Going Grey

by Karen Traviss

  It wasn't the place to have a debate on it, though. Rob phrased his question cautiously.

  "Was that an accident?"

  "No, I forced it." Ian held the shopping bag open under Rob's nose. There was a red jacket folded inside. "QED."

  For a moment, Rob felt uneasy at being tricked. It was just an instinctive reaction. No animal liked being deceived; in the wild, being fooled often meant getting eaten. But knowing that didn't stop him feeling guilty. He knew exactly what Ian was. He shouldn't have felt uncomfortable about him at this stage of the game.

  "Let's leave the discussion for the ride home," Mike said. "Is there anything more we need to buy?"

  "No, I'm good."

  "Okay, mount up."

  Mike held his hand out to Rob for the car key and Ian sat up front next to him. Rob had to do his compulsive observing from the back seat.

  "I get the feeling you guys are ticked off with me," Ian said. "I was really careful not to morph where anyone could see me."

  Mike reached out and bumped him carefully on the shoulder without taking his eyes off the road. "No, buddy, it's fine. So you can morph at will now? Consistently?"

  "Yes."

  "That's impressive."

  "I had to know that I could always get back to normal if something went wrong." Ian was still busy filling the excuse gap. "The only way was to make myself morph."

  "So why the demo?" Rob asked.

  Ian didn't have an answer for that, not for a while at least. Rob knew Mike was probably wrestling again with how much to tell his father.

  "To show you how effective it is," Ian said at last. "I had to do it where you'd have to spot me among strangers."

  Effective was an interesting word to pick. Effective for what? Ian always wanted to pull his weight. Rob had started to think of a few uses for morphing, and he was pretty sure Mike had too.

  "It's not a problem," Mike said.

  "I didn't want to tell you until I was sure I'd nailed it."

  The subject seemed closed. Ian took Oatie for a walk when they got back, and Mike went to ground in his study. Rob couldn't find a single damn thing to do now except stretch out on the sofa in the guest cottage and watch TV.

  Tom was right. He really wasn't very good at down time. It was a discipline that had to be drilled and exercised like everything else. Okay, that was it, then. He'd have a compulsory do-fuck-all hour a day, every day, even if he sat there scratching himself for the whole time.

  He didn't manage it today, though. He mailed Brad to tell him he'd be free for a maritime gig in January as long as it was only a few weeks. It took him a while to hit SEND. Every time he went to click on the icon, he felt he was abandoning Mike, but Ian was stable, and Mike was settling into being a dad of sorts. Everyone would benefit from a brief change of routine.

  And while I'm working, I can keep an eye open for companies that Mike can tap up for business.

  "There," Rob said to himself. He sent the message. "Conscience clear. Done."

  Now he had to go and tell Mike. Things like that couldn't wait. He put on his jacket and walked up the house to find Mike still at his desk, shuffling paper.

  " Zombie, I've told Brad I'll do a couple of weeks' ship work in January," Rob said, leaning against the door frame. "But if it turns out that I'm needed here, I'll scrub it."

  Mike just looked at him for a moment. "No problem. You always said you needed to keep your hand in."

  "It's not like I'm sodding off to Nazani in the middle of a crisis."

  "I know. I'm fine with it." Mike wouldn't let on if he was pissed off, but he did seem okay. "This was what we were going to do anyway."

  "I'll use it to find some new business."

  "Good idea. So you're not changing your mind about that."

  "No. Definitely not. I need something solid to plan for."

  "You need to put down roots."

  "I'm used to moving around."

  "Sure, but things change." It was Mike's code for getting older. "You need a house. Quit being so tight-assed and let me set you up properly. We've got three hundred acres. You could build something here. Jesus, how long have I been trying? Don't make me wait until they read my will."

  "I'm not ungrateful, mate. You've done everything for me. But how can I decide where to live if you don't even know where you're going to be in a couple of years?"

  "Okay, in principle, then."

  Mike, always after a tidy life for everyone, took it as read that he'd buy Rob a house nearby whenever he moved. Rob still struggled with the money involved. But it kept Mike happy, and Rob accepted that he'd miss the bloke too much if he wasn't a neighbour. Mike was his best mate; Rob would do anything for him. He'd known him for far less time than his mates in the Marines, but a couple of years was a lifetime when you served together. In Civvy Street, you'd only see a bloke's outer shell, and finding out what was underneath took time. But under fire, you discovered the real man inside right away, and all you had to do later was peel back the layers on top that showed how he came to be like that.

  "Okay, in principle, yes," Rob said. "Thank you. And I'll add it to the list of things I owe you."

  "It's a gift. Not an obligation."

  "Look, if I didn't think you were the finest bloke on God's earth, I wouldn't accept it. Because I wouldn't want to be indebted to a wanker."

  Mike did his baffled Labrador look for a second, then laughed. "That actually makes sense."

  "I always do, Zombie." Rob could put it on the back burner until Tom graduated next year, along with all the other big decisions. "All set for the visit, then?"

  "God, three days with Charlotte and Jonathan." Mike raked his fingers through his hair and leaned back in the seat. "Maybe we'll tunnel out and take the kids to the zoo. You're sure you don't mind looking after Ian?"

  "He doesn't need looking after. We'll find something to occupy ourselves."

  "He'll be nineteen in February. He needs a job."

  "I think that's what the morphing demo was about."

  "He'd be ideal for surveillance. Detail conscious. And we've seen how he can disappear."

  "You mean formally employ him?"

  "There's plenty he can do. And he can still study part-time. I can hire tutors. He might even prefer night school, so that he gets out to meet people. Female people."

  It all sounded so normal and achievable. "When you think about it, then, Project Ringer worked," Rob said. "Okay, not quite what they had in mind, but Ian's probably capable of working under cover."

  "Don't say that."

  "The sky won't fall in if you tell your dad. It's still not a secret weapon."

  "And Kinnery will never know he succeeded. The punishment of Zeus."

  "But if the bugger doesn't know he's been punished, does that count as justice?"

  Mike stared at the desk, chewing his lip. Then he did a little snort that didn't quite turn into a laugh.

  "No idea," he said. "But I think Ian's shifted from being a victim to having the advantage over the rest of us."

  Rob knew it didn't take fancy genes to do that. Ian's gift was his attitude, the state of mind that could turn shit to gold.

  He would have made a great commando. Maybe a job in the family firm was as good a substitute for that as any.

  THIRTEEN

  Dear Mr Klein,

  Thank you again for the check. You said you can't tell me who sent the money, but please let them know how much this has changed our lives and thank them for us. We won't lose our home now and my husband can train for a new job. Just when you think that people have forgotten disabled veterans, miracles happen.

  Yours,

  Mrs J. Alvarez

  Letter from a veteran's wife to law firm Bentley Staffman Klein, lawyers to Mike Brayne, on receipt of a donation from an anonymous benefactor.

  ODSTOCK FLIGHT SCHOOL, MAINE

  NOVEMBER.

  "Take it easy while we're away, Ian." Livvie closed the Mercedes' tailgate as one of the Gulfstream'
s crew trotted up to take the bags from Mike. "Have some fun that doesn't involve tearing ligaments."

  Ian's idea of fun now was reading everything he could find on the security industry and the basics of running companies. He had a job. It was another ordinary thing that he'd once thought was beyond him. It didn't matter if Mike was just being kind and finding ways to keep him busy; Ian was determined to make it real by doing it well.

  "I will, Livvie," he said. "I'll make sure Rob does, too."

  Rob fussed over Mike like a trainer sending a boxer into the ring, telling him not to let his brother-in-law wind him up. He was a compulsive checker even when there was nothing he could do. He watched while the Gulfstream taxied, and he didn't turn away and get back in the car until the jet had shrunk to a black speck in the distance. Ian could see it as hypervigilance caused by the stress of fighting wars, or just the sensible caution of a man who knew more than most about how much could go badly wrong in the world. The latter made more sense.

  "I had an idea," Rob said, turning on to the main road. "We could search for your great-grandfather's service history online. I bet we could find some vets who served with him. Do you know which squadron or company he was in? Army, yeah? Not USMC."

  "Army." Ian allowed himself to think of David Dunlop as a relative again, partly due to Rob's refusal to refer to him as anything else. "You think it's safe to search by name now?"

  "There's loads of Dunlops, mate, and nothing to link you to Mike's address."

  "But that Lloyd woman found the ranch without much technology. Even though Gran always covered our tracks."

  Rob went quiet for a few moments. "He is dead, isn't he?"

  "Gran said so."

  Ian suddenly wondered if that had been another well-meaning lie. He hadn't considered that the man in the photo might not have been Gran's father at all, just a random stranger to flesh out her cover story. But he shot down the thought immediately. Gran had told him too much about her father's experiences and what it was like when he came home. She'd only lied by omission. Every deception was just a big gap that she'd managed to leave and that Ian had either obediently ignored or filled in for himself.

  "Sorry," Rob said. "I'll shut up."

  "No, it's okay. Maybe I should try to find out about my biological parents as well. But they were anonymous."

  "They weren't parents, Ian. They were raw materials. Everything you are as a man came from your gran, and her values came from her dad."

  Ian was starting to believe that was true and not just something Rob said to make him feel better. "Do you ever watch those shows where famous people research their family trees?"

  Rob wrinkled his nose like it was a perversion he couldn't bear to think about. "Load of bollocks. If you went back a billion years, you could prove I was distantly related to Oatie, my nan's psychotic budgie, and a dose of E. coli. Which is fascinating, but no bloody use at all."

  Humour was often painful stuff, the unsayable broken glass wrapped tightly in thick paper to stop it from cutting anyone. Ian had learned to look for the serious point in Rob's entertaining comic rants. The message was clear. Ian had nothing to gain by finding his biological parents.

  "No bloody use a'uhll," Ian mimicked.

  Rob laughed his head off. "Cheeky bugger. You're a good impersonator, though. Work on it."

  Ian checked out the traffic, honing his observation skills by keeping a mental log of the vehicles around him – how many exits they passed, when they turned off, and when other vehicles joined the road. It needed to become as automatic for him as it was for Rob. He found it helped to imagine that every vehicle was potentially KWA on his tail.

  Look, Gran, I'm doing fine. It's all working out. I've even got a job.

  Gran hadn't believed in an afterlife, but Ian held out hope for a rational version that would have met her approval, some weird quantum foam where whatever echo was left of her would know that her mission had been accomplished. He'd seen the documentaries. Nobody could rule it out.

  "Do you want to pick up anything in town?" Rob asked. The Mercedes rolled past the WELCOME TO WESTERHAM FALLS sign. "You haven't been down there for a while."

  "Are you trying to make me go in the patisserie?"

  Rob winked. "I hear they have irresistible tarts."

  "Yeah, I know. It's dumb." Ian was more worried about blushing than morphing. He didn't even know the girl's name. "I should have learned to do this years ago."

  "You can't train for women, mate. I'm still waiting for a bird to call me. Me. At forty." Rob parked opposite the patisserie and handed Ian a fifty-dollar bill. "Get some fruit tarts, will you? Anything except pineapple. Take your time. Ask her if she's a pastry chef. Show some interest in how they make those things. You'll think of something. And make a note of where you think the CCTV cameras are."

  Ian crossed the road as casually as he could and took a deep breath before going in. Her In The Shop, as Rob had taken to calling the patisserie assistant, didn't seem to be around today. The older woman was putting éclairs on the shelf. Ian's instant disappointment was washed away almost as quickly by relief that he didn't need to say anything clever, so he just looked around discreetly for the cameras while he waited for the woman to wrap the tartes aux fruits in their ritzy ribboned box. If he'd had the nerve, he'd have asked her where her co-worker was today. Maybe he'd have gotten a first name out of the conversation. Or maybe the woman was the girl's mom, and all he'd get would be a kicked ass. He took the box, did his best Rob-inspired smile and thank-you, and retreated to the Mercedes.

  "She's not there," he said.

  "Never mind. There's always tomorrow. And plenty more women. CCTV cameras?"

  "Above the cash register. And outside the bank across the road."

  "Good man. You can't avoid being recorded these days. But you can minimize the chance of being noticed. Behaviour and clothing."

  Ian swapped his baseball cap for the woollen beanie he kept in his jacket pocket. "This makes a big difference."

  "You're learning. So I suppose you want to go to the mall later."

  "Are you bored with it?"

  "No, never. We're still monkeys at heart. We need to get out on the savannah regularly and see what the rest of the tribe's up to."

  It was almost a daily routine. Ian, now seeing the world in more general security terms than just watching his own ass, knew that routine was a bad idea, though. It put you in certain places at regular times and it became carelessly subconscious.

  "How about the other malls?" he asked.

  "There's the older one on the other side of Porton." Rob's eyes swept from mirror to mirror. "Not much bloke stuff there, though. Mainly women's clothing. But there's an Aldi supermarket next door. It'll remind me of the UK."

  "Are you homesick?"

  "No. I don't know what Britain is any more. It's not the same place I grew up in, that's for sure."

  Ian remembered what Gran had said about her dad returning from Vietnam. Home could morph into a foreign country pretty fast. "Aldi's German, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, one World Cup and two world wars." Rob said it like it was a punch line Ian should have known. "The most patriotic thing you can do these days is identify your own little tribe and defend that instead. That's all human brains are built to do anyway."

  He didn't say much more on the way home. Ian thought about tribes and realised that his consisted of three other people, maybe four if he counted Mike's dad. It was a very small nation to defend. He hoped he could manage that.

  As they turned into Mike's entrance, Mr Andrews was sweeping his path. Rob stopped to lower the window and say hello. He always treated the old man like a five-star general; a friendly observer was worth his weight in gold, he said. Ian hadn't said more than hi to Mr Andrews a couple of times since he'd been here, and the guy never came to the house.

  "Does he know who Mike is?" Ian asked.

  Rob shook his head. "Unless he's worked it out and hasn't said, he just thinks Mike's in some
military job he can't discuss. Mike's the world expert at keeping a low profile."

  It had taken Ian a few months to see exactly how true that was. At first he'd been wowed by Chalton Farm, but from the road it looked no grander than some of the other upmarket homes he'd seen around the county. Most of the house wasn't visible to passing traffic. The only security anyone might have spotted on closer inspection was the cameras and alarm boxes, not the ballistic glass windows or steel-reinforced doors.

  The cars weren't flashy either. Ian hadn't realised the vehicles had ballistic protection until he'd started his driving lessons in the Mercedes. Mike and Livvie saved any fancy clothes and crazy spending for when they were out of town, and they dressed like successful doctors. Nothing about them said billionaire. They just went grey. They blended into the environment here as seamlessly as that octopus in the video, and they didn't need any special genes to do it. Ian had taken that technique to heart.

  Rob parked and went in to switch off the alarms, a custom system with camera feeds and motion and IR sensors. The controls were in a small room off the hall. The set-up could trigger alarms on site or at the security company's control room, depending on how you set it. Ian worried about getting it wrong when he was eventually entrusted with it.

  "So what do you want to do now the grown-ups have left us to run riot?" Rob asked.

  "I was going to do some reading."

  "Are you ever going to have a rebellious phase?"

  "Do I need one?"

  "No, you can save it for a midlife crisis if you like."

  Ian wasn't sure how to run riot even if he'd wanted to. His idea of kicking over the traces was sleeping late, something he hadn't been able to do when he had animals to look after. His dreams had peaked at achieving normality. Now that he almost had it and might even exceed it, his imagination hadn't kept pace. He ended up joining Rob to search for Vietnam veterans' organizations.