Scott Cairl stood in the center of the practice cubicle, one arm crossed against his chest, a fist raised to hide his frown. He had seen this kind of damage before. He’d seen a lot of things before – and much more clearly then he did now – but these earmarks were so familiar, he needed no fine details.

On the white walls abutting the corner of the room, a web of black cracks ricocheted outward from an oblong shadow approximately three feet up from the floor. Here was the distinctive bowed oval; there, the hunched shoulders that held it afloat; lower down, the protrusions of elbows and knees bent and tucked. Even with his fading vision, Cairl recognized the silhouette. A human being had huddled in this corner.  

A passed-out human being.

“Would you like a closer look, sir?”

Cairl shook his head. He would have declined even if the shadow on the wall had been impossible to identify. The Red at his side was an embarrassment to the Consult of Cell Two, and always would be.

“No, Tem. But thank you. It’s quite clear what we have here.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Instantaneous particle degradation.”

At some point during the night, the temperature in this space had risen so suddenly and so high, the formic and sulfuric acids in the metal-laminate surface had evaporated in a microsecond, causing the polyimide resins to lose contact with the stainless steel and copper alloy. In short, the plastic had had no time to melt. If he touched the crackling, it would flake off in a shower of dust.

Scott knew this without moving a finger. He’d done it before; the first time on the morning after his twenty-first birthday.

“Someone got drunk and lost control last night,” Cairl explained, leaving the “someone” unnamed. “But at least he had enough sense to get under cover. The Development Wing was a smart choice.”

Unlike most other areas of Cell Two, the exterior walls of these cubicles had been built with lead and copper cladding. Psys of every strength and ability practiced here to perfect their art. Many of them were Brown and enjoyed dangerous powers. Two were Black. Lead and copper were an impenetrable combination that protected passersby in the hall from bursting into flame or crumpling to the floor with shattered spinal columns.

We have enough trouble with deserters as it is, Scott admitted ruefully.

A man and woman in paper jumpsuits and booties shuffled uncertainly near the door. Scott Cairl turned their way. “Clean up shouldn’t be too bad. Vacuum the surface before you try to remove the paneling.” He stepped toward them and the couple parted to let him pass. “Oh, and I’d wear masks. Those particulates can feel like needles in your lungs if you inhale them.” The woman nodded. The man smirked. Was he thinking their Consult wasn’t man enough to handle a little dust? Scott probed his thoughts.

…letting his bro off the hook again…

“I think Martin can tackle this mess on his own, Shari. You’re dismissed. Go back to enjoying your weekend.” It was petty, but Scott didn’t give a shit.

In the hallway, he slowed to let Tem catch up. “Find Jay and have him report to my office immediately.” The Red nodded, and veered down a side corridor. “Then you can get lost for an hour,” he called after him.  

Scott remembered too late the stack of field debriefings cluttering his desk. Without Tem’s eyes, he would have to wait to review them. The thought of a delay made him scowl. Then he inhaled his relief. At least he could postpone the embarrassment of having the information read aloud to him like a freakin’ bedtime story.

Cairl let his spine sag and his shoulders droop – a rare luxury from his usual head-up strut. It was a Sunday and a Searcher had returned home last night. The after-party had resulted in a lot of empty halls this morning. Scott could look as miserable as he felt.

John, John, John. What more can I do for you?

He palmed his face, hoping to wipe away his frustration. At least this time, he reasoned, the repairs will be minimal. No cracked urinals or burnt towels. On his brother’s last leap off the wagon, liquid soap had boiled out of the glass dispensers in the public restroom, leaving a stench that lasted for days and caused numerous upper-respiratory complaints.

John was just a symptom, though. Scott knew that. The real problem was the ganger nights. He couldn’t let these gatherings continue. Despite The Guild’s lofty ideals, its members – at least those at Cell Two – were becoming as debased as the Others on the Outside. When Nigel Fellows founded his secret society of psys in 1916, he had hoped that living underground would protect them from the evil habits destroying his fellow man. But by taking those habits away, he’d only made them a greater temptation.

Cairl turned a corner and straightened. A couple of teenagers in red uniforms with blue collars were approaching from the Girls Wing. He nodded as they passed.

Hell, even our colors are becoming a muddy mess, he griped.

Over the twenty-plus years since he’d assumed his Consultship, Scott had watched Guilder after Guilder petition to have their status “upgraded”. Reds were no longer satisfied with being clerks and file drawers, their photographic memories tested with nothing more important than depositions and field reports. They were now demanding recognition for their other skills. Anyone with even a touch of telekinesis could claim a brown collar. A smidgen of firestarter? Give him a band of black. Some folks had tested successfully – albeit minimally – in so many different categories, their clothes looked like they’d been cut from a South African flag. And now they’re asking for gradations! If a Blue was stronger than most, shouldn’t he wear a brighter shade? If a Brown could almost juggle two skills at once, shouldn’t she be a deeper foresty brown?

Next thing you know, Scott groused, we’ll have Teals, Siennas and Maroons!

He had John to blame for that, as well.  

Okay, not fair. The real culprits for that debacle were Treece and Marshall St. Lucas. But without John’s intervention, Scott might not have set that particular Mixmaster into motion.

The man in black slowed to a stroll as he recalled with a smile the day he’d given the couple permission to marry. “Permission, my Blue behind!” Treece had snapped. “We’re not asking for your rubber stamp of approval.” Then she had glared at his brother who had tipped Scott off in the first place. “John!” she had shouted. “Didn’t you explain? We’re just inviting him to the party. That’s all. Be there, or read about it in the funny papers.”

If Cairl had skipped the event, he doubt he would have been missed. The couple had exchanged vows in the Grotto before the entire membership of Cell Two – and to defiant cheers. It had been the first marriage between disparate colors since Phon Seng Mun had established the ban shortly after Scott’s birth. Now, of course, there were at least a dozen every year.

As Scott neared his office he realized that all but one hall between the Development and Community wings had been completely devoid of life.

Must have been a truly memorable night if John wasn’t the only one who went to ground.

Why then had he heard nothing from Morals? Did they think their Consult no longer cared? Hopefully it wasn’t because the folks working night security were among the partygoers.

Cairl pressed his thumb against the electric eye imbedded in the wall next to the office door. A sensor read his print and released the lock. The door slid into its pocket with a hiss of escaping air that sounded too much like a jeer for his taste. Crossing the anteroom, he touched a second eye outside his private suite, and then sent a thought to both doors to remain open behind him. Falling into his swivel chair, he stared out over his messy desk to the deserted hall beyond. Just let John claim later that he’d come by but found Scott gone!

Why exactly didn’t I hear anything about this shindig until the janitorial crew found John’s hotspot this morning? Had Scott turned a blind eye once too often?

He had to admit that in the beginning he had dismissed the complaints of rowdiness and “behavior unbecoming” as a necessary side effect of working with dedicated Searchers. For the really good ones, working among the Others – being Other – was stimulating in the extreme. Months of Big Macs, YouTube, Wii and Nirvana raised their tolerance for excitement. Then when called back, his people had to descend into a world that now seemed as lifeless as the dark side of the moon. They needed time to decompress. To Scott’s mind, the all-night binges that occurred in storage caves and utility halls after hours had just seemed part of the process and had appeared to help. At least for a time.

But now, Scott knew, there was talk – and most of it was about his lack of leadership in stopping what had become monthly bacchanalias. According to scuttlebutt, Consult Scott Spencer Cairl didn’t give a damn about his Searchers’ state of mind. He was pretending not to notice for one reason and one reason only.

“My half-brother is their poster boy.”

Are they right?

What a ridiculous question.

Scott scowled and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Were his eyes playing tricks again? No. Not this time. He was seeing quite clearly for once.

The devil was standing in the hall. Grinning.

“Screaming cupcakes, little brother,” Jay quipped with a wink. “Can’t a man sleep in on a Sunday anymore?”

Scott fought the urge for less than a second then he grinned in return.

Yes. Okay. They are right. I am trying to protect him. Too fucking bad. It’s my ball. My game. My rules.

He lifted a hand to wave John in. “My ball. My rules, baby brother. And from the looks of things, you’re overdo for some much-needed time in the penalty box.”