths, and her mother's were gone before the kids were born, but certainly they had other family that even I didn't know about...? "What about your Nan?"

Saga shrugged, more out of helplessness than hopelessness. "Nan's old. We've had her in assisted living since a little before you stopped sitting for us. How can we ask her when she's already on a fixed budget?"

"What about just for advice? When was the last time you just talked with her?" I crossed my arms. "A lot of people are more than willing to help, but we don't know when you need it unless you ask."

Her face crumpled in a familiar expression, one of wanting help but not wanting to admit it. There had to be a way to give the family a hand without hurting their pride too much...

I snapped my fingers. "Hey, how about this—what if I took you out to do anything you wanted for a night, just the two of us? Nothing illegal or overly expensive, of course... What would you like to do if you had a night free of caretaking?"

It was like watching a transformation: the look of despair in her eyes changed to excitement in the wink of an eye. She grinned at me like a child producing a long list of birthday presents she had spent months picking out. "Next month is this concert. Can you get tickets?"

Concert seemed safe enough, and well within what I was willing to pay for the mental well-being of a blossoming young woman. I grinned back. I'd never attended a concert myself, so it would be an enjoyable experience for both of us. "Who's playing?"

"Vice."

I nearly blacked out from the shock. The time it took for me to remember how to breathe was agonising.

"What's wrong?" Saga looked surprised, then concerned, then upset as she read between the lines. "Don't tell me YOU hate him too!" She stomped her foot in anger. "Every adult I talk with about him complains about what a bad influence he is! I thought you'd be different!"

I choked back the impulse to vomit and struggled to regain my composure. My hands tingled with ghost pains out of reflex, which didn't subside until I took a deep breath to calm myself. "If you already know he's a bad influence," I started, in as neutral a tone as I could manage, "then I'm not sure what else I could say to change your mind."

"You know him, don't you?" Saga guessed. "I saw you at his hearing last year—"

"For drug possession! Saga—" My head ached trying to conceive anything that was a worse idea than this, but no explaining was going to get through to a... "Okay," I ventured, "shoot. Forget that I was trying to put him in jail. Why do you want to see him?"

"What?"

"I want to know what the appeal is. If we're going to a concert, it's my treat, so I want to know exactly what I'm paying for."

"Well..." she hinted, "you know..."

The look on her face was one of embarrassment. "Oh," I muttered. "Fun."

"What?"

I threw my hands in the air. "If you liked, say, his MUSIC, why would you be embarrassed over that? You want to go see him in concert just because he's GOOD-LOOKING?"

"Why not?" Saga hissed. "I can't like who I like?"

"I just..." There was no point in telling her how bad he was for her—even if they were at all likely to meet, much less become an item—but there was nowhere else for the conversation to go except downhill from there. "You know, I figured you had better taste. What's wrong with – oh..." I waved my hand trying to imagine the best possible match for her if I was to play Cupid. "Phillip Ellerton?"

"PHILLIP?" she laughed. "Who gets to laugh at WHO about taste?"

"What? 1. He's your age. 2. He's also on the Honour Roll. 3. He's a gentleman."

"4. He's DULL."

I rolled my eyes. "Maybe I should ask him out, then, if you don't want him."

"Sounds good to me."

I sighed, not sure what to do next. At least I knew what would make her feel better, and it was a month away... "Well, I can't just take you to the concert in good conscience, but let me talk with your father first. I will abide by whatever he says. How's that?"

Both Saga and I knew her father wouldn't exactly approve of her choice. Yet it was my best hope of getting out of the unexpected badness of what was otherwise, I thought, a good idea—something both of us also knew. However, no one would fault me that it was only fair to add the disclaimer; I still wasn't her mother, and she was still a minor. Surely she would realise the position I was in?

"I guess that's only FAIR," she mumbled. "You promised, though! ...if Dad says I can go."

"Of course. Proper adults keep their promises."

The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. I wasn't sure where else to go from there.

"So, are we settled, then? If you stop with this spotting drama AND if your father gives his permission, I will take you to see – Vice next month." I cringed to say it, but this was my duty as a friend of the Rockfords.

Saga shrugged half-heartedly, clearly let down by my stance. Why was it such a pain to deal with adolescents? Rather, why THIS one? "...aight."

"Good. I'll call him shortly to let him know what's going on. If I hear about any more of these episodes, though, the deal's off."

"...aight."

Frowning, I opened the office door and waved to Miss Rodin. "We're set in here, I think. Or, as good as we're getting."

The nurse returned with a look of worry. "I'm so sorry to make you do my job."

"No, it's okay. I'm an old family friend and I was losing touch more than I'd thought I had. I'll call her father as well and get him more involved."

"So – what should we do in the future?"

I looked away, lowering my voice to a whisper. "Saga's brother is... They need a full-time caretaker for him, and that's her father until school's out, then it's Saga. It's so much harder on them without her mother in the picture, but they're too proud to ask for assistance."

"Oh..." Miss Rodin clasped her hands to her chest. "I didn't..."

"Of course not. Saga wouldn't tell anyone."

"Well, I'm sure there are some kind of programs for needy families."

"Would you check them out for her?" I gave her a hopeful look. "I know she tries, but maybe there are resources that she wouldn't find on her own."

"I will."

"Thank you so much." I glanced back in at Saga. "I'm going now. Behave yourself, okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

I bowed to Miss Rodin before returning to the front desk and waving goodbye to Jeanne. After that I left in a huff, but careful not to let it show within view of the school. When I got back to my chopper, it was all I could do to keep from breaking something. "Head – desk," I growled, except I didn't have a desk handy. Handlebars didn't have quite the same effect—it took special aim to apply a good smattering of forehead with precise accuracy.

I lay there in pain until my mobile buzzed again. It was Rush to check in on my progress. "'sup," I answered, not in a particular mindset for formalities and deference to superiors and such.

"How did it go?" His voice was back to a normal level, and even more assuring. I cooled down somewhat just hearing his calm and focus.

"Well, I managed to bribe her with a night out some time. Thing is, she wants to see this concert next month. Starring VICE."

There was a tense pause as I could only imagine his reaction to that. Then, a laugh that filled me with an uncomfortable dread. "That's a hell of a coincidence."

"What?"

"Intel suspects he's using the rock star persona as a front—a diversion from his group's real intent. I was going to ask you to attend and see what you could find out about what they plan to do. Possibly a drop, with the concert diverting police resources in the meantime."

I almost didn't hear the last part, having near-blacked out again.

"...Versa?"

"—I'm here," I called, picking myself back up off the ground. "It's just... Did you two orchestrate some kind of candid video moment for me? I find it hard to believe that Fate has it out for me THAT much."

"I'm sorry, I know what he means to you. Still, you know him better than anyone else here and have—"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm so privileged. Thanks." One more choice smatter of forehead, enough to leave blemishes on the handlebars. "Ugh... Now I'll have to convince Rockford—I said I'd abide by what he says."

"Don't tell him you're going as part of a stakeout."

"Durp."

"Well, some papers came in for you to go over. I'll brief you on the next assignment after that."

"Cheerio." I hung up, draping myself over the handlebars and wishing I never had to get up from that spot ever again.

When I finally sat up, I glanced in the rearview out of habit. That familiar circle peeked out at me from behind a smear of foundation that matched the smudge on my chopper. I took out my make-up stick and smoothed out the colour on my face again before donning my helmet. "Yes, Saga," I whispered. "Life is so unfair."