Agent Zero

by Lilith Saintcrow

  The world drew away, smearing like ink on a spinning, oiled plate, and a terribly ironic thought occurred to her just as she plunged into semiconsciousness.

  Casualty rate for that is about ninety percent...you think they’d let me walk around if I was contagious?

  * * *

  One second she smelled fine—a little feverish, a little tired, that metallic yellow tang a little deeper, but still delicious. The next, she was on the floor, and the bolt of smoke-sick through her scent twisted his own stomach, hard. As soon as he ran back to the range to get the goddamn bacon set aside, she tried to get up off the couch again. She didn’t thrash when he got her back down, but she was sweating even worse now, her half-lidded eyes glassy and her smell flaring unpredictably.

  Penicillin? Hospital? He flicked through the alternatives, desperately, and almost didn’t notice the subtle change in the sounds outside.

  Once he did, though, it was impossible to ignore.

  Damn.

  “Holly.” Soft and inflexible. “Holly, I need you to listen to me.”

  It could be a deer, or something. Nothing else would be out in this goddamn weather, right? Any animal with sense would stay inside. He could get out to the shed, get the snowmobile fixed up—but if he left her, what was she likely to do?

  It wasn’t a deer. Or a wolf. He knew what it was.

  Holly subsided. Glittering eyes, the fever burning her—he’d have to do something to bring it down. The shock of rolling her in snow wouldn’t help. The shower, then.

  First he had to take care of outside.

  “I have to get something for you.” A lie, but a good one if it kept her down. “I need you to stay right here. Right here, okay?” Two guns, the knives and his wits. The hiking boots were all right, and he shrugged into his coat. “Stay on the couch,” he told her. Maybe she’d even listen.

  The only reply he got was a slurred mutter that might have been his name.

  Jesus Christ.

  He didn’t move right away. Instead, he closed his eyes, listening. Smart was the way to play this one. Advantages were on his side—he knew the ground, and all he had to do was outwait and outthink. The curtains were all drawn, both to save heat and discourage someone with a high-powered rifle from solving a problem or two. Any agent out there had to know he’d hear, and might also know...what?

  Holly made a restless movement, and Reese heard the footsteps. Deliberate crunching, breaking an icy crust. Sounded like cleats—not a bad choice for this goddamn weather, but savagely tiring and would make him lose on agility.

  The bastard was aiming right for the front door. Making no goddamn attempt to be quiet, even.

  What the hell?

  The porch shuddered as he clumped up onto it. Crunch, crunch, crunch on the ice, right up to the door.

  Knocking, then. Light and authoritative. Shave and a haircut, two bits.

  So he’s got a sense of humor.

  Then, something else. “You gonna pretend you don’t notice me?” Male, about Reese’s age, and the pulse was perfectly even. Nice and controlled. No bloodlust. “I’m here to help. You might as well let me in.”

  Here to help? That’ll be the day.

  It was a ballsy move, walking right up. He could admire the sonofabitch, even if he killed him.

  Holly cried out, weakly. Reese still hesitated, barely even breathing. There was no good tactical or strategic reason for the other agent to come right up to the front door and announce himself, for God’s sake.

  “I won’t touch the girl. I just want to talk to you. You’re a hard man to catch, you know that?” Amused now. No change in pulse or respiration.

  Reese ghosted across the room. A calculated risk, but he already had the gun out. The temperature outside would keep a body from rotting right away, should it become necessary. If all else failed he could rifle the other agent for cash and spare supplies before—

  He jerked the door open, gun leveled, nerves stretched tight.

  Standing carefully back from the door, his gloved hands raised, the other agent peered out from under a thick knitted cap. He took a deep sniff and nodded slightly, keeping his empty hands up and stock-still. Sandy hair, bright pale blue eyes, a wispy beginning of a beard. Looked as though he’d been roughing it for a few days.

  Reese’s senses strained. He could hear, smell nothing behind the man. Nothing but pines, deep snow, dry-oily animals hidden in burrows, a hint of smoke from the stove.

  “I’m alone,” the other agent said. “Been offgrid for a few days now. No tails I can make out.”

  “Hip?”

  “Dug it out first thing, stuck it down a feral cat’s throat with some tuna. They’ll be chasing it awhile.”

  “Elegant solution.” Reese took another deep breath, searching for any wrong note. “I’m a little busy here.”

  “I can tell.” Those blue eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtfully, though the man’s pulse didn’t alter. “You poor bastard. I bet you don’t even know why she smells so good.”

  His jaw tightened slightly. “Oh?”

  “Relax, Reese. I’m not after your girl.” The pack at his feet was snow-spotted and zipped open, so Reese could see inside. How far had he hiked in? There would be a trail, at least until it snowed again. Which, judging by the smell, would be soon. “I’m here because I want to live. Same as you.”

  There was a slithering sound behind Reese. Blankets, hitting the floor. A creak of springs as Holly tried to lever herself off the couch again. She just wouldn’t stay down, but then, he knew that about her, didn’t he? A woman that would hold a dying man’s hand for a long time, a woman who would tell an agent he was real, a woman who would quietly give extra peppermints to even the worst kids wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t in her.

  Goddammit. “You smell familiar. We went to the same base for blood draws and psych evals.”

  “Yeah. I’m Cal, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

  “You might not think that in a little while.” Reese was satisfied the man was alone, at least. He knew firsthand just how dangerous an agent could be. He’d have to kill this one the instant a single breath was out of place.

  “I’ll take my chances. They’re not wrapping up the program.” Cal’s cheeks were roughened with windburn, and a subconscious muscle at the floor of Reese’s brain relaxed a little. “Heming went crazy, and you were incidental. But they’re reconsidering. Two reasons, Reese—emotional noise and possible contagion vectors.”

  Reese lowered the gun. Damn. “Kick that pack over so I can see what’s in it. And take those off before you come inside.” He backed up a few steps. “You make one wrong move, and you’re dead.”

  “Story of my life, man.” The other agent bent, slowly, moving carefully, and something else clicked in Reese’s head. The pack wasn’t full—and there were manila folders and files in there, spotted with moisture but looking pretty legit, mauve ones that looked familiar and red ones that didn’t. Knives, a 9mm, ammo clinking, a couple other bits he recognized immediately as agent kit that wouldn’t have trace capability.

  Which moved this Cal from active threat to the question mark category. Reese decided to push a little further. “What happened to yours? The one that smelled good?” A shot in the dark.

  Cal glanced up, his blue gaze flat and cold. “Haven’t met her yet. I was friends with a nice enough girl, though, and they dusted her coming for me.” Working at the cleats strapped to his hiking boots. He was wet to the thighs—he’d waded through the creek, probably working back and forth to confuse his trail. He smelled hungry, and his cheekbones stood out just like Reese’s did after a week or so of hard living. “Is that bacon?”

  “You play your cards right, you might get some.” And survive long enough to eat it.

  A soft thump. Holly made another hurt little sound, a
nd Reese decided. The gun went down even farther; he backed up a little more, edging back crabways for her. She’d tried to get up again, and was muttering about someone named Doug.

  “Shh, baby.” He tucked her in again, despite her irritable pushing the covers away. Glanced at the other agent, who stepped carefully in as if he didn’t quite believe his luck. “Shut the goddamn door. And tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

  * * *

  First things first. The scar on Cal’s hip was pink fresh, and the other agent manipulated the flesh, pulling and stretching so Reese could see there was no telltale bump underneath. He even smelled right. Either the other agent’s glandular control was absolutely perfect, or he was telling the truth.

  Holly, sweat drenched and tossing, made a low hurt sound. Reese’s stomach threatened to clench, and he could smell his own worry. If he could, the other agent could, too.

  Cal eyed her, didn’t even try to approach. “Yeah. She’s got it.”

  “I infected her.” The sick twisting in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

  “What did you think made her smell so tasty? The little assholes know who they have a chance of surviving in.”

  Christ. “How do you know?”

  “Because they botched coming for me, so I did an infiltrate onbase and snitched some files, just like you might have.”

  “Smart.” And suicidal. “You want to burn them as bad as I do?”

  “Worse.” A flash of dull rage broke through the other man’s smiling crust. “If it makes you feel better, she’s got a seventy percent chance.”

  “She’d better.” Because if something...if she... He refused to even think it.

  Holly’s eyelids flew up. “Phillip?” she whispered, staring at the ceiling. Thin tracers of steam rose from her forehead; she’d already sweated through her tank top. It clung to her as her hands lifted. “Don’t...don’t...”

  “Shh, sweetheart.” He kept an eye on Cal, just in case, slowly sank down to one knee, caught one of her hands. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

  “She’ll need fluids and proteins when she wakes up. Vitamin C. You’d better figure out if you can trust me so you don’t have to look over your shoulder the whole time.”

  I know. I’ll do what I have to. “It’s all right,” he soothed, and Holly subsided.

  “Reese?” Her hand bit his with surprising, hysterical strength. “It hurts...” Ending on a low hiss of breath.

  Christ. “I know, honey. It’ll be over soon.”

  “Ninety...ninety percent...collateral, she said...they were... I’m sick...” Faded into a slurring murmur, her eyes half-lidded. Crescents of bruised flesh stood out underneath her glittering eyes, and that wonderful smell of hers came in tsunami waves, underlaid with smoke-burning sickness and that weird metallic note.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he told her. Maybe it was a lie.

  Cal shifted his weight, and Reese twitched. The other man stepped back, hands up and loose, very carefully.

  “Relax,” he said. “Just come down out of the red, okay? I am here to help.”

  You’d better be. Reese didn’t bother saying it. “Get some water, and a couple towels. And since you know what the hell, start explaining.”

  * * *

  Noah Caldwell watched as Three followed Bronson, her spine completely straight, across the helipad. The old man reeled almost drunkenly, but she simply paced at the same even speed. She made the slippery crunching across deicer pellets look easy, even as Noah’s boots slipped and slithered. She didn’t bother bending, though the bird’s blades roared overhead.

  He hurried afterward. Watching her move was like seeing a cat slink along. He’d always liked blondes, but she kept her hair pulled so severely back it did nothing for her. Bronson had a ridiculous parka zipped all the way up, but Three just had her blazer and skirt, pantyhose he’d sent a servicewoman to the PX for. She didn’t seem to feel the cold.

  None of the agents did. It was enough to make you shiver.

  She was the prize, the only one to survive the induction process, and Control wanted an eye kept on her. Bronson’s useless, Control had wheezed, lighting another cigarette, when he sent Noah out to keep an eye on this part of the project. But he’s connected, and an easy patsy if the whole thing blows up. Your job’s to keep track of Three. We don’t want to lose that one.

  Thackeray, the civilian doctor, had handed Noah a packet from Control. He knew his orders, and enough about the general situation to make his hands sweat and turn cold while he burned the papers outside the sliding French door of his little crackerbox onbase. Contagion vectors. Liquidation. And above all, keeping Three under wraps. Even if the other agents were going haywire, she was precious.

  A country needed soldiers, and if you couldn’t tweak them as adults, well, maybe you could build them. You could get little wrigglies anywhere, but an egg preloaded with Gibraltar and agents trained from birth? Those were precious.

  That was for later, though. Right now, there were other considerations, including keeping Three on deck to help catch the others. Control was very clear: Caldwell just had to get the two agents in this part of the country dealt with, tie off any civilian flack, and neutralize Bronson.

  Which would be, Noah told himself as he ducked through a heavy steel door into welcome warmth, a distinct pleasure.

  The fat jerk was disgusting.

  * * *

  Male voices. Doctors? Hospital? Had she finally collapsed? The thing about knowing you had something terminal was the waiting, God, it just wore across every nerve every damn day.

  “Fever’s gonna spike and break. All we have to do is keep her below the brain-cook.”

  A familiar voice, now, and the sound of paper moving. “Says here you were DS-7.”

  She strained against the delirium. Cold, she was so cold, and burning at the same time. Slickness everywhere, she was covered in slime. Phillip, closing the front door with a small click. “Have a nice life, Holl.” Sitting at the kitchen table, right where he had, the warmth of him still in the chair and the numb realization that she was alone sinking in.

  One of the men made a bitter sound, almost a laugh. “Yeah. Serve your country, they said. You’ve got all the right measurements. Dumb jerk that I was, I went along.”

  Paper moving. She strained to remember where she was, what was happening to her. “Christ. Is this for real?”

  “You really want to ask me that?”

  “It was rhetorical, soldier.” Reese. She found the name, clung to it. Tried to speak, produced only a weird shapeless sound.

  “Listen to the vocab on you. Emotional noise went off the charts for every agent sooner or later. You held out longest, it looks like.”

  “Call me talented.” A familiar touch against her forehead. It was him, it was Reese, and the thought steadied her. If he was here, it would be all right. Or maybe not, because he couldn’t fix what was wrong with her. At least she wasn’t alone.

  “You gave them everything they wanted to hear in psych eval. Got a future in the theater.”

  “Like you didn’t.”

  “For a while, I thought being honest was the best way to go.”

  “Then?”

  “Then I wised up on a job, and started thinking.”

  “Yeah.” A heavy click. “Here.”

  “So you trust me?”

  “No reason for you to be this forthcoming if you’re eventually going to kill me. Unless they want me back in the fold, and I’m pretty sure they—”

  “Oh, they might. You were their shining boy—amped mission fidelity, no emotional noise, they want to poke and prod and figure out what the hell. Also, if it’s jumped to her, they want her for testing.”

  “You’re not helping your case, Cal.” Reese sounded thoughtful. The
world was full of smeared color, pain gathering deep in her twisting, burning body. Confused movement, sudden pressure all through her. “Shh, baby. It’s okay. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”

  “You smell that?”

  Crackling silence, punctuated only by the rasp of cold air against her wet skin. A terrible moment of clarity—something awful was about to happen; it was surging up underneath her, a shark rising through black water.

  “What’s it smell like to you?”

  “Relax, Reese. My little friends don’t like her. She’s all yours.”

  “But you can smell it—”

  “Christ, will you settle down? She’s complementary, you know? Bacon on your cheeseburger—any idiot can sniff and see your swarmies are going to love her. Just like puzzle pieces. You could theoretically infect others, I guess, but their survival rate is going to be closer to two, three percent. That’s what the models say. They’re scrambling to figure out if any of us have. They’re calling it Gemini. A mutation of the original virus.”

  “Holy crap.” He sounded as though he’d been punched. Hard. “And they send us all over the world, right?”

  “You’re quick on the uptake. Yeah. If there are even a few, the ones who survive will be problems.”

  “I’ll just bet. What’s the spread rate?”

  “Like I said, all theoretical. They don’t know.”

  “They don’t... Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

  “Add to that the doctor losing his mind. Heming. Thought he was going to be a hero and stop the contagion at ground zero.”

  “So he botched erasing both of us.” That tone—as if he’d been socked a good one in the gut—was wrong. Reese shouldn’t sound like that. Everything was wrong.

  I’m sick, she thought. Very sick, and it’s not the cancer. It’s something else. She strained to listen, to remember, but the shark underneath her was losing patience with threatening.

  It wanted to swallow her. Its tail sliced through cold water, and her sobbing breath quickened. She could hear her own heartbeat, racing, pressure building in her temples and throat and lungs.