Little Brother

Two more body armors moved up to me, one a woman, and began to unstrap me. They flipped their visors up and smiled at me. They had red crosses on their shoulders and helmets.

Beneath the red crosses was another insignia: CHP. California Highway Patrol. They were State Troopers.

I started to ask what they were doing there, and that's when I saw Barbara Stratford. She'd evidently been held back in the corridor, but now she came in pushing and shoving. "There you are," she said, kneeling beside me and grabbing me in the longest, hardest hug of my life.

That's when I knew it Guantanamo by the Bay was in the hands of its enemies. I was saved.

Chapter 21

This chapter is dedicated to Pages Books in Toronto, Canada.

Long a fixture on the bleedingly trendy Queen Street West strip, Pages is located over the road from CityTV and just a few doors down from the old Bakka store where I worked. We at Bakka loved having Pages down the street from us: what we were to science fiction, they were to everything else: handpicked material representing the stuff you'd never find elsewhere, the stuff you didn't know you were looking for until you saw it there.

Pages also has one of the best newsstands I've ever seen, row on row of incredible magazines and zines from all over the world.

Pages Books http://pagesbooks.ca/ 256 Queen St W, Toronto, ON M5V 1Z8 Canada +1 416 598 1447

They left me and Barbara alone in the room then, and I used the working shower head to rinse off I was suddenly embarrassed to be covered in piss and barf. When I finished, Barbara was in tears.

"Your parents "

she began.

I felt like I might throw up again. God, my poor folks. What they must have gone through.

"Are they here?"

"No," she said. "It's complicated," she said.

"What?"

"You're still under arrest, Marcus. Everyone here is. They can't just sweep in and throw open the doors. Everyone here is going to have to be processed through the criminal justice system. It could take, well, it could take months."

"I'm going to have to stay here for

months?"

She grabbed my hands. "No, I think we're going to be able to get you arraigned and released on bail pretty fast. But pretty fast is a relative term. I wouldn't expect anything to happen today. And

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it's not going to be like those people had it. It will be humane.

There will be real food. No interrogations. Visits from your family.

"Just because the DHS is out, it doesn't mean that you get to just walk out of here. What's happened here is that we're getting rid of the bizarroworld version of the justice system they'd instituted and replacing it with the old system. The system with judges, open trials and lawyers.

"So we can try to get you transferred to a juvie facility on the mainland, but Marcus, those places can be really rough. Really, really rough. This might be the best place for you until we get you bailed out."

Bailed out. Of course. I was a criminal I hadn't been charged yet, but there were bound to be plenty of charges they could think of. It was practically illegal just to think impure thoughts about the government.

She gave my hands another squeeze. "It sucks, but this is how it has to be. The point is, it's over. The Governor has thrown the DHS out of the State, dismantled every checkpoint. The Attorney General has issued warrants for any lawenforcement officers involved in 'stress interrogations' and secret imprisonments.

They'll go to jail, Marcus, and it's because of what you did."

I was numb. I heard the words, but they hardly made sense.

Somehow, it was over, but it wasn't over.

"Look," she said. "We probably have an hour or two before this all settles down, before they come back and put you away again.

What do you want to do? Walk on the beach? Get a meal? These people had an incredible staff room we raided it on the way in.

Gourmet all the way."

At last a question I could answer. "I want to find Ange. I want to find Darryl."

#

I tried to use a computer I found to look up their cellnumbers, but it wanted a password, so we were reduced to walking the corridors, calling out their names. Behind the celldoors, prisoners screamed back at us, or cried, or begged us to let them go. They didn't understand what had just happened, couldn't see their former guards being herded onto the docks in plastic handcuffs, taken away by California state SWAT teams.

"Ange!" I called over the din, "Ange Carvelli! Darryl Glover!

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It's Marcus!"

We'd walked the whole length of the cellblock and they hadn't answered. I felt like crying. They'd been shipped overseas they were in Syria or worse. I'd never see them again.