Free The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage by Matthew Wayne Selznick Page A

little…awkward-looking, if you want to put it kindly…but after Declaration Day…”
    His sigh carried the hint of a whistle.
    “I just…blossomed. I’m going to see if the Institute can help me figure it all out.”
    The insistent, winking enthusiasm returned to his voice. “Why are you going to Missoula, Marc, Mister Teslowski, I wonder? Hmm?”
    Marc said nothing. Schwippe left him alone while the stewardess ran through the pre-flight safety demonstration and the airliner took off. Maybe the freak finally took the hint.
    Marc watched the plane turn over the Pacific Ocean before angling east and north while the earth dropped farther and farther away.
    He was going. He would be there. Today.
    He was doing something, something real. Nobody liked it, and it was putting him into some serious debt, and it would eat every hour of vacation and sick time he had left, but he couldn’t let any of that matter. He was taking action. Taking responsibility.
    Finally.
    “I love flying, too,” Schwippe quipped.
    Marc hadn’t realized he’d been smiling. He tamped it out.
    “So, seriously,” Schwippe went on. Marc realized his break from the freak’s fun-time poking was over. “I’m sincerely curious. Why are you going to Missoula, Mister Teslowski?”
    Why not? Nothing and no one could stop him now. He might as well tell the Sovereign beanpole. Call it practice when he had to talk to a whole freaking compound of them.
    “I bet you can guess.” He glanced at Schwippe.
    Schwippe’s alien black eyes popped. He jumped in his seat a little, a show of being startled. “Well, I’ll be! I get an audience, after all?”
    Marc scowled at him. “You’re a sarcastic little shit, aren’t you.”
    Schwippe looked down at his long torso and at his legs, which were bent sharply to fit in the space between seats. “Little, I’m not. The rest…well, a guy’s got to find a way to get by.”
    Marc snorted at this. “By being an asshole.”
    Without an ounce of venom, Schwippe said, “Hey, look how well it’s worked for you, right?”
    Marc turned in his seat to face him. “What the hell do you know about me?”
    “Seriously?” Schwippe looked all the long way down his nose at Marc. His eyes narrowed and he smiled wide. “And I quote: ‘Why don’t we have all those freaks rounded up and locked away?’"
    For the millionth time, Marc wished he’d never agreed to do that goddamn TV show, and not because of what he’d said. “Good for you. You watch TV.”
    Schwippe’s Uncle Remus impression suffered from his croaking, high-pitched delivery. “Just like a reg’lar ol’ human bean! ‘Magine dat, Misser Marc, sir!”
    Marc got the message. He thought it was bullshit. “Except you’re not. Your boss made sure we all know that.”
    Schwippe blinked. He sat back and tilted his head back on the seat. “Wow.” He shook his head. “I don’t get how you do that.”
    “What.”
    “How you can turn it off and on like that. Be so selective.”
    “What,” Marc repeated, harsher.
    “Your bigotry.” Schwippe’s voice was casual, but most of the humor was replaced by a bewildered tone that was somehow just as insulting to Marc. “You know you don’t make any sense, right? Does it just not matter to you?”
    Marc pushed the words out with as much disgust as he could muster. “You don’t get to tell me what to do or how to think, freak.”
    Schwippe’s head tilted. “Wha’?”
    Marc leaned forward. “That’s your whole thing, right? Set the terms, show up and tell the rest of the whole damn world how we’re supposed to treat you, how we’re supposed to act.” He forced himself to keep his voice low, conscious of the tight quarters and the dozens of people in the seats around them. “To hell with you, Sovereign.”
    “Hold the phone, there, buddy.” Schwippe seemed to roll his eyes, but it was hard to tell where those glossy black balls were pointed. “I’m just a skinny dude from West LA with a