The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security

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Two agents escorted her in to stand on a blood-red carpet before a large oak desk, then stepped out the door behind her. Which left her with her superior, Staff Chief Russell, and she finally had to look at him. He stood behind the desk, staring. He looked less alive to her that moment than the agents, who derived any will they had from the mechanical implants in their heads. Then again, she had to be fair; his vacant stare was a professional mask--he switched it on and off at will. At least that's how he explained it. Her own explanations were never so articulate.

He switched it off and smiled. "Hello, Leslie, and congratulations."

"Russell."

He rested the meaty slab of his hand on the desk. "Only three nights ago I was just 'Tom'."

For what seemed a long time, she tried but couldn't turn away from his gaze. Then once she'd succeeded, she couldn't look at him again.

"I'd be honored," he said, "to still be 'Tom' to a big hero like you."

"What are you talking about?"

"The assassination attempt yesterday afternoon? Single-handedly saving President Washington's life? You couldn't have expected that to go unrewarded. Vision was all over it. You splattered the assassin's brains all over every family vision room across the country."

That was a very Tom Russell way of putting it. He liked to say weird things. Not that she always knew what the Red Hell he was talking about.

If not for all his peculiar words, maybe she wouldn't have let his hairy hand spider under her waistband that first time, a year and a half ago.

I should tell him now: "Oh Tommy, dear. You'll find this one funny. There's something living insideme."

"Don't you want to know how you'll be rewarded?"

She nodded. Suddenly, too much sunlight came through the slatted blinds on the window spanning the left wall. She raised her hand and squinted.

"Your name's up for sainthood, sweetheart. Saint Leslie of Security; how's that sound?"

"Don't do this to me."

"I'm serious."

"I did my job. Isn't it my job to keep Father Washington from getting his head--"

"You sound displeased."

Leslie opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. She wasn't sure whether his tone held menace or sarcasm. "I--well of course I'm pleased, but damn it..."

"A lot of people were impressed with the way you painted the street with brains. Vision anchormen are calling it a masterpiece. A true Rockwell. Didn't you watch the reports? Did you see the look on your face when you blew that fucking terrorist away? They keep playing it over and over in slow motion. It's amazing. By the way, pretty young saints--even if they once were professional killers--don't use the word 'damn' in polite conversation, okay? There'll be a lot of publicity during and after the promotion, so please try to remember. Don't use 'shit' and all those other old-fashioned expletives you learned as a kid in Vermont either. God knows how you could have remembered so many without your head mem."