NEXT DAY.
What the hell am I going to tell Tom?
Rob showered, contemplating how much his view of the world had shifted in the last few days. If he'd strolled into the pub and found an alien playing darts, he'd have told Tom all about it, because it changed the way the world worked. Where did Ian fit into that? Did seeing him morph qualify as a reality-changing, got-to-tell Tom event, or just another classified detail from an op?
Rob didn't know where to file Ian. At the very least, it would dump knowledge on Tom that he might be better off not knowing. Rob would just have to sit on it for the time being.
I suppose it's no different from getting a tan. Losing weight. Blushing. Plastic surgery. Or a coat of make-up -– Christ, I've woken up next to a few nasty surprises the morning after. Ian's changes are just faster, that's all.
Now the shock had worn off, worries had room to flex their muscles. Anything medical that involved a close look at Ian's DNA was a problem. How many thousand genes did a human have? Would anyone even spot the shape-shifting ones unless they were looking for them? Probably not.
And Ian was a teenage lad. Rob remembered being one of those. The only thing on his mind was sex. If Ian got some girl pregnant, would the baby be a shape-shifter too? Did Ian even have the confidence to chat up girls yet?
Christ, when I was his age I thought I was God's gift to women. Okay, first things first – build trust and confidence. Then help him work out how to control the thing. The shape-shifting, anyway. The dick – well, I'm not the right bloke to lecture him on that.
Rob shaved and stood back to study himself in the mirror, wondering what he'd change about himself if he could. No, not one damn thing: he kept himself in terrific shape, his hair wasn't thinning, and he liked his looks. Sod it, he looked great. He tilted his head to one side and studied his wedding tackle, then looked down at it to consider another perspective. Well, maybe he could improve on perfection.
An inch more. Maybe an inch and a half. No point overdoing it.
If he wondered whether some magic genes could give him a bigger dick, then so would every other bloke. And women wanted to change every bloody thing about themselves. Where would it stop if people could do that? They'd never be satisfied. Then there'd be all the criminals wanting to disguise themselves, and the spooks, the medical researchers, and the biotech companies.
Poor little sod.
But he's still not on anyone's radar. There's the deeds to the ranch, but it's going to be tough for someone to make that connection.
One objective overrode everything else. Ian had to learn to control his morphing. Without that, there'd never be a driving licence or passport photo that he'd match, and without those, he was fucked. It was hard to operate without photo ID here. He wouldn't even be able to buy a beer.
And if he can't stay looking the same, he'll never have a woman. Well, not more than once, anyway. So there's the perfect incentive. Beer, cars and sex.
Rob put on his running kit while he waited for Tom's call. He could at least mention that Ian existed, even if he had to omit the details. As usual, Tom rang right on time and they exchanged sitreps.
"Mike's got a guest for the summer," Rob said. "Ian. He's a bit younger than you. I'm taking him training every day. He wants to toughen up, so I'm making a Bootneck out of him."
"Christ, Dad, be careful you don't end up injuring him. Yanks sue. It's a reflex. Just how far is this going?"
"Daily phys, fieldcraft, firearms. He might still be here when you visit."
And if he is, he'd better have that morphing shit sorted.
Tom laughed. "Dad, you really need to learn to flop on the sofa and veg out."
"I'm saving that for when you visit, kiddo."
When Tom rang off, Rob felt achingly lonely and lost for a few moments. Sod it, he lived over here now, and Leo had pulled every string to make that happen, so it was time he accepted it and tried putting down roots instead of pretending to himself that he was just visiting. Anyway, he owed the Braynes everything, and Mike really needed him around more than ever. The only way Rob could go was further in. There was no backing out of this. He'd always know what had happened.
You know what would be handy, Kinnery? Invent some amnesia pills.
Rob jogged over to the house and found Ian on the front steps, doing his stretches in a track suit that he'd borrowed from Mike. Oatie sniffed around the bushes. Ian was taking this as seriously as recruit selection.
"Had your breakfast?" Rob asked. "What's the rule?"
"Eat whenever you can, sleep whenever you can."
"Good man. No Mike this morning? Lazy sod."
"He said he's going to see his lawyer and start sorting out Gran's will for me." Ian retied his laces. "I think I need some new kit. These sneakers aren't right for running."
It took a couple of seconds to dawn on Rob. Kit. Ian was absorbing his slang. Rob couldn't remember when he'd last said it, but he knew he used the word all the time, and Ian didn't miss a thing. He learned fast.
Rob remembered being sixteen and shit-scared, lying in a bed in a dormitory full of strangers, staring up into the darkness and trying to remember the proper terms for things. Pouch. The pockets on your belt, your webbing, were called pouches, and Royal Marines pronounced it pooches. Pouch with a W sound was for the Army, for Pongos. Anything disgusting was gopping. There was so much to get right. It was all part of the essential ritual of belonging, until it became part of the fabric of him and defined what he was, as natural as breathing. He could see that need to belong in Ian. Everybody had it.
"We can go to the mall later," Rob said. "There's a big sports shop. Nobody's going to stare at you or anything."
"Okay."
"How do you feel?"
"Stiff and tired. But good."
"You're still going to beat yesterday's time, right? All that soft civvy shit's over. You're rebuilding yourself from the ground up."
"Yes, Rob."
"Okay." Rob checked his watch and started running down the drive. "Crack on."
A psychologist probably wouldn't have approved of his methods, but he didn't know what else to do. Tough physical training built self-reliance and mental discipline. As far as Rob was concerned, that was a lot better for Ian than sitting through a load of therapy sessions hugging a teddy and being told how shitty the world had been to him. Anyway, it wasn't as if he was going to have to do half of the rough stuff that Rob had done to get his green beret. Mike didn't have the facilities, and Ian couldn't afford to break a leg and end up hospitalized, tested, and compromised. Rob would just have to keep pushing him past exhaustion and thinking up alternative ways to challenge him.
Ian matched Rob's pace and didn't say a word. They ran along the grass verge of the road for a couple of miles before turning right into the forest and following the trails and firebreaks. Oatie loped beside them, occasionally racing ahead and circling back as if he was making a point about his top speed. Eventually a chain link fence with a private property sign loomed in front of them, marking the turnaround point. Rob slowed to look for a good spot to take a breather as Ian shot past him.
"Whoa, stop," Rob called. "Stop."
Ian took a few more yards to get the message and jog back. "I thought it was a test," he panted. "To get me to give up."
Rob had to think about that while he swigged from his water bottle. They shared a bar of chocolate and the sugar rush peeled years off him. "You saw that in a film, yeah?"
"Read it. Book on special forces. You fail selection if you accept a ride they offer you at the end of a long run."
"Bonus points for pushing on, then."
"Did Mike do all this in the Guard?"
"Some, but he paid to do his hardcore training privately before he went contracting. Don't underestimate him. He's nails when he needs to be. Despite the cashmere sweaters."
"Nails," Ian said. "Hard as?"
"Correct."
Ian soaked up everything. It was like watching Tom
when he was little, the same way that he found everything fascinating and hung on every word Rob said. They retraced their route – three minutes shaved off, not too shabby – and went to do an hour in the gym before getting down to some rifle practice.
Maggie had done a decent job of teaching Ian muzzle awareness and general firearms safety. He was becoming a pretty good shot with Mike's AR-10, and Rob was struck by his lack of boyish excitement about it all. He seemed to treat weapons as necessities to be slightly mistrusted. Watching endless war movies hadn't made him a gun nut.
"How do I address Senator Brayne?" Ian sat back on his heels and cleared his weapon. "Do I call him sir or Senator?"
"You can't go wrong with sir," Rob said.
"What if I morph in front of him?"
"Well, he'll be gobsmacked, but he won't take it personally. Come on. Strip down your weapon, clean, and reassemble. Then I'll introduce you to the Glock. Work hard on both weapons and your fire positions, and we can start doing transitions."
Ian looked him in the eye for a few moments, then got up and walked over to the workbench. "Do you think you're wasting your time? I'm never going be able to enlist."
"No, I don't. Because this'll stand you in good stead whatever you do. Do you think you're wasting my time? Or yours?"
"I really, really want to do this. I need to know if I could have made the grade. I'm just asking because you and Mike and Livvie bend over backwards to be kind to me, and I don't want to piss you off."
It was hard to work out if Ian was asking if he was going to be shipped out again or if it was just a statement. Leo's imminent arrival had rattled him. Rob didn't know what was coming next either. But at least they knew that the call to Ian's phone had been made from the Lansing area. If that didn't have KWA's fingerprints all over it, Rob didn't know what did.
"You're not pissing me off," Rob said. "It's doing me good, too. Come on. The sooner you finish, the sooner we can go into town to get you kitted out."
Ian just nodded, but the brief flash of a frown gave him away. Maybe Rob was pushing him too far. He relented.
"You don't have to go if you don't feel ready for it."
Ian's shoulders braced. "I'll bet your training sergeant never said it was okay if you didn't feel like tackling the rope slide. I've got to deal with people sooner or later."
Rob was irrationally proud of him for a moment. He had the right mind-set. For all Rob knew, the kid could have been a serial killer in his spare time and the ranch was full of buried bodies, but all Rob saw was someone who desperately wanted to do well and didn't care how hard he had to work to do it.
"Your call," Rob said.
"It's just a bunch of stores. It's not like the places you and Mike end up in."
"That's the spirit. Because you won't meet any shaggable women if you're hermit."
Ian actually blushed. He cleaned and reassembled the rifle in silence.
"I haven't morphed since I first came here," he said at last.
"Beer, birds, BMW."
"What's that?"
"If you can stop morphing, you can get a photo ID. Which means a driving licence and a passport. Which means you can go out and meet women. And drink, eventually." Rob leaned in and gave him his kindest we're-all-lads-aren't-we nudge. "Look, if you get a woman's name wrong in bed, you've got some explaining to do. But change colour partway through the job, and you'll never be invited for tea and crumpets again."
Ian nodded, all grim concentration, and handed his rifle back to Rob. "Beer, birds, BMW." The stakes didn't get much higher for an eighteen-year-old lad. "Got it."
Mike still hadn't returned by the time Rob was ready to go. He'd take the Jaguar today, then. He didn't know who needed the treat more, him or Ian. The car was the most expensive thing he'd ever owned, and he rarely drove it because he was terrified that some prick would scratch the paint. Actually, it was the only thing he owned. Apart from his clothes and some personal stuff, everything was Mike's – the cottage, the furniture, the lot. Bev got the contents of the house when they'd divorced, and it was married quarters, so there was no money from selling a property. Rob would have given her all of it anyway. It was only fair when she was raising Tom.
So I'm an overgrown teenager living with Mum and Dad. I really need to get my shit together.
Ian studied the Jag's dashboard as they drove off towards Porton, occasionally reaching out to touch the trim. "This is nice."
"Mike and Livvie gave it to me for my birthday. I was expecting a pair of socks."
"Kind of weird how people meet, isn't it? Mike showed me his scar."
"Yeah, his days as a swimwear model are over." It was hard to gauge Ian's sense of humour, but he did seem to smile at the right points. "Get him to show you the video. I had my helmet cam running the whole time."
"Pretty awesome, saving a stranger."
"You'd do the same."
"I really hope I would. My great-grandfather – " Ian stopped dead. "Well, whatever."
Rob couldn't let Ian lose his faith in everything he'd clung to. "The Huey pilot? Yeah, those blokes were mental. Saved a lot of lives. He's someone to be proud of."
"But he was never really related to me."
"I know genes are a big deal, son, but they're not the be-all and end-all." Rob slowed to a halt at the lights, wishing the dickhead behind would back off. "If they were, you'd be in a seafood salad and I'd be in prison."
Ian just looked at him. Rob thought he was going to burst into tears. But eventually he smiled and nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "You've got a point."
The lights changed and Rob accelerated away, trying to imagine the level of shock that Ian was dealing with. Every bloody thing in his life had been a lie. The only thing that had been real and positive was the fact that Maggie had taken him in and devoted her life to him. It explained why he wasn't a complete basket case. However weird his life had been, he'd grown up knowing he was loved and that he mattered.
I wonder how Kinnery broke the news to Maggie? 'Hi mate, can you look after this for me? It's a baby. I crossed it with a squid.' What a bastard.
Maggie must have been one in a million. Rob didn't even know what she'd looked like. It was a shame he'd never meet her now.
"Why would you be in prison?" Ian asked.
He didn't let things drop. Rob could see a bit of Tom in him. "My dad was prone to nicking things. Mum kicked him out."
"What were you like when you enlisted?"
"Sixteen, skinny, and a right little gobshite. I got it knocked out of me."
"Really? Sixteen? I can't imagine you being skinny."
"You think you can morph, eh? If you promise not to laugh, I'll show you my before and after pictures." Rob turned into the mall and parked well away from the other cars in case someone dinged his beloved Jag. "Here we go. Cap on, shoulders back, and follow my dazzling example."
Rob had to bear in mind that this was a beachhead landing for Ian. He kept him talking as they walked through the automatic doors and explained the layout to him like an operational briefing; sports and leisure shop fifty meters ahead, one stop at a fast food place to collect a late lunch, and out, maximum time one hour. That was something Ian could relate to.
"You'll want to hang out here all day before long," Rob said, nodding in the direction of a couple of girls. Ian kept his head down. "Build up to it in small doses."
He stopped in front of a clothing store and made Ian look at the display. The whole mall was either glass, mirrors, or people. Ian didn't seem bothered by the reflection and studied the jackets and T-shirts with apparent interest.
Rob nudged him. "Okay, in three, two – go."
And they were in. Rob steered Ian between the racks to the sports section and kept him talking while he took likely-looking items off the rails and held them up against him for length and a general impression. It was a lot easier than shopping with Tom. Ian just followed orders and seemed to have no opinion on fashion. They moved from rack to rack
picking up a selection of stuff, then queued at the cash desk to pay.
"See?" Rob said. "Easy."
There were two women on the cash desk, one about twenty and the other more Rob's age. He could see Ian shifting from foot to foot. Then the kid lowered his head and pulled down the peak of his cap. Poor sod; he should have been past the bashful stage ten years ago. He had a lot of catching up to do.
"We'll sort out a new phone for you tomorrow," Rob said, trying to distract him. "What do you fancy for lunch? Noodles?"
Ian nodded without looking up. "Sounds good."
"Are you all right?"
"I need to go outside."
"Okay." Rob moved up in the queue. "Where are you going to be? Right outside the door?"
"Yeah. Sorry, Rob."
"No problem, mate."
Ian walked out, head down, and stood sorting through the contents of his wallet. It was only when Rob got outside and Ian looked up at him that he realised what the problem was.
"Sorry," Ian said. "I usually know when it's going to happen. I get this tight wind-burned feeling. I've done it again, haven't I?"
He looked different, not as different as when Rob simply didn't recognise him in Athel Ridge, but enough to notice. Ian's hair was razored so short that it wasn't immediately obvious that it was slightly lighter. His eyes looked wider-set, too, and more brown than hazel.
Don't spook him. Don't overreact.
"Yeah, I think you have." Rob made his best attempt at a casual inspection. "Not much, though. Any idea what triggered it?"
Ian pulled the peak of his cap down again, obviously embarrassed. "The girl on the cashier's desk."
"Oh, that. It'll sort itself it out when you get a bit more confidence." Christ, I bloody well hope so. Rob picked every word that followed with the precise care of someone defusing a bomb. He had to make it sound like a skill, even something fun, not a disability. "Of course, there's nothing you can do about what morphs in your pants, but make the most of it. When you're my age, you'll be glad that it can still pay attention."
"It's like I dread morphing and then just thinking about it triggers me."
"Be fair to yourself. It's only been a few weeks since you've found out what you can do. If you'd known years ago, you'd be as irresistibly suave as me now. Come on. Lunch."
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