The Champion lay huddled under an enormous red blanket on a softly padded mattress. He curled over on his side and sniffed at the clean linen of the pillowcase. A coarser fabric than the blanket. The pillowcase had been made since the holocaust; the blanket came from the Time Before. He enjoyed the sensation of the material against his naked skin.
He had been washed, scrubbed clean, in a basically efficient bathroom in the small clinic. Hot running water on tap. The surface dirt of the city had been gently scoured from his skin.
While there, the doctor had seen the intracath. He couldn't hide it, and they'd removed it immediately. Under the folds of the cover, he touched the careful bandaging. Smooth, no lump of plastic now.
He was still half asleep from the anesthetic, drowsy and warm. Peaceful. It was quiet here. Kind and safe. He felt lulled into a tenderness of spirit. It soothed his bruised and bewildered soul.
He remembered how the doctor's assistants had moved in when they'd been about to administer the knockout shot, unsure of his reaction to needles and drugs. He'd giggled dully; if only they knew.
And he didn't remember anything after that, until he woke up here. Firm, soothing people, dressed in white, had told him to sleep and stay calm. He'd asked about his partner and they said he was already asleep, just like he should be.
He'd always been good at obeying orders, so he turned over and went back to sleep.
Now he was awake, only just, and he was thinking about all that he had seen.
The low cabin-style buildings . . . the healthy people . . . walking everywhere and anywhere . . . no walls . . . no boundaries . . . no fear of the mutants . . . just ordinary people . . . . The doctors and the medical staff really cared . . . wanted to heal . . . . No monster-makers here, like Selkirk . . . . Glad he's dead . . . . Glad they're all dead . . . . Can't use me now . . . . Can't buy me with my old habit . . . . Can't take my freedom away . . . . Can't believe this . . . . All the years . . . found real people . . . free people . . . happy people . . . . Want to stay . . . . Hope we can stay . . . . Starsky . . . my Starsky, I wonder if he's all right . . . . Wonder if he's safe and warm like me . . . . Wonder if I can see him . . . . Should ask . . . but, 'm just so tired . . . .
He shifted further under the bedcovers, plaits spread across the pillow behind him.
On a chair and chest of drawers in the corner of the dimly-lit room were his armor and weapons. He was unarmed, and for the first time in years, he wasn't concerned.
And on the small table close to his eye level was his gold shield. He didn't know who had placed it there, but he was glad he could see it. Sleepy eyes squinted around the curve of the turned-back cover, and checked over the gold shape again.
Mustn't lose that . . . not now . . . . Gonna always keep that shield . . . . Had it all my life . . . all my life with Starsky . . . . No Protectors here . . . . No killer like me . . . . No man of death . . . . Just ordinary cops . . . . Saw one near the barn-like place . . . . Stared at me . . . . He must know what I am . . . . What we both were . . . .
His face clouded with these new thoughts as he realized he was stamped with the symbols of his New Society profession. How would they accept him? How would they accept Starsky? Would they want them once they were well?
He stretched upwards, face appearing above the blanket, eyes wide with dawning horror. His hand snaked out and he gripped the shield. He tried to focus on it.
They'll all know what we were; they'll have seen the shields . . . the weapons . . . the armor . . . they'll know . . . paid killers . . . . One-time Los Angeles policemen turned butcher and exterminator . . . .
His face crumpled as the calm sensation of the anesthetic left him in a draining rush, and he felt the accusation and loathing pour into the void. His resistance had been reduced to naught in the past twenty-four hours. He turned his face into the pillow and cried his heart out.
He cried for all the lost years; he cried for the cruel ways the Owners had used him, tortured him, fed his habit. He cried for the bloodstains on his hands, for the agony his partner had suffered when he hadn't been there. He cried for the betrayal of his badge and all that it stood for. All that he had believed in. And he cried for the stigma of shame that riddled his conscience. He would never be able to lift his head before these people. They would know what he was, what he'd done . . . what he'd sunk to.
He cried till he ached and knew deep inside that he would grieve all the rest of his life.
A door in the right-hand corner of the room opened. A rude door, planed smooth by hand. Nearly everything in the open commune seemed to be handmade, home produced. The intruder brushed against the roughly plastered walls and approached the bed from the left.
"My son, may I speak with you?" An elderly man in somber grays pulled up a stool and clasped his hands between his knees, bending forward attentively.
An uncommunicative silence came from the bed. The blond head stayed buried in the sodden pillow.
The man sighed inside and reached out to touch the rigid shoulder. "Kenneth, we -- I -- heard your distress. Do you want to talk about it?"
The Champion shook his head, and his gold clasps tumbled against his bare back, heavy and cold. "No, go away." He felt he sounded ungrateful, but all he wanted was to be left to wallow in his thoughts of a bleak future. "Please, just go away."
It had been obvious from the noise, and now from the thickness of the voice, that the man was emotionally distraught. Blaydon Ellis stood up and forced the upturned shoulder toward him.
The Champion put up no resistance, but looked at the edge of the blanket and not at the strange visitor.
"Kenneth, don't shut us out. You've come so far; don't stop now." Ellis reseated himself a little stiffly. "I think I know what's been going through your mind."
The Champion cringed away. You'll never know . . . not unless you'd lived my life . . . . You can't even begin to imagine . . . and I shall be spurned for it . . . . There isn't any forgiveness for my actions . . . .
Blaydon settled his back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. He spoke candidly. "At first the new commune is like a dream, a fairy tale. You're in shock, possibly physical, most definitely emotional, and you get swept along with the gentleness, all the kind faces and easing of your immediate pain. But as the euphoria of the first twenty-four hours begins to wear thin, you find yourself comparing this new life to that of the city."
The Champion felt the words of disquieting truth break through his barrier of shame. He listened to the even, persuasive voice and finally managed to look up. Ellis was wearing a coat of gray, buttoned high to the neck. His shoulder-length white hair was swept straight back from a pronounced forehead. Skin mottled with age, his aquiline nose marred with tiny red veins. He smiled with dark brown eyes at the unhappy man in the bed. In reference to his speech, Ellis said, "Is that not so?"
The Champion nodded slowly, eyes darting away from the man's piercing expression.
Ellis nodded. "And then you start comparing yourself to the people who live here . . . and all you find is deep and utter shame."
Deep blue eyes filled up with tears. "Yes," came as a whisper from the broad lips of the Protector. "I hate myself . . . . I can't ever face people here; they'll know what I was . . . what I did." His bottom lip quivered and he tried to hide among the folds of the turn-back on the blanket.
"The New Society that grew up in old L.A. had its own code of conduct -- its own social conventions. We, here, don't question your actions in the city. No one here will ever ask you to justify what you've done, because all who work in this base have known for many a year what the life is like down there. Kenneth, not many people are lucky enough, or find courage enough, to escape the vicious web of the city. And any man who fought to leave that stinking cesspit, by fair means or foul, did it for a reason -- for a need. Surely, that need in you was for a new life, for a chance at any change that was better. Well, you made it. Now, take another risk on living your hard-won freedom."
Ellis leaned forward to ensure that the man in the bed heard his words. "Those few who came here before you have all made similar speeches to your own. They, too, were fearful of the free people, how they would accept them -- if they would accept them." He placed a hand on the curved shape under the red fabric that he knew to be the Champion's arm. "Today, they're just the same as all the other New State people: they live, work, marry, raise children and enjoy life . . . . They don't look back."
He squeezed the forearm. "Kenneth, the city became another Sodom and Gomorrah, and like Lot's wife, you must never look back. Look to the future, or you, too, will become a man of stone: rigid, unfeeling, numb, and anchored to the horrors of the past."
He felt the shudder of physical misery under his hand.
From under the folds came a muffled voice. "I can't forget . . . . I can't . . . ." Every time I look at Starsky, I'll remember; when I see the scar at my elbow, I'll remember; my brand mark on my arm, and I'll remember . . . . "I'll never forget."
Blaydon Ellis hoped that it wouldn't be a hard battle with a stubborn will. "Then learn to live with it, and that means placing it in some kind of perspective that you can cope with. But don't let memories ruin the rest of your life; don't let the Owners reach out and torment you here. You're free now -- a free man. You can do what you want, go where you like, and you have a free will. Exercise it. Use it to control your transition from Territory Protector back to -- " Ellis sat back and glanced at the remains of the combat suit and the armor. He couldn't see the police badge anywhere. The word "policeman" had been on his lips, but now he wasn't so sure.
His uncertainty was solved for him. The Champion emerged from his hiding place and held the gold badge aloft. He turned it so that it caught the light. " . . . To policeman," he finished the sentence.
He stared mournfully at the shield. It had been his savior and his betrayer. He had been saved by the Owners because of the gold shield; thousands more died without the protection that piece of metal afforded. And he'd been destroyed by it, too, used because of it, enslaved to the Territory, just because he was a policeman during the Time Before.
"Yes, a policeman. We're short-handed out here; you and your friend would be a great asset to us." Ellis rose and stepped to the end of the bed. "Or, choose a new life, anything you like; if you want something badly enough, you can get it. But choose a real life, Kenneth, not another sentence like you lived in the city. You've served your time and your punishment is over. Look up and make a full life for yourself."
A new life . . . a new life . . . a free life of my choosing . . . freedom.
Hair a tangle on the pillow, the Champion found himself nodding at the man at the end of his bed. Face moist and shining, he struggled up on one elbow. "A new life. I could start again, no, we could start again -- Starsky and me, we could go where they don't know about the city, where they never heard of us -- "
Ellis smiled at the change in the man. The Champion was still going to run, but at least he was running to a new future, a better life with the other Protector. "You can leave if you wish, but the people here don't condemn you, no matter what you think, and the people in the east don't even know of the city and the New Society. You'd be accepted anywhere."
We'd be all right, Starsky and I, we'd make it . . . . He's right; I wanted to be out of the Territory, so I left. I wanted my old partner back, and I got him . . . . We got away . . . we won . . . and I'm damned if I'm going to lose all of that now. I'll get us a new life even if I have to kill -- Oh, no, no more killing. I'll get us a new life, but I'll fight every inch for it. Yes, I'll fight for it and it'll be better than the Time Before, because I'll use it more wisely. I won't waste the precious moments of time. It'll all count . . . 'cause I've got a lot of lost years to make up . . . .
Ellis watched the churning thoughts and arguments cross the gaunt features of the patient, and he could tell that Kenneth Hutchinson was already fighting, maybe just his conscience, but he was regaining the spirit and conviction to take on the world again. Given time and a much-needed rest, he'd be as formidable in the ordinary world as he had been in the New Society.
The Champion's grip on the shield lessened. He wouldn't let the symbol of his warped profession in the city become the cross he had to bear in the outside world. Turning onto his right shoulder, he deposited the shield onto the top of the wooden table. He'd keep it where he could see it, remind him of the words Starsky had said at the wrecked automobile outside Case's home.
Starsky! My God, where is he? Is he okay?
Hauling himself into a tenuous sitting position, he wiped his eyes and face and began to look about agitatedly. The calming, dull effects of the anesthetic had lessened slightly, and he became more aware of other pressing matters beside himself.
"Can you tell me, Mr . . . er . . . Mr . . . ?" It suddenly dawned on him that he didn't know to whom he had been talking. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."
The white-haired man moved toward the door, one hand pulling on a gray button on his jacket. "My name is Blaydon Ellis. I'm the spiritual advisor around here." He smiled and shrugged in an amused way. "Not exactly a priest or a minister, but someone you can talk to if you need to."
The Champion leaned forward a little, one hand supporting himself on the small table. "Blaydon Ellis . . . thank you."
Ellis took a long look at the thin blond. His flesh was pale and bruised, even cut in places. Above the smudges of purple-gray on his cheeks were deep blue eyes with a spark of courage. At his left elbow was a neat bandage.
The spiritual advisor warmed to the most feared Protector the city had ever seen. He deserved to be free because he would use his freedom well. "It's nice to have you with us, Kenneth," Ellis replied, and he meant it sincerely.
He turned to go, but was halted by another question from the man in the bed.
"Starsky, the man who was brought in with me, where is he? Is he all right?" An anxiety returned to the patient's eyes.
"I was told by Evelyn that you should rest as much as possible and not get out of bed to go wandering around to find your friend." Ellis saw the shoulders of the blond droop slightly. "On the other hand, as your spiritual advisor, I think that your peace of mind is my department, and I deem it necessary that you can see your friend. He's two doors down on the right, room four." He opened the door and peered out, then glanced back. "But for my peace of mind, if Evelyn asks, it wasn't me that told you. Okay?" And he left.
The blond found himself repeating "okay" to an empty space. Then he snuggled back under the covers and curled up in his favorite sleeping position.
Give Starsky some time to sleep off the anesthetics as well, and then I'll get up and see him . . . . Sure hope he's all right . . . . The medicine's so different from the style Selkirk practiced . . . . I hope they didn't frighten him . . . . Maybe I should have told them about Selkirk; then they'd understand if he became frightened . . . . He might panic and fight . . . . Should have stayed with him . . . but they took him away to set his arm . . . . The nurse said he was fine . . . . Probably tired . . . . I'm tired, too . . . . No speed now to keep me going . . . just so tired . . . .
Soft, muffled snores came from the bed.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
He'd made his first positive decision toward a new life when he vowed never to wear his combat suit again. Although he had no other clothes, he wasn't going to wear anything the Owners had given him as a uniform. All that was behind him now. Instead, he pulled the red blanket from the bed and wrapped it around himself.
At the door, he eased it open a crack and took a quick look out. The corridor was deserted. Bare feet padding over rough carpeting, he tiptoed down the corridor. It was dark, possibly late evening, and quiet. The low ceiling of the building gave the place an enclosed feeling he found difficult to bear after so long in the vast open spaces of the city. He felt claustrophobic and longed to get outside for some air. But first he had something special to do.
As he crept along, he noted his immediate surroundings. The walls appeared to be simple wooden panels tacked into wooden frames. The doors roughly fashioned to fill the remaining gaps.
This clinic can't have been here long . . . . This all looks new and hastily put up. Wonder what they did before they built it? Wonder where the materials came from . . . ? Just how vast is the commune? Jesus, a government, and a President . . . . I still can't believe it . . . . I wonder what's beyond the commune . . . . How much is left of the east . . . . What of Duluth?
His blankets snagged against some splinters on the doorjamb of room four. He pulled the only covering he had free and picked out the slivers of wood, staring at them as though he'd never seen wood before. Then he let them fall from his fingers as he mentally shook himself. Time for exploring, seeing, hearing, touching -- reliving -- would come later.
Palm flat on the blue-stained door, he pushed it gently open and nervously crept into the room.
No nurse.
A pent-up breath escaped his lips and he pushed back his mane of plaits.
So far, so good. I don't want to cause trouble the moment we get here . . . . Don't want to seem ungrateful, but I've just got to see him.
A pale gray square of moonlight was thrown half onto the foot of a bed and half onto the coarsely carpeted floor. It came from a window opposite and revealed a view of trees and mountains and the pale gleam of lights from other buildings in the distance.
Normal houses . . . a commune with no wall . . . I'd almost forgotten.
He edged further into the room and let his eyes become fully accustomed to its layout.
A roller blind of cane hung from the window. Under the window was a chest. Diagonally opposite the door was an armchair, and before that was the bed. On the bed was a mound of covers forming the dark outline of a man laid on his back, head propped on the pillows.
Glancing back, he listened a second, then moved quietly around the bed.
Can't hear anything. Hope I'm not missed.
As he moved along the side, he managed to pick out the shape of his partner's face and he saw the one eye open, staring back. It was a little fuzzy, but it was watching him.
Oh, God, Starsk, you look terrible. I thought you'd be so much better . . . . You were all right after the sewer, you didn't look half as ba -- But that was Selkirk and his ways . . . . Maybe this is normal.
The Champion put his left hand out and picked up the thin fingers of the Other's right hand, enfolding them gently in his own. It felt hot. "Hi, Starsk, feeling better?" It wasn't just small talk; he really wanted to know.
The curly head on the pillow nodded fractionally and after a false start, he managed to say, "Yes, they set my arm."
The Champion looked at the white plaster cast that encased the Other's left arm from shoulder to fingertips. It rested at his side on the top of a pale green spread that looked as though it had been washed countless times.
"And the dog bite?" He could see that the arm was freshly bandaged, but the purple bruising was still noticeably severe.
The Other closed his eye. "They gave me some shots, said I'd be okay in a few days. But they asked me about the implant . . . " His voice wavered. "And I had to tell them, and then they asked me about the silver strips and the scars on my chest, and I told them. I'm sorry, Hutch. I didn't mean to tell them. I couldn't think properly. I said all the wrong things . . . . They know you shot me . . . . They know about Selkirk . . . how he programmed me . . . how . . . ." Tears spilled down his cheeks and soaked into the pillow. The silver became strained against the skin, causing the flesh to turn pink. His fingers encircled those of the Champion as he began to shake, and he squeezed feebly. "I -- I'm frightened, Hutch. They won't do anything to you, will -- will they? I -- I told them it wasn't your fault; you did -- didn't know, but -- but -- "
The Champion perched on the edge of the bed and stroked the tears away off the metalled face.
"Shh, shh, nothing is going to happen, except you're going to get well and stop thinking troubled thoughts." He tried to smile encouragingly, but felt the emotional distress of the moment eroding his self-control. "A man called Blaydon Ellis has been to see me; we had a long talk. Well, he talked and I listened, but what he said made me think, Starsky. It seems the people here don't blame us or condemn us for our actions in the city. They understand what happened to us. They know all about the Plaza and the Territory." He swallowed down his huskiness and brushed back the tangled curls off the worried forehead. "We're gonna be okay here. We're gonna be just fine."
The grip on his hand tightened and the Other pulled himself half up off the bed. "You -- you promise? Because we could get away. I -- I could make it. I -- "
The note of pleading in the weak voice threatened to crumble the Champion. He didn't want this most precious of beings to beg him.
"Starsky, my Starsky, I promise you everything is fine here. We're accepted as free men, not as Protectors. Really, we are free." His strong hands held the thin shoulders of his partner as he tried to still the tremors. "No more fears, Starsk, no more fears."
The Other's right arm came up stiffly and clung to the neck of the Champion as he buried his face in the soft fabric of the blanket covering the pale chest. "If you say so, Hutch."
Hutch says so, Starsk, Hutch says so . . . . No more fears, just a dawn on our new future . . . .
The Champion shifted his position, turning around and bringing his left arm around the smaller man's back, allowing him to slide against his chest. He supported him in the crook of his arm and leaned back against the headboard.
The shivering distress lessened and finally calmed as the Other matched his racing heartbeat to that of the steady rhythm of the Champion. The wracking breaths slowed and stopped until his breathing was a natural soft sigh.
Against the padding of the pillows, the Champion's arms encircling his partner; he remembered all the times he'd needed his strength and support in the past. And then he thought of the times in the New Society when this fragile being must have needed him then and he wasn't there. No arms to hold him, no eyes to smile, no look of love.
And he held him closer still.
Ah, Starsky, if I could give you back the years, I would. If I could turn back time, I'd pay any price to go back . . . to save you all the suffering . . . all the nightmares . . . .
"Starsky." He spoke only a little louder than a crooning tone. "Tomorrow the sun will rise and today will be another page in our lives." He lowered his lips to the head pressed against his chest. "History, gone and never to be repeated. It can't harm us; we won't be punished for it. Instead, we'll be given a new day to use, to live in. I've already decided I'm going to start living a real life again. And I won't let the city shadow any part of it. Ellis was right when he said if I look back I'll never progress away from that life they trained us to." He tried to see if the Other was hearing his words, but the hair was too thick. "So I won't, and you won't either, understand? Because I haven't come this far to leave you behind now."
He felt the Other's head nod sharply once and caught the glisten of a tear as it fell in the moonlight and disappeared into the sheets.
"That's right . . . we just took the first step."
How long they sat like that, entwined in a huddle of blankets and warm encircling arms, the Champion didn't know. He didn't care. Time had stopped and in the darkness of the room, he found he couldn't see the silvered metal and the missing eye, and he touched upon a forgotten moment from the Time Before. Starsky was again the perfect image from the LSD trip. Unmarked. And he, himself, he saw as he had once been, without the trappings of the Territory. Without the brand mark. Without the signs of his profession.
Two spirits reborn. Out of the ashes a phoenix will arise.
He closed his eyes and saw them in his mind's eye, in the Los Angeles of the Time Before. Street clothes on their backs, they moved through the city. Vibrant and alive.
One tall, fair and strong. Imbued with an athlete's grace.
The other slight but well-muscled. Sharp and sparkling with a flair for living.
Together.
Without their communes' decorations for death.
Clean.
The Champion rested his head back and committed the years of the New Society to distant memory. Forgotten.
Resting sleepily in his arms, the Other felt the aches and anguish in his body drain away. Head against the Champion's chest, he listened to the regular heartbeat and matched his own to it. Content and at peace, deep and complete.
And a soft voice in the darkness whispered,
"I love you, David Michael Starsky."
A heartbeat passed between them and the Other murmured,
"I love you, too, Hutch. I never stopped . . . ."
As the dawn stroked the sky, the door opened and a nurse entered. She approached the two sleeping figures and gently touched the blond's arm, causing him to stir.
Reluctantly, the Champion slid from the Other as he tenderly laid his burden down on the pillows. Half asleep on his feet, he pulled the red blanket up around his shoulders and settled into an even slumber in the armchair.
The nurse gave the man in the bed another shot, stood indecisively a moment, looking from one patient to another, and then tiptoed out as if she'd seen absolutely nothing at all. She knew healing came in many different forms.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
A young woman shielded her eyes from the brightness of the sun and squinted up a hill. Her attention had been caught by a sudden movement. She scanned the rise and finally spotted two figures under a tall pine.
The two men from the city. She knew who they were. All the people in the Sequoia State Commune knew about them and where they'd come from. She debated whether or not to ride her horse up the hill and talk with them, then she remembered a report that needed completing and spurred the animal on toward the commune buildings. Work had to come first if they were ever going to rebuild their country. Already two more new states had applied for acceptance to the New Union. She wondered what another year would bring. Change was so rapid now.
Up on the crest of the hill, the two objects of her attention were circling the tall pine. The smaller man, wearing his left arm in a sling, settled down on the scrubby grass and placed his back against the rough bark on the trunk. He shook his curls back from his face and quietly watched the other man.
The Champion stretched himself, his face turned up to the sun. Over the past six weeks he'd spent a lot of time in the sun, and his pale flesh had taken on the light tan shade that the Other remembered. It made his blond hair seem even more golden.
Hands on his hips, the Champion paced along the ridge a short way, searching the countryside with interest. He loved the smell of the living earth, the sight of natural wildlife, the touch of grass and leaves. He felt at peace with this new land.
After a while, he crossed his legs and sat down beside a flattened rock that poked up out of the dark soil. From out of the breast pocket of his shirt he produced a pair of scissors, a comb, and a small mirror. He set them down neatly on the thin grass and pulled his knees under his chin to think.
Although his back was to the Other, the man resting under the tree could see the nervousness in his partner by the tension in his back. The checked shirt was tight, pulling up into folds under the armpits.
The Other eased his left arm across his chest and waited contentedly. He enjoyed watching the Champion. Six weeks had changed him. A couple more and he would have his habit under control completely. His frame was filling out naturally; he was no longer muscle built on steroids and other drugs. The face seemed less gaunt and the hollow-eyed look of living dread had faded away. The deep line between his eyes sometimes cast a shadow if he was puzzled or worried, but the Other seemed to remember him as always having had that feature.
He smiled more readily, making his eyes reveal his inner pleasure, and actually laughed when he came in from a run through the hills. The first time he'd run in years without being weighed down by his suit and weapons. Sheer happiness.
The Other found himself smiling and wafted a buzzing insect away. He still felt a muscle twinge occasionally in his right arm, but the wound was almost completely healed. He was scarred, but he still had his arm.
The sudden movement of the man under the pine had broken the spell of stillness, and the Champion glanced back. He studied the face of the Other and saw that he, too, looked a different person from the man he'd seen taken from him in the forest. He'd lost a lot of weight during his illness, still a little thin. But the good food served them here would soon change that. Recently he'd been fit enough to walk with the Champion, and already the pallor of his skin was improving. Even the flesh around the silver strips and plates looked healthier. His one good eye sparkled with life, and he nodded slowly at the blond in some form of agreement.
The Champion turned around and looked down at the objects on the grass. Slowly, he picked up the mirror and propped it against the large rock, holding it upright with another stone.
It was only a tiny mirror, a piece rescued from a much bigger one, but he could still see himself clearly enough. He studied his own features a moment, noting the changes in himself. Then he reached up and pulled from his forehead the gold headband. He dropped it to the ground and ran his hands over his long blond plaits. He weighed the heavy gold clasps in his palms and felt a chill spoil his sun-kissed skin as he remembered how and why these ceremonial decorations had been presented. Shrugging away the shadow of his past, he let the clasps drop. They chimed against each other. He knew their song, their rhythm; they had been as much a part of his body as his heartbeat was. But this was the last time they would sing.
Deftly, he unhooked a clasp and set it on the rock, then he unplaited the long braid. The blond hair hung down his back, much longer now that it was loose. It caught the light, fresh breeze and drifted away from him, each strand a thread of gold. He worked methodically from one temple to the other until the gold clasps were arranged side-by-side. He had dexterously severed them from his hair, from his being.
When he had finished, he had a wide circle of tiny gold drops. Separated, they made no sound. Dispersed, they were lifeless, nothing more than pieces of precious metal.
Leaning toward the mirror, he examined himself. Long, long, fine blond hair. Never cut in all the years. It grew so fast, unlike his facial hair. No lines of age, either.
Now I'm out of the city, away from the constant contamination, I wonder if I'll age . . . . Will I ever change . . . ? . . . Maybe I have already . . . .
His hand fell upon the cold metal of the scissors and he picked them up. His hand shook and he felt foolish. He knew the Other was watching him. He'd already had his hair trimmed back, not short, just more manageable. Now it was his turn and he felt nervous.
The Other spoke from under the tree. "Go on, Hutch . . . sever the last connection." Words of sympathy and understanding.
He nodded and pulled straight the first lock of hair. The scissors scythed open and cut through the golden locks. The snipping became repetitive as the blades cut into the pale mane, leaving the grass covered in fine strands of hair.
The Other watched the hair fall from his partner's hands as he worked quickly. As the scissors cut, the dark-haired man saw a transformation take place before him. Strand by strand, the Champion of the Territory disappeared from view. He was discarded like the mane of hair on the grass, and a new man emerged. He lifted his head proudly to look at his new appearance, turning this way and that, testing his reflection. The tension left his shoulders and he seemed suddenly at ease.
The Other almost started forward, but managed to hold himself in check for fear a sudden movement would break the magic of the moment.
Hutch . . . . Dear God . . . Hutch . . . time can turn back . . . . I have you back . . . . Same proud profile . . . same hair that curls if it's short enough or damp . . . same strong, solid body and graceful movements . . . . I saw it come back when you turned to the mirror . . . . Same old Hutch . . . . How I remember him . . . .
His right hand fingers entwined in some grass and he pulled it free, twisting it against his thigh. It was yellow and young. Same as Hutch . . . yellow like the sun and young again . . . golden man . . . .
The scissors slipped from the fingers of the new man crouched before the mirror. He reached out and picked up one of the gold clasps. Holding it before him, he studied its shape, seeing it for the last time. Then he rose up and pitched it as far as possible into the trees at the top of the hill. He stooped over again and studied the next clasp in the same manner. It, too, followed its sister into the dense undergrowth. Exiled forever. In seconds the others followed until the last. He paused.
A sad look of remembering came into his eyes. He recalled the moment when he'd received his final reward. And how he'd filled the quota.
The gold shape nestled in his palm and he could not bring himself to hurl it after the others. Instead, he took off the medical chain and disc used at the clinic to identify the patients. He dropped the metal disc, with his medical number engraved into the smooth surface, onto the grass and rethreaded the chain with the single gold clasp.
He stood up straight and faced the Other. The dark-haired man was watching, seeing and understanding all but the last few moves. His deep blue eye was puzzled and questioning.
The man crossed over to the pine, long legs changing the distance to a few quick paces. Under the shade of the tree, he knelt beside the Other and slipped the chain around his neck.
The gold clasp hung over the Other's heart.
The Champion let his hands rest on his partner's shoulders. Starsky, I give you your life back. And he kissed him lovingly on the forehead.
The Other looked up at the brilliant blue eyes that searched his face and nodded with grateful understanding. You were my reason for living.
The Champion settled beside his partner, back against the tree, and watched the afternoon sun slip across the sky to become a muted ball or orange.
He had the earth, the sky, and Starsky. He knew deep contentment and peace of mind.
After a long while he folded his arms and turned to his partner. "Ever been to Minnesota, Starsk?"
The Other shook his head, eye on the sunset. "No."
"Ever been to Duluth?"
"No." He turned to face his partner, guessing the next question.
"Do you want to go and look?" The freshly shorn man raised his eyebrows in question.
The Other thought for a moment and rubbed his nose. "Okay . . . maybe we can try New York after, huh?"
A second passed and the Champion nodded. "New York after."
He climbed to his feet and dusted down his trousers. Catching the Other under the right arm, he pulled him to his feet. His partner looked tired; maybe he'd been out too long; they'd walked a long way. The Champion put his arm about the wool-clad shoulders of the smaller man, and they wound their way down the hill back to the commune.
Beside the rock, the long blond tresses caught in the wind and blew away.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
