Agent Gemini

by Lilith Saintcrow

  He hadn’t wanted to make out this badly since—well, he couldn’t remember a time, even in the hormonal flush of teenage years.

  Calm down there, boy. Deep breath. Even those memories were darkened by the screen of only-normal senses. Did the others feel like waking up from the initial illness had peeled away the curtain over the world? Sharper, faster, better, more alive.

  He decided he’d take a stab at guessing where the problem really lay. “So. I’ve got a question.”

  No reply, but her silence turned listening again. The fine hairs all over his body stood up, sensing her attention. He imagined her leaning over a dinner table, maybe with a glass of white wine, regarding him solemnly.

  Keep your mind on your work. “You know about Tracy.” He managed to make it soft, careful. “About the firefight. They sent two teams.”

  She turned, a short, graceful movement. Her hands dropped to her sides. Open and empty. A shading of tension all through her scent. Her weight evenly balanced, but she pitched back slightly. Just in case she had to go out the window. “Yes. One to suppress, one to capture.”

  Ah. “For the asset. What about collateral?” They were sent to kill her, weren’t they?

  A long pause. He stared at their pictures, the passports propped open, no longer blanks but official paperwork. The all-holy United States passport, a ticket out of trouble in many cases, getting you into even more in certain areas of the globe. All they needed was a little cure time, some open air. He leaned back in the chair, stretching. It felt good to do something relatively simple, something he knew inside and out.

  “The projected chance of unacceptable information dispersal was high.” Back to the robot-voice now. Her eyes were huge, dark, pupils flaring as she turned inward. That was how she did it—she buried it. Probably disassociated so hard she didn’t even know she had feelings.

  No wonder she was so confused.

  “You calculated it, right?”

  She stared at him. High color flared in her cheeks, died away until she was paper-pale.

  He waited, but she said nothing.

  “Jesus.” They’d emptied her out and turned her into a machine. And now... No wonder she didn’t want to feel anything, if that was what they’d made her do.

  It made everything—her rescuing Holly, her saving them from Bronson, her trusting him and coming back to the Chevy—even braver, in retrospect.

  She didn’t move. Just stared at him. A small tremor slid through her. What else was she remembering? Knowing that jackass Bronson, there was probably plenty. Which brought up another thought—what had they done to her physically? A woman wouldn’t want to talk about that, and she was shy, acted as if she’d never kissed anyone before. No memory, a sort of amnesia, and trained to follow orders because it was the Army, after all...

  The idea that she might have been forced into all sorts of things brought the red rage up again. He clamped down on it, and her eyelids dropped slightly, her gaze obviously measuring the distance between them.

  “I’m not going to yell,” he began quietly. “And I’m not going to hit you.”

  “Now you see,” she whispered in return. “Thank you.”

  “What?” The only thing I see is that it’s a goddamn good thing Bronson’s dead. “You got us out of there. Me, Holly, Reese. You chose the right thing.”

  “Too little and too late. Excuse me.” She scooped up her backpack and headed for the hall. His chair hit the floor as he stood too quickly, and the noise brought her up short. She flinched, and he froze. “I...I need the restroom. It’s down the hall.”

  He swallowed hard. Now that they were comfortably over the border and she understood a few things, it was safe enough to let her out of his sight for a moment.

  He forced himself to stand still. “Okay.” Maybe she even needed to cry, and if she thought emotion was going to kill her—but still. Maybe she just wanted some privacy. Thinking about the program probably wasn’t very comfortable, and Christ knew he had his own share of things he didn’t want to talk about. “Okay. Yeah, you, um, you go ahead.”

  “Thank you.” Almost prim. She didn’t hurry, sliding past him carefully, her weight spreading evenly through every step as if she expected him to jump her.

  Maybe she did.

  She glanced back just once, at the door. “Cal?”

  “Yeah?” There was something in his throat blocking the word.

  “I mean it. Thank you.”

  For what? He listened to her footsteps down the hall, his eyes closed, imagining the sway of her hips. Even the stiffest woman in the world couldn’t get rid of that—it was the way they were built. Whatever god or power had designed that curve knew just what it was doing.

  She felt too much. The amount of sheer grit it probably took for her to go against orders, rescue Holly and turn on her handler, then vanish and set out all by her lonesome to find out who the hell she was... God.

  God.

  Just like Holly, who’d taken to life on the run with far more grace and courage than a man probably could. A raw civilian, and she’d still stuck to Reese through thick and thin. Reese, damn him, was a great guy.

  On the other hand, there was Cal, always just a hair away from screwing everything up six ways to Sunday. Unfortunately, he was all Trinity had right now, so he had to be extra careful, gentle with her. Teach her how to handle the emotional noise, reassure her and keep her safe.

  It was a good plan. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until a full twelve minutes had passed that he glanced at the window and saw the crane made of burger wrapper sitting on the sill, crumpled but still recognizable.

  Then Cal realized she wasn’t coming back, and just what an idiot he’d been.

  * * *

  The prepaid cell from his backpack buzzed, sending a chill down his back. He’d almost forgotten about it, and the number was a familiar encrypted signal. Cal’s finger hovered over the decline button, but he’d missed his last check, and there was no reason to make the other man worry too much. So he jabbed the accept button instead and lifted it to his ear. “Talk.”

  “Busy?” Reese’s voice, deep and unmistakable. He sounded relaxed.

  Cal scanned the street one last time. No use. She was well and truly gone. “Sort of. How’s things?” He turned into the small hotel, avoided the front desk and headed straight for the stairwell to the empty, dusty room.

  “Tango lessons and cervezas. The missus says hello.”

  “Give mine back.” It wouldn’t be fair to snap at the man. Cal’s frustration, sharp yellow-tinged acridity, was beginning to leak out through his skin. None of the normals would smell it.

  She would. But she was gone.

  “You find yours yet?”

  “Yup.” He didn’t elaborate.

  The pause crackled. “And?”

  “It’s complicated.” He unlocked the door, scanned the interior.

  The crane was still in the window. She hadn’t come back. Not that he thought she would, but...

  Hope, the most deadly of all drugs. You could fool yourself into thinking anything was possible.

  “It always is. You need backup. Where are you?”

  Of course Reese would figure it out. Cal sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t jump into the fire after the bacon, man.”

  “Give me a locale.”

  “The big J. Where else?”

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “She was right.” The sound echoed oddly, and for a moment Cal heard a street vendor’s cry in the background.

  Doubly odd, because it was the same as the one from the avenue below. Cal blinked, his skin roughening instinctively, and strode across the room to the window.

  Just then, a sharp rap at the door—two of them, in fact, a short pause, th
en another tap. Oh, for God’s sake.

  He wrenched the door open to find a familiar pair of dark eyes and wide shoulders—Reese was built broader in the beam than Cal, and shorter, though just as narrow in the hip. In a blue baseball cap, blue T-shirt and hip-length leather jacket, he looked just like a tourist, except for the calluses on his fingertips and the subtle difference in the way he stood—braced and ready for anything.

  A slim, blue-eyed, raven-haired woman peered around him, and their combined scent—a heavy, golden honeymusk that rasped irritatingly through his nose—washed through the doorway. “Hi, Cal,” she said softly.

  Cal touched the disconnect button, and Reese did the same on his own cell. The two men studied each other for a few moments. The other agent could no doubt smell the irritation coming off Cal in waves.

  Finally Reese sighed, slipping his phone back into a pocket. The tension left his shoulders. “She couldn’t wait to see Trinity.”

  Are you nuts? Bringing her back this close to the border? Cal opened his mouth, shut it.

  Holly Candless’s smile widened. She’d put on some weight and lost the thin, tired look; a faint tan colored her cheekbones now. “Is he finally speechless? It’s an occasion! Where...” Her face fell. “Oh. She’s not here, is she.”

  “Disappeared three hours ago. Guess I’m not her idea of a dream date.” His mouth pulled bitterly against itself, and Cal told himself he didn’t care. A lie, just like so many others, and this one he couldn’t even make himself believe.

  Reese pitched his weight forward, Cal stepped back, and the new arrivals waltzed into the dry, dusty little room. The clutter of his interrupted passport work on the table, his backpack, the narrow untouched bed and the blue funk of despair coating everything. He’d just left supplies out in the open and left his backpack behind, too, frantic to find her. No use, she had too much of a lead, and his leg still ached way down deep where the slower healing took place.

  Holly elbowed Reese. “Pay up.”

  “Later.” A quick grin, but the man looked worried, a thin line between his eyebrows. “Really didn’t expect to find you here.”

  Cal swept the door closed. “You recommended this quarter of the city. Lots of exits.” And she probably used one of the twenty you can’t cover all at once.

  “You’re in a really crappy mood.” Reese said it mildly enough. He was maddeningly calm even at the best of times.

  Cal throttled his irritation again, grabbing the crane from the windowsill and tucking it into his backpack. “Shouldn’t I be?” I’m the stupidest man on earth. “Look, it’s nice to see you both, really, but I’ve got to get going. She’s going to get herself killed.”

  “Oh?” Holly folded her arms. “You think?” She didn’t sound sarcastic, but she didn’t sound quite helpful, either.

  Whatever the hell she meant by that, Cal didn’t care to stick around and find out. He sorted the passport mess with quick, efficient swipes, his backpack standing open and ready to receive.

  “Don’t start,” Reese told Holly. “I’m not going to risk you.”

  “I missed the part where you were the boss of me” was her equable reply. “Cal, where did she go?”

  Where else? “Pocula Flats. Military installation. Records there, she said.” I have to know who I am before I die. “She thinks any emotional noise at all will kill her. She thinks— Oh, what the hell. I’ve got to get going. She’s probably back over the border by now.”

  “Why would she go back there?” Reese stared at Holly, that worry line even more pronounced between his eyebrows. “Cal?”

  “Because I screwed up,” he told them both. “I’m stupid, all right? She thought I’d be mad at her because she worked with Bronson. Running intel, planning missions.” Jesus, what a tangle. “It didn’t even occur to me, but she sat on it until she did something stupid. Just like a woman.”

  “Hey, now.” Holly’s tone sharpened. “There’s no need for that.”

  Oh, there’s a need. His head hurt, a sharp spike through his temples. “You’re right. I’m the stupid one here. I should have known. I should have—”

  “Well, we’ll go and get her back.” Holly shifted her own backpack a little higher on one slim shoulder. “You know where she’s going, we just hurry and we’ll be able to find her. I’ll explain, since you don’t seem to have much luck, and then we’ll—”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” Reese muttered. “Holly, baby—”

  “Oh, don’t you Holly baby me. Start figuring out why she’s going to this installation. Cal, pack up. We’re leaving.”

  “Is she always this bossy?” Cal couldn’t help himself.

  “You have no idea.” Reese let out another long-suffering sigh. “Holly, do I have to remind you how dangerous it is to go back over the border?”

  “You can stay here if you want,” she informed him sweetly. “Come on, Cal. Let’s get moving.”

  * * *

  Fray frowned at her screen. In exactly five minutes she was due to pack it up and move on. It was always best to spread your access points, just in case the anonymizers didn’t work as well as they could. Even the most productive session had to be cut short, no matter what exciting new thing was going down.

  After all, she did not want to get caught again. Holding cells were atrocious, and dealing with that blond jerk Caldwell was nothing she wanted to repeat. El Paso was her last stop before the border, and she couldn’t wait to have a decent margarita and some killer paella.

  She had two pencils in her hair and felt for them with her left hand, her right-hand fingers tapping the numeric keypad. A few months ago, working on some cute little North Korean decryptions, she’d stuck a good half-dozen Ticonderoga #2s in her sloppy, high-piled bun and almost stabbed herself in the eye when she stumbled to bed to catch some z’s. As habits went, it was a bad one, but she couldn’t stop sticking them in her hair.

  It helped her think. Her notebook, full of cramped scribbles in her own private code, lay open next to the laptop, and she frowned as a couple of the trace programs began returning weird numbers. They shouldn’t have been doubling.

  “Huh,” she breathed, checking the time and tapping a few queries.

  Four minutes left. She cocked her head, running down a list of it could be and discarding every one. Which just left her with the idea that somehow, someone had cracked her old laptop.

  Great.

  She immediately cut loose, hitting the killswitch for every running program and glancing up over the interior of the coffee shop and the golden flood of Southwest sunshine outside, shimmering off the cars in the parking lot. How did people live down here? Her lips kept cracking, no matter how much balm she put on.

  The place was deserted, sleepy staff moving around, doing some desultory cleaning. In between rushes was the best time for food service, but also the most boring. Fray unplugged, popped the emergency shutdown keystrokes, closed the laptop and was just coiling up the cord when the door opened with a cheerful jingle...

  And the black-haired goon walked right in, scanning the shop interior with one quick glance, his dark gaze settling right on Fray.

  Her mouth went dry. She didn’t think he’d fall for the “I need to use the ladies’ room” trick again. Her fingers curled around the laptop case—an expensive bludgeon, but the only one she had, and now she was thinking that carrying a baseball bat around would probably be a good idea from now on. Or even a golf club. Nobody looked at those twice, but you could break someone’s face in a hurry with one if you needed to.

  He headed straight through the tables for her, those dark eyes fixed on her face. It was, she thought, sort of like a shark viewing something thrashing in the water. The same flat, hypnotic stare; the same even, unerring gliding. All he needed was a dorsal fin.

  Fray’s chair squeaked as she ros
e slowly, pushing it back. She gripped the laptop, wishing she had time to get her notebook and bag together before she had to clock this guy and make a run for it. Who was she kidding, though? He was fast, and she’d only escaped through luck last time. Luck—and a really long lead time, as such things went, and shooting the paperweight she’d snatched off a cop’s desk through a big window to make a nice loud noise.

  He cocked his head slightly, taking in her posture and her white-knuckled grip. He halted on the other side of the table, too far away for her to brain him.

  “Miss Frasier.” Quiet and firm.

  Now would come the threats. Fray braced herself.

  “I’m Agent Bay,” he continued. “I...” His throat worked convulsively. He dropped his chin and glared at her. “I don’t know what to do now.”

  Part Three: Caldwell’s Revenge

  Trinity returned to Felicitas with a band of monsoon rains. The headache returned, too, building between her temples. The only trouble with milk shakes was calculating the likelihood of tooth decay from the sugar—she wasn’t sure if the virus kept that at bay.

  Flash flooding filled the arroyos with foaming brown tea, heavy silver curtains drumming on roofs. Delivery vehicles wallowed through sheets of water. Soaked to the bone, little curls of steam rising as her body hiked temperature to keep her at peak efficiency, Trinity clung to the top of the semi’s rattling trailer. Normally every delivery truck coming through would be examined by dogs and the watchtowers on either side of the gate would have a clear view of the trailer’s top. However, predawn in the pouring rain, her glands buttoned down and water blurring whatever tiny threads of scent remained, she was safe enough from the canines. It was the watchtowers she had felt a little unease over, but their glaring searchlight-eyes didn’t switch on. It was only the 4:00 a.m. delivery, the same one that happened every Monday-Wednesday-Friday. Since the delivery driver always stopped to fuel his rig at a certain station outside Felicitas, it was simply a question of waiting for the right moment to clamber atop the truck, clamping the magsol pads down and lashing herself to them. The resultant short ride to the installation was cold and uncomfortable, but well within Trinity’s tolerances.