Cadet Murphy

By popular demand...


Cal sat in the jeep, his heart pounding, his legs shaking, and his wrists handcuffed to the passenger side door. He had no idea where he was - even without a blindfold, the unfathomable blackness kept him from memorizing the way.

Bos had been silent for the entirety of the ride, and so Cal had had a lot of time to think. And to consider the events of the evening.

The scene at dinner had scared him. Partly because a carrier had been beaten and a man had been shot at their table, but also partly because when Cal had watched the man bleed out over the Persian rug, the blood that had come from him had been real. The bullet wound had been real. The carrier, shaking, being secreted away by the doctor had been real. The damage control rush in which he had been dragged out of the house and into a car with the Russian had been real. Everything had been terrifyingly, stupefyingly, heartbreakingly, head-achingly real. This was really happening.

That had changed Cal's mind, or at least his perspective.
He wasn't stupid; no one had ever accused him of that. If anything, the opposite. Cal had always been too smart, too clever, too full of right answers for everyone.
In school, it had always been Cal Sit Down.
Let Someone Else Have A Try, Cal.
You Just Know All The Answers, Don't You, Cal.
You're Ruining It For Everyone, Cal.
At the farm, it had always been Cal Just Dig The Hole.
Cows Don't Care About Chemistry, Cal.
Pay Attention To Your Work, Cal.
Pop's Gonna Be Mad, Cal.
Books Don't Make Bread, Cal.

Smart. Cal was smart. Cal could be smart.

~

Two days after the dinner party, Bos had left the cabin and arrived later with a new doctor in tow. When introduced to the man, Cal had behaved smartly. He hadn't questioned overtly, hadn't complained, hadn't thrown a fit at the sight of more needles, hadn't resisted the examination. He had just quietly followed directions and waited. This was a smart thing to do; the shooting had only been two days ago, and emotions were still high amongst the group. In their own house (a safehouse of some sort, Cal had figured out, hidden in the woods) there was a thick, mounting tension between he and Bos. This was because Cal's change was progressing well; he had a cavity now, and the end would soon be in sight. Cal wanted it and didn't.

The end of the change meant the end of staying locked in one room in the main house or shut up in the cabin all day, every day. It meant the end of constant injections, endless examinations, ruined sheets and clothing, and occasional episodes of gut-wrenching pain.
It meant the end of what could arguably be called the worst part. Or the best, Cal supposed, depending on what you had waiting for you after.

Cal knew what he had waiting. He'd tried to pretend like he didn't, but he knew.
He wasn't stupid, after all. Cal was smart.
Bos wasn't stupid either - he hadn't let a moment pass to reinforce who he was, what he wanted, what his position was and would be in Cal's life.

The safehouse had only one window, and Cal had to ask permission to go near it.
The bath required water that only Bos was allowed to go outside to shut on.
Cal was expected to sleep in Bos' shirt only, and to be open to touch.
There was a washing annex at the back, with old-fashioned washing boards and tubs set into the floor. Cal was expected to do the washing.
Bos made breakfast and dinner. Cal was expected to make lunch.
Cal was also expected to eat three times a day and drink at least 5 glasses of water. Bos supervised this closely.
The second, tiny bedroom was being used as temporary storage - the clothes Bos had retrieved from the house were there, as well as a few books and a stack of video chips. The room was locked, and Cal had to ask for admission.
Today, Bos had raised the price from please, thank you to please, thank you, and a kiss.

The end of the change would be the beginning of a real, honest, technicolor, grown-up, consummated marriage. With Bos. Cal's stomach dipped a little bit, and that urge which was a mix of wanting to run and wanting to vomit hit him again.
But Cal was strong, Cal was smart, and Cal could handle it.

~

Seven days after the shooting, the doctor had come again.
He had spoken briefly to Cal, then set about his work, under Bos' watchful eye. Then he had snapped off his gloves, zipped them into a plastic bag, and sent Bos out of the room.
Then the doctor had calmly looked Calvin right in the eyes and asked him, meaningfully,
"Are you prepared to be reasonable about this, or do you need more time?"
Cal stared at him.
The doctor was looking out for him, in his curious way, but it was a ruse that wouldn't last for long. Cal was under no delusions. No one knew he was here. They probably assumed he was dead. No cavalry was coming. Even if they found Miljan's house, they still wouldn't know where the safehouse was. Bos had won this round. The only way out was through.

So Cal, rather smartly, had looked up into the doctor's eyes and answered:
"I can be reasonable."
The doctor had nodded gravely and taken a deep breath, as if preparing to make an offer in a negotiation.
"Bos is a good man."
Cal didn't answer this.
"Bos is also a kind man."
Cal waited.
"But Bos is an efficient man, and he cares about results more than he cares about methods. Remember this."
Cal nodded. That was useful information, but it did little to assuage his worry that the man he'd been sharing a bed with was secretly a cold-blooded killer like Miljan had turned out to be.
The new doctor continued.
"Bos wants a wife. Not a concubine, not a butler, and not an aesthetic attaché. A wife. He is a man who celebrates the old ways of life. Do you understand?"
Cal nodded slowly. Of course he understood. He was smart.

~