* * *
The Supernatural Help and Investigation Team attended Paddington’s funeral in full dress uniform. Truman had ordered their presence as a mark of respect, not that it had mattered. Skylar and McGregor would have been there regardless; Mitchell might not have been, but judging by his serious manner today… Truman wasn’t sure. Perhaps the northerner would have attended.
The funerals for the others – for the wolves – had already taken place. Quiet affairs attended only by family. Paddington was having the Archi equivalent of a full state funeral. Despite barely wearing it in life, Paddington was to be buried in his chief constable’s uniform, from hat to gloves and mirror-polished shoes. Everything except the sword, which hadn’t been returned with his body.
The Andrastes were not in attendance. No trace of them had been seen since they’d shot Paddington. At sunrise several explosive charges set around the foundations of the castle had exploded. They’d felt the ground shake and heard the boom in Estika’s derelict suburb, but by the time they reached the castle, most of it had fallen into the sea far below. All that was left was a stone bridge to nowhere.
Hell of a way to cover their tracks.
The funeral was held inside the Garden of Terpo, in the place where the stone obelisk Tree had once stood and Lisa’s little mango tree now did. A small stage had been erected to seat the mayor and Archi’s most senior police officer: the newly-appointed Chief Constable Clarkson. Truman had never seen him so serious, as if he carried the weight of Archi on his shoulders. It didn’t even look like an act.
Mayor Quentin Appleby delivered the eulogy, speaking of Paddington with the warmth of a friend to be sorely missed. The crowd didn’t share the sentiment. Clearly they considered the Mainlanders responsible for Paddington’s death and while they might not have liked Paddington, he was theirs. Theirs to like or dislike. The whispers Truman could hear during the ceremony didn’t speak of Paddington with particular dislike, though. They seemed to consider him effective, but were also glad he was gone. Like a useful but dangerous tool that they’d been worried about leaving unattended.
Truman did his best to ignore them. He wasn’t here for what other people thought of Paddington. He was here for the man he’d known. A man who’d done the impossible, who’d fought and beaten the odds more than once. But he’d beaten them one time too few.
When the ceremony concluded, the lid of Paddington’s coffin was closed and the coffin lowered into the ground. The crowds disappeared out of the snow and back into the warmth of everyday life. Truman stood beside the grave as workmen began to shovel in dirt.
He’d never thought about how it would all end, but this certainly wasn’t it.
“Sir?” Mitchell said, close at hand.
Truman said a final goodbye and turned.
“Command’s on the radio, sir. They want to know where we are.”
Command? Why were they trying to contact him? He sometimes went months without reporting in. They never cared. He’d only met his three superiors in person once, when they’d given him the job. Otherwise, if he sent in his monthly reports they left him alone.
Now they were on the line. Wanting to talk to him. In front of his men.
Did Mitchell know Truman was faking his accent? Was this his revenge for taking the Team away from him? No, that didn’t make sense. Mitchell had been a solid and dependable member of the Team for three years. Besides, why like this? Mitchell wasn’t subtle. You knew where you stood with Mitchell: if he had a problem with you, he was more likely to hand you a pistol and say, “Ten paces, turn, fire.”
“Tell them we’re tying up a loose end from our last mission,” Truman said in his typical Southern drawl.
Mitchell held the radio out. “They want to talk to you personally, sir.”
“You’re our communications officer.” Truman’s neck was getting hot. “You tell them.”
“Sir?”
He couldn’t keep up this childish display without raising questions. Maybe if he kept his answers short they wouldn’t notice.
“Sir,” he said into the radio.
“Ah, Captain Truman,” said Scottish Man. Truman didn’t know his name. The other two had plaques littered with titles; his didn’t even have a name. “Where are you?”
“Archi. Sir.”
“Ah. I see.”
End the call now. If this was it, everything would be fine. If the old man told him to come back and report directly to him, he could hide the fact that for the last three years he’d used an English accent with his superiors and an American one with his Team. If the Scottish Man ended the conversation now.
“And what, precisely, are you doing there?”
“A funeral,” Truman said, choosing words that might sound the same in both accents. None did, but he tried to avoid some of the more obvious differences. “A casualty of ou… the mission.” Shit. He’d nearly said “our”. “Our”, which sounded like “arr” not “ow-er”. That would have been a dead giveaway.
McGregor was frowning. The scientist had spotted him mediating his accent. Skylar looked bored; talking to command was commonplace. Mitchell was staring at Paddington’s grave.
“So you’re on Archi,” the Scottish Man said, “despite specific orders never to return there?”
“Yes sir.”
“I am speaking with Captain Truman?”
“Yes sir.”
“Because Captain Truman speaks in complete sentences and backs his actions with reason. He also obeys orders and sounds rather more educated than you, lad. You will give a full report of your actions when you return…”
Oh thank the Three-God. Or the real God. Or whatever; Truman wasn’t even sure what he believed theologically anymore. Thank whatever being was out there.
“…but for now, you can give me the cliff notes.”
Shit.
This was it. He couldn’t sidestep any longer. Truman dropped the drawl and spoke in the voice of his thoughts: a clear non-dialectical English accent. “The vampires on Archi left. We retrieved Detective Chief Constable Paddington to help fight them and he was killed in the line of duty. We are on Archi to deliver his remains for burial.”
It was too late. Far too late. Aeons, really. He could see it in McGregor’s open mouth, in Skylar’s hunched shoulders, in the disbelieving peer in Mitchell’s eyes.
It was over. The Team was over. Even if this incident didn’t cost him his military career – a miracle in itself – Truman couldn’t lead them now. McGregor wouldn’t respect him. Skylar wouldn’t trust him. Mitchell wouldn’t believe him.
He’d been lying to them all these years and now he was a stranger to them. That his voice was the only lie didn’t matter. The lie had gone on too long. Grown too big. It overshadowed everything else.
“Report to London at once,” the Scottish Man said. “Out.”
Truman would, of course. He’d follow orders like a good little soldier. It was in his nature, now, he’d done it so long.
But what was the point?