Mike produced a cough drop from his pocket and winged it ahead. The small projectile passed through the beater, but bounced to a rest on the fake shaking screens. “As good as a paperclip,” he said cryptically.
I didn’t ask. “On the count of three. One, two, three!” We jumped together.
Thankfully, the floor was solid under our feet and didn’t actually vibrate, though it was uneven and went up at a slight incline. Mike tripped and fell three feet onto the second screen.
Smirking, I jumped down beside him. “What was that about me being clumsy?”
“Ha, ha.” Mike jumped down onto the third screen, and I followed. The holographic straw and chaff flew past us in a golden dust cloud, making it hard to see.
Mike lay down on his stomach and dangled his head over the edge for a long moment. “It’s a long drop straight down,” he reported, “but there’s a giant wheel about halfway down and five feet in. We’ll have to swing inward and let go, blind.”
“I’ll go first,” I volunteered, still worried about the lingering effects of the Knockout.
He shook his head. “Race you.”
Torn between wanting to hit him and relief at this very Mike-like challenge, I threw myself prone. The edge scraped my stomach as I first lowered my legs over, then dangled by my hands.
Mike and I swung side by side.
The wheel was farther recessed than I liked. “On the third swing,” I suggested. We needed enough torque to make the jump, but each swing would add to the strain on our hands and arms.
Mike started swinging; I followed suit a beat behind. On the second swing, I whipped my legs to get a longer arc, the move automatic from my gymnastic days. Then I wished I hadn’t when my sweaty hands almost slipped; no chalk here. Mike imitated me. By the third swing we were in synch.
“Now!” We let go together and landed in a crouch on the black wheel.
Whatever it was made of was a lot harder than rubber. Ouch. I rubbed my knee, but grinned like a fool.
No one could keep up with me like Mike did.
He put a hand behind my neck and pulled me down into a quick kiss.
After, I eyed the fifteen foot drop to the ground. The tractor tire treads were wide enough to use as climbing aides, but we’d have to jump the last stretch when the wheel curved under.
Wordlessly, we started down.
My foot was reaching for the third tread when an odd, muffled report brought my head up.
Mike’s eyes were wide with astonishment. He twisted to touch the red bloom on the side of his shirt. “I’m hit.” And then he windmilled his arms and fell.
“No!” This couldn’t be happening.
Without thought or care to my own safety, I flung myself off the tire. I fell ten feet and landed hard on my hands and knees on a tiny patch of grass between two attractions.
Mike lay sprawled on his back three feet away from me. “I’m okay,” he gasped, winded. “Wait—“
“He’s got a gun!” someone yelled. Screams followed.
An overweight middle-aged man looked up, startled. He fumbled with the handgun half-hidden under his shirt.
“Wait,” Mike gasped, but I didn’t listen.
I lunged at the hate-crimer, desperate to bring him down, but my ankle crumpled under me at the first stride. He recovered enough to take off running.
I gritted my teeth and hobbled after him. I needed to keep him on the run so he didn’t think to turn back and fire his weapon again.
After a hundred meters, I was satisfied he’d given up. Anxiety drew me back to where I’d left Mike. It was all very well for him to tell me he was okay, but what about the blood?
I rounded the corner, and my breath slammed out of my body. A team of two paramedics were loading a body onto a stretcher. One hand dangled limply.
My heart lurched. “No.”
A pale face, dark hair, black eyebrows… A scream built in my throat. Mike.
“Miss, please let us do our job,” a female paramedic said.
I had to get to Mike. I started to push past the paramedic, then stopped and stared in shocked recognition. What was she doing here?
“I’m very sorry,” she said as her partners drew a sheet over Mike’s head. The white linen rapidly began to turn red. “Your friend is dead.”
I covered my face to hide my expression and sobbed loudly, my mind racing. “Can I—can I come with him?” I asked.
“Of course.” Catherine Berringer patted my arm—Catherine Berringer, whom I’d first met while she was employed by Project Renaissance, though Dr. Frank had later fired her. Heart in my throat, I followed her blonde ponytail through the silent crowds at the amusement park as she and the other fake paramedics carried Mike’s body into a fake ambulance aircar. One man went around to the driver’s seat, but the other, a brown-haired man, climbed into the back with us.
The instant the doors closed, Mike sat up. I’d known everything wasn’t as it appeared as soon as I saw Mike’s surrogate mother, but relief still swamped me. I couldn’t speak.
The engines roared as the aircar did a Vertical Take-off.
“Lie down and let me check your ribs,” the man said, once the noise of the engines had leveled off. “You fell a fair distance.” He sounded like a genuine paramedic.
“My ribs are fine,” Mike said impatiently. “I was just winded.” He ignored the blood staining his shirt and hands.
“Gregori should have waited until you were closer to the ground to shoot you,” Catherine said angrily.
I realized then that I couldn’t smell blood, but I did smell paint.
Mike had been shot with a paint pellet. He really was okay. My knees shook, and I had to sit down.
“It was only luck Gregori saw them at all. We were expecting them to drop into the truck at the regular exit,” the paramedic protested. “I hope he makes it through security.”
Mike ignored this aside and stared at Catherine Berringer. “What are you doing here?”
Catherine blinked. “Didn’t Devon tell you? It was her idea. She warned us Nations Against was closing in on you and suggested my organization help fake your death.”
Mike snorted, but I squeezed his knee in warning, and he turned it into a cough.
“An interesting solution,” I said mildly, “but I rather wish she’d run it by us first. I suppose there wasn’t time.” Because Devon had been busy selling Mike out in the first place. I didn’t know whether to be relieved that my clone had something resembling a conscience or even angrier at her for not telling me.
Mike quirked an eyebrow, obviously asking why I hadn’t told Catherine the truth about Devon.
I gave a slight shake of my head, and he went along with it. I didn’t have a good reason, only the same instinct that had kept me from calling the cops. This fight was between Devon and me.
And to fight effectively, I needed information.
“So, how long have you known Devon?” I asked Catherine casually. “I only recently found out that I had a clone.”
“I’ve known about her existence for a while. In the wake of Dr. Frank’s demise, certain files surfaced. One of them mentioned a sale to New York, and we traced Devon there. My organization approached her, but she initially turned down my offer, citing that she and—that she was happy, and New York was treating her well.”
“But that’s changed?” I guessed.
Catherine shot a sidelong glance at Mike. “You could say that.”
Frustration surged through me. Catherine was obviously protecting Devon’s privacy.
“I hope you aren’t too upset,” Catherine said to me. “Devon wasn’t ready to approach you yet, and I had to respect her wishes.”
I nodded, but inside I was skeptical. Devon might have the right to privacy, but surely I had a right to know I had a clone?
The thought still made me queasy, bringing up a vision of a warehouse full of mass-produced Angel dolls…
After a number of quick turns and changes of altitude, wea
ving through traffic, the ambulance aircar set down on a rooftop. I glanced sideways, but Catherine seemed unperturbed. Part of the plan then.
“It’s safe. This whole building is owned by my organization. Sven will fly the ambulance back to the hospital where he works after he drops us off and erases the flight record.”
Mike and I duly trundled out, then followed Catherine off the roof into an elevator. She produced some clean clothing—a loose T-shirt and track pants for me, but a nice sweater and jeans for Mike that I suspected were an early Christmas gift—then installed us in a clean but impersonal two-bedroom suite. She left us to rest with vague promises that we’d talk more later.
“She’s stonewalling,” I told Mike.
“Probably.” He collapsed backward onto the sofa.
Tears pricked my eyes as I sat down beside him and slipped under the curve of his arm. I gave a little shudder of relief, tension draining away into homecoming. For a moment we just held each other. We had a million things to talk about, but they could all wait a little longer.
I closed my eyes and pressed my face against his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin. I needed the reminder that he was alive and we were both free—two outcomes which had been in doubt earlier.
#
“Brad? Who’s that?” Mike interrupted me partway through my thrilling recital of Maryanne’s kidnapping.
I blinked at the sharpness of his tone. “Football captain. He helped me stop the kidnappers. Maryanne thinks I should send him flowers.”
Mike didn’t look like he got the joke. “Oh, really?”
“Never mind,” I told him, “I guess you had to be there.”
But that only made him tenser. “Are you mad that I wasn’t there?”
The question surprised me, and I stumbled. “Well, I do wish you’d been there, but I know you’re serious about your career.” Even though it was a stupid career. “I’m not mad.” I squeezed his shoulder.
Mike didn’t look convinced. For the first time since reuniting I felt the distance between us caused by our last quarrel. Dismay made my stomach clench. Stupid of me to think all our problems would just dissolve.
But I wanted it to. I hated quarreling with him. We were supposed to be a team. Inseparable.
I bit my lip, then said, “Where was I?”
“Brad the football captain played hero for you,” Mike said flatly.
I threw up my hands. “What? You’re mad at me because someone other than you helped me? It was your choice not to come, remember? I invited you.”
He interrupted. “You knew I couldn’t miss that many games and yet you still went away for a six-week job.”
“You go away on road trips all the time!”
“Not for weeks on end!”
“It was the job I was hired to do,” I said flatly. I didn’t mention my earlier vow not to do any more no-contact Historical Immersion road trips. I pulled at my hair. “Arrgh! I don’t want to have this same argument again. Do you want to hear what happened next or not?”
Pause. “Of course I do,” Mike said.
I rattled off the rest of the story. Once Brad’s small part ended, Mike’s gaze turned inward, listening.
A weird thought crossed my mind. Mike couldn’t be jealous, could he? Of Brad? The idea was laughable.
Besides, if anyone had a right to be jealous it was me.
The memory of Mike kissing my clone was like the slice of a razor: so sharp I could pretend that I hadn’t been hurt, wasn’t bleeding.
It’s not fair to blame him for kissing her. He didn’t know you had a clone.
Except Mike was supposed to know me better than anyone. The thought that maybe he didn’t, that was what hurt.
I kept the emotions out of my voice and breezed through the rest of the story.
“Things were going well at the police station until the first kidnapper showed up with a vid of me accepting a bribe. It took me a while to prove the vid was of my clone, not me. What about you?” I lifted my eyebrows. “How’d you end up tied to a combine? I mean, I got your security file, but there was no sound.”
Mike grimaced. “Then you know that your clone was waiting in my apartment when I got home.” His violet eyes locked on mine, intense. “I knew something was off right away, but I thought you were upset about something that had happened with Maryanne. She brushed off my questions, said she didn’t want to talk about it, and I let it go. And the black hair looked different enough that I didn’t immediately realize you—she—looks younger than you should.”
His explanation made sense, but I held my breath, wondering if he would mention the next part.
Mike’s hands settled on my shoulders. “I knew it wasn’t you as soon as I kissed her.” His gaze met mine squarely.
The tension in my neck eased. If he’d glossed over the kiss, I would’ve been worried. I smiled at him and linked my own hands around his neck. “And the second time was to get her close enough to grab her. I may want to make a print of you putting her in a headlock. It was a classic.”
Mike’s mouth fell open. Then he laughed and kissed me.
The simple meeting of lips turned into something slow and sweet, a true reunion. When we broke apart, I was smiling. I felt lighter than air, ready to tackle anything with Mike by my side.
“We need information on both my clone and Nations Against. I did a quick search online, but didn’t pull up much. Why don’t you beard Catherine in her den while I wash this black crap out of my hair? She’s not telling us everything, I know it.”
I could tell Mike wasn’t keen on the thought of talking to Catherine, but he knew as well as I did that he’d have a better chance than I would.
“Agreed.”
*MIKE*
Mike reluctantly stepped out of the elevator into the lobby. He so didn’t want to do this. But Angel was counting on him.
Taking a deep breath, he boldly approached the front desk and flashed a smile at Ultraviolet’s red-headed receptionist.
"Can I help you?" She stood up, excitement painting her pale cheeks pink, and Mike knew she'd noticed his eye colour. Catherine’s employees seemed to have swallowed her violet-eyed-will-save-the-world rhetoric. Gag.
"Michael Vallant to see Catherine Berringer." He paused, almost choked on the words, but got them out before the receptionist told him he needed an appointment. "She's my mother."
The receptionist’s eyes widened. “One second.” She murmured into her headpiece while Mike politely pretended to admire the predominantly purple office paintings.
Bizarrely, as the receptionist led him to Catherine Berringer's office, his hands began to sweat. Mike couldn't believe how nervous he was. He should be thinking about how to soften Catherine up, but he couldn’t even decide what to call her. Surely, she’d become suspicious if he suddenly started calling her Mom after avoiding her for two years.
Not that she was his mother. He shared absolutely none of her genetic code. And as for her claim to be his surrogate mother and have hosted his body in her womb for nine months, so what? All it meant was that Dr. Frank was too cheap to get an embryonic tank. She'd been paid for the act despite her later change of heart.
Catherine Berringer wasn't his mother, she was an obsessed near-stranger.
The way Mike saw it there were two possibilities.
One, Catherine truly believed her own rhetoric about violet-eyes’ smarts being needed to save the world and claiming to be his mother was part of her recruitment strategy. Or, two, the experience of giving up her surrogate child had left her with a massive case of guilt, which she was trying to alleviate by making it her mission to save all the violet-eyed children.
Either way, Mike wasn’t interested. He had zero interest in saving the world, and he resented being made to feel responsible for problems he hadn’t created. Nor did he need saving, thank you very much. He and Angel had saved themselves—with a teaspoon of help from Hatcher.
But in spite of himself Mike kept remembering the stupid birth
day card Catherine had sent him. He’d thrown the card into the garbage, but Angel had fished it out.
"What did she say?"
"She's a loony. It doesn't matter what she says." Mike grabbed for the card, but Angel easily evaded him.
"In that case, it won't matter if I read it."
The card itself was of the sweetly-sentimental type that Mike disliked. Inside had been a letter.
Mike had only read the first page, in which Catherine explained her "proof" that he was her child—the matching birthdates. Whoop-tee-do. Since Dr. Frankenstein and his fellow monsters had probably whipped up a batch of zygotes at one go, Mike was unimpressed.
"Listen to this," Angel said. "You might like to know the story of your birth. When I was a child, I always wanted to hear how I was born. I'm afraid you were a stubborn baby, Michael. I was a week past my due date and had barely begun to dilate.”
“Too much information!” Mike protested, but Angel ignored him.
“Dr. Frankenstein (you weren't the first to nickname him that—none of us "moms" could stand him) decided to induce me, I suspect more because he wanted to get me off the payroll than out of concern for you. The idea made me anxious, but I was very young and I let him talk me into it." Angel looked up. "Poor Catherine. Can you imagine Dr. Frankenstein trying to fake bedside manners?"
"No, and I don't care about Catherine. She was paid, wasn't she?" Mike said.
But Angel, being Angel, kept reading anyhow. "The inducement kicked my labour into high gear and the next few hours passed in a blur. I remember being so tired when it came time to push. I was certain I didn't have the energy to do any such thing."
"Yet here I am," Mike said sarcastically. "Just like every other baby ever born."
Angel rolled her eyes at him.
"I was saying, 'I can't, I can't,' over and over. Dr. Frankenstein said, 'I'll make you a bargain. If you speed things up and push the baby out in the next fifteen minutes, I'll let you hold him for five minutes.' 'Ten,' I said. And do you know fifteen minutes later I was holding you in my arms. Aw," Angel said.
"You were a tall, thin baby, Michael, with a full head of fine dark hair. You were 23 inches long and weighed exactly eight pounds. You already had violet eyes, not the usual baby blue, and you howled when Dr. Frankenstein weighed you. You were quiet for me and held my thumb. I cried for hours when they took you away." Angel had looked near tears herself.
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