Mercedes Lackey - Anthology (22 page)

 
          
"Then
why does he smoke them?" "Because . . . he's the General, and he's
allowed."

 
          
"So
let me ask him if I can have some." "No, Red. You can't smoke cigars,
and that's final."

 
          
Red
fluffed his feathers peevishly.
"Final, eh?
I
can't wait to see the General again. I'll say to him, 'Pollard says you're an
idiot for smoking cigars. Can you believe that guy? If I were you, General, I'd
hire another principal investigator.' After all, near as I can figure, I'm the
star of this show, not you."

 
          
Pollard
was shocked. "You wouldn't . . ."

 
          
"In a heartbeat.
Now give me the damned cigar."

 
          
Pollard
gave it to him.

 
          
Now,
two years and countless cigar-butts later, Pollard stared at Red's back as the
hawk stood on the sill and watched the football game on the distant television.
His intellect now rivaled that of a college student; so, unfortunately, did his
attitude. He was surly, obstinate, self-reliant and self-assured—in short, the
quintessential hawk. Still, Red's enhancement had been the crowning achievement
of Pollard's career, and Pollard had to admit that he had grown fond of the
bird; and despite the apparent hostility, he liked to believe that Red cared
for him, too, if even a little.

 
          
It
made it so hard. Red was such a profound scientific accomplishment, perhaps the
greatest ever made. The military were the ones footing the bill, however, and
Dr. Pollard's reports could not hide the truth forever. The goods were simply
not being delivered. Red's refusal to submit to any human authority did not
meet their expectations. They wanted an obedient drone— Pollard had given them
a person. Annoyed with what they perceived to be an expensive failure, the
military had finally handed down the order. It formed a painful lump in
Pollard's throat to think of the one word that he had never had the heart to
teach to Red: Euthanasia.

 
          
He
took a deep, faltering breath. "Red," he began, and then paused, swallowing.
He did not want to say good-bye. "Red ... I just wanted to tell you . . .
that I really, really am proud to have been able to work with you these past
couple of years."

 
          
Red
grunted in annoyance.
"Yeah, yeah.
Me, too.
Can it wait until half-time?"

 
          
Dr.
Pollard closed his eyes tightly. "Red, please listen to me, just
once." He sat forward and put his head in his hands for several moments,
thinking of how to tell the bird, or even if he should. Maybe he should just
let it be done.

 
          
At
least Red would not suffer—Pollard would never permit that.

 
          
When
he looked up again, Red had turned to face him. The usual fire in the hawk's
eyes was subdued, and Pollard realized at that moment that Red already knew.
"Save it, Doc," he rasped. "I guess I feel the same way. You're
human, but you've got your good points."

 
          
Pollard
smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Red."

 
          
"Don't
mention it." Red looked back over his shoulder, through the wire mesh, at
the sky. "You know, Doc, I really wish you'd have given me a chance to fly
around free, just once."

 
          
"I
wish I could have let you."

 
          
Red
flexed his wings and shook himself. "So why didn't you?"

 
          
"Because I couldn't.
They wouldn't allow it. If I had,
I'd have ended up in jail."

 
          
The
hawk turned and stared fixedly at him. "Like me."

 
          
There
was a long, awkward silence. Finally Red flexed his wings and sighed.

 
          
"Yeah,
I know. They wouldn't want their precious specimen to fly off and spill his
guts to the media."

 
          
"Would
you have done that?"

 
          
"Hell,
yes I would have! I'd have sung like a canary. Told'em everything I know about
this project, and all the other stuff that goes on here. I'll bet the President
wouldn't last two hours in office after I told the world about Jack the
Dog."

 
          
Pollard
managed a melancholy smile. It seemed that Red shared his own feelings about
the government. The only difference was that Pollard would never be able to
stand up to them the way Red would—the way he had. Since that very first day
when he had sunk his claws into Pollard's hand, Red had never let his spirit be
broken. Pollard could not help but admire him. "So then what would you
have done?"

 
          
"Hell,
I hadn't thought about it." He cocked his head pensively. "I guess I
would've gotten a job at a local newspaper. Eye in the Sky—get it? I'd have
done just what the boys who sign your paychecks wanted me to do: be a nice
handy little spy, except I'd be watching them, and letting John Q. Public know
exactly where his tax money was being spent. All the secrets, all the crap the military
gets away with. They wouldn't be able to take a dump in their billion-dollar
latrines without the Eye in the Sky plastering it in the headlines."

 
          
His
feathers had puffed up proudly; now they sank back down, and Red peered out the
window again. After a while he said, "At least let me finish watching the
game."

 
          
Pollard
folded his hands in his lap and stared at them. "I wish there was another
way, Red. I can't do anything about it, though."

 
          
"No,
you can't." Red kept his back turned. "You wouldn't want to lose your
precious funding."

 
          
"Red, please."

 
          
"You're
right, Doc. I'm sorry. You've got to do what they tell you, after all.

 
          
Good
little puppet. Damned shame you won't ever be able to publish your findings.
They can't have you sharing your secrets with all the other scientists, after
all. At least the money keeps rolling in— that's what matters, right? You get
to keep your job." He snorted and added in a sour tone, "Too bad you
gotta lose your soul to do it."

 
          
"That's
not fair."

 
          
Red
chirped in cold amusement.
"Right.
Tell me about
unfair."

 
          
Pollard
had no reply. He watched the hawk for a long time as it sat unmoving on the
win-dowsill. Red was pretending to watch the game, but Pollard could see that
the bird was really staring at the sky instead. At length, he asked,
"Would you really have gone to the press?"

 
          
"As
fast as my wings could carry me," Red said without missing a beat.
"You could bet on it."

 
          
Pollard
hummed softly, pondering for a while, and then made his decision.

 
          
Reaching
to either side of the astonished hawk, he grasped the latches that held the
mesh in place and heaved upward. Dry old paint cracked and trickled downward as
the mesh came away from the window and clattered out into the courtyard.

 
          
Red's
wings flapped in alarm and he turned to face the man, who was smiling softly.
"Make sure they spell my name right," Pollard whispered.

 
          
The
hawk hesitated, bewildered, and then his eyes mirrored Pollard's smile.

 
          
"Deal."
He gripped the windowsill tightly with his
feet and leaned his head out, peering this way and that. He crouched, wings
stretching out wide. "Take it easy, Doc," he rasped. "Give my
regards to the General."

 
          
With
that he gave a mighty beat of his wings and leaped from the window. His flight
was somewhat awkward after so many years cooped up indoors, but he quickly
gained altitude, soaring over the window where his television set had been
kept. The last that Dr. Pollard saw of him was the sunlight shimmering off of
the hawk's magnificent red tail feathers, and soon that, too, was lost in the
distance.

 
          
Dr.
Pollard stood at the window for some time, just staring at the sky, and then he
turned away and took his lab coat off for the last time. He made no stops on
the way home, wanting to be there in plenty of time to catch the
six o'clock
news.

 
          
Nominated
five times for the Nebula Award and twice plus nominations for the Hugo, the
Edgar, and the World Fantasy Awards, Susan Shwartz is a frequent contributor to
anthologies. She lives in
New York
, which is sufficient justification for writing fantasy and horror. Her
recent Star Trek novel coauthored with Jo-sepha
Sherman
, Vulcan's Forge, made several bestseller
lists.

 
          
GAWAIN
woke dizzy, swaying back and forth.

 
          
God,
this was worse than when Lancelot's blow had fallen on the old bad wound, and
he knew this time it would be the death of him. He'd even written that damned
French renegade who'd carried off his uncle's wife and begged him to return to
aid Arthur against Mordred. And he'd signed the appeal in his own heart's blood
before he surrendered to the sleep he knew would last until Judgment Day.

 
          
Apparently,
his judgment had been off. Not for the first time.

 
          
Now
what?
First things first.
Where was he?

 
          
Instinct
told him: he was outside. It was night.

 
          
He
was near a battlefield. Judging by the stink of blood and death, he thought the
battle was winding down or had just ended. He extended his senses, trying for
the razor-sharp awareness that had made his brothers back in Orkney compare him
to the hawk for which he had been named in the Old Language. He reeled again.

 
          
Jesus,
he was blind.

 
          
He
tried to raise a hand to his wound and heard the high peal of tiny bells.

 
          
He
had no hands, but felt unaccustomed muscles twitch. Was he a prisoner? Was he
maimed as well as blind?

 
          
Goddess.
Triple Goddess, help.
So
his mother, his aunt, and those witches who hid beneath a veil of Christian
faith had been right, and the priests with their Grails and their talk of
heaven and hell had been wrong. Live your life wrong and you had to come back
and do it over. Much like an armsmaster drilling boys who might grow up into
warriors, assuming they lived that long.

 
          
And learned from their mistakes.

 
          
Warriors
like Gawain. He tried to move again. More bells. He tossed his head and smelled
leather binding him about. Not bandages, then, wound about his cracked skull,
over his eyes, but a leather hood. He was no longer a man, but the raptor for
which he had been named.

 
          
His
Aunt Morgan, who had always been a creature more suited to the hollow hills
than to court life, had a fancy name for what he had undergone.
Trans-mi-gra-tion.

 
          
Now
that was a tricky word, especially for the lines of Gawain.
Quick
with a curse, quick with a blow, even quick to forgive until Gareth died and
all forgiveness along with him.
Gawain had never had time for fancy
words. And tricky words were for the likes of Merlin and the sly young men that
the Bastard had brought in: Gawain trusted no one who talked too fast or too
fancy.