(The Push Chronicles (Book 2): Indefatigable (8 page)

"Oh truly!" he gushed.  "Lord Epic wouldst be most proud of my performance thus far, methinks."

What Medusa had mentioned before my nap earlier came back to me.  Maybe I could get something useful out of the time I had to spend with Archer, as I had no doubts he would feel the need to play bodyguard.  Really, how bad could it be?  I owed him the benefit of the doubt, after all.  He had saved my life back there in the bar and had, surprisingly, listened to me and spared Blanchard.

He couldn't be all bad, could he? 

Chapter 9 Charming

To be completely fair to the Archer, everything started off smoothly.  The two of us got Medusa moved to the Foundation's infirmary.  The snake woman seemed to be peacefully resting; a quick look at her wounds showed me that nothing had actually penetrated to the real woman inside.  I had never really considered it fully but I supposed then that was the real trick of Pushed healing: it was never more than a flesh wound if it didn't get to the person inside.

"Methinks she will recover quite readily," Archer nodded.  "Now, wouldst Milady wish to rest here in yon bed or retire to another locale?"  I glared at him a moment before I spoke.

"I thought we had talked about the 'milady' nonsense," I said.  "Why do you even call me that anyway?  You don't do that with anyone else but ... oh."

"'T would seem obvious to mine eyes that you have already made the proper connection," he said, starting to undo clasps on his helmet.   "I am impressed by Lord Epic's firm conviction that you two will once again be together.  'T is a romantic thought, is it not?"

"He's crazy if he ever thinks we'll be getting back together," I said firmly.  There was a hiss of air as Archer took off his helmet, letting me finally get a good look at the man on the other side of the visor.  As with many of the Pushed, the outer shell was a handsome, idealized man with more than a dash of Errol Flynn with a perfect coif of copper hair.  Under the shell was a middle-aged man who, while certainly not ugly, looked hard-ridden and tired.  There were elements of the two faces shared, but they were night and day.

"I would rather conjecture Milord would be crazy not to continue to try," he offered, tucking his helmet under the crux of his arm.  "It could be said most truly that all women are unique, but such a thing would be more true in description of you."

"Really?" I rolled my eyes despite my initial idea of being cordial.  I was in too much pain to be polite.  As that thought rolled through my mind, I wandered over to the dispensary as I spoke, fingering through the pill bottles.  "I think it's probably a case of people wanting what they know they can't have.  I've seen a thousand more beautiful-looking women than myself.  Just glance though
Pushed Illustrated.
"

"Not to look askance upon thy beauty, but you are, of course, correct," Archer replied.  "I wager there are more vital aspects in judging anyone's worth than physical beauty.  I have seen enough today to find qualities in you worth far more than mere looks and can appreciate Milord's interest."  Where did Duane keep the narcotics?  I was almost through the shelves and nothing.

"Well, you can tell Milord to shove it up his ass, to be blunt."  I was wondering if Duane anticipated a situation like this and just locked up those drugs somewhere.  It sounded like something he would do. 

"I am most curious as to why you would think that, Milady," the Crusader mused.  "In fact, to be honest, I do not quite understand the divide between our two camps.  Do we not have the same goals?"

"The devil is in the details.  Epic would level a village to save a city."  Thwarted and sour-feeling, I relented to my body's jabs of pain and crawled on top of the second infirmary bed.

"Methinks you exaggerate a tad," Archer offered with uncertainty.  "Sometimes, yes, the greater good requires sacrifice but -"

"If we hadn't done something in Washington, he would have been happy to level the city fighting Reaper.  If that doesn't tell you something, what will?"  Archer stroked his thin, swashbuckler mustache thoughtfully.

"I certainly don't know for I was not there," he argued.  "Even if what you say was true, that is an extreme situation.  Months have passed and there has been nothing like that since."  I let out a derisive snort.

"How can someone smart enough to make that suit be so stupid?  History repeats itself."  I glanced at the archer.  "You can't tell me that your group's tactics haven't been a bit, oh, excessive?  I'm sure you've killed a Pushcrook or two with that thing."

"I, well, yes," he glanced at the folded bow on his gauntlet.  "It was necessary.  Innocents would have died if I had not acted."

"I find it hard to imagine a situation where someone absolutely must die.  What problem had to be solved by death when a subdued bad guy won't do?"

"A curious thought," Archer nodded slowly.  "Instincts in the heat of battle don't always let us ponder that.  Sometimes, we just act."

"Instincts don't absolve a person of responsibility."

"Instincts aren't always wrong."  My incessant questioning made Archer bristle.  "As analysis of my moral fiber seems to be your aim, let us turn the glaring light around then, shall we?"

"Sure, fire away," I said, leaning my head back to stare at the ceiling.  "Do your worst."  Really, what could a Crusader who had already admitted to killing a few people really bring to bear on the morality front?

"Verily then, I will."  He seemed full of certainty as he stood next to the bed.  "Why dost thou hate the Pushed then?"  The question stung as I opened my eyes to glance at him.

"Where would you even get that from?"  Rationally, I certainly denied the statement but there was something about it that made me uneasy.  "It seems all I've been doing since the Whiteout is fighting for Pushed rights.  It's been Pushed, Pushed, Pushed."

"Dost thou not hear the resentment in thy voice?" he pondered.  "What I find most curious is that you have this ill-will in your heart towards something that you are a part of."  I forced myself up on my elbows.

"I am not Pushed," I declared.  "I'm a normal human caught up in this mess."  I could tell he was holding back laughter for etiquette’s sake and I couldn't blame him.  The blatant denial of what was fact was obvious even to me, the denier.

"I can see by the look in thine eyes that I need not recount a dozen events just this one day that counter your statement.  Pushed, you may not be, but you are not normal."  He made a surprisingly derisive laugh.  "Would a normal woman hold any appeal for Lord Epic?  What of your leader?  I cannot mistake the looks he gives you to be nothing other than adoration.  Even I myself, despite the dishonor it would bring, cannot deny that you stir something in my knightly soul."  In one fell swoop, Archer had cut out the legs of my superior morality and, for no good reason, built them back up again.

"Hold it right there, cowboy," I argued as I now sat up straight, pain be damned.  "Whatever the hell I am, it doesn't matter when people like you look down on the normal people.  Not three months ago you were just like every other person on this planet, dealing with the same problems.  Hell, your life was easier.  It's not like you had to worry about a Push Battle destroying your house or blowing up your car or just straight out killing you in the crossfire."

"We do not look down upon the mortals like that!"

"Of course you do.  Your every word betrays it."  I could tell Archer was uncomfortable, questioning, just as I had been.  "I'm sure 'Lord' Epic has talked about the need to 'wrest control' from the 'corrupt' government plenty of times.  How 'mortals' need to be coddled and protected.  How only the Pushed can save the world."  I shrugged.  "That sounds like he's looking down on them to me, which means, by extension ..."  I pointed at Archer's chest.

His face went through several contortions in rapid succession.  I recognized them because I saw them often in my own mirror.  First there was denial, then anger, then realization, then defeat.  The bowman let out a long sigh.

"'T would seem we share one thing, if naught else."

"What's that?"

"Our fair share of flaws."  For some reason, that made me smile.

"We wouldn't be human if we were perfect," I mused.   "Maybe we should both remember that."

"Verily," he agreed.  "Such a fact intertwines both man and Pushed alike, for we are all quite flawed.  Even Lord Epic."

"Especially Epic."  I settled back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"'T would be wrong of me to speak ill of Milord and we shall leave it at that."

"Fair enough, I suppose," I said.  Seeing as things had seemed to have settled in our current episode of Morality Wars, I moved on to something else.

"What is it like being a Crusader?" I asked, trying to pointedly ignore the lingering pain.  I had a secret wish we were having this talk in the break room so I could raid the snack machines.

"I suppose not much different than the life you heroes in Atlanta live," Archer replied as he fussed over scuffs in his helmet.  "Regular patrols for malcontents, speaking with the press and media, recruitment of like-minded Pushed to our cause, and of course the parties."

"Parties?"  It wasn't the idea that our opposite number couldn't kick back once in a while, no matter how much I denied that luxury to myself, it was the plurality of his statement.

"Oh, aye!"  He smiled wistfully.  "It would be a horrid time if we did not take the time to relieve such tension.  Lord Epic encourages this with regular formal balls.  At least once a week, sometimes more."   I couldn't help but think about our own Fourth of July party.  It seemed an eternity ago.

"That seems pretty risky.  What if something goes wrong during the bash and no one is out there to notice?"

"One keen advantage of a large, organized force is the ability to delegate roles and rotate active knights," Archer explained, still worrying over one nasty dent.  "There are always more of us to keep a sharp vigil when others rest.  Seeing as to the arrangements here, well, they are rather undisciplined."

"Yeah, funny how we like our freedom here."

"Freedom is a blessed thing that bears little weight when you are dead, Milady."

I was about to sit back up again, but I just took a deep breath and counted back from ten.

"Egad," Archer proclaimed, "it seems I must apologize.  I can tell that I have offended you once again."  He smiled brightly.  "It is an affront to my noble heart to see a frown on a woman's face."  It was almost like he wanted to lead face-first into my fist or something.  Did he really believe his act?

Of course he did.  The Argent Archer was Pushed.  Who knew what crazy beliefs danced in his head or what the Whiteout did to his perception of reality?  I had been very hesitant to press upon any of my Pushed friends for the answers to those questions, so much so that I didn't bother trying to find out their real names anymore.  After the mess with Ex, I had become even more so.  Maybe, though, as cruel as it might be, this was a chance to find out.

"Well, we'd all hate to have that, wouldn't we?" I deflected.  "You know, maybe I'm just uncomfortable around the Pushed because I don't know as much as I would like."  I wasn't a great liar, but I knew enough about it to infuse enough truth into it to seem plausible.  "Would you mind if I asked a few questions?"

"You may," he agreed with a flourish of a bow.   "Your wish is my command."

"Do you know your name?" Why beat about the bush?  "Your name before the Whiteout, that person."  The sudden silence told me more than if I had been staring at his face.

"Of course I do," he finally said, his tone subdued.  The faux-British accent was mostly gone as well.  "See, that's what you don't get, I think.  We all know who we were and now we're better than that."

"Here comes the superiority thing again -"

"No, Indomitable."  The accent was retuning as Archer interrupted me.  "It's not superiority or arrogance or what have you when it be the truth.  What man makes more of a difference to his fellow man: the genius inventor who uses his marvels to protect mankind or the pizza delivery man?"

"You were a -" I interrupted my own thoughts.  "How did you know how to build that suit?"

"The Whiteout," Archer intoned with a strange reverence.  "It changed everything.  It opened my mind and infused it with genius and knowledge.  Not only did I suddenly know engineering, robotics, materials technology, and so much more, it struck me with a flash, a true eureka!"  He snapped his gauntleted fingers, creating a spark.  "I spent the next week feverishly creating this suit.  Or at least the first iteration of this.  It was just like this vision in my mind."

"What about your friends?  Your family?"  I knew that several of the Five had family, but they visited them less and less as these months had rolled on.

"Friends, I had but few," Archer admitted.  "My parents could not be more proud, but 't is a danger to visit them anymore than necessary.  They profess to understand the need, so I do not let it worry at my mind."

"So, let me get this straight," I asked, "it doesn't bug you that you have mostly left your old life behind?  Who you are and what you are doing now are more important than the man you were?"

"Undoubtedly."  His words were firm with unshakeable conviction.  "The man I was before was not even half the man I am now.  I mean this not in some sense of machismo.  It is the vital qualities of which I speak.  He was a man who was dull-witted and never applied himself.   That man was content with great dreams and worked not to make him the equal of those dreams.  This man strives to live up to those dreams."

I nodded slowly, still staring up.  I didn't think, at this point, the Whiteout was talking through the bowman.  The man had been so elementally affected by what he had now become that the consequences of taking it away were, well, I didn't really want to contemplate it.  That final argument with Ex came back to mind hard.  Was the Whiteout really so bad, when it gave good people like this a better life?  Did I have the right to even try to turn everything back or did even the thought make me just like Eric?