Alliance

by Leigh, Trisha

  Reaper is Lethal, too, but she’s manipulating blood in people’s veins for the government now. Not that we ever asked her, or would ask her, to do such a thing for us.

  “Please, take a seat.” He eyes Madeline. “It’s good to see you, Crystal.”

  She presses her lips in a thin line and doesn’t respond. I’m not sure if it makes me feel better or worse that they’re not only acquainted, but that she apparently hates him, too. I might agree that we should help the poor people getting their brains mashed like potatoes on Thanksgiving, but there’s not one single part of me that wants to help that man so much as pick up a penny.

  The eight of us sit, waiting to hear what Agent Jackhole is going to say next.

  “I’m told you were briefed on the computer virus, which we’re calling Gloworm. Since yesterday, cases have been identified in six countries, including the US. This thing is nasty, and since the whole goddamn world has their noses buried in computer screens 24-7, it’s going to spread fast.” He grabs a dry-erase marker and pulls off the cap like he’d rather it were someone’s head. And nods to Agent Bishop, who flips on an overhead projector. Images of the victims—bloody noses and lips, sticky yellow matter dripping from their noses and ears—display on one of the blank walls. She flips through them and I try to hold down my breakfast as Marlow continues. “Comic book idiots have been waiting for the zombie apocalypse for years. This is worse.”

  “They’ve also believed in superheroes for years,” Madeline mutters under her breath. “And we’ve been right under their noses the whole time, too.”

  I jerk my head up, but her eyes are on the ground. We’re about the farthest thing from superheroes. The only thing we have in common with the movie characters I read about on the internet during my brief stint of freedom is genetic mutation. And the fact that the world doesn’t understand us. There’s the important distinction that we have no idea what we’re doing.

  The squeak of the felt-marker tip on the whiteboard draws my attention. Marlow scribbles, filling up the space with red scratches as fast as his hands will write.

  “Is this seriously the best technology available to the CIA? No cool electronic boards that you can touch and swipe and move around in thin air? Lame.” Polly doesn’t smile, even though she’s kidding. I think. “No, but really. I mean, if I sign up to be a spy or whatever, I want cooler stuff.”

  I catch Dane smiling, but he quickly hides it away. He’s got his serious-government-agent face on, and so does the third agent, but Agent Bishop looks bemused by Polly’s patter.

  That won’t last.

  “Okay, so we’ll send in three teams. The first one—Haint, Pollyanna, and Agent Bishop—will infiltrate the lab where we’ve traced the original computer signal that sent out the virus. Team number two—Athena, Mole, and Goose—will work together to figure out who might be bankrolling the operation and the extent of their involvement. Agent Warren will accompany you. Those of you left who would like to participate will join Agent Lee in researching commonalities between the people who have been affected, in an attempt to learn why they were targeted, and conducting interviews, if necessary.”

  My name, along with Geoff’s, is on the sad list of leftovers. I’m not sure why he’s stuck with me, since he does have a pretty cool talent for being able to make random objects fly, but maybe it’s not necessary in this circumstance. Or they don’t trust him, since he’s new to consciousness and all. Their file on him has to be pretty thin.

  “But we’re all going overseas, right?” Athena verifies.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be strictly necessary for team two to be on the ground there, but we think it’s best to keep everyone together.”

  “We’re all going.” Mole’s tone leaves no room for argument. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it together.”

  “It won’t just be the seven of you, of course. You’ll be joined by other Assets who have assisted us in the past. People like you.”

  “People like us? You mean freaks.” Geoff’s face is red, from his hairline to his ruddy cheeks. It appears that his reaction to being relegated to the worthless list is anger.

  Mine is embarrassment, but then again, it’s normal. I have a reaction to being pushed to the side waiting on standby.

  Marlow doesn’t dignify the statement with an answer. We all know it’s true, anyway. He’s never left any doubt about what he thinks of us, and that our use extends only as far as our willingness to assist the government. “There are four other Cavies who will be joining your teams, all endowed with talents useful to this operation.”

  “What do we do once we figure out how the virus is made and who’s behind it?” My antenna is up. It doesn’t sound like much of this really needs to be done while in Russia, and if they have other Cavies who they already work with, why do they need us?

  “You’ll report back to your agents, who will report to their superiors, and so on, until we’re advised how to proceed.”

  “So we won’t have to kill anyone,” Mole clarifies, trying to hide the relief in his sightless eyes.

  Mole’s had to kill animals before while testing and improving his talent, and every time the Philosopher and the others forced him to do it, it stole a little piece of the fabric that binds him together. They tried to harden him for years but it never took.

  “We’re not anticipating that, no.” Marlow crosses his beefy arms over his chest. “Of course, you’ll be in an explosive situation. As with all our agents, you’ll have to make split-second decisions on the ground.”

  “Are you going to give us firearms training? Self-defense? Anything?” It’s Geoff, supporting Mole with his chin jutted out. Like he’s daring someone to punch it.

  “I think you’re more than capable of defending yourself, young man. As is Mole.”

  “But not all of us. We don’t all have mutations with defensive capabilities.” Goose isn’t ready to accept that answer, even though Mole clammed up the moment it was suggested he’d be on his own to defend his life.

  Or maybe one of ours.

  “They’ve taken that into consideration, morons. Don’t act like you don’t see it.” Polly stabs a finger toward the lists of names on the board, making Geoff recoil as though she’s kicked him between the legs.

  We’ve all treated him with kid gloves since he woke up from his lifelong coma, I realize. It couldn’t last forever, but the stricken expression on his face makes me want to give him a hug.

  Polly rolls her eyes. “Geoff’s supposed to take care of Gypsy. I sweet-talk someone into blowing their own brains out if they’re threatening Haint, and Mole’s available to torch anyone who gets too close to one of the twins.”

  “Not to mention whatever the Olders’ talents might be,” Haint mutters.

  I can tell the unknown of the added Cavies bothers her as much as it does me. Probably more so, given that she’s on one of the more dangerous arms of this mission. I want to open my mouth and ask for more training in combat or weapons but there’s no point. We’re leaving tomorrow and I should be safe enough with Geoff.

  Marlow raises his eyebrows, gaze sweeping the circle as he waits for additional objections. No one makes any. The agents have been silent the whole time, but then again, they probably knew the plan before they stepped into the room. Nothing on Dane’s face reminds me of the guy who sat with me in the graveyard, now. That guy wasn’t in a hurry. He had no agenda. He let Norah be Norah in her own time and on her own terms.

  He understood me, somehow, without me having to speak.

  This Dane is doing a remarkable impression of a drone in a suit and tie, taking orders from other suit and ties, and if he’s just playing along, just doing his job, he’s excellent at it. It makes me ache but helps reinforce what I tried to convince myself of last night—that we’re not friends.

  “Wonderful.” Marlow’s gaze clings to Madeline, and it occurs to me that she wasn’t offered a position in this whole showdown or whatever it turns out to be, unless she’s includ
ed in the leftover category with Geoff and me. He narrows his eyes. “Is there anything you’d like to share with us before we dismiss, Crystal?”

  “No.”

  “No, there isn’t anything to share, or there’s nothing you’d like to share?”

  “It’s not that easy,” she admits, head slumping toward her shoulders. “I can’t do it unless I’m touching at least two of the people involved in a single outcome. And I’m not performing for you jackasses like a trained monkey.”

  “You could have told us whether it would be a good idea to come here in the first place,” Polly grumbles, then purses her lips in disgust, as though it’s all of a sudden Madeline’s job to tell us how to run our lives.

  “Calm down,” I tell her. “It’s not like we asked.”

  “I believe you all can sort out this petty nonsense on your own time.” Marlow’s gaze roves to me. “Now, Miss Gypsy. It’s been brought to my attention that you and your friends might have some demands of your own. And some information to make the idea of giving into them more palatable?”

  My mouth goes dry, and I slide an accusatory stare to Dane, who looks back at me without the slightest trace of guilt even though the conversation in the graveyard had supposedly been between us. Since he blabbed, we’ve lost the element of surprise.

  I change tactics at the last minute, go with the bits of information Dane has no idea I’ve gathered in the past twenty-four hours. “I’ve seen the virus hurt people. I know what it looks like and sounds like, and when the program is over, there’s a message on the screen.”

  Agent Marlow tries to act like he’s not surprised, but the manic sparkle in his beady gaze promises otherwise. “What does it say?”

  “Come and get us.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The room erupts in murmurs from the agents. The Cavies know about the threat or invitation or whatever it is already, and we agreed that the CIA needs to know most everything—we were going to hold back this, but I switched it for the Hatfield info. We’ve got to keep something under wraps until they tell us about the Olders.

  “Shut up!” Marlow bellows, holding up his hands until he regains control. “Gypsy, you’ll meet with me before you leave today so we can reconstruct exactly what you saw.”

  “Okay.” I shrug. “But not unless you have something interesting to tell me in return.”

  “I don’t take kindly to blackmail, and neither does this organization, not when there are lives on the line like this.” We stare each other down for a full minute. The Cavies earn a small victory when Marlow blinks first. “What do you want?”

  “We want to know what the Olders want from us. Why they took Flicker in and why they were anxious enough to get their hands on the rest of us to risk exposure.”

  Relief crosses his face and disappointment drops into my stomach. They’re happy the question wasn’t something else. Something harder.

  Like maybe why do you really need any of us for this mission at all? It sounds like something that could be handled by their experts, with the exception of maybe Haint since she might be the only one who can sneak into the place where the virus originated undetected. Suspicion prickles under my skin like little pins of fire.

  We have limited time with these people, and limited ammunition. We have to figure out the right questions.

  I cross my arms, avoiding eye contact with the Cavies. “And I want Noah Greene released from custody.”

  “Impossible. He’s determined to jeopardize every aspect of the Cavy Project and refuses to see reason on the subject.” Marlow glowers. “I’m willing to give you the information we have on the Olders, but Mr. Greene’s captivity is off limits.”

  “I want Jude to be able to see him, then. Regular visits.”

  Marlow blinks, cutting a quick look toward Dane that seems to communicate surprise. “I think that can be arranged.”

  The agreement is too quick, too easy—again—and only serves to make me feel as though I’ve been had, not that I’ve won any significant prize. I shake off the feeling, telling myself I’ve done something good for Jude, finally.

  “They want an independent Cavy network, free of government influence. But they have their own ideas about how you might be useful, as selfish as they might be,” Marlow continues, bringing the conversation back to the Olders. “They want to keep researching and improving, finding ways to get stronger. They have a very powerful, wealthy backer whose interests in genetic mutation exceed even Uncle Sam’s, but we don’t know who he is or why he’s so invested.”

  Marlow says nothing about us having a clue as to who that might be, and I catch Dane’s eye. His gaze reminds me that he wants me to trust him. That he did this—not telling Marlow everything about our discussion yesterday, since he doesn’t know we know about the backer—to prove that I can.

  “Madeline, is that right?” Geoff raises his eyebrows. It never occurred to me that she might know the same things we do—or more.

  She shrugs, then nods. “More or less. They don’t agree with being kept as pets by the CIA, and that’s what they preach, but there are certainly power-hungry elements within the Olders organization. They need test subjects and have…ideas of their own as far as how our talents can be best used.”

  There’s that word again. Used. It sounds worse every time I hear it.

  “But you don’t know whose funding the GRH-18 and other research?” Mole asks her, apparently not caring whether the government knows the name of the drug.

  “No. I’m not even sure Chameleon knows his or her true identity, to be honest,” Madeline answers. “Or why he or she is so invested in helping us. He wants the money too badly to ask questions.”

  “Very well,” Marlow cuts her off, clapping his hands. “If we’re all done with show-and-tell, perhaps we could get down to what you know, Gypsy, and then you all are free to go and prepare to leave in the morning.”

  Prepare. As though we have people to say good-bye to, boxes of belongings to pack. We have none of those things, a fact that he and everyone else in this room knows. The intentional barb hits skin that shouldn’t be so sensitive after all this time.

  I grit my teeth. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Marlow motions me over so I go, standing among a group of black-clad agents and sweating a little under my arms. The other Cavies are close enough to overhear if I talk loud enough so I make sure I do, describing what I can remember about the images, music, and flash pattern on the computer screen. They record my recounting and scribble down notes in little books, too, but none of them seems as though the message at the end is all that surprising or disturbing.

  “What do you make of the words? It kind of sounds to me like whoever’s behind this wants to get caught. Or that you know who they are and they’re taunting you.” I watch them carefully, but none of them gives me a reaction.

  “It’s hard to say with the kind of crackpots who would create something like this—a computer virus that kills at random,” Agent Bishop replies, her smile sympathetic. “They very often want the notoriety that comes with getting caught.”

  Dane catches my eye. “This is helpful, Norah. Thank you.”

  I nod, happy with being able to get away so quickly but left with the nagging feeling that they know more than they’re telling us. What else is new?

  I guess we have to hope that whatever they’re hiding doesn’t get us killed…or figure out what that message means on our own.

  We’re back at my father’s house but none of us can settle down. Everyone’s pacing and nervous, trying to figure out exactly what worried me about the CIA’s pitch—why they need us specifically.

  “There have to be regular CIA agents who could find out just as much as we can—people that signed up for being spies and stuff.” Goose’s eyebrows knit together as he pokes at the fire we made in the fireplace.

  My dad’s going to know we were here one way or another. We might as well be cozy.

  Pollyanna sits on the hearth, rubbing
pale hands together against the gathering heat. “Helping them kind of feels like giving in. Like saying everything that’s happened in our lives until now is cool.”

  “Right?” Athena responds. “Like, no hard feelings. We’ll just go ahead and keep falling in line because that’s the reason we exist.”

  “Except, you guys saw those pictures. People are dying, and if we can help stop that…it would be selfish of us to say no.” Goose’s voice is determined but soft, and his statement leaves residual shame on the others’ faces.

  I watch from the doorway leading to the kitchen for another minute before I leave them, sneaking upstairs to the quiet sanctuary of my bedroom and some much-needed silence. My brain turns the message at the end of the video over and over, and no matter what the CIA has to say, it feels like more than a simple attention grab.

  It feels like a message. Maybe for someone specific.

  I fall onto my back, bouncing a little on the soft mattress, and pull the blankets over my face. A deep breath pulls the familiar scent of my father’s laundry detergent into my nose, diffusing calm and longing through my blood. I lie there a while, thinking about Jude’s death, about what I saw when I touched Savannah and those other people yesterday, and whether or not I’m brave enough to keep doing it.

  If I thought I could change their futures, save people, I think I can find the courage.

  “Gypsy?” Haint’s voice drifts through my bedroom door, interrupting the few minutes of solitude I’ve managed to snag.

  I can see her out there, leaning against the wood with a half-annoyed, half-sorrowful expression. She’s careful with me, but not too careful. Mostly she’s always treated me like an equal, which has been the only thing that’s kept me sane some days.

  “Yeah?” I answer, even though I want to stay silent and let her go look somewhere else.

  She pushes open the door, and smiles when she sees me in the middle of my fluffy purple comforter. Now that I’ve taken the note and phone off the nightstand, there’s nothing in this room that isn’t me. Isn’t mine.