by Rob Thurman
Stefan looked at me with a more familiar expression. He didn’t get it, despite what he said. “No, they’re not like you. I get that, believe it or not.” He got up to move to the bathroom, shoving my head lightly as he passed me. “I’m glad you get it too.” He closed the door behind him, and I heard the shower start. I fell back across the bed and stared at the dingy yellow ceiling. No, he didn’t get it and he wasn’t going to. He couldn’t understand Institute-born were never kids, never children. It was the damn age thing; otherwise he would’ve gotten it and known a murderer when he saw one. I wasn’t the only one who’d spent years surrounded by killers. Stefan had done his time too. He was like me in that way.
We were two peas in a poisonous pod—or two peas who’d escaped their pod and were living the life they wanted. Hardworking, good people who wouldn’t hurt a fly if they had their way. I noticed Stefan’s gun was gone. It would be with him in the bathroom and I remembered the man he’d shot only this morning.
Okay, maybe we fell somewhere in between.
Sitting up, I reached for the laptop in my duffel bag and checked to see if Ariel was online. She kept both late and early hours, the same as I did. She’d once said there was so much to do in life that she would sleep when she was dead. I pointed out she was a Buddhist and would never be dead, only reincarnated. She said I was a smart-ass. And I was smart, but I hadn’t meant to be an ass. It was a clear supposition: You can’t sleep when you’re dead if you’re never actually dead. Then she said she was Buddhist only on Tuesdays. She practiced a different religion or philosophy every day. How else could you learn?
It was a good point. I personally thought Buddhism was too challenging. With Christianity, you said you were sorry and poof, you were forgiven. In Buddhism, it didn’t matter how sorry you were. If you did the crime, you did the time—boot camp for your soul. That was why I hadn’t picked a philosophy or religion yet. I wanted to check out all my options and find the one with the most loopholes combined with the least amount of time consumption. I had things to do. Garages weren’t going to blow themselves up, now were they?
Ariel was online. Her icon picture popped up immediately on IM. Instant messaging was a little riskier than e-mail for hacking, but I had so many fake addresses bouncing this and my many e-mail addys nearly a hundred times around the globe that you’d have to be a computer genius times ten to track my location. Institute personnel, except for Jericho, had never had the imagination for that—hacking is an art, not a science. Institute students didn’t have access to the Internet, and no World of Warcraft basement dweller-hacker wannabe knew I existed. Security was as good as I wanted it to be.
Where’ve you been, Dr. Theoretical? We were supposed to watch Tombstone tonight. I promised I wouldn’t mock your preoccupation with horses and testosterone. And then Ghostbusters to see who of us could diagram a working proton pack first. I had popcorn waiting and everything.
We had a standing weekly movie . . . thing. It wasn’t a date, definitely not; only a . . . thing. We watched the movies at the same time and IM’ed back and forth, either mocking it or betting we could do it better. The flux capacitor battle had been going on for months now.
Ariel’s icon was her smiling face Photoshopped onto a mermaid’s body with tasteful shells covering certain areas. Mine, since I’d taken her suggestion to heart, was a floating grin, wide and wicked, and nothing else. The Cheshire cat—now you see me, now you don’t.
And to Raynor—now you never will again.
Family emergency, I typed back. Which means I’ll have to turn my paper in early. You’re absolutely certain the solution would work giving all the hypothetical guidelines? The surplus chromosome on the extra DNA strand would become inactive?
Yes, yes. Will you stop questioning my brilliance? There was a smiley face icon, but, like me, Ariel couldn’t leave anything alone. The usual yellow smiley face was now pale pink, the eyes had lashes, the bottom had a scaled tail, and the top had a wild pink seaweed mass of hair. It also had Poseidon’s trident, which meant she was annoyed. I’m going with ninety-five percent chance of efficacy. But it’s all work, work, work with you, cutie. And worse, you won’t share. That chromosome is like nothing I’ve seen and you’ve only given me half the information on it and won’t tell me where you discovered it. But, hey, I get it. No one wants to share the Nobel.
I would’ve laughed at that, but more in resignation than anything else. I couldn’t go to a real college and I couldn’t practice in a field, not one that attracted science types. The Institute was gone, but day care remained. I had no idea if they had the older children’s files or not—my file. For now, it was coffeehouses, bookstores, and in Bolivia, busing tables in a restaurant where tourists tipped as if the money were superglued to their hands. No Nobels. But if I did get one, I’d share with you. Promise.
There was a pause; then the icon’s trident disappeared and a bowl of popcorn appeared instead. Okay, you’re still my Bernie, but don’t forget, there are lots of guys around here who’d love a movie night with me right in my own apartment building, but I chose you and your brilliant-ass lives in Texas! Sorry to hear about your family, though. Hope everything turns out all right. She didn’t pry. That was one thing that had made me so comfortable with her at first—that and her ability to keep up with me in any scientific field. Same time next week for cowboys and proton pack races?
Bernie was yet another fake name to go along with Parker and Sebastian, and Texas was a fake home. But movie night was real and I was afraid I was going to miss it for a while . . . if I was lucky—forever if I wasn’t. I didn’t say that, though. All my life was hiding and living a lie. Ariel couldn’t be any different, whether I wanted her to be or not. I’ll bring the butter, I typed.
The icon bounced and turned red in the cheeks. Aren’t you the naughty one?
For the popcorn, I typed hastily.
“You are in way over your head, Misha. And tell her it’s cotton candy–flavored butter because it makes you think of her hair. See where she runs with that one.”
Once again I ended up slamming the laptop shut in midconversation to keep Stefan from bugging the hell out of me. “Would you stop that. And how can I be in over my head?” I added reluctantly. “I’m not a virgin. I’ve had sex seven times”—six and a half, I admitted to myself, but that was need-to-know information only—“and Ariel is a research colleague and e-mail friend. That’s it.” I finished the rest stiffly, slightly embarrassed as it wasn’t strictly true, in my mind anyway, and I also knew Stefan was more than aware of it. He was also aware as much as I was she couldn’t be any more than that, although we had different reasons for that knowledge. I waited for the teasing, but it didn’t come—not exactly.
Stefan had one of the towels wrapped around his hips. It hid the ugly scar on his thigh that had come from a bullet from Jericho’s gun, which had broken Stefan’s thighbone like a brittle winter branch. He limped sometimes now in cold weather or after a long day because of me. He’d taken a bullet trying to save me. That I’d done the same for him didn’t matter as it wasn’t the same. Couldn’t be the same. Chimeras are hard to kill. People are not. He didn’t seem to notice when he limped.
I never failed to.
“Yeaaaah. Seven times. It’s impressive. I’m getting the number tattooed on my arm I’m so proud.” He sat back down on the bed. “But you’re a virgin.” He held up a hand when I started to protest. “An emotional virgin. You haven’t been kicked in the teeth by someone you love yet and Pinky there looks like a girl who could rip out your heart, play tennis with it, stick it back in your chest, and continue to lead you around by your di—um . . . nose. But the first time is the worst. Once you get past that, it gets better.”
“She doesn’t seem as if she’d do that. She’s been helpful.” In ways she hadn’t planned on being. “And who’s to say I wouldn’t like being led around by my no—dick.”
“Fine. You’re a cursing machine now.” He put the gun back on the tab
le. “Then be extra careful. The nice ones don’t play rough, but they don’t give your heart back either. And growing a new one takes a long time. Trust me.” He stripped, pulled on sweatpants, and slid under the covers of his bed for the night. “But don’t trust me much.” He stared at the ceiling. “Between being based at a strip club and Nat . . . to hell with it, I don’t know shit about women. Or maybe I don’t know shit about myself. Either way, just be careful.” He turned over, then yawned with an exhaustion that covered body and soul. He’d found out Anatoly had died, we’d lost our home, and now he was thinking about the past. And the past was Natalie. All of that would exhaust anyone.
Natalie was the woman Stefan had loved. Or, as he’d said, as much as he was capable of loving. Searching for me, blaming himself, putting away his morals to make as much money as he could in the Mafiya—it had all meant there wasn’t much left over for Natalie. She’d known it too. She’d left him and, as far as I knew, he hadn’t tried again. If he had an itch to scratch, as he’d phrased it, several of the strippers liked making a little money on the side.
“The side of what?” I’d asked, but that was when I was new to the real world, barely rescued. The Institute didn’t spend much time on procreation beyond the very basics. They didn’t describe the way it made your brain explode in the best possible way, the almost painful but beyond-pleasurable feeling of ejaculation. It felt as if your life were draining away in a rush of warmth and ecstasy, and you were happy to go with it. If that was what happened with only your body, I couldn’t imagine if there was emotion involved. What poured out of your body was warm; what poured out of your heart if someone ripped it in half when they left you would be an ice-cold river of sharp razors and broken glass.
Why would anyone want to repeat that experience? Or risk it to begin with? I looked at the laptop for several seconds before pushing it away across the bed. Then I went to the bathroom, emptied the ice into the sink, and filled the bucket with water. Carrying it to the door, I used my penknife to slice the carpet. Just as I thought. Cheap hotel equaled cheap or no insulating rubber or wood threshold. There was at least an inch between the bottom of the door and the floor. I went outside and quietly poured the water all the way up that nonexistent threshold. Back inside, I closed the door, I went to my backpack for my small case of tools, and knelt before the TV. “Sorry.” I sighed with real regret. “I know it’s your life or ours, but we need the light.” And as with all no-tell motels, that was all we had—a single lamp and the bathroom light.
After unplugging the television, snipping the cord, stripping the insulation to find the hot wire, usually the black one, I folded the grounding wire back out of the way. Counting my blessings there was an outlet by the small table by the smaller window (in case you brought your own extra lamp—God, I hadn’t missed these crappy rooms), I plugged the TV cord in and rested the tip of the black wire in the water that had run a few inches under the door onto the concrete floor that had been under the carpet. There. It wasn’t a pipe bomb, but it would do . . . and it wouldn’t kill.
“What are you doing? You destroyed a TV. That’s like the Holy Grail to you. And you gut it to electrocute the maid?” Stefan demanded, the flat motel pillow folded under his head.
“It won’t kill. But it will make you extremely sorry you came knocking at our door.” I stood from my squatting position and said, “You might want to call Saul. If he steps in the water in the morning, his beard will bristle like a porcupine getting a prostate exam. Oh, and he’ll be thrown a few feet away, wet himself, and will probably scream himself hoarse when he can move again.” I grinned. “On the other hand, he’s probably already asleep. Let him rest.”
He snorted and reached for his cell phone resting beside his gun. “Running for the second time is a damn sight different from the first. Now you’re teaching me instead of the other way around.” He pressed the numbers. “And you have become somewhat of a shit, too, just like I said. And not so little either.”
I thought about that and the pipe bombs, the plane, hiring drug dealers, possibly electrocuting the maid, and more Stefan didn’t know. No, I didn’t mean he didn’t know—I meant, he didn’t know because he hadn’t asked me about them. Semantics can save your soul.
I’d become a shit, my brother thought. I grinned again—nothing theoretical about that.
I really rather had.
Chapter 7
I forgot the satisfaction of knowing my new self and becoming who I was meant to be—a manipulative, slightly amoral shit/genius—when at four a.m. a scream and sizzle/zap woke me up. Preparing for the worst was an excellent hobby. Getting the worst was not as enjoyable. Stefan was already at the door with his Steyr 9mm in hand. He didn’t have to tell me to pack. We’d learned last time. You pack before you go to bed for cases like this. “Watch out for the water,” I cautioned. “I can’t drag a crispy, fried brother to the car and our bags too.”
Avoiding the inch or two of water that had seeped under the door, but not unplugging the cord in case whoever was out there had a friend, he opened the door. Half in and half out of the puddle of water, a man twitched convulsively, eyes rolling back in his head. “Well, he’s not dead, but I’m not sure he’s quite alive either,” Stefan remarked.
I raced across the room and yanked the TV cord from the outlet. “Incompetent,” I muttered at myself. “Older buildings had a less safe wiring configuration and their electrical insulation isn’t always up to code if the owners don’t make the investment, which apparently they didn’t.”
“I’m not crying any tears over it.” Stefan lightly kicked the man’s shoe with his own bare foot. “See the gun? That is not a particularly friendly gun. It’s a Russian GSh-18 pistol, made to carry armor-penetrating rounds. It’s what we used to call a nye ostavtye ni odin jiveaum, a ‘take no prisoners’ gun or a Siberian Special.” Lingering long ago from the Stalin years (the History Channel cleansed my palate between movies), some older Russians considered Siberia equal to death . . . or Hell. Many had passed on that sentiment. Stefan’s grandfather had survived Siberia, but to hear Stefan retell the stories, none of his grandfather’s friends had.
“Call Saul. Get your shoes and rat while I check to see if there’s anyone else out there.” He was out the door, bare-chested and barefoot. He didn’t look any less dangerous for it. Five minutes later, the three of us were in the parking lot. The still-twitching guy wasn’t Mafiya despite the Russian gun, which was at least one less problem. He was one of Raynor’s men, loyal beyond his boss’s death—I’d checked his wallet. He had the same crappy fake government ID. He was alive but wasn’t exactly functional. The three of us went back to our rooms, dressed, hefted our bags, and ran back out to the parking lot.
Saul was equally unhappy. His ginger hair was standing on end, there was a sleep crease on his upper cheek, and he was in pajamas—in a way. He saw me wincing and huffed. “This is what you get. If I don’t have a half hour to do it right, I’m not doing it at all. He headed for his SUV, parked several cars from the one we had stolen. Our vehicle had its license plate switched twice over from the fast food place where we’d acquired the Mustang. It paid to take precautions. I started after Stefan when Godzilla jumped off my shoulder after spotting half a discarded Twinkie on the asphalt. I turned, dropped one bag, and caught him in midair to scold him. It was only half a minute, but that was enough time for Stefan to reach for the car door handle.
That was when I saw it.
The lights in the parking lot were dim and old, same as the motel, but I had excellent night vision and it was getting better the more I matured—as were other things. It was good enough now that I saw the oil on the side of the cover over the rear wheel. Fresh and gleaming, two fingerprints of wet amber—as fresh as if someone had just crawled out from under the car but a moment before. And who changed the oil on someone else’s car at four in the morning?
No one.
“Stoipah, no!” I dropped my bags and ran. “Don’t touch the car!�
�
But it was too late. His fingers had already hooked under the handle. I’d reached him at the same time and tackled him as hard and fast as I could. I might have been frozen when he had fought the man on the car outside Cascade Falls. I wasn’t frozen now. I wouldn’t let myself be again.
The explosion wasn’t huge; only big enough to take out the car and whoever would’ve been standing next to it. We weren’t. We were fifteen feet away, over a scraggly hedge into the other section of the parking lot. The medium-sized fireball behind us heated the air to more than a hundred degrees; the smoke scorched my lungs, but I didn’t care. Beneath me was my brother and although he was wheezing for breath, his face reddened by the heat, he was alive and not tiny pieces spread far and wide for the morning pigeons to peck. “What . . . ?” he said, choking. “How did . . . you know? How . . . did you get us . . . out of range?” It was a good question, considering he had at least thirty pounds on me and all dense muscle.
I pushed up to take the weight off his chest and let him recover his breath more quickly. “I saw the oil on the back of the car. Fresh. Someone had been under it. You don’t crawl under a car at four in the morning unless you’re planting a tracking device or a bomb.” The rest? Mmm. There was truth and there was explanation. Sometimes they could be entirely different things and sometimes they could be the same. In this case, they were the same. “Adrenaline. I’m in my prime. Not a geezer like you. I’m stronger than I was three years ago. I work out with your weights.” I didn’t. Exercise was boring. “You’ve seen me.” He hadn’t, but ordinary people don’t recall every detail of every day.
Truth, explanation, and half of a somewhat white lie. I’d tell him the entire truth later, when the time was right, but for now, half an untruth was what I gave him. I felt like hell saying it, but I saved my brother’s peace of mind, for now, and his life, for good, I hoped. That made it worth it. The car burned behind us and I felt a hand pat my back vigorously. “Small bonfire,” Stefan said with a crooked smile; then, apparently his breath back, he pulled me into a one-armed hug so fierce that even a chimera like me yelped. “Don’t do that again, okay? It’s my job to protect you, not vice versa. I’m the big brother. Me. Got it? If I blow up, I blow up alone. You go with Saul if that happens.”
