How many of them are out there? he asked himself. How many are still to come?
He settled outside the circle of arguing leaders, close enough to hear, far enough away to not get bumped into. A tall Hispanic man wearing a boonie cap was speaking, sounding very much like a person tired of repeating himself.
“There’s fifty of us. Maybe another hundred downtown. That’s a drop in the bucket compared to the tens of thousands marching. We need to be smart, cool. Jonah said to wait until we get orders. So we wait. Can’t just go rushing Fifth Avenue ’cause we’re antsy.”
“Orders?” A man with long, salty hair in a ponytail and scratches in his voice laughed. “Orders got my friends killed all over the Delta. I’m too old for ’em. All I want, all we want, is what we are due.
“We’re going to have to take it, though. We’re going to have to crash through barriers to remind folks: we are here.”
The dispute went on like that, the moderate radicals championing waiting and restraint, the extreme radicals advocating for moving their ranks into the parade in force. No one would shoot them for it, they said. But if the police did—well, that’d actually be good. The media would be all over it.
No one mentioned the vice president or General Collins or any VIPs. No one mentioned the library steps or a speech. Still, Sebastian stayed and listened.
The argument grew louder and more riven, until a woman’s voice cut through: “Got word from Pierre. Wants us at Twenty-Third Street in twenty. They found an entry point.”
“Here we go.” The man with the ponytail began clapping and hooting. “Here we go! Whatever it takes.”
“What about the vice president?” Sebastian spoke low and into his fist. Only a woman in a hoodie near him turned around, wondering where the voice had come from. “What about the general?”
“Who cares?” Everyone nodded at that, even the moderates. “Fucking brass. What they’re doing has nothing to do with what we are.”
Not the first time my instincts were wrong, Sebastian thought, moving away from the common. He found himself somehow wishing the Mayday Front well. Hijacking the Victors parade would make for spectacle, if nothing else. He could even picture the red-faced anger on the face of Bernard Gault. That alone would make it worth it.
He checked the time to see how long he had until the speech began. Fifteen minutes. Which meant he’d been invisible for a half hour. A good stretch longer than he’d ever been before. He knelt beside a parked car to switch off his mental lever. Nothing happened. He closed his eyes and tried again. Nothing. He squeezed his temples tight. A bolt of pain shot from the top of his spine through the reaches of his neck, but nothing changed. He remained unseen and apart. He’d never before thought about his power like this, and thinking about it made it seem much more impossible. Raw, wild fear tore through him. He was finding breathing difficult so he curled into a ball against the car and began exhaling into the top of his shirt, like it was a paper bag.
Change, damn it, change! He couldn’t be stuck like this. He just couldn’t be. Sebastian bit down on his lip and threw a fist into the side of the parked car. Then he felt his brain lurch. He turned dizzy, then blind for a long, few seconds. He collapsed to his side. The lever set into place. It came on like a fastball to the ribs, a force unto itself, too quick to hurt, too brutal not to. Sebastian became unstuck, though. He became seen again.
This wasn’t how today was supposed to go, he thought, tears streaking his face as he sat up against the car, clinging to his knees. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all.
* * *
“Son. You okay?”
Sebastian was still curled against the side of the car. Now a tall, trim man in army dress blues and a maroon beret bent over him, his face wrinkled with concern. A long, sloped chin jutted from the man’s face and toward the ground.
“Yes.” Sebastian stood up. He couldn’t stop trembling but knew he couldn’t stay beside the car forever. “Appreciate you noticing. Really.”
The army man laughed. “It’s my job to notice strangers,” he said. Simple silver crosses marked the man’s jacket lapels and his shoulder boards carried eagle insignias on them—he was a colonel. Not general high, but way higher than Pete and the Volunteers. A colonel who’s an army minister, Sebastian thought. Cool.
The man put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “May I?” he asked. Sebastian nodded, noticing another cross seared into the man’s palm. That weirded him out a bit. Holy was one thing. Too holy was another.
“Life can be difficult, sometimes, young man,” he said. He had pale, cloudy eyes and spoke like a metronome, each word, each syllable, a chant. He seemed familiar to Sebastian, like a forgotten friend found in an old yearbook. “Think of someone you love, someone who’s departed this world but worked toward giving you a better life.”
Sebastian did. He became transported. He felt himself with his grandfather again, but as a boy, standing beneath a door frame as his grandfather pointed a long naval sword toward the sky, toward the Almighty, telling Sebastian everything was fine, that everything would be okay, as long as he was a good boy and remembered to listen and do as he was told, always.
A voice sounded from above, where his grandfather had directed the sword: “Love. Hope. Love. Hope. Holy blood, holy redemption.”
Sebastian opened his eyes, feeling a warm glow throughout his body, from the center of his gut to the very tips of his fingers. He didn’t feel alone anymore. He didn’t feel overwhelmed. He felt part of something great and massive, a small part, to be sure, but still part of it.
“How?” was all he could manage.
The army minister bowed his head. “Enjoy the day, son. Praise to the Victors.”
Sebastian watched the other man walk away, the warm glow still saturating his body. He wanted to feel sunlight. He wanted to look at grass. He wanted to sit and think and maybe read a book over a beer. He wanted to call everyone in his family and talk about how good a man his grandfather had been, how blessed they were to have had him in their lives.
He did not want to play at being anything more than he was anymore.
The mere act of movement helped with the trembles. His heart slowed and he felt the cool of sweat on his brow. He knew he’d wake up the next morning with a ferocious migraine but he’d manage. He found an isolated bench near a playground. He watched kids on a merry-go-round and smiled at their small joys. He pulled out his one-hitter. It felt sweet in his throat, and he breathed out into pale sky.
That minister was great, he thought, still lost in serenity. Though they’re not called ministers in the army. They’re called…
It was the cloudy eyes that did it. Slowly at first and then all at once, Sebastian realized why the colonel had seemed familiar. He’d been the man in rags he’d talked with in front of his apartment building months before. The one sorting through trash and collecting bottles. The nutter talking ashes and redemption.
Sebastian knew he’d just spoken with the Chaplain. The wanted man, the holy militant, Jonah Gray. He’d found him, chanced upon him, really. Then he’d let him walk off free into the parade, because—well, because he had.
The hell is wrong with me, he thought. I should’ve done something.