Chapter 9
As often happened during city emergencies, Grey was called to come in for work early in the morning. One thing that was highly unusual about this call was that it came from the president himself.
“Grey! Grey! I need you here. Don’t wait. Don’t even drink a cup of coffee. We have food in the War Room. We must find Harper!”
The young messenger blinked awake and looked over at his official walkie-talkie. It was handed down from his dad and was the only means the palace had for getting ahold of him. He groggily reached for it and clicked the button on the side.
“I’m sorry, sir, I just woke up. Did you say Harper is missing?”
“I don’t have time to explain to you, shifter!” Grey winced as the president spat out the very word he used to describe himself, as if it were the worst thing a creature could be. “Just flap your little wings and get here!”
“Right away, sir.” Grey groaned and stretched. He rolled over and saw that his father was already awake and sitting silently. His eyes stared directly at his son.
“Dad,” Grey said, waving his hand in his dad’s face, “I need my clothes. Do you have them?”
Slowly, his father nodded. “Prez sounds upset.”
Grey rubbed his face, hoping to wake himself up. “Yeah. Yeah, he does. Where are my pants?” He stood and started walking around the shelter as he pulled on his work shirt.
“I’d stay home if I were you, son.”
Grey froze, his shirt tail dangling above his bare hips. “What? Why?”
“An angry Bachmann…” Floyd Wiseman shook his head back and forth as his eyes stared into the middle distance. “I’d go anywhere but there.”
Suddenly overcome with concern for his father, Grey knelt down and took his dad’s hand in his own. He looked into his father’s soft, aging eyes. “Dad, I’m more scared of what Bachmann might do if I don’t go, so I think I had better get over there. I don’t want you to worry. I can handle him.”
His father turned to his son slowly. “You think you know how to handle him,” Floyd said. He touched Grey’s cheek. “I once thought the same thing. That was before he sent his goons to kill your mother.”
“Dad, I don’t think that was him.”
“You don’t know anything.” Grey’s father gave him a hard shove, knocking him to the ground as he stormed out of the house. A moment later, Grey’s pants were flung into his face. “Go to your master.”
Not speaking, Grey stood and put his uniform on, then shifted and flew away without saying goodbye. Once again, he imagined just flying off into the unknown, leaving the community, his father, and President Bachmann behind to wonder where he had gone. The fantasy suddenly felt very urgent and he very nearly swept east when he was meant to go west, but he veered off in his usual direction.
There was no escape to be had that day.
He flapped through his exhaustion, working his shoulders hard despite the tiredness that was always deep in his shoulder blades, no matter how deeply he slept. Up in the mountains, he could see the palace. He was far enough away that it still looked like a little dollhouse peppered with toy dolls in black suits. He had heard of human boys and girls who played with a toy version of the palace. The very thought of Bachmann’s home and a tiny president at his disposal made Grey feel both happy and extremely nervous. He didn’t want those painted-on eyes watching him as he tried to live his life beyond his job.
Grey swept over to the back security station of the palace and flapped down to the ground where he shifted back to human form. He ducked into the hut where he and the other shifters who worked in the palace had to have their retinas scanned and then have their security code temporarily tattooed on their cheeks. When he emerged, he had a series of lines on his cheek with a row of numbers underneath. This allowed the security guards to scan him with a little light on their sunglasses and confirm his identity. Only shifter staff members were required to have this monstrosity on their faces, but they did it without complaint. Grey had even volunteered to be the first to try it when the technology became available.
He approached the four security guards with a friendly nod and allowed them to scan him, standing still so that his special code would read properly. He had witnessed other shifters who had turned their heads slightly or stepped away a bit too fast and were immediately dismissed as imposters after their scan hadn’t gone through. It always shocked him how humans could do things in the name of safety and security only to use it to ruin lives at every opportunity.
The guards waved Grey through the second round of checks which included a full-body scan. He stood with his hands and feet spread so that he made a big star shape and Val, the giant wolf shifter, smelled each part of his body. His work clothes were so thin and worn that she barely had to sniff him, but she gave him a thorough check all the same. She nodded her approval to the guard at the door whose only job was to push a button that opened a door into yet another check-in chamber. Grey entered, and the door whooshed closed behind him.
To Grey’s complete shock, the president was standing in the chamber, waiting for him.
“President Bachmann. Good to see you this morning. I’m so sorry to hear about your daughter.”
The president didn’t respond, just shook his head and raked his fingers through his messy hair. “I am afraid I am not myself today, young man. Not myself at all. I need you to attend a security meeting already in progress. I will walk you in, as it’s humans only.”
Grey didn’t ask any questions, just walked behind the president as they breezed through the last check-in. Every staff member snapped to attention as their boss breezed past them, all of them putting their security scanners and paperwork down to salute and stand up as straight as possible. The president barely glanced at them. Rather, he breezed through one doorway after another until he and Grey were walking down a wide, clear hallway that made their footsteps echo loudly through the air.
The two stopped at a set of wide, double doors and Bachmann threw them open. On the other side was a group of people all dressed in black suits and had short, sensible haircuts. Most of them were big and hulking, with shoulder muscles that strained their jackets. Others were slim and short, the kind of person who easily blended into a crowd and often went unnoticed. All eyes turned to Grey and the president as they stepped in, and Grey’s throat instantly closed as he faced them. There were no other shifters in the room for him to sit with, so instead of taking a seat, he just froze. The president impatiently snapped his fingers and a chair was brought over for Grey. He sat in it precariously as the president left him to move to the front of the room.
Despite his spot at the back and away from the crowd, Grey felt as if a big, hot spotlight were shining down on him. Several humans close by gave him several suspicious glances, but no one said anything to him. He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and pressed his lips together. He had every right to be there; the president himself had insisted on his presence.
The president mounted the stage and stood behind his podium where he sighed heavily. Even from his chair in the back, Grey could see the dark circles under their fearless leader’s eyes and the heaviness in his cheeks. Rumor had it that any sitting president had access to a special doctor who could keep him or her looking young long after their fortieth birthday, and he had always been certain Bachmann had such a specialist, but now he wasn’t so sure. He could see each and every one of the president’s forty-three years carved into the man’s face.
“Hello, everyone. Good morning.”
The crowd mumbled and nodded a greeting, but no one said anything after that. Speaking during a presidential address was considered an unforgivable sin. Everyone folded their hands in their laps and uncrossed their legs to show their level of attention, as their daily televised etiquette lessons had taught them.
“I called this conference,” the president continued, “to address the kidnapping of my daughter, Harper Bachmann.”
Every face in the crowd went slack with shock. Eyes darted around the room, but silence reigned as everyone was sure the president would continue any moment. None were more shocked than Grey – he knew for a fact that Harper had gone to the party last night of her own free will. Had someone kidnapped her from the festivities? Had she died in the earthquake? He gulped and gripped the bottom of his chair.
“I can now officially call this a kidnapping as a ransom note has been found in the car that she drove out of the compound. It is my belief,” the president stated, “that she left for innocent reasons. Perhaps she wanted to have a night of fun or just have a thrill. We can’t say for sure. All we know is that some organization is calling themselves The Order of Camus. My research team tells me that Camus is the name of some author or something of that nature.”
He paused and looked down to consult the top of his podium. When he lifted his face to the crowd, it was deep red, and all his features were knotted tightly together. “I am sure,” he said through his rage, “that this group of good-for-nothings finds themselves very clever. I can almost hear them laughing at their stupid, incompetent president who can’t keep track of his own daughter.
“Can you hear them? They’re mocking me right now!” The crowd responded by punching their fists into their palms, shaking their heads in disgust and narrowing their eyes. They’d all worked for President Bachmann long enough to know that when he was angry, everyone within earshot had better be angry as well.
“I will not let these stains on the goodness of our community spread and taint our population. They must be removed with the harshest of chemicals before they become a blot on our history. Do you understand me?”
Now the crowd was stirring a little more, all hungry for a bit of rebel blood. They mumbled to themselves while keeping their eyes straight ahead, not wanting to miss another opportunity to be filled with hate and rage.
Grey felt the hairs on his skin stand up and glanced over to his left. There, a group of two men and one woman were glaring at him. One of the men jumped to his feet.
“What species of shifter are they?”
Bachmann held a hand out and the man quietly sat back down. The president looked at all of them solemnly and spoke a bit more calmly.
“I am very sorry to say that this a human group we are dealing with.” He paused as the room filled with gasps of genuine shock. For the millionth time, Grey fought the urge to roll his eyes at a human reaction. All humans seemed to see themselves as kind, loving creatures no matter how many of them were caught on camera brutally beating a shifter to death. What made them think they were so innocent?
“Therefore,” the president said, all his anger coursing through his arms and down into his hands as they stabbed the air with angry gestures, “I want homes searched! I want humans questioned! This group believes – and I can hardly stand this – that my own daughter is a shifter sympathizer. They are extremists who want our neighbors killed. We all know that the separation of our two communities has been successful, but for this Order of Camus, death is the only answer. So, they are holding Harper prisoner, and she is counting on us.” He paused for effect, taking in the faces around the room. “Every single of one of you in this room has the chance to be her hero. Don’t miss that chance. Show me what you’re made of and find Harper. Save her and bring her home!”
Every person in the room jumped to their feet and screamed their allegiance to the Bachmann family, their dedication to helping and saving the first daughter. Grey yelled and pumped his fist with the rest of them, just as determined and optimistic that they could do it and could all be heroes.
A few hours later, he wondered at himself and his ability to believe in such a ridiculous fairy tale ending. What did he, Grey Wiseman, know about saving anyone?
Grey spent the day working with a special task force he had been assigned to by the Office of Shifter Coordination for the Palace of the President, or OSCPP. OSCPP was a dingy little two-desk room where non-human employees of the palace had to check in for paychecks, file complaints if they weren’t getting along with another shifter, or, if it came to it, get fired. Grey only saw the employees of OSCCP occasionally, and they always struck him with their level of exhaustion and droopy, joyless faces. He made a vow to himself on his first day in the palace that he would never work at one of those desks.
“Hello, and thank you for coming by to speak with us.” The shifter named Gus, a mole of some kind, set down a clipboard in front of the small group. “Today, you each have a special assignment. Please review this form to see where you’re placed for the day.”
The group peered at the form and saw their each of their names highlighted in a different color with an assignment, also highlighted despite the fact that it was right next to the list of shifters, with descriptions of different roles. One by one, each shifter wandered away until only Grey was left.
He moved forward to look for himself on the sad, over-highlighted form but didn’t see his name.
“Excuse me,” he said to the mole shifter. The mole did not look up. He was too busy clicking his computer keyboard with only one finger. He tapped the same key several times, but said nothing.
“Excuse me, Mr…” Grey noticed a placard on the mole’s desk. “Mr. Henwood? I don’t seem to have an assignment for the day.”
Finally, the bored mole looked up at him. He took in Grey’s face and then consulted his list yet again.
“Your name is?”
“Grey Wiseman.”
“Wiseman. Wiseman.” The mole looked up and down the list with his quick eyes. “It appears you’re not on my list.”
Grey closed his eyes and told himself to stay calm. “Yes, that’s what I’m trying to talk to you about. Where do I go?”
Once again, the mole consulted his list, then looked up at Grey. He put the clipboard down. “Wiseman…Why do I know that name?”
“My father worked here for a long time. He was a personal messenger for the president.”
The mole nodded. “And then something happened. Your mother…”
“She passed away.”
Henwood the mole turned back to his computer and seemed to forget that Grey was there for a moment. He tapped on the keyboard with one finger, but his free hand slid toward Grey’s and gave it a soft pat. “Your mother,” he whispered, “was a wonderful woman. Many of us owe her our lives.”
Grey stood with his mouth open for a few seconds, but before he could form a question, Henwood perked up and spoke in a normal volume. “Grey Wiseman. Found you. Today, you’re working with the man himself. Go ahead and take this form with you. You’re free to shift at any time today and expected in the president’s office within the next twenty minutes.”
He slid a folded piece of paper with a navy blue and white sticker holding it closed across his desk. The circular sticker depicted a laurel leaf and a star – the presidential seal. Grey took it and tried to whisper to Henwood, but the mole shifter held up a doughy hand.
“No time for a chat,” he said without looking away from his screen. “Lots to do today.”
Grey nodded and slowly walked out of the office. He broke into a run and quickly shifted after he’d gathered some speed so that he could fly into Bachmann’s office as quickly as possible. He decided to ask his father what Henwood had been talking about, but for now he needed to work.
The sight of the presidential seal on Grey’s folded message made doors fly open as he darted through the hallways. All anyone had to do to find the president was follow the security guards. They formed a path that led straight to him every time.
When he made it through the small, final door that led to Bachmann’s main place of work, he shifted back again before landing and his feet were still running as he took on human form. He stumbled up to Bachmann’s enormous, reddish-brown desk and slapped the creamy paper on it.
“From OSCPP.”
Without a word, Bachmann ripped it open and his eyes darted across the page. He shook his head at the sight of the words. “We cannot seem to find anything about this Order of Camus. What a bunch of–” the president pressed his lips together before continuing. “Forgive me grandmother,” he said, looking to a large portrait on the wall. “Almost broke the number one rule. I am just so…” He looked around the room at his attentive staff but didn’t find what he was looking for. He spread his arms in frustration and looked to the ceiling. “So frustrated! I cannot even begin to imagine what anyone would want with my one and only. I mean,” he squeezed his hand into a fist, “do they know who they are dealing with? Do they?”
Again, he looked to his staff, but none of them quite knew what to say. Each of them took a breath to speak and then said nothing once they looked to their fearless leader’s face. For the first time in his life, he was disheveled, askew, even pinched. He had lived his entire life in a state of constant control, but now all of that was gone; he had become a human being and stopped being the deity that ruled the city. It floored the room.
“Clearly they don’t, sir.”
Every head snapped around to stare at Grey as he stood calmly in the center of the room. The president looked at him as if he’d never seen the young shifter before in his life. He took Grey in – his tall stature, carefully combed hair and worn, yet clean and pressed black shirt and pants.
“What do you make of all this, young man?”
Again, everyone watched Grey with open-mouthed stares. Grey felt the beads of sweat on his forehead. He cleared his throat and looked into the president’s face. It was rough and unshaven, but more than that, it was shadowed with the pain of his missing daughter. All Grey could think of, was the memory of Harper appearing from under a giant wig and then being shocked by an earthquake. What had happened?
“Well?” The president walked up to him. “I asked you a question, shifter.”
“Yes, of course. Well,” Grey paused to stand as straight as possible, “whomever has taken Harper, or assisted in any way, clearly has a very skewed vision of the world. This group clearly believes they’re somehow above you. Smarter than you. My guess is they’re young and delusional.”
Bachmann nodded and rubbed his face. “Young. Rebellious. Yes, that must be what we’re dealing with here. Alright, little bird.” He put his hands on his hips and looked around the room. “Let’s see if you’re on to something.” He pointed to his head of security, a big man standing at the door. “I want a rundown of all former rebel headquarters, any lesser known destinations in and around the city. Abandoned buildings, the new shopping mall, you name it. Don’t rule out the possibility of this group hiding in plain sight.”
“Yes, sir.” The giant man by the door quickly stepped out, speaking into his old, dusty walkie-talkie as he went.
“Gloria,” the president continued to a well-dressed older woman on his sofa, “you’re up.”
She clicked a pen and readied a small notebook on her lap. “Go ahead.”
“We need a list of any groups that have formed recently. Take a look at any school clubs, any kind of sports organization. Heck, give me a rundown of any groups of friends in the high school. I don’t rightly care. If they travel in tribes, I want to hear about it.”
Without a word, Gloria stood and walked quickly out of the room. The president turned back to Grey. “And you, young Wiseman,” he continued, stepping closer to him and smiling just a little with just one corner of his mouth. “I’m curious. Do you think you could get a taskforce of airbornes together to take to the skies?”
Grey’s heart instantly jumped up in his chest. It continued to jump in measured leaps as he nodded vigorously. “Sir! I mean, yes sir. I’m sure I could. We’ll give you an update every hour.”
The president reached into his pocket and peeled several paper Bachmanns from a huge money roll. The blue and white bills were so new and crisp they looked as if they’d been printed just that morning. Grey froze at the sight of them. Then, when President Bachmann held a large amount of money out to him, he had no idea what to do.
“Mr. Wiseman,” the president said, shaking the money in his face. “I believe any group of flying shifters will be far more motivated if they’re handsomely paid.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Grey stepped forward and took the money gingerly, sure the president would yank the bills from his hand at any moment, but it never came to pass. Instead, he was allowed to fold it and put the chunk of money in his pocket. He stood and waited for further instructions.
“What are you waiting for? Shift into a bird and flap on outta here!”
The president’s loud yell shocked Grey into bird form, and he quickly flew out the window, hardly able to believe what was happening.