by Karen Healey
“I’m—”
“Don’t you dare apologize to me. I knew what I was risking. I made my own choices.”
I shut my mouth.
“Better.” She swallowed her medicine dry and belched with no shame. “Sometimes I wish we could go back to the simple times,” she said. “When all I had to do was pretend to be a ditz high on my own supply and make you lots of pills, and all you had to do was pretend to hate everyone and take the pills from your contact in her janitor’s closet to pass on. No casualties, no politics, no hard decisions. It was so clearly the right thing to do.”
I thought of Digger Jones, and how careful he’d been not to let me know who the next contact up the chain was. People learning too much about the smugglers would probably wish they hadn’t. And those little pink pills were bound for the black market, after all. They would be useful for trade, useful for bribery. I knew from the rare news reports about smugglers that a lot of the pills had gotten to their intended destination, but not all of them had. Some of those pills would go to very bad people to be exploited in whatever way best served their ends.
Consequences.
I sighed. “It probably wasn’t that simple. There were all sorts of hard decisions we didn’t have to make, that’s all.”
“Bethari thought putting the EMP together would be a simple way to get you back,” Joph said. Her tone wasn’t nasty.
“Yeah,” I said. “All right. I get it.” And I did—I understood how Bethari’s hope had misled her. I could sympathize with that desire for an easy fix. “But things are never so straightforward, are they?”
“I know,” she said, and laid her head on my shoulder. “But just for a minute, let’s pretend.”
I put my arm around her waist and breathed in the hot, still air. I’d been pretending to make other people happy for so long. Just for a minute, I could sit in the sun and comfort myself with the pretense that everything would be all right soon.
CHAPTER NINE
Semplicemente
Joph and I sat in the garden for a long time. The tree skeletons didn’t give us much shelter from the summer sun, but the house wall did, so I didn’t have to go in and meekly ask Lat for sunscreen or a hat. I could sit with my friend and watch insects I didn’t recognize leap through the dry stalks. A faint smell of smoke was in the air—Australians didn’t cook their food over coals or fire anymore, so it had to be a distant bushfire, one of the small blazes that sprang up in summer and autumn.
Joph’s breathing was deep and even, and I wondered if she’d fallen asleep, but a quick glance told me her eyes were open. She was smiling, dreamy and unconcerned, her pupils huge. Whatever took the pain away apparently had other, more recreational effects. I found myself wondering if she’d share. Asking would have roused me from this pleasant stupor, though, so I kept my mouth shut and watched the insects.
The sound of an electric motor shook me out of my haze. It came from the other side of the house, on what must have been the road there.
The sniper in the trees was gone; I hadn’t seen her leave. Now, when she might be useful, she’d decided to take a break?
Joph hauled herself upright. “What?” she said, her voice sluggish.
“Stay here,” I hissed. “Hide.”
I didn’t wait to see if she obeyed. I hugged the house wall and slid around it, counting on the weeds to hide me. I knew that I should go back inside, with all the armed people, but being startled from my reverie had made my blood race. I wanted to move, not cower. I wanted to fight.
The motor stopped. Boots crunched on gravel. I scooped up a stone as big as my fist and held my breath as I sneaked the final few steps, to a point where I could see our noisy visitor.
She was a tall woman, wearing a long-sleeved robe of midnight blue that flowed around her muscular frame. Two holsters swung from the wide belt around her hips; a sonic pistol in one, a bolt-gun in the other. Her tight, dark curls were cut close to her skull. She was shading her eyes with one hand as she looked at the house, so I couldn’t see her whole face, but there was a weary set to her mouth.
I knew her.
It was Zaneisha Washington, Tegan’s former bodyguard. She’d once held a sonic pistol to my back and made me think it was a weapon that could kill. Tegan had responded by shooting Washington with another sonic pistol, but even stricken with vertigo Washington had fought back. She’d still tried to take us in, before Tegan could tell her story to the world.
My fingers tensed around the stone, and I stared at the side of Washington’s head, ready to throw.
“Please don’t, Mr. Taalib,” she said, without turning her head. “I’m on your side.”
A lot of people I didn’t like very much had been saying that lately. Nevertheless, I paused, and the front door swung open.
“Zaneisha!” Tegan’s voice said. “Lat, it’s okay; let me go!”
I tensed, ready to go to her aid, but Tegan apparently didn’t need me to get away from Lat. She ran out the door and halted just in front of the tall woman.
I couldn’t see Tegan’s face, but Washington’s normally expressionless face had produced a small smile. “It’s good to see you, Tegan,” she said.
“You too! Where’s Marie?”
“In the car. Sleeping.”
Tegan moved forward, and Washington shifted to block her. “She needs the sleep.” Her eyes were grave, and I wanted to give Tegan some warning for the bad news I could tell was coming. “Some physical damage was inflicted on her.”
“In the escape?” Lat asked professionally.
Washington’s lips thinned with distaste. “Before.”
Tegan made a sound that squeezed my insides. “Because of me,” she said.
“No,” Washington said. “She told me it had something to do with her work. Nothing to do with you.”
Tegan tilted her head. “Marie wouldn’t be involved at all without me.” She squared her shoulders and moved toward the car. Washington, apparently resigned, moved out of the way.
I heard Tegan’s sharp inhale and moved forward as she stumbled back. She steadied herself before I could reach her, but she leaned on my shoulder for a brief moment, feeling a lot heavier than her slight frame suggested. I didn’t know whether to hold her hand or say something consoling, but her face was closed off, rejecting pity.
Solidarity, though, she would take. I stood there, shoulder to shoulder, as Washington reached into the car and gently lifted Tegan’s foster mother out.
Dr. Marie Carmen was a short woman, barely taller than Tegan, although she looked even smaller in Washington’s substantial arms. Her plain, shabby shirt and long drawstring skirt hung from her thin frame and her straight dark hair fell to her shoulders in ragged strands. Clearly, the standards of personal-appearance maintenance that Tegan and I had endured hadn’t been applied to the doctor; it was her brain that was valuable to SADU, not her face.
That face was slack, whatever intelligence that normally inhabited it swallowed in the depths of her unconsciousness. Sleeping had been a convenient euphemism; Dr. Carmen was clearly dosed to the eyeballs. Even with chemical relaxants, however, there was tension around her tilted eyes, deep lines dug out between her snub nose and full mouth.
I saw no signs of physical damage until Washington shifted her a little higher, and I caught a glimpse of the heavy bandaging on her feet. Washington saw my face.
“She didn’t need to stand to work,” she said grimly.
“I hate them,” I snapped, and Tegan nodded fiercely.
Washington merely dipped her chin in acknowledgement. “Get the door,” she suggested, and I held the front door open, then the trapdoor, then the door to the bedroom downstairs that had been set up as an infirmary. The man there made efficient, unsurprised noises and shooed us all back into the hallway, where Lat was waiting.
His handsome, serious face was the very last thing I wanted to see right then. He might have helped Tegan, but he was SADU, he’d been SADU for a long time, and he’d done
things like that to people until whatever spark of conscience that remained had flared in him when Tegan spoke. I thought of Dr. Carmen’s bandaged feet and knew that if he made a word of excuse or apology, I was going to try to finish the job I’d made strangling him.
Tegan didn’t wait for him to speak. She took a step forward and slapped him hard across the face.
It wasn’t a ladylike, delicate blow. She put her shoulder behind it, and Lat’s head snapped back. She raised her arm again.
“SADU,” she hissed.
“Not anymore,” he said, and caught her wrist. “Tegan, stop. It’s me.”
She twisted free of him, staring intently into his face. Then she made a noise like an angry cat and pushed past him, moving farther down the corridor. I wanted to follow her example—but maybe with a closed fist.
I needed to find a place where I could sit and think, and try to get a grip on the rage that kept vibrating through me. I wasn’t any use to anyone, much less myself, when I was this furious, and I didn’t know what to do about all these impulses toward violence. Impulsive physical action was Tegan’s job; mine was observation and strategy, and I needed a clear head for both.
I was so exhausted by being angry all the time. If I couldn’t make it stop, perhaps I could put it to use.
But Lat wasn’t looking at me.
“Sergeant,” he said to Washington.
“Agent.”
“Are you ready for a debrief?”
“Yes.”
There was a gap where a sir should have been, and judging from Lat’s brief frown, he heard that deliberate absence, too.
“We should discuss…” he trailed off.
“Phase Two?” Washington said. “Yes.”
Lat’s eyes flickered toward me, then back to her impassive face. My skin prickled. That was something he hadn’t wanted me to hear.
“I’m finding Tegan,” I said, needlessly defiant, trying to sound like a sulky teenager. It wasn’t difficult. I wandered around the nearest corner, my mind working furiously. If the previously established pattern held true, they’d be having their little conference in the main living room upstairs. I’d need to give them some time to go in and get the preliminaries over, but not so much time that I missed any important information.
Turning the next corner, I nearly ran into Bethari and Joph, who were gathered by the barely ajar door to a room I hadn’t seen yet. Through the gap, I could hear a muffled sound that might have been crying.
Bethari looked at me inquiringly.
“What?” I said.
“Are you going in?”
“I don’t know if she wants me to,” I said. It was true, and I meant it to be considerate, but the words came out bitter. Kissing Tegan in the dining room had been so easy, all of the betrayal and lies and pain made distant by the miracle of touch. But those things had still marked me, marked both of us. I was stupid to think that kisses could erase those marks. They could only cover them up.
Bethari waited a beat longer, and then shoved past me, not gently. She was a lot stronger than she looked—all that cheerleading meant hidden muscle under her long sleeves and skirts. I had to haul back sharply on the urge to shove her back.
No, I really shouldn’t go in there, not with this violence surging in me. Tegan needed comfort, but I didn’t think she would want me to see her being this vulnerable. We’d both been forced to witness the other’s degradation and weaknesses exposed—going in now would only bring back those memories for us both.
That was what I told myself, anyway. Truthfully, I wasn’t certain I could stand seeing Tegan weak, when she’d only just started to show her strength again.
“Tegan, let me help,” Bethari said as she went in. I caught a glimpse of a crumpled heap of silver on a bed, and Tegan’s teary face, and then Joph slipped in after her ex-girlfriend.
All right, then. When it came to offering comfort, I was a miserable failure.
But I could get some information and help her that way. I retraced my steps and found the trapdoor again. When I set my ear against the metal, it was soundproofed, as I’d suspected. No word of Phase Two filtered through that heavy shielding.
Plan B involved wandering back out to the garden and going for a casual walk around the premises, coincidentally passing any handy windows. Not as subtle, nor as likely to gain much data, but still better than nothing.
I set my hands to the trapdoor and pushed. It was locked.
The worst thing might have been that I wasn’t actually surprised.
The physical shock of shoving against that unyielding door translated into a sick, spinning sensation in my head. We were imprisoned again, and the adults were talking upstairs, about Tegan’s importance, about the things they were going to do with us.
And not telling those things to us.
I sat on the steps and put my head between my knees until the dizziness passed and my breathing steadied.
Then I went back to Tegan’s room, took a deep breath, and knocked once.
“Come in,” Tegan said. Her voice was strong and clear. I took it as a good sign and slipped in.
She’d been crying, but there were no tears now. Her mouth was tight and her jaw set; not angry at me, I thought, but at the world in general. I looked past her, at irritated and irritating Bethari, and said, “We need to bug the briefing room upstairs.”
The girls gave me identical blank looks, and Joph said, “What?”
“I already have,” Bethari said, looking curious.
“What?” Joph repeated. “When?”
“Just now,” Bethari said. “Shoved the bug into the couch cushions. I haven’t turned it on yet. There’s more chance they’ll pick it up if it’s transmitting.”
Despite myself, I was impressed. “Who sweeps the compound for surveillance?”
Bethari looked slightly affronted. “I do. This room’s clear.” Thoughtfully, she added, “But I wouldn’t put it past them to have backups in place. Military redundancy.”
“We’re all on the same side,” Joph said uncertainly.
Tegan pressed her lips together. “I’m not on the side of people who think it’s okay to have civilian casualties as a side effect.”
“Or as a secondary purpose,” I said. “Don’t look at me like that, Joph; I know you might not want to believe it, but deliberately killing civilians is an act of terrorism. And it’s one this movement can use to threaten the government. You’re the one who told me about militants backing Hurfest’s political crew.”
Bethari had pulled her computer out of her pocket and was squinting at the screen, her fingers flicking in neat, efficient motions. “I can start remote transmission, if you think we should risk it now.”
“Washington let something slip about a Phase Two. And they’ve locked the trapdoor.”
Tegan looked alert. “Zaneisha said…. what did she say?”
I cast my mind back and repeated Lat’s and Washington’s words.
“Is that exactly right?” Tegan asked.
“Yes,” I said, mildly annoyed. I had the family memory—very useful for studying, remembering complicated maps in video-game scenarios, and accurate eavesdropping.
“She was tipping you off,” Tegan decided. “Zaneisha doesn’t just let things slip. Bethari, go ahead.”
Bethari held up one finger and dropped it.
“—proceeded through the gates with no difficulty,” Washington was saying. “The SADU ID codes were uncompromised.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the story of Dr. Carmen’s rescue and trying to assess Tegan’s state of mind without appearing to do so. She looked better like this, intent and indignant. Joph was chewing on a strand of her own hair. I automatically reached out to brush it away from her mouth, and then paused, startled by my own ease in carrying out such a familiar action. Joph let the hair drop and placed her hand over mine in a brief hold.
“In your assessment, when can Phase Two begin?” Lat’s voice asked at the end of the re
port.
“If you still wish Dr. Carmen to provide evidence on the current state of the revival procedure, and thus emphasize the futility of the Ark Project, I suggest waiting for her to heal.” Washington’s voice was even, but it was interesting that she was repeating details that Hurfest and Lat must surely know already. Perhaps Tegan was right; perhaps Washington really was directing her remarks to us.
“That could depend,” Hurfest said thoughtfully. “How photogenic are her injuries?”
Lat made a brief, disgusted sound. Washington was silent.
“The more proof we have of government perfidy the better,” Hurfest pointed out. “Abdi and Tegan are just too attractive to be downtrodden. The only injuries they have are the ones we gave them, for heaven’s sake.”
My hand went to the hole in my neck. At the head of the bed, Tegan was touching hers, too.
Washington cleared her throat. “I suggest asking Dr. Carmen if—”
“Yes, of course,” Hurfest said. “I’ll talk to her. She’ll see the logic in it. Lat, how about Tegan?”
“She’s traumatized.”
I winced.
“Obviously. Is she fit to be a spokeswoman? She’s the only thing that makes us freedom-fighting guerillas instead of terrorist threats. I think a statement should go out as soon as possible, before we use the EMP on that army base.”
Joph pressed both hands over her mouth, looking as if she might be sick. Bethari’s eyes were wide and anguished. Tegan didn’t look sick or ashamed. She was bright with fury, as filled with rage as I was. I wouldn’t have been surprised if we’d both burst into flames.
“Sir, I must protest. Civilians will be caught in the dark zone again.” Washington’s voice was measured, her tone as casual as if she were requesting that he pass the water jug, but there wasn’t a hint that she could be moved.
“Protest noted, Sergeant.” Hurfest sighed, sounding a lot less arrogant and a lot more exhausted. “I’m not happy about it, either. If we’re lucky, Cox will resign quietly after Tegan speaks up. In the ensuing fallout, my people can move, and we’ll force a reelection under the Save Tegan banner.”
