“You can do all sorts of animals that way. Turtles. Dogs. Unicorns.”
“Unicorns are imaginary.” Still, the marriage of topology, paper and animal forms was very ingenious, and pleasing. You could probably perform such an operation just about anywhere, and the calculations would be a welcome distraction from just about anything, especially that activity labeled worrying.
Cal ducked his head a little, smiling oddly. “Then a rhino, maybe. It would probably look like that if I tried. All I can do is a crane, I learned it in grade school.”
Trinity glanced at him, returned to studying the folded paper. Why did he look amused? Was it camouflage? What was his purpose? She slid the rest of her trash into the bag and looked at her empty milk shake. She would have to try more of them—semiliquid, high in sugar, with a small amount of protein, they would be useful when she forgot to eat and needed simple, stomach-soothing, easily digestible items for short-term energy.
Cal took the empty cups, tossed the rubbish into the receptacle near the dresser. An ancient television squatted atop the cheap dark wood, right next to a mirror that showed the dingy paint and the fabric-covered headboard bolted to the wall. Once, it might have been a vibrant blue. Now it was a muddy beige, and Trinity decided she had no wish to calculate the rate of color loss.
“Go ahead and take a shower,” Cal said, not moving from near the trash can. “I’ll keep watch.”
At least he didn’t forget that she might want one, as Bronson often had. Then again, Trinity was no longer taking orders. There was a fresh set of clothing in her backpack, and the idea of being clean again was immensely appealing.
It wasn’t until she had turned the water on in the narrow, faded but clean bathroom that she realized she had implicitly accepted Eight—Cal wouldn’t betray her while she sluiced dust and sweat away. Bathrooms were vulnerable points, one’s guard nearly always dropped. She calculated the odds of duplicity, the percentages of likely unpleasantness and her desire for cleanliness, before deciding it was an acceptable risk.
When she exited, scrubbing at her hair with the one towel allotted for her use—assuming an equal division of resources—he was at the window, peering out through a space between the dust-stiff, pineapple-yellow curtains. “Looks clear,” he said without turning. “You want to watch while I take mine?”
“If you like.” She pulled her backpack up onto her shoulder and approached the window, expecting him to move. He stood very still, though, only stepping aside when she nervously halted just outside close-combat reach.
“I didn’t mean just this second.” But he took the sodden towel and disappeared into the bathroom.
I could leave now. Trinity peered through the curtains, as well. In an urban area with reasonable density, she could vanish and return to Felicitas. It was too soon, but nobody would expect a solo penetration of the base at this point, would they? There were other factors to be considered, though—she needed rest to recover her full range of effectiveness, and escaping Eight might prove to be easier than she had previously assumed, if he was ignorant of her guilt and still suffering some manner of emotional noise. She was still calculating when the gush of the shower halted, and she decided resting in place was the strategy most likely to restore her to efficiency, and escape would have to assume a lower priority for the moment.
Even if that strange rippling sensation all over her was intensifying. She labeled it as irritation, perhaps, or nervousness. Her cheeks burned.
Deconstruction was proceeding.
* * *
Trinity lay on her back, stiff and tense. Her breathing, deep and controlled, might have fooled a normal man into thinking she slept. A warm lump of grease and calories in her stomach had restored some of her resources, but she was still tired.
Eight had told her to take the bed and folded himself down near the door, propping his head on his duffel. He seemed to fall asleep instantly as well, breathing and pulse dropping rapidly, but she distrusted appearances. He was an agent, just as capable as she was of staving off fatigue and waking instantly to deal with a threat.
Or with Trinity stepping over him to ease her way out the door.
The pills were in her backpack. Four left. She had intended to take one before her final attempt to infiltrate the Felicitas installation. If she found her records, the three that remained would be enough for her to trace whatever she could of her former life. If, that was, the records held useful information, which was a 20 percent chance according to the variables she could list. However, so many other factors remained cloudy, that wasn’t a fair estimation.
A sigh worked its way out of her, a completely natural physiological loosening of tension. Strangely enough, Eight’s breathing paused as well, and when it resumed, relaxation spread through his scent, too, musk and a faint blue tang. The fast food did not make his scent greasy, as it had Bronson’s. Instead, it gave it a slight sheen, oil on healthy tanned skin. Unfamiliar comfort threaded through Trinity’s bones, her muscles turning to liquid one by one.
How strange. A profound soporific effect? Was it in the food? No, no chemical I can trace. Besides, he hadn’t had a chance to tamper with it.
The folded crane was still on the table, a lonely sentinel.
Still wondering what this pleasant new sensation sprang from, and if it was a further mark of cognitive degradation, Trinity fell asleep.
* * *
A woman’s breathing, in the dark.
Cal lay with his head on his duffel, inhaling greedy gulps of that marvelous, mouthwatering scent. She was here, and safe, and this time, he was going to do better. He was going to do it right.
Quit thinking about it.
Except he couldn’t. It was like sleeping on the broken-down brown couch, knowing that behind the bedroom door Tracy was dreaming, snug in her own bed. After the virus, he had trouble letting go enough to get any real rest. Tracy’s one-bedroom walk-up had been his solace, and he could still feel every lump and worn-out spring in that damn couch.
He’d been wandering aimlessly one autumn evening, doing some recon around his own spic-and-span, expensive hide masquerading as a banker’s almost-penthouse, the one the government certainly had tabs on, and his ears perked at the sound of a scuffle. Around a corner and in an alley, a soft sound of pain, and he’d put the male attacker down before he quite realized what he was doing. The dark-haired victim, sobbing brokenly, told him it was her soon-to-be-ex-husband. The police...oh, God, the police...
Turned out the husband didn’t want to be ex and, in the time-honored fashion of selfish losers everywhere, had decided that if he couldn’t have Tracy, nobody else would, either.
Cal, at the time, only felt a little irritation that he’d involved himself—but then she insisted on going to the hospital so they could photograph the bruises, and one of his civilian identities was used up just like that, a Good Samaritan witness to intimate-partner assault.
Then she had to go and be kind to him. Let me buy you coffee. It’s the least I can do.
She was a fourth-grade teacher and good at her job. Her calm, firm demeanor never cracked in the classroom, but outside the school she was a mess of nerves. She was ripe for a rebound relationship with a rescuer, but Cal decided to take it slow and easy, since at any moment he’d be called out of the country to do some dirty work for the powers that be. And really, it would be taking advantage of a vulnerable person—double, since he was trained to infiltrate, to capitalize on uncertainty, to play another human being like a harp if he had to. All part of the job and ridiculously easy with the viral benefits.
It seemed kind of...cheap, to do that just to get laid.
Now he wondered if he shouldn’t have been so reticent. He slept on her couch, since she was terrified the ex-husband would show up again. Cal could have told her he wouldn’t—one of the benefits of being an agent was being able to
scare the crap out of jerks who thought hitting a woman made them manly. It only took two sessions with Cal before the ex decided to head out for greener pastures, namely, Alaska.
If Tracy was still alive, Cal would have been checking on Richard Moritz fairly regularly, to make sure he was staying a decent distance away from her. Ironic, that Cal himself had turned out to be the thing that got her killed. A statistical outlier, so to speak, considering how domestic violence cases usually ended.
He concentrated on his breathing, but the memories had decided it was time to come out and play.
It was usually so easy to compartmentalize. To sometimes even half forget the blood and the dirt, the sound of snapping bones or gurgling a last breath, and just be—well, just be “Tracy’s friend.” She hadn’t asked many questions, thought he worked in international banking, and though her hormones often shouted that she was very aware of him, she kept her distance. He’d even grown to enjoy the dance and congratulated himself on keeping her hidden, shaking off any potential tails before he visited her. Just like a training exercise.
Stupid, thinking they wouldn’t notice.
Going off grid to pay off her dead parents’ foreclosed farmhouse for her—well, he’d arranged it carefully, structuring it as an insurance payout from a maze of fictitious companies, and her face when he gave her the news and the clear-and-free title had been a study in wonder, soothing some deep aching he hadn’t even known he was feeling.
After about fifteen minutes, though, she’d remembered caution. Why are you so good to me? A little suspicious.
Because you make me feel human, he’d almost said, but had just shaken his head and said something else. Now he wished he hadn’t. Useless to deny it—he’d been thinking about going off the rez even then, leaving the whole welter of killing and bloodshed behind.
Then it had all gone to hell, and Tracy was dead in the flames of that pretty little farmhouse. He didn’t even know if they’d shot her. Two teams with submachine guns, all to bring him back. He’d been nerving himself up to tell Tracy everything, but where did you start with something like that? Hi, I’m actually infected with a supervirus, I do dirty work for the men in office, Mom and Pop and apple pie exist because I kill and kill and kill. Let’s elope!
That would have gone over real well. There was no way to make that pill palatable.
Trinity made a soft sound, a sleepy murmur. Cal took a deep breath—if he could smell the hard edge of tension and stress boiling out from his skin, she could, too. How long had it been since she’d really rested? She’d gone out almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.
Come on, Cal. Don’t lie to yourself.
That was the trouble with being able to nudge people in the direction you wanted them to go. It was so damn easy, and you couldn’t shake the persistent feeling that maybe, just maybe, you were subconsciously doing it because you were a shell of a human being. A killing machine who already suspected something was very, very wrong with him even before the suits came and fetched him from basic, telling him there was a way he could serve his country, he was perfect for it, his measurements—though they never said of what—were optimal. He’d gone along, fat, dumb and happy, letting them scrape and swab and take blood.
Then he woke up after almost-dying of the Gibraltar virus with abilities that made James Bond look like a pissant poser.
In the end, though, it hadn’t saved Tracy. It hadn’t saved anyone that Cal could see, just spread death and destruction everywhere.
Like a disease.
Trinity made another soft sound, tossing and muttering. Cal exhaled, soft and slow, forcing his pulse to come down, too, tipping the hormone balance into relaxed instead of chewing on old mistakes.
They didn’t tell you that control of the autonomics couldn’t make you a machine. Just because you could keep your pulse down didn’t mean you didn’t feel it.
The grief was a sharp sweet candy, and he sucked on it all through that long night, sliding in and out of restorative slumber whenever Trinity moved. Around 3:00 a.m. she was awake for a while, and Cal kept his silent watch in the dark, his own breathing not altering. Did he think she couldn’t tell, or was he hoping she could?
Didn’t matter. Only one thing was for goddamn sure. He was going to make certain this woman stayed alive.
Because if he failed, Cal would be gone, too. Either sliding off the edge mentally, or physically, because he was sure she was for him what Holly Candless was for Reese, and that man wouldn’t quit going until his girl was safe.
Cal thought that was a good way to be. It was decent, at least. Better than the alternative, which was cutting everyone loose and going down into a black hole of rage that had been his companion for most of his life, the rage he covered up with easy charm and deceptive mouthing off. He’d thought Tracy was his last chance to use that fury for something good.
Now he was hoping like hell he’d been wrong.
* * *
He didn’t wake her at dawn, and her internal clock misfired again. It was well past checkout time when Trinity jerked into alertness, sitting straight up on the bed and reaching for a gun that wasn’t there as Eight swung the door closed and locked it again. How had she not heard him leave?
Or had he left? She spun for a moment between confusion and certainty, analysis gridlocked by sleep still gripping several of her bodily systems.
“It’s all right,” he said softly. “Just had to pay for another day.”
She shook her head, her hair spilling over her shoulders as she had never allowed it to do while on base. It was longer now; she needed a trim to keep it within regulations—if she wished to do so. That was a question for another time.
Trinity rocketed to her feet, amazed at how deeply she had rested. While welcome, it was not usual. “It raises the chance of being traced by 15 percent if they have grids running, and—”
“We don’t have to stay another night,” he pointed out. “Just a few more hours. You needed the rest.”
“Wastage of funding.” A shiver ran through her. “Assuming your available resources are comparable to mi—” Her mouth worked for a moment. Don’t tell him how much you have, that is an irreparable breach of classified knowledge. The inside of her head clicked and shivered, her pulse spiking, her breathing quickening.
Oh, no. Stop. Stop it.
Deconstruction was accelerating. She clung to analysis, desperately seeking to remember any of the list of things she had prepared for such a moment, questions her brain could seize on and use to stave off the impending storm. Think. Think, damn you!
Movement. She struggled, her elbow meeting something with a crunch, and was lifted off her feet, effectively trapped. She inhaled to scream, an ineffective strategy but the urge was undeniable...and the cry vanished, evaporating in her throat.
Darkness, because her face was pressed into something harder than flesh should be but softer than the wall. Padded chains around her—no, not chains. Not restraints, either. Unfamiliar calm swamped her, soothing the ragged edges of analysis and adrenaline. Her breath made a hot, damp spot against it, and it was dark because her eyes were closed.
Trinity went limp. The black wave of panic receded. It smelled safe, musk and male and a faint tinge of something she could only classify as blue. Scents didn’t have colors, of course, unless one factored in synesthesia—
That line of analysis stilled itself when she took a deeper inhale. It was wonderful, to have the machine inside her head simply stop for a few moments. Behind her eyelids a greenness bloomed—moss-hung trees, the holy silence of a cathedral broken only by a drip or two of water, a campfire glittered, and for a moment a name trembled on her lips. Something starting with A.
“Shhh,” he said softly. “It’s okay. Nothing here’s going to hurt you.” A rumble from his chest, communicated through her forehead and cheekbones.
“It’s all right.”
Control over autonomic and semiautonomic functions returned. She slowed her runaway pulse, inexplicable clarity settling inside her skull, as if she had taken another pill. Strange. Is it... Hmm. Why does he... How...
“Okay?” He spoke into her hair and inhaled just afterward. A shudder went through them both, or maybe just through him and communicating into Trinity’s smaller frame. She just reached his shoulder; it was truly novel to feel so enclosed and not claustrophobic. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you, honey. I promise.”
Hurt me? Her lips moved. “Pain can be controlled.” How could he make such a promise, that nothing would hurt? It was meaningless.
“Some of it.” He didn’t let go, even when she moved against him, a slight twitch expressing her desire to step away. Instead, he inhaled again, a deep breath whistling in her hair. Oddly, it sounded as if his nose was stuffed, and something warm trickled against her scalp.
Trinity smelled copper and moved again, trying to tug herself free. He didn’t let go, and an odd contest ensued, Trinity wriggling and pushing, Cal trying to keep hold of her. She had to use more force than she liked to extricate herself, and when she glanced up at his face, pushing her hair back, her fingers found a damp spot on her scalp.
Cal’s patrician nose was bleeding. Now she remembered her elbow smashing into something, obviously his face. A queer tightening sensation prickled all over her. “I...I hit you.”
“Yeah.” He stared at her, those blue eyes gone distant. He’d shaved, and the cleaner line of his jaw was marvelous in its precision. Blood dripped on his navy blue T-shirt. “Got me a good one. It’s okay.”
The warm spot in her hair was his blood. Trinity’s entire body turned cold. She had not been in complete control; the strength and speed of an agent were dangerous. She had assumed, so far, that degradation and deconstruction would be physical as well as mental, and her strength and reflexes would decay enough to represent no danger to civilians.
Now she was faced with proof that she might be wrong.
Agent Gemini Page 8
