Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  The man slid up the win­dow’s bot­tom sec­ti­on. “Ni­ce day for pad­dlin’,” he sa­id with an iro­nic grin. “What’ll it be?”

  Zac­hary re­ad the sign as he drew out his wal­let. “What’s a Ches­sie?”

  “That’s Ches­sie the sea mons­ter. Na­med af­ter the Che­sa­pe­ake Bay.”

  Zac­hary exa­mi­ned the gro­up of bo­ats sha­ped li­ke purp­le and gre­en dra­gons. “We’ll ta­ke a re­gu­lar, wit­ho­ut the mons­ter. Ple­ase.” He held out a ten-dol­lar bill.

  The man squ­in­ted at him and sho­ok his he­ad. “Too tall. You’ll ne­ed a Ches­sie.”

  “What?” Zac­hary lo­oked scan­da­li­zed.

  “With the re­gu­lar pad­dle­bo­ats, yo­ur kne­es’ll be at yo­ur ears the who­le ti­me.”

  “I’m no’ dri­ving a gro­tes­que purp­le rip-off of the Loch Ness-”

  “And when you get out, it’ll fe­el li­ke so­me­one wal­ked a mi­le we­aring yo­ur balls for san­dals.”

  Zac­hary sta­red at him. “Aye. Ches­sie it is, then.” He cram­med an ext­ra fi­ve bucks in­to the man’s palm, then ma­de what he must ha­ve tho­ught was a subt­le adj­ust­ment of his own je­ans.

  We put on inc­re­dibly at­trac­ti­ve oran­ge li­fe­j­ac­kets and pad­dled away from the dock. The­re was no ste­ering whe­el-tur­ning the bo­at re­qu­ired pad­dling fas­ter on one si­de than the ot­her. Zac­hary was overly eager, so we went in a circ­le un­til he slo­wed down to my spe­ed.

  The exer­ti­on war­med me, and by the ti­me we we­re out in the har­bor, I was swe­ating in­si­de my wo­ol co­at.

  “That’s far eno­ugh,” he sa­id.

  I col­lap­sed in my se­at, pan­ting. The ga­rish purp­le he­ad of the dra­gon-or sea mons­ter, or wha­te­ver-smir­ked down at me. “Far eno­ugh for what?”

  “For them not to he­ar.” Zac­hary re­ac­hed un­der his li­fe vest and un­zip­ped his jac­ket.

  “Who?”

  “The DMP. They’re watc­hing us. They’ve be­en watc­hing you for a long ti­me.”

  My swe­at tur­ned cold. “Why? And wa­it-how do you know?”

  “My dad’s in the MI-X, the DMP’s UK co­un­ter­part. That’s why we’re he­re in the Sta­tes.”

  “To find me?”

  “No. Yes. Uh, partly.” Zac­hary sho­ok his he­ad. “I’ll start from the be­gin­ning, but in ca­se they’re watc­hing us, we can’t lo­ok li­ke we’re ar­gu­ing.” He to­ok my hand, and I co­uld fe­el his warmth thro­ugh my glo­ve. “Just stay calm. I swe­ar I’ll tell you everyt­hing I know.”

  I bre­at­hed de­eply, un­su­re of which was ma­king my he­ad spin mo­re, his to­uch or his words.

  No. De­fi­ni­tely his words.

  “I told you when we met,” he sa­id, “that I was born a mi­nu­te be­fo­re the Shift, se­ven­te­en ye­ars ago this mor­ning. And you pro­bably know you we­re born a mi­nu­te af­ter. But what you don’t know is that we we­re the only ones.”

  “The only ones what?”

  “Every mi­nu­te that go­es by on this pla­net, an ave­ra­ge of fo­ur hund­red ba­bi­es are born. Du­ring my mi­nu­te, and yo­urs? Only one. Us.”

  The chill of dre­ad cha­sed away the warmth of his to­uch. “What hap­pe­ned to the ot­her ba­bi­es? Did they die?”

  “The­re we­ren’t any. I think they just-” He wa­ved his hand. “Wa­ited. Or hur­ri­ed. In any ca­se, they we­ren’t born when we we­re.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. But it can’t be a co­in­ci­den­ce.”

  I put a hand to my tigh­te­ning thro­at. I was the First. I al­ways knew it was pos­sib­le. No-with all the mystery sur­ro­un­ding my birth, it was mo­re than pos­sib­le. Did that me­an I’d ma­de it hap­pen?

  “How do you know for su­re?” I as­ked Zac­hary. “Yo­ur dad told you?”

  “Right.”

  I won­de­red who was watc­hing us from the crow­ded sho­re­li­ne. I had a mad de­si­re to pad­dle as far as this sea mons­ter wo­uld ta­ke us. “Who el­se knows?”

  “Anyo­ne who ne­eds to. Pe­op­le high up in the agen­ci­es.”

  “How high is yo­ur dad?”

  “It’s clas­si­fi­ed.”

  I lo­oked away, at the pa­le am­ber sun­light ref­lec­ted in the glass fa­ca­de of the aqu­ari­um.

  Okay. Col­lec­ting tho­ughts. I’m the First, Zach’s the Last, his dad is a sec­ret agent, and my own go­vern­ment has be­en watc­hing me sin­ce, well, fo­re­ver.

  I re­wo­und my tho­ughts past the holy-crap-world-shat­te­ring imp­li­ca­ti­ons, back to the part abo­ut Spy Dad. My sto­mach be­gan a slow, he­avy sink.

  All this ti­me, Zac­hary’s in­te­rest in me co­uld ha­ve be­en to­tal­ly fa­ke. My mind skim­med thro­ugh all of our “mo­ments”-him dec­la­ring me bon­nie when I lo­oked li­ke ass, the mug exc­han­ge at our first me­eting with Eowyn, the ne­ar kiss af­ter our imp­romp­tu Scot­tish les­son. We­re any of them re­al?

  I pul­led my hand out of his. “Did yo­ur fat­her ma­ke you hang out with me? Is this”-I ges­tu­red to the spa­ce bet­we­en us-“so­me kind of spy mis­si­on?”

  His eyes wi­de­ned in hor­ror. “No! No. Aura, lis­ten to me.”

  I re­al­ly didn’t want to. If it had be­en war­mer, I’d ha­ve swum for sho­re. But I was trap­ped.

  “To be ho­nest, it star­ted out that way,” he sa­id. “My dad as­ked me to ke­ep an eye on you at scho­ol, but he didn’t tell me to jo­in yo­ur re­se­arch pro­j­ect. That was my idea.” Zac­hary lif­ted his hands as if to re­ach for me, then let them drop on­to the kne­es of his blue je­ans. “So was fal­ling for you. My idea,” he ad­ded qu­i­etly.

  My mo­uth ope­ned, ins­tantly drying from the bit­ter wind and my rush of emo­ti­on. “Fal­ling for me?”

  “Co­me on, you’re not blind.” He tug­ged on the col­lars of his swe­ater and shirt as if sud­denly warm. “As I was sa­ying, my dad wan­ted me to tell him if the DMP ap­pro­ac­hed you at scho­ol. He’s spent the last two months ne­go­ti­ating with them.”

  “For what? My fre­edom? My li­fe?” I was still re­eling from the con­fes­si­on of his fe­elings. Dis­co­ve­ring I was the su­bj­ect of an in­ter­na­ti­onal di­alo­gue was put­ting me over the ed­ge.

  “For a lot of things. Let me exp­la­in.” Zac­hary’s bre­ath ma­de a clo­ud as he spo­ke in­to the fri­gid air. “The gro­up that’s now the MI-X used to be this pa­ra­nor­mal brot­her­ho­od that went back cen­tu­ri­es. They know how to hand­le ghosts wit­ho­ut hur­ting them.”

  “Can they te­ach the DMP tho­se tricks?”

  “They’re trying. But the DMP was star­ted by so­me of the most pa­ra­no­id pe­op­le in U.S. mi­li­tary and in­tel­li­gen­ce. They think that everyt­hing dif­fe­rent is dan­ge­ro­us.”

  I mas­sa­ged my temp­les, fen­ding off a he­adac­he. “How can I even trust what you say? You know so much abo­ut me, but I don’t know anyt­hing abo­ut you.”

  “That’s no’ true.” He le­aned for­ward, his gre­en eyes ref­lec­ting the gray wa­ter be­hind me. “I just told you my se­cond-de­epest sec­ret, that I’m the ab­so­lu­tely last per­son born pre-Shift. No one el­se knows that, ex­cept my pa­rents.”

  “And pro­bably half of MI-X, and the DMP, too. Big de­al.”

  He ma­de a frust­ra­ted no­ise and tur­ned to fa­ce the front of the pad­dle­bo­at. “I don’t bla­me you for not trus­ting me. I’ve kept so many sec­rets for so long, it’s a ha­bit.” His fa­ce fi­nal­ly drop­ped the mask of con­fi­den­ce. “But the way I fe­el abo­ut you, I’d put it all in yo­ur hands.”

  “All what?”

  “All my sec­rets, even the one my dad do­esn’t know.”

  “You can tell me.” I ho­oked my fin­ger in­si­de his el­bow. “You can trust me.�
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  “If I told you, you wo­uldn’t be­li­eve.” Zac­hary lif­ted his he­ad to lo­ok ac­ross the har­bor, and sud­denly his ga­ze shar­pe­ned. “But I co­uld show you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As we wal­ked up the gangp­lank of the USS Con­s­tel­la­ti­on, I kept a clo­se eye on the des­cen­ding sun. His­to­ri­cal land­marks li­ke this ni­ne­te­enth-cen­tury bat­tles­hip we­re al­ways ha­un­ted by the ol­dest, cra­zi­est ghosts.

  But Zac­hary had in­sis­ted, and my cu­ri­osity or­de­red me to fol­low him.

  Once on­bo­ard, tho­ugh, he tur­ned in­to a comp­le­te guy, dist­rac­ted by the sa­ils and the can­nons and the po­le thin­gi­es. Whi­le he exa­mi­ned every gad­get and re­ad every pla­que, I sto­od at the chest-high ra­iling of the wo­oden deck and kept vi­gil over the In­ner Har­bor.

  The Christ­mas crowds now lo­oked si­nis­ter. How many of the shop­pers we­re sec­ret DMP agents? Did my aunt know they’d be­en watc­hing me? Did it ha­ve so­met­hing to do with my mom and dad? How co­uld it not, if it was abo­ut my birth?

  As al­ways, it was easy to pick out the post-Shif­ters by the co­lors they wo­re. I tho­ught abo­ut the fu­tu­re, when al­most ever­yo­ne wo­uld we­ar red. The co­lor of li­fe wo­uld be­co­me the co­lor of sa­me­ness, of dis­con­nec­ti­on. I lo­oked down at my black co­at and sap­phi­re blue swe­ater and won­de­red how long I co­uld hold out.

  Zac­hary cal­led my na­me from the top of the sta­ir­ca­se le­ading down in­to the ship.

  I tho­ught of all the ghosts I’d se­en be­low­decks du­ring our ele­men­tary scho­ol fi­eld trip. “You go ahe­ad. I’ll wa­it up he­re.”

  “It’ll be okay, I pro­mi­se.”

  I fol­lo­wed him re­luc­tantly down the short, ste­ep sta­ir­way.

  The first le­vel was a lar­ge open spa­ce with can­nons li­ning the outer ed­ge, each po­in­ting out a lar­ge squ­are port­ho­le. Light sho­ne thro­ugh the­se ope­nings, but the ro­om was dark eno­ugh that I wo­uld’ve se­en any ghosts. Du­ring my last vi­sit, this ro­om had be­en full of them, wan­de­ring among the can­nons, most dres­sed in the­ir navy uni­forms.

  I tri­ed to re­mem­ber if Lo­gan had go­ne on that fi­eld trip, and won­de­red why he hadn’t spo­ken to me on­ce to­day. My pho­ne was full of vo­ice ma­il and text mes­sa­ges from Me­gan and my ot­her fri­ends wis­hing me a happy birth­day, but no word from my sup­po­sed boyf­ri­end? I didn’t know whet­her to fe­el hurt or wor­ri­ed, so I cho­se both, ima­gi­ning him ha­ving fun wit­ho­ut me in one of the Ke­eleys’ va­ca­ti­on spots, or cha­sed by the Ob­si­di­ans af­ter de­ci­ding that sha­ding was the new ext­re­me sport.

  “Lo­ok.” Zac­hary po­in­ted to the low ce­iling, whe­re long po­les we­re sus­pen­ded on racks abo­ve each can­non. “They used tho­se to lo­ad the gun­pow­der.”

  “Uh-huh.” A sign ne­ar the sta­ir­ca­se sa­id the bar­racks we­re on the le­vel be­low. That se­emed slightly mo­re in­te­res­ting than a bunch of old guns. Plus, the wi­de-open win­dows he­re ma­de it al­most as cold as out­si­de.

  “I’m go­ing down,” I told Zac­hary.

  “I’ll be along.” He kept re­ading the wo­od-fra­med pla­que on the wall.

  I grip­ped the ra­iling to des­cend, won­de­ring when Zac­hary wo­uld re­ve­al his sec­ret. His ob­ses­si­on with facts and de­ta­ils ca­me in handy for our re­se­arch pro­j­ect, but not so much on a da­te (if that’s what this was).

  The le­vel be­low was war­mer, tigh­ter, and dar­ker. Im­me­di­ately a vi­olet man ap­pe­ared be­si­de me, dres­sed in a cap­ta­in’s uni­form, spi­ne stra­ight as if awa­iting ins­pec­ti­on by the ad­mi­ral.

  “Excu­se me, miss,” the ghost sa­id, “I se­em to ha­ve misp­la­ced my pi­pe.”

  I pi­vo­ted and he­aded for the mo­re brightly lit bow (or may­be it was the stern), trying not to lo­ok li­ke I was run­ning away.

  The ex-cap­ta­in fol­lo­wed. “Just one smo­ke and I’ll mo­ve on. I’ve ma­de that vow and I in­tend to ke­ep it.”

  Tug­ging off my hat and glo­ves, I en­te­red a ro­om at the end of the ship, li­ned with sle­eping berths that ope­ned on­to a com­mon area. The whi­te do­ors lis­ted the ranks of the sa­ilors.

  A mid­dle-aged co­up­le sto­od at the far end, twenty fe­et away. The wo­man held up an un­fol­ded broc­hu­re so the man with her co­uld re­ad the map over her sho­ul­der.

  “This was whe­re the of­fi­cers slept,” she sa­id. “The en­lis­ted used tho­se ham­mocks in that ot­her ro­om.”

  Her com­pa­ni­on scof­fed. “So­me things ne­ver chan­ge. When I was on that car­ri­er, the of­fi­cers had the­ir own di­ning ro­om, too.”

  “Ple­ase help,” the cap­ta­in’s ghost sa­id be­hind me. “Per­haps you co­uld wri­te a let­ter on my be­half.”

  I bit back a ru­de res­pon­se. He co­uld fol­low me anyw­he­re. This was his ship. He’d pro­bably be­en over every inch of it a tho­usand ti­mes du­ring his li­fe.

  The lan­terns we­re brigh­ter he­re, but I co­uld still see a long vi­olet form on a bed in the third li­e­ute­nant’s berth.

  The co­up­le pas­sed thro­ugh the ex-cap­ta­in on the­ir way out.

  “I don’t wish to frigh­ten you.” The ghost’s pa­le be­ard bob­bed as he spo­ke to me. “But you re­mind me of my da­ug­h­ter.”

  I’d he­ard that li­ne a tho­usand ti­mes.

  “I don’t ha­ve a pi­pe,” I told him, “and even if I did, you co­uldn’t hold it. You’re was­ting yo­ur ti­me wis­hing for so­met­hing you can’t ha­ve.”

  “But is that not hu­man na­tu­re?”

  The man in the third li­e­ute­nant’s berth sat up. God, not two at on­ce. My fists bal­led in an­ger at Zac­hary. I didn’t want to co­me abo­ard this stu­pid ship in the first pla­ce.

  The ex-li­e­ute­nant char­ged out of his cham­ber. “She sent me a let­ter! We we­re sup­po­sed to be mar­ri­ed, but she fo­und so­me­one el­se. Tell her I for­gi­ve her.”

  “She’s de­ad by now,” I told him. “You ha­ve to mo­ve on.”

  “They ne­ver pa­id my fa­mily,” ca­me a de­ep vo­ice from my left, anot­her ghost.

  I bac­ked up aga­inst the far wall. “Ple­ase stop.”

  A cho­rus grew aro­und me-fi­ve, six, se­ven men yan­ked from the­ir li­ves, spe­wing the­ir grud­ges. Tho­ugh they co­uldn’t he­ar each ot­her, they se­emed to be sho­uting to be he­ard over the ca­cop­hony.

  “Le­ave me alo­ne,” I whis­pe­red, squ­e­ezing my eyes shut.

  “Just one pi­pe, that’s all I ask.”

  “That three hund­red dol­lars wo­uld ha­ve pa­id the rent for a ye­ar.”

  “Why co­uldn’t she wa­it for me?”

  “Stop it.” I co­ve­red my ears, but the vo­ices grew lo­uder.

  “No one un­der­s­tands.”

  “No one lis­tens.”

  “No one ca­res.”

  “YOU TAS­TE WRONG!!”

  My eyes slam­med open at the new so­und. “No…,” I whim­pe­red.

  The sha­de shot to­ward me, stre­aking thro­ugh the ot­her ghosts in a qu­aking, purp­le-black ha­ze.

  “GET OFF OUR WORLD!” Its vo­ice crack­led and scre­ec­hed li­ke a smas­hed-up elect­ric gu­itar. “YOU DON’T BE­LONG HE­RE!”

  My sto­mach pitc­hed as if the bo­at had cap­si­zed. My he­ad po­un­ded so hard, I co­uldn’t even scre­am. I sank aga­inst the wall, arms over my fa­ce. The sha­de ho­ve­red abo­ve me, its shri­eks pi­er­cing li­ke gi­ant claws.

  “I SEE WHAT YOU ARE!”

  I col­lap­sed on­to my sto­mach and tri­ed to crawl away ac­ross the worn wo­oden flo­or. In the backg­ro­und, the ghosts still sho­uted the­ir ple­as.

  Then, si­len­ce.r />
  I wa­ited for a long mo­ment, sho­ul­ders bra­ced aga­inst anot­her at­tack. When I he­ard fo­ots­teps, I ope­ned my eyes but kept my fa­ce to the flo­or. No hu­man out­si­de of the Ob­si­di­an Corps co­uld sa­ve me from this tor­ment.

  “Aura.”

  I tur­ned to see Zac­hary stan­ding alo­ne in the ca­bin’s dark do­or­way. The ghosts had di­sap­pe­ared. The sha­de was go­ne.

  In a ne­ar whis­per, he sa­id, “Now you know.”

  My mind flas­hed back to Lo­gan’s sud­den fa­de the day I’d pic­ked up Zac­hary for our first star-map­ping mis­si­on, and how that night I hadn’t se­en any ghosts in the fo­od co­urt.

  I co­uldn’t re­mem­ber when I’d ever se­en a ghost in the pre­sen­ce of Zac­hary. Lo­gan’s Mr. Red.

  “You did this.”

  “I think so.” Zac­hary hur­ri­ed to kne­el be­si­de me. “But I don’t know how.”

  “And you’ve ne­ver told an­yo­ne?”

  “Of co­ur­se not.” He ste­adi­ed me as I sat up.

  I pres­sed my hands aga­inst my temp­les, re­min­ding my bra­in which way was up. “If you can’t see ghosts, how do you know you can get rid of them?”

  “One of my-so­me­one I knew back ho­me. Yo­un­ger than I am, ob­vi­o­usly. They fi­gu­red it out, and we tes­ted it.”

  “How co­uld no one el­se know?”

  “I try to stay out of dark pla­ces un­less they’re crow­ded, or wi­de open li­ke our fi­eld. Or I avo­id yo­un­ger pe­op­le.” Zac­hary lo­oked over his sho­ul­der at the do­or­way. “No one can ever know.”

  “Not even yo­ur dad?”

  “Espe­ci­al­ly not him. Can you ima­gi­ne, the last per­son born pre-Shift turns out to be a wal­king Black­Box? I’d spend the rest of my li­fe in a la­bo­ra­tory.”

  Even now my mind was den­ying it-he had the one po­wer I’d al­ways lon­ged for (be­fo­re Lo­gan di­ed, at le­ast). I bro­ke away from him. “Stay in this ro­om un­til I call you.”

  I hur­ri­ed out of the of­fi­cers’ qu­ar­ters and in­to the en­lis­ted men’s bar­racks, a wi­de, dark spa­ce empty of to­urists. Ham­mocks hung from the ce­iling, re­semb­ling empty body bags. The only light ca­me from a few dim yel­low bulbs, and from small port­ho­les spa­ced along the outer wall.