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jaybee65Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Thirty
The guard unlocked the door and held it open for George. George nodded in thanks and entered the room.
It was an empty holding cell -- padded, George noticed. That had to be Paul's doing -- a final insult to Adrian's dignity.
She sat on the floor in the corner, her arms wrapped around her bent knees. The white vacuum of the bare cell almost swallowed her up. She looked tiny, frail, like one might be able to snap her bones with no more than a puff of air aimed her way. Like she might just crumble into dust all by herself.
What have I done? he wondered. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Then again, what was it supposed to be like? He hadn't actually given it any thought. He'd done his best to avoid thinking about it at all, in fact. If there had been a way to ease her out of power without harming her -- a magic wand, or three wishes from a genie -- that would have been ideal. Because there wasn't, he simply had to avoid dwelling on the unpleasant side. Until it stared him in the face, alone and vulnerable.
She climbed to her feet -- unsteadily at first, as if she'd been sitting in the same position too long -- but then her expression brightened.
"Thank God you're here," she said. She clasped his hands so tightly it hurt. "How many of them have you cancelled so far?"
He looked away. "It's a bit complicated."
She let go of his hands. "You line them up against a wall and shoot them," she said sharply. "How is that complicated?"
"The Council has intervened," he explained. "They weren't happy to learn about your plans in China. Some of them seem to believe Paul was justified."
She made a noise of disgust. Angry, she seemed her old self again. "A mutiny is never justified. There are channels--"
"And then there's the money," he interrupted.
"What money?" She frowned.
"The money the Taiwanese paid you to intervene in Beijing. Paul found the records of all the payments."
"No one paid me anything." Her eyes darted back and forth as she took in George's statement. This had clearly caught her off guard, as George knew it would. "If there are records, then Paul planted them himself."
"The Council had experts review them. They're convinced they're genuine." He reached a hand to clasp her shoulder sympathetically. "Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered. "I could have helped you conceal everything."
She wrenched her shoulder away from his grasp. "You, of all people, believe I would stoop to taking bribes?"
He forced his expression into something he hoped looked kind. "If you say you didn't do this, then I believe you," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't, really, but would play the loyal friend no matter what. "But that might not be enough. The Council is sending an investigator. It's out of my hands now."
***
"Just a few more questions for clarification, if you don't mind." The investigator peered at Paul over the thin, gold rims of his glasses, his pen poised over a notebook.
"Of course," said Paul.
"The one thing I'm having trouble understanding is why you waited to take action. You knew the mission objective was improper from the very beginning. Yet you went ahead and prepared the profile as Adrian directed. Why?"
"Profiles are meaningless," Paul said. "We create theoretical profiles all the time, testing out hypotheticals that we may have no intent of ever putting into action. That alone wouldn't justify a drastic step like mutiny. I had to wait until I received a clear order to carry it out."
"I see." The investigator -- he'd declined to give a name, as had his phalanx of blue-suited assistants -- nodded solemnly and jotted down Paul's answer. Whispering to himself, he ran his finger down what appeared to be a checklist of questions.
Paul stretched out his legs and leaned back in his chair. He could afford to relax, at least a little. The investigator clearly wasn't anyone with real authority, just a fact-collector. Still, it was important to make a good impression. Paul adopted an elaborate military courtesy with the man, tossing off a multitude of "Sirs" and official-sounding jargon. The bloodless pencil-pusher probably wouldn't understand half of it, but that was a large part of the effect. Paul also made sure to weave name-dropping of his outside contacts into his answers as often as possible; he noticed that the investigator's note-scribbling became distinctly more energetic each time he did.
He suspected that this was a mere formality. They wouldn't be bothering with interviews and investigations if there was any chance that Adrian would be retained. Instead, they would have brought out a firing squad.
The investigator turned to the last page of his checklist. "Aside from the Taiwanese payments we already went over," he asked, "have you found evidence of any other illicit transactions?"
"No. Not yet, at least. We're still reviewing older records. Of course, it's possible that data may be unrecoverable. So we may never know the full extent of her misconduct."
Paul had to bite back a smile. Although the prospect of being obligated to George made him uneasy, he knew this was the coup de grâce for Adrian. There wasn't proof enough to get her cancelled, but her reputation would never recover from the accusations. Paul was impressed that Madeline managed to salvage the mess Lisa had created, but then he should have known better than to underestimate Madeline's resourcefulness and persistence. She hadn't told him how she'd done it -- she still seemed to harbor a bit of resentment at the way he had spoken to her after Lisa's death -- but she'd come around. After all, she never stayed angry at him. Especially when they had a triumph to celebrate. He'd put a bottle of Bollinger on ice, and after a few toasts she wouldn't be able to resist gloating about how she'd succeeded in doing what he said she couldn't. Then he'd laugh and all would be well, because while Madeline was obsessed with always being right, he couldn't give a damn. Right, wrong, whatever -- he knew that didn't really matter. Instead, what he cared about was coming out on top. It was the end game, not how you got there.
The investigator snapped his notebook shut and stood, offering his hand.
"Thank you for your candor," he said. "You can be assured that the Council appreciates your assistance."
Paul shook the man's hand firmly, then, what the hell, threw in a salute. It was time to bring a little spit and polish into Section.
It was time for change. Change on his terms. Now that was something to celebrate.
***
"This was a difficult decision to make." Simpson stared at Adrian from his seat at the head of the Council table. His forehead glowed with a sheen that somehow made his face seem as stiff and pompous as his words. "I think I speak for all my colleagues when I say that we have the utmost respect for your profound contributions toward making this a safer, more democratic--"
Adrian stood. "Please. Spare me. It's obvious why I'm here. At least do me the courtesy of being done with it."
The five men exchanged looks with each other, looked at their hands, looked at the table -- looked everywhere except in her direction.
"We'd like you to retire," said Strickland, finally.
"Retire?"
"We'll provide a generous pension," said Reynolds in his avuncular drawl. "And even a staff to assist you in your future pursuits." He smiled. "Perhaps you'd like to take up charitable work," he offered.
"A staff to assist me," Adrian repeated, scornful. "You mean a team of minders to ensure I don't get up to any mischief."
Reynolds chuckled. "The two don't have to be mutually exclusive."
She glared at him until his smile began to waver. They might be able to strip away everything she possessed, but, by God, they wouldn't patronize her.
"I'm being imprisoned, aren't I?" she said. "Why not just come out and say it?"
"That depends on how you choose to look at it," he replied. "I hope you can come to see your situation in a more positive light."
He had dispensed with the kindly old man façade, but there was still a trace of sympathy. Perhaps it was even genuine. Somehow, that felt worse than condescension.
Her shoulders sagged, bereft of anger. "What's to become of my organization?"
"There's going to be a restructuring," said Laplace.
"A restructuring." She laughed. "Let me guess. You've handed control of the Sections to Center."
Their uncomfortable expressions confirmed that her guess was correct. So Phillip had managed to pull everything into his slimy grasp at last. She'd made a noble stand, but the old boys' network still triumphed in the end. The only comfort was that Phillip would detest Paul even more than he did Adrian. And the feeling, she was quite certain, would be more than mutual. It served them both right. They deserved each other.
"Bringing everyone under the same umbrella eliminates redundancies," said Simpson. He seemed to think that she might actually care what pathetic rationale they invented to justify their actions. "It's more efficient in the long run," he explained.
"Of course," added Laplace, "integrating the Sections with Center will be a significant administrative challenge. That's why we've created a third organizational layer to act as a buffer between them."
"We're calling it Oversight," said Simpson. "We've decided to put George in charge of it."
That caught her attention. "He's not being asked to retire?"
"No, he's staying on," answered Strickland. "You should thank him, by the way."
"Oh?"
"He made a rather spirited defense of your character." Strickland's curled lip suggested how little he thought of the attempt. "It's only because of him that we're granting you any privileges at all."
Good old dependable George. She should have sought his advice and support more often. If she'd had someone to turn to, someone to share her burdens with, perhaps the outcome would have been different. But she hadn't wanted him to be dragged into her political battles. What a relief that his career wouldn't be tainted by his association with her.
Actually, now that she reflected upon it, it was more than a relief. His presence at Oversight offered some hope. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe all wasn't lost. George -- stalwart, loyal George -- could fight to preserve her legacy even as Phillip and Paul sought to dismantle it. Although he could never prevail by himself, he might be able to slow down the inevitable -- and that, in turn, would give her time. Time to think. To assess her mistakes. To regroup. To plan. To gather manpower and resources. To fight. And yes, to rise again. This time in triumph.
She wasn't vanquished at all. How could she be? She was the mother of the Sections, and no one could take her children from her. Least of all these imbeciles. Why, they weren't even worthy of her anger.
She swept her gaze across the table and smiled, gracious and magnanimous. "Thank you, gentlemen, for your kind words. I've considered your offer, and have decided to accept it. I'm looking forward to a fruitful and rewarding retirement."
***
The chilly air struck Lisa before she'd even crossed the threshold. Inside the room, she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off goosebumps -- but then forgot the temperature entirely as soon as she had a chance to see her surroundings. She stood inside a vast, climate-controlled IT center. It stretched farther than she could see: row upon row upon row of clustered multiprocessors, so state-of-the-art it made Section One's systems look like a collection of medieval abacuses. There wasn't a speck of dust in the room; the polished floors gleamed in the bright overhead light. She fought the impulse to touch one of the computers the way one might stroke the wax finish of a racing car: they were beautiful, but so flawless that even a fingerprint on one of the panels might ruin the aesthetic.
Mr. Jones waved his hand in a grand gesture that encompassed the entire room. "This is all yours," he announced. "Make yourself at home."
"Are you serious?" She laughed, incredulous. When he smiled and nodded, she said, "They did everything they could to keep me away from computers in Section."
"Yes. So they did." He watched her inspect one of the clusters for a few moments. "You've been researching the experiment with your sons quite extensively the past few years," he said, and there was an odd undertone to his voice that made her look up. "Tell me, what do you think the object is?"
To break up families? To fuck with people's lives? Those were the real answers, as far as she was concerned, but she knew better than to say so. His question was some sort of test, she could tell from the nervous flutters that erupted in her stomach, but what kind of answer was he looking for? After years of practice, she knew how to read Adrian, but this Jones was a cipher.
Best to stick with simple facts, at least to start with. "The object is to test genetic aptitude for certain skills," she said blandly. "You give one sibling intensive training and use the other as a control by letting him live a normal life."
"So one is encouraged, and the other left to his own devices?"
"Yeah. That's right."
He shook his head in disappointment. "I'm afraid you've missed something rather important."
Oh, for God's sake. She couldn't even get the safe answer right? Dealing with the unwritten rules of Center was like learning an entirely new language.
"The study doesn't compare two family members," Jones went on. "It compares three." He smiled with an air of cultivated patience, like a schoolteacher with a particularly backwards student. "One is encouraged; one left alone; and the other is actively discouraged."
Three family members. Not two. The flutters in her stomach turned into cold, churning nausea. Three meant Seymour, Jason -- and Lisa.
The experiment she thought she was researching, thought she was combating, thought she was outwitting -- thought she could save her sons from -- had actually encompassed her within its scope all along. And she didn't need Jones to tell her which of the three of them had been the discouraged one. All that time, she had struggled and been denied, set back, thwarted, slapped down -- and it hadn't been due to her own mistakes or miscalculations. It hadn't been due to Jules being a sexist ass or Adrian a shortsighted fool. It hadn't even been due to the phenomenally bad luck Lisa thought she was saddled with. It was all scripted.
She had thought she was living a real life, with real risks and accomplishments; in actuality, she was just a little white mouse running through a maze, while bored lab technicians took notes. Drop in a hunk of cheese, they'd say to each other, and watch her scurry!
She covered her face with her hands. She would have groaned, but no sound came out.
"Come now," said Jones. "You developed a remarkable talent despite every obstacle we placed in your path. You should be proud."
She grabbed hold of a nearby chair and sat before her legs could crumple beneath her. She had no more energy to stand. No more energy to talk. She had no more energy for anything, ever.
He took a seat next to her.
"You're lucky, you know," he said. "You were born with a gift. Not everyone is."
She didn't say anything in response. What was there to say? She just stared at the floor, drained.
"Have you read Plato?" he asked.
At this, she looked up at him and laughed. What the hell did that have to do with anything? "No," she answered.
"You should," he said. He cleared his throat and once again adopted a pedagogical mode, although what lesson he was trying to convey, if any, was beyond Lisa's comprehension. "He believed that humans are, at birth, imbued with certain temperaments that suit them for different roles in society. There are the commoners, for example, driven by the craving for pleasure. The warriors, who seek honor. And finally, the philosophers, who desire knowledge. In Plato's ideal society, the commoners would be protected by the warriors, who in turn would be led by the philosophers."
Was this a riddle? More of the experiment? Or was Jones simply insane? Lisa began to suspect all three. Section One and looming cancellation started to look rather appealing in comparison to falling down this rabbithole of delusion.
"Plato's system is a beautiful model for our organization," said Jones. He was enthusiastic now, his voice louder, his expression animated. "What better way to describe the Sections than as a fierce warrior caste, selected and trained to defend the unknowing masses?"
That settled it. He was a lunatic. She might as well play along.
"So that makes you…?" she prompted.
"The philosopher-king, of course!" He threw his head back and laughed. When he finished, he asked, "You think I'm spouting utter nonsense, don't you?"
Yes. And no. Just when she'd decided he was certifiably crazy, she spotted a twinkle in his eye that made her wonder if he might be engaged in an elaborate joke. At her expense, no doubt.
She shrugged in surrender. This was all too exhausting. A lesson, a test, a game, a joke -- whatever he was up to, she no longer cared.
He frowned, apparently sensing her exasperation. "My point is simply this," he said, serious once more. "Some people are born with talents that ought to be developed and put to public service. For the greater good of all. You're one of these people. You've proven yourself worthy."
"Worthy for what?"
"Worthy to help me create my life's work. It's called Veytoss."
************
To go on to Chapter Thirty-One, click here.
Previous Chapters
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
The guard unlocked the door and held it open for George. George nodded in thanks and entered the room.
It was an empty holding cell -- padded, George noticed. That had to be Paul's doing -- a final insult to Adrian's dignity.
She sat on the floor in the corner, her arms wrapped around her bent knees. The white vacuum of the bare cell almost swallowed her up. She looked tiny, frail, like one might be able to snap her bones with no more than a puff of air aimed her way. Like she might just crumble into dust all by herself.
What have I done? he wondered. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Then again, what was it supposed to be like? He hadn't actually given it any thought. He'd done his best to avoid thinking about it at all, in fact. If there had been a way to ease her out of power without harming her -- a magic wand, or three wishes from a genie -- that would have been ideal. Because there wasn't, he simply had to avoid dwelling on the unpleasant side. Until it stared him in the face, alone and vulnerable.
She climbed to her feet -- unsteadily at first, as if she'd been sitting in the same position too long -- but then her expression brightened.
"Thank God you're here," she said. She clasped his hands so tightly it hurt. "How many of them have you cancelled so far?"
He looked away. "It's a bit complicated."
She let go of his hands. "You line them up against a wall and shoot them," she said sharply. "How is that complicated?"
"The Council has intervened," he explained. "They weren't happy to learn about your plans in China. Some of them seem to believe Paul was justified."
She made a noise of disgust. Angry, she seemed her old self again. "A mutiny is never justified. There are channels--"
"And then there's the money," he interrupted.
"What money?" She frowned.
"The money the Taiwanese paid you to intervene in Beijing. Paul found the records of all the payments."
"No one paid me anything." Her eyes darted back and forth as she took in George's statement. This had clearly caught her off guard, as George knew it would. "If there are records, then Paul planted them himself."
"The Council had experts review them. They're convinced they're genuine." He reached a hand to clasp her shoulder sympathetically. "Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered. "I could have helped you conceal everything."
She wrenched her shoulder away from his grasp. "You, of all people, believe I would stoop to taking bribes?"
He forced his expression into something he hoped looked kind. "If you say you didn't do this, then I believe you," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't, really, but would play the loyal friend no matter what. "But that might not be enough. The Council is sending an investigator. It's out of my hands now."
***
"Just a few more questions for clarification, if you don't mind." The investigator peered at Paul over the thin, gold rims of his glasses, his pen poised over a notebook.
"Of course," said Paul.
"The one thing I'm having trouble understanding is why you waited to take action. You knew the mission objective was improper from the very beginning. Yet you went ahead and prepared the profile as Adrian directed. Why?"
"Profiles are meaningless," Paul said. "We create theoretical profiles all the time, testing out hypotheticals that we may have no intent of ever putting into action. That alone wouldn't justify a drastic step like mutiny. I had to wait until I received a clear order to carry it out."
"I see." The investigator -- he'd declined to give a name, as had his phalanx of blue-suited assistants -- nodded solemnly and jotted down Paul's answer. Whispering to himself, he ran his finger down what appeared to be a checklist of questions.
Paul stretched out his legs and leaned back in his chair. He could afford to relax, at least a little. The investigator clearly wasn't anyone with real authority, just a fact-collector. Still, it was important to make a good impression. Paul adopted an elaborate military courtesy with the man, tossing off a multitude of "Sirs" and official-sounding jargon. The bloodless pencil-pusher probably wouldn't understand half of it, but that was a large part of the effect. Paul also made sure to weave name-dropping of his outside contacts into his answers as often as possible; he noticed that the investigator's note-scribbling became distinctly more energetic each time he did.
He suspected that this was a mere formality. They wouldn't be bothering with interviews and investigations if there was any chance that Adrian would be retained. Instead, they would have brought out a firing squad.
The investigator turned to the last page of his checklist. "Aside from the Taiwanese payments we already went over," he asked, "have you found evidence of any other illicit transactions?"
"No. Not yet, at least. We're still reviewing older records. Of course, it's possible that data may be unrecoverable. So we may never know the full extent of her misconduct."
Paul had to bite back a smile. Although the prospect of being obligated to George made him uneasy, he knew this was the coup de grâce for Adrian. There wasn't proof enough to get her cancelled, but her reputation would never recover from the accusations. Paul was impressed that Madeline managed to salvage the mess Lisa had created, but then he should have known better than to underestimate Madeline's resourcefulness and persistence. She hadn't told him how she'd done it -- she still seemed to harbor a bit of resentment at the way he had spoken to her after Lisa's death -- but she'd come around. After all, she never stayed angry at him. Especially when they had a triumph to celebrate. He'd put a bottle of Bollinger on ice, and after a few toasts she wouldn't be able to resist gloating about how she'd succeeded in doing what he said she couldn't. Then he'd laugh and all would be well, because while Madeline was obsessed with always being right, he couldn't give a damn. Right, wrong, whatever -- he knew that didn't really matter. Instead, what he cared about was coming out on top. It was the end game, not how you got there.
The investigator snapped his notebook shut and stood, offering his hand.
"Thank you for your candor," he said. "You can be assured that the Council appreciates your assistance."
Paul shook the man's hand firmly, then, what the hell, threw in a salute. It was time to bring a little spit and polish into Section.
It was time for change. Change on his terms. Now that was something to celebrate.
***
"This was a difficult decision to make." Simpson stared at Adrian from his seat at the head of the Council table. His forehead glowed with a sheen that somehow made his face seem as stiff and pompous as his words. "I think I speak for all my colleagues when I say that we have the utmost respect for your profound contributions toward making this a safer, more democratic--"
Adrian stood. "Please. Spare me. It's obvious why I'm here. At least do me the courtesy of being done with it."
The five men exchanged looks with each other, looked at their hands, looked at the table -- looked everywhere except in her direction.
"We'd like you to retire," said Strickland, finally.
"Retire?"
"We'll provide a generous pension," said Reynolds in his avuncular drawl. "And even a staff to assist you in your future pursuits." He smiled. "Perhaps you'd like to take up charitable work," he offered.
"A staff to assist me," Adrian repeated, scornful. "You mean a team of minders to ensure I don't get up to any mischief."
Reynolds chuckled. "The two don't have to be mutually exclusive."
She glared at him until his smile began to waver. They might be able to strip away everything she possessed, but, by God, they wouldn't patronize her.
"I'm being imprisoned, aren't I?" she said. "Why not just come out and say it?"
"That depends on how you choose to look at it," he replied. "I hope you can come to see your situation in a more positive light."
He had dispensed with the kindly old man façade, but there was still a trace of sympathy. Perhaps it was even genuine. Somehow, that felt worse than condescension.
Her shoulders sagged, bereft of anger. "What's to become of my organization?"
"There's going to be a restructuring," said Laplace.
"A restructuring." She laughed. "Let me guess. You've handed control of the Sections to Center."
Their uncomfortable expressions confirmed that her guess was correct. So Phillip had managed to pull everything into his slimy grasp at last. She'd made a noble stand, but the old boys' network still triumphed in the end. The only comfort was that Phillip would detest Paul even more than he did Adrian. And the feeling, she was quite certain, would be more than mutual. It served them both right. They deserved each other.
"Bringing everyone under the same umbrella eliminates redundancies," said Simpson. He seemed to think that she might actually care what pathetic rationale they invented to justify their actions. "It's more efficient in the long run," he explained.
"Of course," added Laplace, "integrating the Sections with Center will be a significant administrative challenge. That's why we've created a third organizational layer to act as a buffer between them."
"We're calling it Oversight," said Simpson. "We've decided to put George in charge of it."
That caught her attention. "He's not being asked to retire?"
"No, he's staying on," answered Strickland. "You should thank him, by the way."
"Oh?"
"He made a rather spirited defense of your character." Strickland's curled lip suggested how little he thought of the attempt. "It's only because of him that we're granting you any privileges at all."
Good old dependable George. She should have sought his advice and support more often. If she'd had someone to turn to, someone to share her burdens with, perhaps the outcome would have been different. But she hadn't wanted him to be dragged into her political battles. What a relief that his career wouldn't be tainted by his association with her.
Actually, now that she reflected upon it, it was more than a relief. His presence at Oversight offered some hope. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe all wasn't lost. George -- stalwart, loyal George -- could fight to preserve her legacy even as Phillip and Paul sought to dismantle it. Although he could never prevail by himself, he might be able to slow down the inevitable -- and that, in turn, would give her time. Time to think. To assess her mistakes. To regroup. To plan. To gather manpower and resources. To fight. And yes, to rise again. This time in triumph.
She wasn't vanquished at all. How could she be? She was the mother of the Sections, and no one could take her children from her. Least of all these imbeciles. Why, they weren't even worthy of her anger.
She swept her gaze across the table and smiled, gracious and magnanimous. "Thank you, gentlemen, for your kind words. I've considered your offer, and have decided to accept it. I'm looking forward to a fruitful and rewarding retirement."
***
The chilly air struck Lisa before she'd even crossed the threshold. Inside the room, she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off goosebumps -- but then forgot the temperature entirely as soon as she had a chance to see her surroundings. She stood inside a vast, climate-controlled IT center. It stretched farther than she could see: row upon row upon row of clustered multiprocessors, so state-of-the-art it made Section One's systems look like a collection of medieval abacuses. There wasn't a speck of dust in the room; the polished floors gleamed in the bright overhead light. She fought the impulse to touch one of the computers the way one might stroke the wax finish of a racing car: they were beautiful, but so flawless that even a fingerprint on one of the panels might ruin the aesthetic.
Mr. Jones waved his hand in a grand gesture that encompassed the entire room. "This is all yours," he announced. "Make yourself at home."
"Are you serious?" She laughed, incredulous. When he smiled and nodded, she said, "They did everything they could to keep me away from computers in Section."
"Yes. So they did." He watched her inspect one of the clusters for a few moments. "You've been researching the experiment with your sons quite extensively the past few years," he said, and there was an odd undertone to his voice that made her look up. "Tell me, what do you think the object is?"
To break up families? To fuck with people's lives? Those were the real answers, as far as she was concerned, but she knew better than to say so. His question was some sort of test, she could tell from the nervous flutters that erupted in her stomach, but what kind of answer was he looking for? After years of practice, she knew how to read Adrian, but this Jones was a cipher.
Best to stick with simple facts, at least to start with. "The object is to test genetic aptitude for certain skills," she said blandly. "You give one sibling intensive training and use the other as a control by letting him live a normal life."
"So one is encouraged, and the other left to his own devices?"
"Yeah. That's right."
He shook his head in disappointment. "I'm afraid you've missed something rather important."
Oh, for God's sake. She couldn't even get the safe answer right? Dealing with the unwritten rules of Center was like learning an entirely new language.
"The study doesn't compare two family members," Jones went on. "It compares three." He smiled with an air of cultivated patience, like a schoolteacher with a particularly backwards student. "One is encouraged; one left alone; and the other is actively discouraged."
Three family members. Not two. The flutters in her stomach turned into cold, churning nausea. Three meant Seymour, Jason -- and Lisa.
The experiment she thought she was researching, thought she was combating, thought she was outwitting -- thought she could save her sons from -- had actually encompassed her within its scope all along. And she didn't need Jones to tell her which of the three of them had been the discouraged one. All that time, she had struggled and been denied, set back, thwarted, slapped down -- and it hadn't been due to her own mistakes or miscalculations. It hadn't been due to Jules being a sexist ass or Adrian a shortsighted fool. It hadn't even been due to the phenomenally bad luck Lisa thought she was saddled with. It was all scripted.
She had thought she was living a real life, with real risks and accomplishments; in actuality, she was just a little white mouse running through a maze, while bored lab technicians took notes. Drop in a hunk of cheese, they'd say to each other, and watch her scurry!
She covered her face with her hands. She would have groaned, but no sound came out.
"Come now," said Jones. "You developed a remarkable talent despite every obstacle we placed in your path. You should be proud."
She grabbed hold of a nearby chair and sat before her legs could crumple beneath her. She had no more energy to stand. No more energy to talk. She had no more energy for anything, ever.
He took a seat next to her.
"You're lucky, you know," he said. "You were born with a gift. Not everyone is."
She didn't say anything in response. What was there to say? She just stared at the floor, drained.
"Have you read Plato?" he asked.
At this, she looked up at him and laughed. What the hell did that have to do with anything? "No," she answered.
"You should," he said. He cleared his throat and once again adopted a pedagogical mode, although what lesson he was trying to convey, if any, was beyond Lisa's comprehension. "He believed that humans are, at birth, imbued with certain temperaments that suit them for different roles in society. There are the commoners, for example, driven by the craving for pleasure. The warriors, who seek honor. And finally, the philosophers, who desire knowledge. In Plato's ideal society, the commoners would be protected by the warriors, who in turn would be led by the philosophers."
Was this a riddle? More of the experiment? Or was Jones simply insane? Lisa began to suspect all three. Section One and looming cancellation started to look rather appealing in comparison to falling down this rabbithole of delusion.
"Plato's system is a beautiful model for our organization," said Jones. He was enthusiastic now, his voice louder, his expression animated. "What better way to describe the Sections than as a fierce warrior caste, selected and trained to defend the unknowing masses?"
That settled it. He was a lunatic. She might as well play along.
"So that makes you…?" she prompted.
"The philosopher-king, of course!" He threw his head back and laughed. When he finished, he asked, "You think I'm spouting utter nonsense, don't you?"
Yes. And no. Just when she'd decided he was certifiably crazy, she spotted a twinkle in his eye that made her wonder if he might be engaged in an elaborate joke. At her expense, no doubt.
She shrugged in surrender. This was all too exhausting. A lesson, a test, a game, a joke -- whatever he was up to, she no longer cared.
He frowned, apparently sensing her exasperation. "My point is simply this," he said, serious once more. "Some people are born with talents that ought to be developed and put to public service. For the greater good of all. You're one of these people. You've proven yourself worthy."
"Worthy for what?"
"Worthy to help me create my life's work. It's called Veytoss."
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To go on to Chapter Thirty-One, click here.