The Pulver Chronicles – 15. Break On Through To The Other Side

It looked the same. It smelled the same. It even sounded the same. Yet as Byron strolled around his family home, he felt as a stranger in a strange land. And he was fairly certain it had little to do with the fact that this wasn’t actually his family house.

Jackson was still here. It had taken him some time to manifest again; when he had, he had immediately asked Byron if he still had his memories. Byron assured him that he did. He remembered everything. Every single thing.

The young man was glancing around, taking in every detail as if he was in a museum. Which it was, in a way: the Byron’s Mysterious Past Museum. He observed every picture hanging on the walls and displayed on shelves, looked through every window, and even tried to analyze every piece of furniture, as if they would reveal deep, long-held secrets to him. Eventually, his gaze stopped at a newspaper. It was titled the Concord Monitor. He read the date: March 3rd, 1979.

“Pretty fancy place,” he commented. “Are your folks rich?”

“They were,” Byron said.

“Oh.” Jackson’s face darkened. “I’m sorry.”

“What about?”

Jackson did a double take, both at Byron’s answer and at the sudden coldness of his tone. He thought to change the subject, but couldn’t think of anything to say; thankfully, Byron could.

“I think I know how we’re going to get out.”

“How?”

“You noticed that place we saw, very briefly?”

“Yeah. It looked like some kind of basement,” Jackson said. “There was some guy in there, too. Do you think?…”

“That it was them? Yes. Apparently, their spell weakens every time they change gear, so to speak.”

“Sounds like an opportunity,” Jackson said.

“Exactly.”

“Right. So what’s the plan?”

“When it happens ag-”

Byron’s reply trailed off. Someone else had just entered the living room where they were. It was a woman in her forties, of very small stature, maybe five feet one, wearing her graying black hair in a bun. Jackson noticed, once he saw past her expensive clothing and ostentatious jewelry, that she had the same icy blue eyes as Byron. Her expression was one of severity, with a hint of superiority: pinched lips, arched eyebrows, and stiff shoulders; she did seem to warm up somewhat when she saw Byron.

“Hello, Madison,” she said, placing her arms on his shoulders for a brief, rigid hug. “I’m glad you could be with us for spring break.”

“Madison?!” Jackson guffawed, incredulous.

“Hello, mother,” Byron said, ignoring him.

“Your father is at the club. He’ll be joining us for dinner.”

“That’s fine.”

“Please sit down,” his mother said, gesturing at one of the brown leather armchairs.

“I sat for four hours in the car. I’d rather stand.”

“Sit,” she insisted, her tone cordial and strict at the same time.

Byron did so with a sigh. His mother smiled and nodded.

“Now, would you like something to eat? Mrs Adkins made some delicious bagels this morning.”

“I had lunch on the road, mother.”

“Probably something overpriced and undercooked. Wait here, I’ll get you something.”

She walked out, barring any protest.

“Can’t believe your real name is Madison,” Jackson said, still laughing.

Byron groaned, shaking his head.

“All this time, I thought you had some kind of badass name. Like James, or Donovan, or Arnold. But Madison…! A chick’s name. Seriously!

“It was a boy’s name before that damn movie,” Byron protested. “I was named after James Madison.”

“Yeah, whatever. What’s your last name, then? Morissette?”

“It’s Charles.”

“Madison Charles? Heh. So where does “Byron” come from?”

“You don’t read much, do you?” Byron said.

Jackson shrugged.

Byron’s mother reappeared soon, holding a tray which she placed on the coffee table. On the tray was a gold-colored set consisting of a teapot, two cups and their plates. She filled the two cups with a green, mint-scented liquid. Without asking, she added a sugar cube to one of the cups, and offered it to Byron, who took it with a nod. Mother and son sipped their tea for a moment, without exchanging a word. The silence made Jackson visibly uncomfortable; Byron, however, was used to it.

“How do you like West Point?” the mother eventually asked.

“It’s great,” Byron answered. He did not elaborate, and his mother did not press him.

“How have you been?” he said after a few more sips.

“Oh, the same.”

And that was it for the whole conversation. Some time after, Byron finished his cup, and excused himself. He left the living room, went back to the main hallway, and climbed up the stairs. The stairs were the most recent part of the colonial-style house, having been renovated and rebuilt quite a few times over the nearly two centuries history of the place; it was also the only part that didn’t creak under every step. Byron took on his left, and pushed the first door to his right.

His bedroom was almost exactly how he had left it, but it was obvious the maid had been there. The bed has been made with millimeter precision, every single one of his many books had been put away on the shelves -in order, too-, and there wasn’t a speck of dust on any surface. Marylou had always been thorough, Byron thought.

“Books everywhere,” Jackson said. “I figured you were the type.”

“The type who can read?”

“The type who reads for fun. I bet you were reading Shakespeare when the other kids were watching their Saturday morning cartoons.”

“I’m more of a Marlowe kind of guy.”

Jackson had evidently no idea who Marlowe was, but wasn’t interested enough to ask. Byron sat on his bed, and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“So what’s your mom’s name?” Jackson said.

“Sharon.”

“Were you guys close? Doesn’t seem that way. No offense.”

“My mother was a discreet, mostly introverted woman. Rather conservative, too. Never the kind to attract attention, to raise her voice, or even to express opinions unless prompted; I never even heard her laugh in public. She strongly believed in her role as a wife.”

“And as a mother?” Jackson asked.

“Back to what we were talking about…” Byron said, ignoring the question. “As soon as this memory is over, I need you to be ready.”

“Ah, right. So what’s the plan?”

“You remember the trick I pulled with the Inquisitor?”

“How you did that thing to my mind so I could resist her Touch of Confusion?”

“That’s right. I felt what that Cambion did to your mind before he sent you back to Dreamland. Next time, I think I can hold him off. Use that opportunity to take him down.”

“Take him down how? He probably took my ax. Well, your ax.”

“Probably,” Byron said. “I guess you’ll have to use that thing I didn’t want you to take in a world where it’s not supposed to exist, and which I told you explicitly not to take on a mission that required stealth. That same thing you nevertheless insist on taking everywhere you go.”

Jackson’s face lightened up. “Right, my pistol. I hid it in one of my belt’s pockets. Maybe the Cambion didn’t realize it’s a weapon. Ha! I told you it was a good idea to be packing! And you call yourself an American?”

“I don’t, and how about you wait until we’re safely out of here before you start bragging? It’s possible our warden has tied you up, in addition to sending you here.”

“Ah, shit.” Jackson had not thought of that. “You think they did?”

“Maybe. Maybe they didn’t have the time. Maybe they didn’t think it would be necessary. We’ll have to take our chances.”

“Okay. So, now…”

The young man did a double take. In the blink of an eye, the daylight outside had turned to orange.

“I thought I’d speed this up,” Byron said.

“So you can control this thing?”

“I figured out how, to a small degree.”

There was a small knock on the door.

“Madison? Your father is here.”

“I’m coming, mother.”

At the bottom of the stairs was a man, about as tall as Byron, and who shared many of his facial features: chin, nose, eyebrows, even the ears. Unlike the son however, the father smiled a lot more -that is to say, he smiled at all. He was also more prone to initiate physical contact, holding his son by the shoulder and kissing him on the shoulder to greet him.

“So good to see you, my boy!” he said.

“You too, father.” Byron patted the man on the arm, but his gesture lacked any warmth. In fact, Byron looked like he wished more than anything to be away from the man.

Jackson didn’t blame him. There was something off about the father, he thought. He couldn’t say what exactly, but something in his smile, in his eyes, or maybe in his overall behavior caused a strange reaction in Jackson, as if the man triggered his fight-or-flight response. It reminded him of his first foster dad, on the nights when he came home drunk. But why? Byron’s father did not seem like the alcoholic type, nor the violent type. Maybe it was Byron’s own dislike of the man infecting Jackson through that strange bond they shared.

“Look at you!” the father said. “A West Point cadet, just like your father and your grandfather. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, father.”

“Are you hungry, my boy? Marylou has cooked filet mignon for dinner.”

“Sure.”

Dinner with the Charles family proved quite uncomfortable for Jackson, and not only because of how difficult it was for him to watch others eat without being able to have a single bite. The atmosphere around the dinner table, while not exactly cold, wasn’t particularly easygoing. Byron’s father carried the conversation throughout. His wife mostly nodded along, occasionally adding a few comments of her own, validating her husband’s opinions. As to Byron, he only spoke when asked a direction question, and even then his answers were short and usually evasive. His father either didn’t notice, enthralled as he was in his own stories, or didn’t mind.

After dessert, Byron excused himself. As he began walking up the stairs, an old woman wearing a maid uniform approached him. Jackson recognized her as the person who had catered to the Charles’ during dinner. Byron’s father had called her Marylou.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“What is it, Marylou?” Byron said.

“Your mother had me clean up your room while you were away.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But there was not enough room for all of your books on your shelves, so your mother had me store the rest up in the attic. If there are some you can’t find, they’re probably there.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you for telling me.”

Byron went back to the upper floor, took on his right, and opened the door at the end of the hallway. Behind it was a large room, clearly the master bedroom. Much like the rest of the house, it was decorated in a tasteful, fancy, and somewhat antiquated style. A large bed occupied the center, flanked by two nightstands. Byron approached the one of the left, and opened its drawer to retrieve something in. A small key, yellow in color.

Going back to the hallway, Byron went to his left again, and this time, opened the first door on his left, revealing another flight of stairs. He climbed them, and arrived in a large attic room. Unlike virtually every attic Jackson had been in, this one didn’t stink of dust or mold. And his toned-down sense of smell wasn’t the reason: this room, like the rest of the house, was scrupulously clean. Byron crossed the room, striding over various pieces of furniture and cardboard boxes, until he reached a chest placed at the bottom of a wall. He opened it, revealing it to be filled with books, and perused it until he found one in particular. It was a rather old, voluminous tome; its cover was so faded Jackson couldn’t read the title or the author’s name. Before he could ask about it, Byron pushed the chest aside with a grunt.

He placed his hand on the wall, and palpated it for a moment. Jackson found what he was looking for one second before he did: a keyhole. It was very small and thin, and barely visible in the poor lightning. Jackson tried knocking on the wall, having temporarily forgotten that he was immaterial. Byron pulled out the key he had retrieved in his parents’ bedroom earlier, put it in, and turned it counterclockwise twice. A gap appeared on the wall. Byron inserted the tip of his fingers in it, and pulled the wooden partition aside.

The hidden room on the other side was plunged in darkness. It was also noticeably dusty, and a sour stench hovered in the air, which even Jackson’s dulled sense of smell picked up. The young man’s pulse sped up. He wasn’t sure why; something in this room made him nervous; some strange, creepy atmosphere he couldn’t explain.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

“My father’s real face,” Byron answered.

“Do I even want to know what that means?”

Byron’s expression darkened as he reached for the wall and found a lightswitch. A small lightbulb went on on the opposite wall, revealing it to be almost completely covered in pictures. Jackson’s stomach dropped when he looked at them. They were pictures of girls. Some were posing, some had evidently been photographed without their knowledge. Some wore light clothing, some were in their underwear, others had no clothing on at all.

And not one of them looked to be older than twelve.

Jackson bore to look for ten seconds before he had to step out. A horrible sensation slowly invaded every part of his body, as if his blood had turned acidic. He put a hand on his chest, hoping this simple gesture would calm his heart, and stop his stomach from turning. It didn’t.

“What the hell,” he mumbled.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Byron said.

He pulled up a cardboard box, and sat on it, his back turned to the hidden room -and its wall of horrors.

“Your… Your father…”

“Yes,” Byron said. “This is the day I found out. Well, it didn’t exactly happen that way. Originally, I went much later in the evening, after I was sure everyone had gone to bed. But I’ve decided to, once again, hurry things along.”

He spoke with a detached tone, but his voice came out as artificial.

“A few weeks before I left for West Point, I noticed something curious about our attic. It seemed shorter than the rest of the house, as if a part of it was missing. I decided to investigate a little. It didn’t take me long to realize that one of the walls sounded strangely hollow, as if there was something on the other side. After a while, I noticed the keyhole. That reminded me of how my father sometimes went to the attic, and stayed there for hours at a time. This got me even more curious. I decided to hide there and wait.

“And so I decided to stay hidden there for several hours, two or three days a week, until I finally caught him going back to his… special place. Unfortunately, he shut the door behind him before I could get a good look. I saw him go to the master bedroom afterwards, so I thought he hid the key somewhere there. I only found it later, during my first spring break.”

“Wait, he just left the key in his nightstand,” Jackson pointed out. “That drawer wasn’t even locked! What if your mother found it?”

Byron chuckled, and Jackson had never heard a chuckle more devoid of humor before. A terrible thought occurred to him.

“She knows about it, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, it’s less a matter of knowing, than caring.”

“Caring?!” Jackson nearly yelled.

Once again, the scene skipped forward. This time, the decor distorted to the point where it seemed to be torn apart. Through the tears, Jackson caught sight of the walls of dirt and the poor lightning. The vision was more clear this time around. Jackson could clearly distinguish a silhouette. It seemed to loom over Jackson; was he sitting? He tried to focus on his body -his real body-, and make a move. But before he could focus enough to so much as lift a finger, the tear healed and a new scene began.

Byron was sitting very still on his chair; his back was rigid and cold. In front of him, across a large desk covered in folders and files, the sheriff was staring at him, his behavior expressing a mixture of amenity and condescension. He was a robust man, with broad shoulders and large hands.

“Those are some very serious accusations, kid,” he said.

“I realize that.”

“I don’t think you do, actually.” The sheriff taped his fingers on his desk. “You’re talking about your father. A decorated veteran, just like his father. A man who has been a member of our community for decades, part of a family that’s been here for two centuries. A good Christian man, whom I’ve gone to church with every Sunday for as long as I can remember; heck, he taught Sunday school to my kids. One of the most charitable people I’ve met. Do you know how much this town owes him? Do you know how much he gives to charity every year?”

“Apparently enough that you’re willing to look the other way,” Byron muttered.

“Excuse me?” A hint of red colored the man’s cheeks. It was at this moment that Jackson realized he couldn’t really see any of his traits. He could distinguish the color and the cut of his hair, but couldn’t describe, for instance, the shape of his nose, or the color of his eyes. It was as if his entire face had been censored. Either this was an old memory, he decided, or Byron didn’t care to remember much about that man.

“Look, I know who my father is. And I know it’s hard to believe. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t seen those pictures.”

“Are you sure that’s what you saw? Maybe your imagination played tricks on you. It happens, sometimes.”

“I’m pretty fucking sure I didn’t imagine dozens of pictures of naked kids,” Byron said through his teeth, his voice rising, his eyes burning with anger.

“Watch your language, son,” the sheriff said, clenching his fists. “Now, if you…”

“My language?!” Byron exploded. “I’m telling my father’s a goddamn pedophile and it’s my language you’ve got a problem with?”

Both men jumped out of their chairs almost at the same time.

“That’s enough, Madison! I’m going to do you a favor and pretend this never happened. But I suggest you-

“How about you do yourself a favor and do your damn job?”

The sheriff turned purple. Byron stormed out of the office, indifferent to the man’s screaming. He left the building entirely, slamming the door on his way out.

“I’ll let you guess what happened next,” he said to Jackson.

“I’m guessing the sheriff sat on his hands about the whole thing.”

Byron gave a sharp nod. “That happened over ten years ago, now. And I’m still mad every time I think about it.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Jackson said. “What happened next?”

“Since the local police wouldn’t do anything, I went above their heads. Hold on.”

Byron closed his eyes and focused. Jackson quickly understood he was again trying to take control of the memory. He seemed to be getting the hang of it. Once more, the hallucination’s veil was pierced, revealing the truth behind it. Jackson could now see the room more clearly. It was cold and damp, and devoid of any furniture except for a ladder going up into a wooden ceiling. Some kind of basement, maybe, or a cellar? He saw the silhouette again. It was almost certainly the Cambion he had rescued.

Once more, he tried to regain control of his body. But merely perceiving it proved difficult. It was like he was struggling to wake up from a dream -which, in many ways, he was-, or to recover from a hangover. What few muscles he could still control were nearly paralyzed. Even the tip of his fingers weighed a ton. Still, he managed to move them a fraction of an inch. Then, he succeeded in moving his wrists. Come on, come on…

The veil brutally closed, and Byron dropped on his knees, holding his temples and groaning in pain. Evidently, the Cambion was fighting back.

“I cannot believe you would do this to your own family!”

Jackson looked around him. They were now in a big hallway, with rich, wooden decorations, and marble tiles on the floor. Quite a few people came and went. Most of the men wore suits and ties; quite a few of them also carried briefcases. Others wore uniforms with badges, and carried sidearms in a visible holster. Jackson deduced that this was a courthouse, although it was much bigger and quite a bit classier than the one he had gone to back when he was sentenced for the joyriding incident.

Byron, too, was wearing a three-piece suit, along with a blue tie. It must have been a rental, as it was obviously not tailored to his broad shoulders. In front of him was his mother, wearing a long, black dress that would have fitted both at a social event and at a funeral.

“I did what was right,” Byron retorted, the corner of his lips curling downward in contempt.

“How could you do this to us?” her mother said. Tears rolled on her cheeks and her mouth was quivering. “We’re your family! How can you be so cruel?”

He shook his head, trying to ignore her.

“He’s your father, Madison! He is the man who raised you, who kept you fed, who gave you an education. He is the man who made you who you are.”

Byron stepped closer to her, stomping his foot as he did.

“Never say that again,” he said, stuttering in cold anger. “That… That man… has nothing to do with me. Nothing! Do you hear me?”

“He’s your father,” she repeated. “He never did anything to you to deserve this hatred! He never abused you!”

Byron threw his head back and laughed. It was a full-on laughter, this time, although there was still no joy in it. He almost sounded like a madman.

“I guess that’s the one good thing I can honestly say about him,” he said. “He never abused me. A pretty low fucking standard. But then, I suppose that’s fitting for this family.”

“We’re your family!” his mother said, starting to sound like a broken record.

Around them, everything seems to darken. The lights went out, the decor slowly faded out, the passersby turned faceless. Soon, there was nothing but Byron and his mother.

“What made you so heartless?” his mother lamented. The contrast between how formal and uptight she was before and how dramatic she was acting now was jarring, to Jackson. He didn’t have time to analyze it further: he understood Byron was pushing back against the Cambion. He had to be ready.

“We have always loved you. We have always done right by you. Why are you doing this to us?”

The darkness deepened. Jackson discerned the strange room again, as through a tunnel. Focus, he thought. Belt. Satchel. Gotta find it.

“We did nothing to deserve this. Can’t you see you’re destroying your family?”

“I have no family,” Byron uttered.

The other room dimmed as the darkness subsided.

“We are your family, Madison!” the mother insisted. “And you betrayed us. How could you?”

“Betrayed?!” Byron screamed out. “You betrayed me! That asshole betrayed me by hurting all these children. You betrayed me when you took his side and told me to keep my mouth shut!”

The courthouse slowly reappeared. Jackson could no longer feel any sensation in his hand. He could still see the lantern, but barely.

“He’s your father!”

“He’s a fucking pedophile!”

The lantern’s light was almost completely doused.

“Byron!” Jackson called out. “The Cambion’s tricking you! The angrier you get, the less you can focus on getting us out of here.”

Byron cursed under his breath. A strange expression appeared on his mother’s face, as if something inhuman animated her traits. She raised her voice and continued accusing Byron, but he closed his eyes again, and concentrated. The darkness came back, falling around them like a wave crashing. Jackson blinked. There were now two scenes before him: the basement, and the courthouse. Both were superimposed like a terrible photomontage.

The satchel! Jackson’s hand had gotten hold of its lid, he was sure of it. The Cambion was standing in front of him, towering over him; they were so close Jackson could only really see their legs. He kept his head lowered and faked being unconscious still. With great care, he pulled on the lid until the button popped open. Slowly, slowly… He heard the voice of Byron’s mother, getting fainter and stranger. It now sounded twisted and shrill like a Banshee, and repeated the same sentences like an unhinged nursery rhyme.

“Your family… Your family… Your family…”

Jackson could sense Byron’s anger building up, burning him inside. Still, the veteran kept his eyes and his mouth shut, and endured the increasingly insane accusations of the thing that pretended to be his mother.

“You killed us, Madison. You killed your family. You betrayed us for yourself.”

As “her” voice grew less Human, Jackson faintly heard another voice accompanying it.

“Let go, soldier boy. You’re close to giving up, I know it. Just let go, and you can go back to the nice farm…”

The young man’s fingers were quivering feverishly as he slid them inside the satchel. His heart leaped in his chest hard enough to break a rib when he felt his pistol’s grip. He very carefully placed his thumb and his major finger around it, and just as carefully began pulling it out; at the same time, his index finger went looking for the safety. Slowly… Can they see me moving? Are they even looking in my direction? His hand was hidden beneath his cape, and the lightning offered by the lantern was poor. He had a chance.

Just as the gun’s muzzle poked out of the belt’s leather satchel, a third voice rose. Kara’s. 

“You abandoned us all, Byron.”

Byron clenched his jaw and bit his tongue.

“Do you really think of yourself as a hero? You’re not brave, you’re not righteous. If you were, you would still be with me. With us. What were you going to call him, again?”

Jackson shivered in fear as the dream became more solid. Byron, no.

“Miller,” Byron said.

“Miller, yes. You promised to protect us no matter what. And yet, at the first opportunity, you left us behind and never looked back. You are not a hero. You have never saved anyone. And you never will.”

No, no, no. Jackson lost feeling in his fingers again. He’s getting suckered back. I have to act fast.

He tightened his grip on his weapon, and raised it slightly. The Cambion was close enough that he probably didn’t need to aim. The main problem was, with his consciousness fluctuating between the real world and the other, Jackson couldn’t be sure what angle his armed hand was. Fuck, I’ll have to spray and pray to be sure.

That was when he made a mistake. His wrist was in such a position that, to move further, he had to shift his elbow. In doing so, he bumped against the wall behind him. This caused his cape to drop, unveiling his weapon. The Cambion was visibly startled for a fraction of a second, just enough to break his concentration -and the spell. Reality came back, so abruptly it overwhelmed Jackson’s senses. A migraine partially blinded him, and his ears were ringing.

Now! Jackson pressed the trigger, again, again, and again. The gunshots echoed in the small room, fusing into one loud blare that deafened Jackson. When his sight finally came back, he noticed his gun was empty, and he had been dry-pulling the trigger for a while. The ringing in his ear had turned into full-blown tinnitus.

The Cambion laid on the ground, inert. Three pools of black blood grew under their body. An expression of shock and pain was forever engraved on their face, marred by a gash on the side of their mouth.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jackson breathed out.

The pistol dropped with a cluttering sound before he realized he had let go of it.

Jackson stood up on wobbly legs, massaging his left ear and hoping this would help the tinnitus subside. He approached the body to kick it, to make sure there wasn’t any life left in it, and tripped on his own feet. His hands landed in the dark liquid, splashing some on his torso and his neck. It was all he could do not to vomit right then and there. He scrambled away from the corpse, stumbling upon his weapon as he did. As he picked it up and hid it back in his belt’s pocket, he noticed Byron was back. His friend had one kneel on the ground, and was clutching his head, frowning in pain.

“You okay?” Jackson thought-said.

“Let’s… never do that again,” he grumbled.

“Agreed. Let’s get out of here; someone’s bound to have heard all that ruckus.”

“Yes. It’s a safe bet that Cambion had accomplices. My guess is they were supposed to detain you here until they arrived.”

Taking one of his two spare clips from his belt, Jackson reloaded his pistol. Weapon in hand, and hand hidden under his cape, he climbed up the ladder. The trap door above was, perhaps unsurprisingly, locked. Jackson went back to the body and, with a shudder, went through his pockets. He quickly found a key which, miraculously, was not stained by blood. Jackson made sure to wipe his hands on the deceased Cambion’s pants before trying the trap door again.

Above was the inside of a small, one-room house, thankfully uninhabited. A thin layer of dust covered the furniture, and there were cobwebs in nearly every corner. Through the windows, Jackson could see it was daytime, and there were other houses around. Hopefully, that meant he was still in Atvello.

“Should we do something about the body?” Jackson asked as he peered down at the basement.

“If you want to carry a bleeding corpse through the streets in broad daylight, be my guest,” Byron said.

“Heh… Good point.” 

He slammed the trap door shut, put his pistol back in its hiding place, and left the house. The rays of the sun brought tears to his eyes, even as he shielded them with his hand. The tinnitus in his right ear was thankfully beginning to subside, but he still had difficulty hearing, and was worried it might stay for a while. 

This was indeed the city of Atvello: Jackson recognized the rampart in the distance. He was in a residential neighborhood, one he was unfamiliar with, right next to the docks. The position of the sun indicated it was the early evening; Jackson’s stomach concurred. He followed the rampart north until he found the Crow Gate. Having gotten his bearings, he then headed to the Silky Star borough, and to the Hazy Narrian.

Before he pushed the door, he turned to Byron and said:

“Oh, err, something I wanted to ask back there.”

“Yes?”

“That book you recovered in your parents’ house… I could tell it was important to you. What was it?”

Byron sighed softly, his face softening and darkening at the same time. “That book followed me through almost all my life. A friend of my father offered it to me for my twelfth birthday. I had it when I graduated from West Point. I had it when I got into Delta Force. And when I was sent to Yakutia, it was the only book I brought. I must have read it from cover to cover several dozen times.”

“What was it?” Jackson repeated.

The veteran closed his eyes and focused. The image of that book appeared in both their minds. Jackson could read the cover, this time.

The Complete Works of Lord Byron.

“Ah,” Jackson said. “I get it, now.”

“I never liked my birth name,” Byron said. “And after… everything that happened, it became worse. I disliked my first name, because my mother gave it to me. And I hated my last name, because my father gave it to me. And so, when the agency recruited me and let me choose my future codename, I finally stopped being Madison Charles, and became Byron.”

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