Dualed (11 page)

We all turned from the scene and began moving away from the train stop. None of us had much to say; it was strange to have everyone so quiet. But words came hard when your head was still replaying what happened over and over.

At one point the siren of a clearing truck began to blare, getting louder as it got closer to the scene. It sounded like crying, the wailing of someone mourning, and I thought of the lady sitting on the bench. The look on her face made me wonder if she knew the Board offered counseling to bystanders, too, not just survivors of incompletes. I felt odd inside, like the world had been shaken and set back down, no longer quite the same as it had been. Somehow messier, less coherent.

“You okay, West?” Chord asked. The worry in his eyes was obvious. “Maybe it was too soon for—”

I shook my head. Tried to blink away a sudden wave of heat in my eyes. “No, I had to see one start to finish sooner or later, right?”

“And Hoult’s safe now, just like we wanted,” Luc said. “His Alt didn’t really stand a chance, so I guess it was meant to be.”

“He’ll probably be back at school tomorrow,” Aave said. But his voice wasn’t quite right, as though he was speaking just for the sake of saying something.

“You’re happy for him, right, Aave?” I grabbed his arm, needing to hear Hoult living meant more than just his Alt dying. “Since he was your friend?”

Aave nodded. He seemed relieved, but sad, too. Maybe he was thinking about Hoult’s Alt’s glasses on the ground, shattered. Had the shards looked like tears to him, too? “Yeah, I’m glad it was him. It was always supposed to be him.”

I kept walking, my head down, my eyes still burning. Aave was so sure. From what I’d seen, I was sure, too. So why did my stomach feel so queasy?

Chord moved closer, gently pulled my hood down over my head, and let me lean against him as we headed home.

A ball whizzes by my feet, startling me out of my memories. My eyes chase it until it disappears into the shadows of a nearby lawn.

A boy runs over to pick the ball up. Farther down I hear someone yell at him to be careful. The voice is young, so maybe a brother, or a friend. Then a third chimes in, a girl’s voice this time.

We used to play just like this, when we were kids. When the world was bathed in dusk, its stars just blinking on, the ever-present barrier looming at its edges. After we were done training for the day, the four of us would run up and down the
streets and across neighbors’ yards, playing whatever came to mind beneath the yellow glow of streetlamps as drivers swore at us from their cars.

The girl I was that day, when I saw my first completion … she was horrified by what was only natural, an Alt killing his Alt. How would she react to what I just did? What would that West think of me now?

I have to believe that with each strike, I won’t be killing someone so much as I’ll be letting someone else live. That I’ll be saving someone else’s life.

It’s fully dark by the time I get up and start walking again. But the stars still haven’t come out, and I’m left to navigate my way home without them.

The doorbell rings. I barely hear it over the sound of running water.

Who could it be? Not Chord; I told him weeks ago I wanted to walk to school from now on. By myself.

He went quiet, and from the look in his eye I knew he was as upset as he was angry. But he didn’t argue. As much as he understood that it was hard for me to see him because of what happened to Luc, he was also still struggling with the fact that I was a striker. That right or wrong, whatever I needed couldn’t be found with him. Which made it hard for him to see me, too.

My eyes dart over to the clock above the stove. Nearly nine. I finish washing the specks of blood from my hands and turn off the water. Glance at the switchblade on the counter I was in the middle of cleaning.

It must be something important. I don’t think Chord would come by otherwise. Not after how we left each other last time, when I refused to get into his car for school.

I kick my open bag out of the way as I run from the kitchen, reminding myself that I still need to throw something in there
for lunch. At the same time, I yank my sleeves down over my wrists, poking my thumbs through the holes I’ve cut out. The motion is almost second nature now. At school, and around Chord especially, I’m always sure to hide my marks.

Doorbell again.

And when I open the door, it’s not Chord standing there after all, but an Operator from the Board.

The way he’s dressed tells me instantly he’s a Level 3—standard assignment policy. Still rising in the ranks, they’re the ones sent out to deliver the news to idles that they’re now actives. Clad in dark gray from head to toe, from the cuffs of his trousers to the tweed epaulets on the shoulders of his jacket. A slip of silk in the left front chest pocket is the lone splash of color. The bright red of poppies and pomegranates and fresh blood, it’s the signature color of this particular Level within the Board.

So numb. Still, I take in every detail.

The morning sun hits his scalp, bare from the required daily shave. Nails trimmed to the very quick and buffed to a mild shine. No jewelry of any kind, of course—that would speak of some individuality. And his eyes are intentionally and carefully blank, just as they have been trained to be.

The tips of his gray shoes are slightly scuffed.

How is it possible the Board missed that when they sent him out? I wonder dazedly. Even for a Level 3, it’s important to maintain the uniform to the most exacting, demanding degree. It has to be all the legwork, I tell myself. As early as it is, I’m probably not the first assignment he’s had to deliver today.

“West Grayer?” the Operator asks. His voice is bland, stuck in neutral, without an inkling of personality.

I’ve been told that when it finally happens, it’s like watching the whole world go dim, all lights extinguished with one swift snuff. That suddenly I won’t be able to breathe, as though I am already dying. That most of me will freeze up, not wanting to deal—neither charging nor hiding but just trying to make the inevitable go away.

That’s what they said it would be like. But they were wrong.

It’s Chord’s face in my mind. A horrible, bone-deep surety that I will never get to know more of him than what I already know. And it’s far from enough.

It’s anguish over my lost family, cutting through me like a blade. So unfair, that they all died first. What could I have done to have it be so unfair?

It’s the face of my Alt staring back at me. My own face.

I am going to die
.

“West Grayer?”

I jerk my head in a nod. Blink myself back and stare at him. “Yes. I’m her. I’m West.”

He holds his cell to my face at eye level, and a flash of light blinds me for a few seconds, followed by a searing flash of heat across my pupils. Then activation software in the device beeps to signal that my assignment number has been properly triggered.

My eyes, now spiraled with a sequence of numbers that I share with my Alt. Wherever she is at this moment, I know her own Level 3 Operator is right there with her.

“Cell, please,” the Operator says.

My hand slowly pulls my cell from my pocket and passes it over. I can see the blood still staining the beds of my fingernails, crescents of evidence of last night’s strike. I ended up having to use one of my blades—up close, not over a distance, the idea of throwing still too raw for me to try again—which always leaves more of a mess than the gun does. Getting home super-late meant having to clean up this morning. I put away the gun and the two blades I didn’t use last night.

He holds my cell up to his own so it can receive my assignment details. “You’ll find everything you need in the file,” he says. Another beep. Passes my cell back to me. “As per Board rules, please be sure to read it in full.”

Somehow I make myself nod.

The Operator punches something into his cell to close the document and relay to the Board a successful assignment delivery. He neatly tucks his cell away.

“West Grayer, as of this moment, you have exactly thirty-one days to complete your assignment. If at thirty-two days it has not been completed by either you or your Alt, your Alternate code will self-detonate.”

I nod again. All I can do.

“Be the one, be worthy.”

With that, he’s gone, a gray phantom. Only the one dab of blood over his heart remains vivid enough in my mind for me to know he was real.

So that’s it. I have my assignment. It’s the last thing I would imagine to be possible: that at fifteen, I’d be both an active Alt and a striker.

Though only one is by choice.

I stumble away from the door, heading somewhere else, anywhere else. My eyes dully take in the sight of my bag, still in the middle of the floor, still waiting for a lunch, on a day that is not going to happen as planned.

Get moving, West. You know you have to leave if you want a chance
. It’s my voice in my head … except there are traces of Luc, too … all my family, Baer … Chord.

I know all the stats, the numbers, the odds. As a striker, especially. But I’m suffocating now, and none of that seems so important anymore. Safety was being in an assassin’s world, staying in the dark, memories gone mute, when it was never me but some other Alt about to die.

I return to the kitchen, study the switchblade I was cleaning just before. There’s still blood where the blade meets the handle, deep in the joint. I wonder if I can scrub it away if I try hard enough, long enough. Try to make it disappear before it seeps too far inward.

I turn the water back on, hold the switchblade beneath the flow.

There’s a loud banging at the front door before it crashes open. Chord’s rushing toward me, his dark eyes meeting mine, and I know what he sees. As good as I might be at denial, it’s impossible in the face of his reaction.

“You shouldn’t be here, West,” he whispers roughly. “Why are you still here?”

I shudder at the sound of his voice. If feelings alone could save a life, neither of us would ever be in danger.

“West, what are you doing?” He takes in the running water, the sink, the blade. “I just saw an Operator leaving your house!” He turns the tap off with a hard twist of his hand.

I breathe out and dry the switchblade with the tail of my shirt before folding it up and tucking it into the front pocket of my jeans. There it is again—that same mix of pain and pleasure at having him so close. “You’re going to be late for school, Chord,” I say to him.

“Don’t mess around, West!” he says, nearly yelling. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” There is no real thought behind my answer. Just rote movements of lips, tongue, air. His hair is wild, his mouth a harsh, savage line. “I’ll be fine.”

He walks over to my bag and upends it onto the floor.

My mouth drops open. “Hey, Chord, wait.…”

But he’s already halfway up the stairs, empty bag in hand. The last time he was here, he demanded I shoot for him before he would leave. What does he want from me this time before he’s safe and free of me?

Chord is still moving, and as I scuttle after him I pass my parents’ bedroom. An image of the remainder of my father’s sleeping pills, the bottle still in the medicine cabinet, flashes in my mind. The pills he intentionally took all the way to his death, already more than halfway there after my mother died as a PK. For her to survive to be a complete, only to be killed anyway, was too much for him to wrap his head around.

But then Chord’s in my bedroom, and all thoughts of the pills dissipate.

I walk in to see that he’s tossed the bag on top of my bed
before ripping open the door to my closet. I close my eyes at the clink of cheap wire hangers being moved around, the shuffle of stuff falling off the shelves and hitting the floor. Each sound is a testament to Chord’s frustration, his fear.

Sweaters, jackets, jeans, all landing on my bed to create a small mountain. He throws a pair of shoes across the room. Another pair lands on my desk, sending a pile of sketch pads flying. They tip over one of the pails I use to hold pens and brushes and tubes of paint. More than a few of these roll off and hit the ground.

“What are you doing?” I say to his back. Though I know exactly what he’s doing. It’s what I should have already done.

He turns around and glares at me. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Get out of my closet, Chord,” I say, my voice mechanical even to my own ears. “Stop messing around with my stuff.”

“I can’t even look at you right now,” he says, his disgust too great to hide. “Here.” He pushes the bag at me. “Pack it. Take what you think you’ll need. I’ll give you as much cash as I have with me, to buy whatever else later. Just pack it and get away from here.” I crush the bag with my hands before letting it fall to my feet.

“I don’t need your money,” I tell him through numb lips. “I’ve been working, remember?”

The reminder of my striker status only upsets him further. “I know you’re too smart to touch whatever you’ve got, if you’ve been putting it away. Not unless you want it to show up on the Alt log.”

He’s right, of course. The Alt log is the Board’s database for
an active’s movements. Once an assignment goes live in the system, all transactions require an Alt’s eyes to be scanned. The information—assignment number, location, time—gets fed right into the Alt log. Active Alts can then access this data from the terminal station, Kersh’s checkpoint during assignments.

I’m live as of this morning. Bank transactions of any kind will need an eye scan now. And that would give my Alt her first clue … to where I’ve been, where I’m going, where I might be.

I can be Dire’s highest-paid striker, and it won’t make a bit of difference. Apart from the handful of bills I stashed in my dresser after last night’s strike, I’m cleaned out. So wrong and stupid to think I was even
close
to being ready—

Chord grabs the bag from where it’s still lying at my feet. He starts shoving in fistfuls of clothes. “West,
move
! What are you waiting for?
Her?
You want a personal introduction or something?”