Divided (8 page)

Heavy silence on the other end of the line, and my hand is starting to shake.

“And the second condition?” he finally asks. The chill is reined in now, carefully smoothed over.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Oh-ten-hundred.” I disconnect, feeling sick to my stomach. I’m sure he’s going to dial back, demand that I tell him what else I want, that friendly-yet-not-friendly voice unsettling enough to make me cave.

But he doesn’t. My cell stays quiet, and I shove it back into my pocket. I get to my feet and walk upstairs.

In my room, I step into the closet, start feeling around on the top shelf. I haven’t used it since my assignment, but I know it’s up there some—

My fingers touch bunched, rough canvas, brass zippers, and I pull the whole lot of it down. I’m cradling hell again. Right here, a symbol of the moments and days and weeks when I was on the run. My old bag, the color of olives and camouflage, making me feel invisible.

There are a few smudges of old bloodstains, too set and too stubborn to wash out by the time I was done. The faintest, lingering scent of gunpowder makes my eyes water.

Until now, I’ve never thought of using it again. Not this way, for this reason.

I toss it onto my bed. Take only vague notice of how easily it comes back to me, the narrowing down of what I can afford to bring with me. Two T-shirts, a few pairs of socks, a handful of underwear joining them. Toothbrush and toothpaste from my bathroom. The Operator said three contracts, at twenty-four hours each—this should be enough to last me until the end. I won’t come back until I’m done. Letting that world touch this one is … not possible.

I open my bag and slowly stuff everything inside, each item like kindling for that striker part of me. The fuel? My weapons—most of which I’ve left in Baer’s classroom at school. One more thing that’s going to have to wait for tomorrow. I’ll have to cut classes, but that’s not what bothers me. I hate to miss weaponry with Baer. My job and responsibility, and now I’ll have to think of a lie for why I can’t work for three days.

Only one weapon I decided to keep.

I reach under my bed for Ehm’s old jewelry box and open the lid. I take out my gun, the one Luc gave me in another lifetime, the one I haven’t held since I killed my Alt.

It’s full of more memories than bullets now, and I hope I won’t have to use it at all. I start loading it. The act is comforting, bringing to mind my father’s patience in showing all of us how a gun is put together. When I’m done, I set it aside.

I reach back into the box and pull out what I nearly forgot was still inside, placed there because I wasn’t sure where else to put it. Not a weapon, but not exactly innocent, either.

The key-code disrupter that Chord made for me when I turned active. A thin black strip that used the tracking chips in my striker marks to bypass a house lock, it’s no bigger than my hand. He meant for me to use it to find shelter, keeping me safe even as I pushed him away.

Using it to break into the house of a target was not what he had in mind.

I place it in my bag.

After my bed is clear again, I zip up my bag and carefully set it down on the ground, near the door. Within reach if I have reason to leave fast, in secret.

It takes hours to fall asleep. But it’s not Chord’s dark eyes that haunt me, but pale hazel ones instead. Flat and empty and too much like the color of false gold.

“I want you to erase my striker marks.”

If I wasn’t watching him so carefully, I might have missed the tiny flicker in his light eyes. A lick of flame that’s gone before it’s really there. Irritation, surprise, admiration—I can’t tell.

“Otherwise your answer is no?” the Operator says.

“Yes. Otherwise I’m out. You’ll have to find someone else.”

He continues to watch me. Seems content to say nothing in response.

My foot drums rhythmically against my school bag. Not the bag I need, but I had no choice except to take it when Chord picked me up for school this morning. I turned around and left school grounds as soon as his back was turned, grabbing the first inner ward train here to this café.

The bag is not empty. It’s got the homework I didn’t do last night … and the Roark gun the Operator handed over to me as soon as he sat down. In its neat little case, it could pass for something innocent.

“You don’t need any further instruction on how to use it?” the Operator asked me, watching as I’d tucked it carefully into my bag. His light tone was underscored with just enough annoyance that I could tell it was probably killing him to have to listen to my requests.

“No, I’ve got it,” was all I said. Whatever other plans I had, they weren’t for him to know.

Inside my jacket pocket is my gun. It feels awkward there, the fit not quite right—it’s been a long time since I’ve worn a gun with my jacket, or at all.

“You know I cannot risk asking another striker,” the Operator finally says.

“Then you don’t have a choice, do you?” My hands clutch at the coffee cup in front of me. It’s steaming hot, even through my sleeves. I don’t drink any of it. He hasn’t sipped from his cup, either. The coffees are just props. To make us seem normal, two commuters on their way to work or school.

For the Operator, this means being forced to wear something other than the Board-issued gray suit. He’s chosen a suit of a darker gray, and he’s wearing a fedora to cover his bare scalp. His chest pocket has no handkerchief of any color. It feels good to know that I’ve made a Level 1 Operator do something out of the ordinary. Become ordinary—on the surface, anyway.

“The marks are permanent,” he says. “Our lab does not—”

“Your lab can engineer two people who look identical to each other, set up a minibomb in their brain, and tattoo their eyes with a long string of numbers. If they can do all that, then they can remove striker tattoos.”

His face is cold. “It doesn’t change who you are or what you’ve done.”

I can’t argue with the truth. “I never said it would.”

The customers at the table next to us get up to leave, and one of them—a boy a bit older than me—has to squeeze past the Operator to get to the door.

He’s too close, and the Operator mutters something under his breath at the contact.

“Sorry, man,” the boy says.

The Operator’s only response is to tip the front of his hat down another degree, hiding his eyes that much more. His shoulders stiffen just the slightest. No doubt he’s irritated. Here in the Grid there are always too many people and not enough space. Not what a Level 1 Operator is used to.

“Fine.”

I’m caught off guard by the Operator’s voice, lost in my thoughts. “What?”

“I said we will have your striker marks removed and your striker status erased.” The Operator’s words are clipped. Backed into a corner. “
After
you’ve completed the contracts.”

I nod. Relief and dread mingle in my mouth, the bitter dregs of finality. It’s done, then. And so it starts.

I take a deep breath and hold my mug even tighter. Warmth. “You said twenty-four hours for each contract?”

“That is correct.”

The same as any striker contract. Blurred lines, blurred lives. I can’t decide if it’s fitting or morbid. “So I text in the completion for each new contract?”

“That won’t be necessary. Normally Level One monitors only the active Alt log for natural completions; unnatural ones such as Peripheral, Revenge, and Assist Kills split off into their own separate logs and feed into legal for processing. Until these particular contracts are complete, we’ve set up shadow feeds for those logs to run on a delay. Those are what legal will be receiving while we get the originals. With each strike you complete, we’ll reroute the original entry into the natural completion Alt log before it can show up in the feeds for legal.”

Each piece of information he gives me is not done in the name of generosity, but as another shackle to tie me down to what I’m about to do. The more I know, the more of a danger I am—to the Board.

“Expect the first contract via cell tonight,” he says. “Cover your tracks. You can’t be found for seventy-two hours.” For the first time, the Operator touches his coffee, pushing it away with a well-manicured hand. He stands to leave—

And suddenly I’m panicking. Not ready.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

He frowns. “You don’t need to know irrelevant information.”

“You know a lot about me. And you just asked me to kill your kid’s Alt. I’d like to know who I’m doing this for.”

An impatient hiss of breath through clenched jaw, the snap of biting teeth. “Sabian.” He turns to go, more agitated than I’ve ever seen him.

“Good-bye, West,” he says. His hand automatically goes to smooth the handkerchief in his pocket, falls down awkwardly when he finds it missing. A flash of pure fury crosses his features.

It’s those kinds of fires that are the most dangerous of all. The kind that refuse to light at first before exploding in your face, the inferno of it so sudden, so huge, there’s not even a chance of escaping before being enveloped.

I nod. Stare hard at my cup and will the warmth to stay. Once he is gone, it takes me a few minutes to gather my stuff to leave. I move mechanically, trying not to think too much. Safest that way.

Outside, I pull my hood over my hair. It’s starting to rain.

But Dire’s place isn’t far. And it’s where I go to find out about killing.

I wouldn’t be alive without the skills I’d gained from working as a striker. But it brought out the very worst in me, so sometimes I wish I’d never met Dire.

Being fair is not one of my strong points.

I haven’t seen him in months. Ever since I stopped being a striker, when I became a complete.

Yet here I am, standing on the sidewalk in front of his store in the Grid. The familiar words
Dire Nation
printed on the front door bring a bittersweet pang to my chest. Everything about the place looks the same as the last time I stood here. Even the little blobs of old gum plastered to the window ledge are the same. Layers of old graffiti still there like permanent clouds of sad color.

I wonder what we’ll have to say to each other. Apart from business, I mean. If I think of Baer as being something close to a nurturing father figure, then Dire’s the surly uncle who has no problem letting his more-than-likely-unpopular opinion be heard. Never was this made clearer to me than the day I told him I was out, done.

He leaned back in his seat, making a point of looking directly at the still-fresh scar on my cheek. The lighting in the basement of the music store wasn’t bright, but it was bright enough. “Why? You got scared because of something like
that
?”

“No.” Sitting across the table from him, I was all too aware that I felt more like a child than an employee. I pulled my legs up and wrapped my arms around my knees so I wouldn’t be tempted to shove my hair over my cheek, something I was still learning not to do. Not that it made much difference—a week after completing my assignment and both my face and hair weren’t mine yet. One still healing, the other still growing back. “It’s not that. I just don’t need to do it anymore.”

“You’re good. You could get even better still. Hell, the pay would help grease your way into courses, now that you’re eligible, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I shook my head. The thought of it made my stomach curl. As though it were a competition, with prizes at the end. I got what I’ wanted; there was nothing else. “I only did it as a form of training. You knew that.”

“And I’m glad to see you made it.” The brief warmth in his blue eyes told me he meant it. That it was more than just his being relieved at not losing a striker. “But you don’t have to lie about it anymore.”

“Lie about what?”

“The other part.”

I frowned, looked away. The other part. How I used contracts to distract myself from the guilt over Luc’s death, hold it at bay. All strikers had their own reasons for assassinating—from money to rebellion to something more personal. I’d only told Dire it was because I needed to get stronger to face my Alt. Not the rest of it. So how did he know?

“Baer texted me to see if you had come in,” he said in answer to my unasked-yet-clearly-obvious question. “Told me about your brother being a fresh PK. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together, especially after meeting you, seeing you stumble around with your answers. Hey, you wouldn’t be the first striker with issues I’ve taken on. Anything is better than that counseling crap the Board offers.”

How stupid of me to think he didn’t know. I was always better at running than hiding. Now I was slowly learning that just staying put could work, too. “And since I was still messing with the system, then what did it matter, right?” I said quietly.

“You help me, I help you.”

I shrugged. It was over. Whatever part I played in the fine balance of worthiness and sacrifice, I was stopping it here.

“So, did it work?” I knew he wasn’t just asking for the sake of asking. He needed to be assured that he didn’t make a mistake by taking me on.

Did it work? The answer wasn’t simple. Dire was still down there, waiting out whatever damage he couldn’t shake. Dire had no Chord to pull him free.

“It … helped,” I managed.

“Good to hear, Grayer,” he finally said, his voice gruff.

I nodded.

“Keep those marks hidden, you got me? The Board finds out, you won’t be spared just because you gave it up.”

“I know. I’ve gone this long without getting caught, haven’t I?”

“And don’t forget to come by this place once in a while, if only to save me from having to track you down to make sure you’re not dead somewhere.”

“Thanks.”

“You never know—you might change your mind one day.”

But I never did go by to see him after that. My marks were enough of a reminder of what I’d done. As I slowly pull open the front door to the store and step inside, I hope his being right about my changing my mind will be enough for him to forgive my avoidance.

I can never forget the face of someone who almost got me killed, but I’m still surprised to see Hestor behind the counter.

I walk past customers waiting their turn at the plug-in and downloading stations, arrive at the counter, and wait for him to look up from whatever he’s doing.

“Yeah, what can I—” That’s as far as Hestor gets. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before narrowing. “What are
you
doing here?” he asks, and his voice can’t hide the fear lurking behind the words. He
should
be scared, I think resentfully. He sold me out to another striker.

“Where’s Dire?” I ask, adjusting my bag. Let my sleeves roll up past my wrists so he can’t miss my wrapped marks.

Hestor shakes his head, glancing over my shoulder to take in the rest of the store. Leans closer so whatever he says will remain for our ears alone. “I know you’re not working for him anymore. I don’t have to tell you nothing.”

My voice is just as low. “Why are
you
still working for him?”

“Not my problem you didn’t tattle on me. I explained it was all a mistake, that striker getting ahold of your location. Besides, Dire don’t have much of a choice, considering I know about what he does.”

“Do you feel bad for taking money from that striker?” I hiss at him. “Because he wasn’t very good.”

A snort of hot breath against my face, full of indignation. “He said he wanted information! That’s all he said! He—” He stops abruptly as a customer draws dangerously close.

I pull back, force my shoulders to relax, make sure my bandages are still secure around my wrists.

“Thanks, I’ll just go find him myself,” I say to Hestor in a voice I hope sounds close to upbeat. As the customer starts in with a question, giving him no choice but to turn away from me, I duck into the doorway behind him. I head down the dark stairway, the same one I took my first time here.

Dire’s at one of his many computer workstations, maybe even tracking one of his strikers right this very minute. He speaks without turning around.

“Well, Grayer, if this isn’t a hell of a surprise.” His voice is a familiar rumble, more comforting than frightening, and the shock of hearing it again brings sudden tears to my eyes. Time has passed, but not really. And it
is
good to see him, whatever the reason for my return. “I knew you weren’t dead, but I would have put money on never seeing you here again.”

“Sorry,” I say as he gets to his feet, walking over to me. I blink fast to dry my eyes. “I didn’t—Hestor, he—”

“He’s been dreading the day you might show up.” Dire grins, his wide face showing his genuine amusement before turning annoyed. “Serves him right for letting the contract log out of his sight.”

I don’t correct him. It won’t change what Hector’s done, what I’ve done. “I should have called first, I guess,” I finish lamely.

“Calling just to tell me you’re around and you want to say hello?” Dire shoots me a look. “Or for something that needs a little more warning?”

“Something like that.”

“Something like being a striker again?”

“Kind of.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need some advice about a weapon.”

“I’m flattered already, Grayer.”

“A Roark gun.”

“How did you hear about that?” Dire asks. He’s guarded now, almost wary. Unless I’m working for him, I’m a danger—someone who knows too much about what he does. The last thing he needs is to give me even more ammo, in case I turn against him. Or already am turned against him by someone else.

My answer isn’t going to help with that. “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Well, poison being used for completions isn’t exactly light, easygoing conversation, Grayer,” he says slowly. “Especially coming from someone who shouldn’t even know about it. The Board hasn’t approved it yet—might never, in fact. I know the tests have been all over the place, down at headquarters.”

“That’s what I was told, too.”

“Who told you?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“You’re not making it easy for me to tell you anything, you know that?”

“I could have talked about you a long time ago.”

A grunt. “Okay, you got a point there. I’ll answer what I can, then. And I’m holding you to that promise about not saying anything.”

“I won’t. You know you can trust me.”

“Fine. So shoot.”

“You built the Roark gun, didn’t you?”

He barks out a laugh. “I’m not that smart. Or skilled. Or patient.”

“Then you know who made it.”

“I do. Damn, Grayer. I should be scared how fast you connected the dots.”

I shrug. “No, it’s not that. You’re not being obvious or anything.” The Operator—Sabian—never once bragged about the Board being the ones who came up with the design. And without a doubt, he would have bragged about it if he could have. “I just figured outside of the Board, you’d be one of the very few people in Kersh who could have come up with the idea of that gun.”

“The person who designed the Roark is the same person who came up with that binding agent we use for making our marks, the stuff that speeds healing afterward. She makes the guns under another identity, of course. The Board thinks my bullet supplier over on the south side of the Grid came up with it.”

A flash of the lady who told me not to scream as she injected the tracking chips into my wrists. “You mean the woman who gave me my marks?”

“Yes, her name is Innes. I don’t have any Roark prototypes here to play around with, though—no point if the Board’s willing to take the worst of the abuse. Really is a sick but genius idea, reformatting a binder agent so it combines speed with a lethal component instead of a healing one. Instant death when it hits right.”

Innes. Now I know her name. A person capable of creating something to help speed healing, and then something to help speed death.

But shouldn’t the fact that she’s created an absolutely painless death count for something? No other weapon can promise the same.

“Dire, would you ever consider using a Roark for a completion?”

He scratches the scruff on his chin. “Or for one of my strikers to use one?”

I nod slowly. “Yes.”

“Nope. Never.”

His instant answer has me blinking in surprise. “But why not? If it’s supposed to be the most efficient way?”

“Too risky. The test reports from the Board don’t make me feel good enough about having them around as an option. The recoil and all. And someone finding a dead striker with a Roark gun still in hand? That’d be one hell of a news day, you can bet on that.”

His words are an echo of what Sabian said to me yesterday. It casts new doubt, fresh and nagging. Sabian’s warning about the Roark’s danger didn’t register, but hearing it again from Dire does. Maybe because I have no reason to look for hidden meanings in everything he says.

“So you came here to ask me some questions about a weapon you’ll never have to use?” Dire asks. “Well, I’m going to believe it’s ’cause you really just missed my fantastic and witty sense of—”

I swing my bag onto my lap, unzip it, and pull out the Roark gun, still in its case. Few but Dire would guess what was inside.

“How the hell did you get your hands on one, Grayer?” he asks.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t say. And don’t guess, because I don’t want to have to lie.”

He gives me a sour look and pulls out two of the chairs from around the table in the center of the room. “You do not make things easy,” he mutters. He shoves one of the chairs at me and sits down in the other. “Sit, then. I don’t know
how
you got one, but I know
where
you got it.”

I sit down and lay the gun on the table. “Just how bad is it for the target if the shooter misses?” I ask Dire. “I heard it’s painful if the shooter isn’t accurate, but is it that much worse than a regular bullet missing its mark?”

“Yeah, you bet your ass. It’s poison designed to act as soon as it makes direct contact with a pulse point—some points make better targets than others, depending on location and size. If the poison doesn’t immediately connect with a point to neutralize, it gets confused. It spreads out into the body, keeps searching for one. Melts you slowly from the inside out.”

“Oh.” One syllable, said more like a breath, and it takes with it whatever reassurance I was hoping to hear from Dire. I didn’t want to know that using this gun could somehow make pain
worse.

“And I gotta tell you, I’ve seen a lot of death in my lifetime,” Dire says, “most of it ugly, a lot of it inhumane. But reading those reports, what happened to those test bots … The worst were the ones that didn’t even end up killing the target, believe it or not.”

“You mean there were survivors?”

“Well,
physically,
sure. Turned out that shooting a target directly in the eye led to a different kind of reaction, one that didn’t kill. What the poison did instead was read a working Alt code as a pulse point and permanently and completely neutralized all parts of it. Instead of the target dying, they became a non-Alt, a non-person. Incompletes might be dead, but at least they don’t have to try carving out a life without an identity, sneaking resources they aren’t qualified for.”

Sabian didn’t mention this at all. Which makes sense. If today’s prototypes of Roark guns got in the wrong hands, a whole new kind of Alt would be created. The system would go to hell. My mind is all over the place with the implications.

“But then no one would have to die,” I say to Dire. “Strikers could use it and not have to kill. And the other Alt would be complete and Kersh would still get its worthy soldier.”