by T. M. Catron
Not you, Morse.
At the airport, EW’s remaining security escorted him to the plane, a sleek Bombardier Global 7000, while I pulled his bag from the car. I slung my own bag over my shoulder before walking to the stair going up to the door.
But the ground crew began rolling it away. I waved at them to stop. The engines whined. I looked up to the closing door. Finn, the head of security, and Robert of all people, stood within, laughing. I nodded in understanding. Nicely played, EW. He had no intention of taking me with him. All the time spent for nothing. I smiled and waved a rude hand gesture at them.
Before they closed the door, EW appeared behind the two men to gloat at me as well. He smiled. Then, with a shove I wouldn’t have thought him capable of, he sent Robert and Finn reeling out into the space between the door and the plane. They both landed heavily on the tarmac. I stopped smiling. Robert cursed and tried to get up.
EW pointed to me and clearly mouthed, “You’re next.” The whine of the engines increased in volume. EW nodded to someone within, and they closed the door. The jet taxied down the runway.
I turned my back on it. If that was the only punishment he had for me, I could handle falling twenty feet. Already ground crew members were rushing over to lend a hand. An airport security car rolled toward us, its lights flashing. It gained speed, heading for the airplane. I turned back to look. Maybe EW wasn’t as impervious as he believed. The driver put the pedal to the floor.
And drove right over the top of Finn and Robert.
Their bodies popped like balloons, bones crunching into the pavement. The car sped off down the runway.
The people around me hollered in horror and confusion. I watched long enough to see that Finn and Robert were dead, and then turned and maneuvered through the growing crowd of onlookers.
You’re next.
12
Hunger
I admit I had not anticipated EW’s cold brutality. He would make a good hybrid. I got away from the airport and headed to the red board in the fence. If someone was following me, I could confront them and eliminate them more quickly inside the ramshackle house.
But no one came. I waited all night to be sure. Just before sunrise, I walked out the front door, my bag slung over my shoulder, my real gun—not plastic—holstered at my hip, and another at my ankle. A Condarri knife was strapped to my calf. It would never go dull. Indeed, no Earthly substance could sharpen it.
Time to admit my failure. I didn’t contact Janslow, whose partnership with me had already ended. My immediate duty was to report to Condar, tell them of my failure, and take the punishment for my crime of incompetence.
Instead, I wandered the quiet streets of Marseille. Hunger drove me to the cafe overlooking the Mediterranean, but it was still closed. I sat at a table outside and waited. Later. I would report in later. Tonight.
In the meantime, I had an entire day to spend how I liked, a first for me. The little server raised his eyebrows at me as he unlocked the front door. I smiled, and he sighed in resignation. “Just order everything you want now, okay, monsieur?”
I did. Eggs, crêpes, bacon, sausage, bread, cheese, goat’s milk, coffee, and porridge. I’d never tried goat’s milk before but found that I liked it. I drank two cups of coffee and then ordered wine.
“Monsieur? We don’t serve it this early.”
“What’s your name?”
“Martin.”
“Martin, I’ll make it worth your while.” It sounded like a cheesy line from a movie, but I’d always wanted to say it. I pulled out a roll of euros and stuffed them in his hand. Martin took the money and returned with a glass and a red. He stared at me.
“What?”
“Your hand—it’s better!” The four puncture wounds on my hand had healed quickly—inhumanly—as they were meant to. All that remained were four faint scars as evidence of my penance. With time, those might fade too.
“Leave the bottle.”
I drank until the crowds came for breakfast, and then drank until they left. I’d just considered ordering lunch when I remembered Marseille had other restaurants, of better quality. But I liked looking out to the ocean, so I ordered a basket lunch and walked down to the Plage des Catalans.
The sunbathers had set up on the sand hours ago, their chairs, umbrellas, and towels marking off their territories like tiny city-states. Stepping into someone else’s domain was a great intrusion of space, punishable by dirty looks and the occasional obscenity. People on vacation should be happier.
I navigated my way through the districts and wound up at the water where Toral and I had entered it. There, I sat at the edge of the wet sand and ate an egg salad sandwich. Martin had packed a beer as well. I must have looked like I needed it even though no matter how much I drank, it wouldn’t affect me.
The Condarri engineered hybrids from their own DNA and that of humans. We are a super-human race. In addition to healing quickly, I could see in the dark, run faster, fight better, and think more intelligently than most humans. But I had not seen EW’s feint.
Why not? I ran through everything in my mind. The plan had approval from the top. I had been hand-picked for my ability to hack into any human’s computer system. Janslow took care of the connections. But we had missed something. The intelligence was incorrect or falsified. What hybrid would do that?
None.
I had no one to blame but myself.
I stared at the bright water until my eyes burned. Then, I stared some more.
“Will you be going for a swim today, Monsieur Morse?”
I turned at the voice.
Toral stood over me, smiling. The sun must have been shining brighter on her face than anywhere else—she practically glowed. Maybe it was a result of the yellow sari, or her hair flowing around her face.
“I was hoping you’d come back,” she said. She sat down beside me. We remained silent a while, listening to the waves break ahead of us as if we’d always been friends and didn’t need words to convey the meaning in our hearts.
Just like the hybrids. Maybe hybrids and humans weren’t that different after all.
“What is troubling you?” she asked.
“What makes you think I’m troubled?”
“Your brooding is all over your face. You have had bad news? Perhaps your business meetings did not go to your satisfaction?”
“You could say that. Have you been to the beach every day?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Toral smiled. “I like it. And I was hoping someone would come by and offer me another swimming lesson.”
“What about your brother and sister?”
“They are here—up there.” She pointed to the left and up, near the wall to the walkway. “I went for a walk, and found you.”
I almost leaned over and kissed her. Almost. But, remembering how Janslow had kept tabs on me, I drew back. A look of disappointment flitted across her face. The fluttering bird in my chest returned, and for some reason, it hurt to think I had caused her disappointment.
To push away those feelings, I said, “Toral, what is the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Other than let a stranger teach me to float out in the ocean?”
“Yes. Is that it?”
She smirked. “No, big-head. I went to University, remember?”
“What happened there?”
“I once crept into a girlfriend’s room and painted her face while she slept.”
“That’s not very crazy.”
“It is if you knew that she slept with a knife under her pillow.”
I paused. “That when you got that scar?”
“No.” Toral expression didn’t change. But she didn’t offer an explanation, either.
“Do you sleep with a knife under your pillow?”
“Do I need to?”
A large wave rolled in, the castoff from a cruise ship far out in the bay. I thought about how my life was one giant wave, full of danger
, malice, and the power to destroy. When it broke, it would scatter into a billion billion droplets, like the stars. The pieces would be too tiny to find ever again.
And then I wondered why it mattered. My life was never my own to begin with.
“What about you, Morse? The craziest thing you’ve ever done.”
Maybe Toral sensed my melancholy—if I could call it that. Is that why she kept trying to engage me in conversation? If so, I was becoming dangerously unstable. Suddenly, I felt like a coward. Hybrids did not ask questions about themselves. Mine were only a response to my growing terror of what would happen to me tonight when I turned myself in to my masters.
When I did not immediately answer, she began guessing. “Got into a drunken fight in a bar.”
“Nope. Never been drunk.”
“Says the man with beer on his breath.”
I grinned.
“Climbed Mount Everest.”
“Nope.”
Didn’t run away when you had the chance.
No. I deserve my punishment. Even my thoughts of running dishonor Condar.
Two men in business casual dress walked along the water’s edge. One of them had a handlebar mustache. I almost pointed it out to Toral so we could both have a good laugh. But maybe her father had a mustache, so I remained quiet. The men wore leather shoes, taking care to keep them out of the surf. I looked down at my own shoes dug into the sand. Toral wasn’t wearing any. Her toes peeked out from under her skirt.
Twenty meters down, the men changed direction, turning back our way. They both wore jackets like I did, despite the warmth of the beach. I wore mine to conceal my gun.
They glanced my way, and I knew.
EW’s men had found me.
“Toral.”
“Yes?”
“When I tell you, stand up and walk away. Quickly, but don’t give away that you know anything.”
“Know anything?” she asked, a half-smile playing at her lips.
“I’m being followed.”
“By whom?”
“Some people I’d rather you didn’t have to meet.”
“Are you serious or is this a bad joke?”
“I’m deadly serious. Do it now. And don’t look back.”
I looked at her one more time, memorizing her face, her scar, her soft, intelligent eyes. I should have disappeared earlier. Hopefully, they hadn’t gotten a good look at her. Why the sudden protective instinct? Hybrids don’t protect humans.
Toral gathered her skirt.
“Are you still at the Inn?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do not leave your sister and brother. I’ll check on you tonight.”
With a worried look in her eyes, she nodded and stood. Then, the men were there. One of them took a long look at Toral as she walked away.
“I’d offer you guys a beer, but I’m fresh out,” I said cheerfully. I turned the empty bottle upside down to demonstrate.
“Why don’t we go for a walk, Morse?” said the mustache.
I glanced around at the crowds. “I’d rather stay here. It’s a beautiful day.”
The other, who had tattooed writing on his neck, moved his jacket enough for me to see the gun holstered at his hip. Idiot. “We can deliver our message just as easily here as somewhere else.”
“Oh!” I allowed a look of comprehension to dawn on my face. “You’re from Emerson-Wright!”
He glanced around. “Stop playing games.”
“Alright.” I leaned back to get a good look at them. “Go drown yourself.”
Then I looked back out to the water.
“He’s fun,” said the one with the mustache. “Now get up.”
“No. What’ll you do to me here on the beach where everyone can see you? Will you shoot me?”
“You can’t stay on the beach forever. At some point, you’ll leave, or the tourists will leave, and then you won’t have them for protection.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“Well, good, then we’ll just sit down right here and wait.”
They sat on either side of me, facing the sea. I tolerated that a moment, and then took off my shoes and stood. They stood too.
“If you run, we’ll shoot you, crowds or no,” said Tattoo.
I smiled and walked into the water, sport coat and all. I didn’t need to look back to see that they followed. They splashed through the surf like a couple of children. Hopefully, they could swim. If they couldn’t, this wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.
When I reached waist-deep water, I turned to look at them. They stood right behind me, their backs to the crowds. The one with the mustache drew his gun.
A little boy wearing a bright yellow life vest paddled by on an inner tube. Mustache pulled the gun in close to his body until the child passed. I backed out into deeper water, letting the gentle swell lift me off my feet.
“You should have heeded my advice, gentlemen.”
“Which?” asked Mustache.
“I told you to go drown yourselves. It’ll be a lot less painful than what’s about to happen to you now.”
Mustache laughed and raised his gun.
I ducked under the water, propelling myself to the right three meters before I even heard the shot. The bullet didn’t come close. Above the water, bathers screamed and splashed around as they tried to get out of the way.
I swam around as the men fired more bullets into the sea. But they were disturbing the surface of the water to a point they couldn’t see what they were firing at. I swam around behind Mustache, who had stopped firing to look for me.
I kicked him behind the knee, and he flailed backward. Springing up out of the water, I caught him with my arm around his neck, dragged him under. He struggled but couldn’t reach me from his position. Like some sort of perverted lifeguard, I pulled him away from shore, deeper into the sea. A large bubble of air escaped his mouth.
No no no no. He wasn’t going to drown that effortlessly. I surfaced, allowing him to take a big gasp of air. He flailed behind and found my face, punching me twice on the cheek while I looked back toward shore for Tattoo, who saw us and fired over and over. He almost hit me.
Mustache grabbed my face, the strength of his grip fueled by the fear and adrenaline running through his body. I sank back under the waves, dragging him down with me, all the way to the rock I had used as a marker before, thirty meters down. The man didn’t let go of my face, squeezing my cheeks so hard I felt a tooth cut the inside of my mouth. I punched his ribs a few good times. The water slowed the force of my blows, but I still managed to break a rib. He let go.
I let go too. The man floated aimlessly a moment, disoriented. Then, his gaze found the shiny surface far above, and he reached for it, his legs kicking furiously. I grabbed his foot and held him. He tried to kick me, but I pulled him back down on level with me and grabbed him by his lapels. I smiled. His eyes widened in terror—the look of a man who knows he’s going to die.
When I stared back at him, my mission’s failure washed over me afresh. Real anger coursed through my body. I did not feel like simply drowning this thug. I grabbed his right arm and twisted it back, tearing, wrenching. His shoulder popped.
Mustache screamed, allowing what oxygen he had left to escape to the surface. He flailed now, but I kept twisting. He managed to kick me in the knee cap. I shoved him down to the bottom, his chest against the sand, his arm still twisted back. I stood on his back and jerked his arm. Blood spurted out into the water in a cloud of dark red. He screamed again and bucked as water filled his lungs.
As he drowned, I dragged him to some rocks and wedged him beneath them, an offering to the sea. Then I surfaced, taking the man’s arm with me.
Far on shore, bathers and their families still scrambled to get away from the water and the madman with a gun. A few brave souls had their phones out, recording the whole mess. Tattoo turned round and around, looking for his buddy and me. I swam to the left, toward shore. He may have spent all his ammo, but I d
idn’t know for sure, so when I got within shooting range, I dove under again and made for him.
When I reached him, I used the other man’s arm like a club, rising up out of the water and smacking Tattoo across the head. He stumbled and then grabbed the limb to keep it from hitting him again. I let him keep it. His mouth opened and then closed again as he realized what he was holding. He dropped it in revulsion. I grabbed it and threw it back at him.
“Unless you want the same treatment,” I said, “you’ll take that back to Emerson-Wright. I want you to personally deliver it.”
His eyes widened, and the water grew warmer. He’d urinated in fear. I smiled again.
Tattoo turned and scrambled for shore, carrying the arm. He glanced back at me, eyes wide in terror, and stumbled into the water. Regaining his feet, he reached shore and began running. People shrieked as he passed them heading for the mass of gawkers on the walkway. Sirens wailed toward the beach. When Tattoo realized he’d never get through the throng trying to leave the beach, he turned and ran below the walk. At a low point, he flung the arm up onto it, then hoisted himself up and over. Then he was gone.
I walked to the shore and retrieved my bag from the deserted sand.
13
L'auberge
The inn was a small, old-fashioned two-story with an expansive mahogany desk set in front of rows of cubbies and keys. A small flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall above the desk, displaying a news channel. The volume was turned down. The teenager standing behind the desk looked up from his phone, swept his eyes over my wet, dirty clothing, and said in French, “No public toilets.”
“I don’t want to use the toilet. I’m looking for a guest. Mademoiselle…” What was her last name? Oh well. “Toral.”
The boy tossed his head to sweep his long hair to one side. “Who?”
“A young Indian woman, staying with her brother and sister.”
“Oh. She’s not here.”
“I’ll wait for her, then.” I gestured to a stiff-backed chair against the opposite wall. The kid shrugged and went back to his phone.
