Oliver Invictus (Annals of Altair Book 3)

by Kate Stradling

  The older man nodded.

  “And how does that keep him out of the government’s crosshairs?” Smith pressed.

  “It doesn’t. He’d be back in the thick of things. That’s part of the reason we have so many dissensions about how to answer the request.”

  It occurred to Oliver at last that the man’s disgruntled attitude might be less because he had to harbor an injured null and more because of the politics and decision-making that had come as a result. “What is it you want me to do?”

  The local Smith pinned an unsettled frown upon him. “It’s a bad deal either way. If we send you into hiding, that leaves the Rosses free to rampage and the government with the best chance of reeling them in. If we toss you into the fray, that leaves you vulnerable to falling back into the clutches you’ve just escaped—to say nothing of the vendetta that Abel Ross carries against you.”

  But for Oliver, the correct decision was obvious. If the government pulled in Abel and he disclosed information to compromise Altair and its affiliates, any hiding place might be compromised as well. Besides that, it was Oliver’s fault that Kennedy had been set loose upon the world in the first place.

  If he was the only one who could stop her, he had the responsibility to act.

  “What happens to Abel and Kennedy if your affiliate gets to them?” he asked, though. “Abel’s a criminal, and at this point, Kennedy’s a willing accomplice. Do you put them into hiding? Contain them? Kill them?”

  The older Smith shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “If he didn’t know so much about our operations, we would let the government have him. He belongs in prison. Most likely, the affiliate will turn him back over to the Brotherhood and let them deal with him.”

  “Which could put him back in a position of power, depending on how his cell feels about his antics,” said the younger Smith with a scowl. “You’ll recall that several cells joined in on that attack against Prom-F.”

  His counterpart shook his head. “The Brotherhood has its hierarchy of leadership. They recognize that Abel’s gone rogue and poses a danger. They’ll deal with him accordingly.”

  “And what about Kennedy?” Oliver asked. His presence at Prom-F had suppressed her projections for years, but he wasn’t keen on playing that role for the rest of his life. At the ranch house, she had displayed glimpses of vulnerability, of humanity, but her actions since then showed a hardened resolve.

  “We have an affiliate, Sigma, that’s developing a technology to mimic null-projection,” the older Smith said.

  Shock jolted through Oliver. His brows knit together in a harrowed question.

  “What?” Jenifer hissed, leaning forward.

  “The government’s been working on it too, for the past decade or more, but we’re farther along than they are. I think Sigma stole some of their initial data and went a different direction with it. We have a prototype device that can mimic null-projection, but only in the direct vicinity of the projector. I mean within two or three feet. They’re stuck on how to amplify it beyond.” He glanced casually toward Oliver. “They’re fairly interested in studying a Level 5 null.”

  “Another inquiry about him?” asked Smith from the wall.

  The older man curtly nodded.

  The unhappy prospect of being a test subject danced through Oliver’s flabbergasted thoughts. Null-projection mimicry would make him obsolete. It would absolve him of any compulsion to chase down rogue projectors like Kennedy Ross.

  Is that what General Stone did with all the null-projectors at Prom-E? Were they really test subjects after all? And was this Altair affiliate, Sigma, any better an option?

  “Anyway,” said the elder Smith, “if Kennedy can be contained, they can fit her with the prototype and keep her under watch.”

  “She’d be a test subject too, you mean,” Oliver said before he thought to stop himself.

  The man straightened, his shoulders stiff. “A test subject for Sigma is a far cry from what will happen to her if the government gets her. She would have to be monitored, but she would live.”

  It was a valid point. General Stone had ordered Kennedy to be killed on sight. Oliver, who had already looked death straight in the eyes, understood the value of life, however hobbled it might be. Still, “Are they ethical?” he asked.

  “Of course they are.”

  “And you know for a fact that the government hasn’t gotten her already?”

  “I don’t know anything for a fact right now,” the man said. “I’ve laid things out for you as I understand them, but obviously the situation can turn on a dime.” He checked his watch. “The longer this stretches out, the more dangerous it gets. I don’t need an answer tonight, but I will need one soon.”

  He started to rise, but Oliver, in confusion, blurted, “An answer to what?” Had the man asked him a question? Weren’t the people higher up in Altair’s chain of command debating and deciding his future for him?

  “We’re not forcing you,” the older Smith said. “What you do is your choice, whether you go into hiding or head off in pursuit of the Rosses. Same goes for your two caretakers here. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  The younger Smith pushed off from the wall and followed his counterpart to the front door. Oliver, in the wake of their departure, shifted his astonished gaze to Jenifer.

  A bittersweet smile lingered on her face. She patted his knee with contrived gusto. “Welcome to freedom from tyranny. I’m guessing it’s a bit more responsibility than you’re used to.”

  Chapter 25

  Tales of Yore

  Friday, March 8, 7:57 PM PST, Seattle

  There was no question what to do. He would go after the Rosses. The government might be closing the net around the renegades at this very moment, but that hardly mattered. Oliver had to be willing to help. He couldn’t abandon those who had provided him refuge.

  Jenifer heard his decision with a faint smile. “What would you want to do if there were no Rosses?” When he frowned, she elaborated. “You’re going out of duty. What if that duty didn’t exist? What would you want to do?”

  “What does it matter?” he asked, his posture stiff.

  She shrugged. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”

  “Well, stop it,” he said, unnerved by how like Emily she seemed in that moment. The question nagged at him, though. Freedom from Prometheus and the GCA was still foreign enough that he half-expected an elite retrieval squad through the front door at any moment, with tranquilizer-bearing agents ready to take him back into custody. If his freedom were a sure thing, though…

  He would look for the real Emily—maybe not to talk to her, but only to check that she was safe and happy. The same went for his family, the mother and father he couldn’t remember and the sister he had never met. They had moved on with their lives. He had no place among them, but it would be nice to see them from afar, or to pass them on the street, to know from that tangential contact that they yet existed in the world.

  A gnawing emptiness ate at his insides. He had no place, no home, no refuge but this temporary waypoint Altair had provided. His best purpose in life was to serve as a tool for someone else.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked Jenifer to distract himself from this melancholy line of thought. Absently he picked at a loose thread on his sling.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said. His attention jerked up, his eyes wide. She favored him with a cavalier smile. “My cover’s already been destroyed, so why not?”

  Across the room, Smith barely contained a scoff. It manifested in a derisive snort instead.

  His unspoken cynicism raised her hackles. “I could go into hiding, but I’d much rather be of use. Every atrocity the Rosses commit sends people scurrying toward the government for safety—false safety. The longer they’re out there, the more our liberty gets chipped away. Besides,” she said to Oliver, “who else is going to change your bandages?”

  Her willingness to follow him into the fray bolstered his confidence. She had
become a familiar presence, someone he could rely on.

  The decision was not so clear-cut with Smith.

  “I have a cell to return to,” he argued over dinner. “I have people I’m responsible for. What are they supposed to do if I abandon them for any longer than I already have?”

  “They’re supposed to go to your second-in-command, like rational people do,” Jenifer said. “Look, if you want to go back to Idaho, by all means do it. But no cell’s safety hinges on just one person unless you’re running it wrong.”

  He grimaced but said nothing. After the meal he retreated to the back rooms, where he could keep an eye on the security feed.

  Jenifer and Oliver remained in the family room, NPNN broadcasting from the television on a low volume.

  Oliver settled back on the couch, his eyes straying toward the area of the house where Smith lingered. “How did he even end up coming here?”

  “I bribed him,” said Jenifer.

  “Bribed?”

  “I guess ‘bargained’ would be a better word for it,” she said. She leaned his direction, her elbows resting on her knees and her hands clasped. “You remember the info I poached from Prom-F’s computer system on the night of the attack?”

  Oliver nodded.

  “I gave Smith a copy of it in return for helping me come after you.”

  Oliver frowned. “You promised him a copy?”

  “No. I gave it to him. Just outright gave it to him.”

  Disbelief cut through the teen. “How stupid are you? He could’ve taken your copy and abandoned you in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Exactly,” said Jenifer. She leaned back into the couch cushions. Oliver, confused by her seeming carelessness, frowned at her. She slid a sidelong glance in his direction. “If someone has no integrity, I want to know sooner rather than later. I gave him the copy outright, and it was up to him to follow through on his end of the bargain. If he’d been a liar and a cheat, I would’ve been better off without him. But he wasn’t. He traced the Rosses and got us here, and he’s gone above and beyond that in pulling help from the local Altair cell to get you away from the hospital. He’s earned his keep. He has the right to go home now.”

  “But you don’t want him to,” Oliver said.

  A wistful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she kept her attention fixed upon the television.

  Veronica was on screen with her hourly update. The report cut away to Oliver’s dour school picture. Jenifer snatched the remote and jammed her finger on the volume button.

  “Authorities have new leads in their search for missing school bomber Oliver Dunn. They’ve tied him to a shooting in Idaho and an attack on another Prometheus Institute campus, which sent thirty students to the hospital for smoke inhalation and left one in critical condition from a gunshot wound. Dunn is believed to be in the Seattle area still. Residents are asked to phone the national witness hotline if they see him, but are cautioned not to approach. He is likely armed and extremely dangerous.”

  A numb, possessive rage encased Oliver to his very bones. “Did I just get blamed for when Abel shot me?” he asked in a tight voice.

  Smith had emerged from his back-room haven during the report. He grunted, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Good.”

  “Good?” Oliver repeated. “Good?”

  “It means their trail went cold. They don’t report on the news unless they’ve run out of leads. We should be safe for the night, in other words.” He spun on his heels and disappeared again.

  In the wake of his retreat, Oliver shifted outraged eyes to Jenifer. “Good?”

  She swatted his leg. “Your reputation was already in shambles. Who cares if you’ve shot yourself on top of everything else?”

  Logical as her assessment was, Oliver couldn’t shake the indignation that gripped him. It wasn’t enough to be scapegoated for the original attack, but to have Kennedy’s attacks on Prom-B laid at his door—to say nothing of Abel’s assassination attempt—stuck in his craw.

  Whatever doubts he’d had about going after the Rosses disintegrated. If he was to be blamed for all of their misdeeds, he would do everything in his power to stop them.

  “What’s this about a shooting in Idaho, though?” Jenifer asked, her cheek propped against her palm as she studied him.

  He blinked. “Huh? Oh. I shot Abel in the shoulder. If my aim hadn’t been off, he’d be dead.”

  Jenifer contained her surprise to a slight widening of the eyes. She averted her gaze again to the television, where Veronica’s NPNN report now discussed Kennedy’s fake kidnapping and the five prison escapees.

  “Who are they?” Oliver asked, but she shook her head to signify that she didn’t know. Or that she wasn’t going to tell him.

  Footsteps sounded from the back of the house. “Oliver, I need you to come with me,” Smith said.

  Jenifer straightened on the couch. “What for?”

  “Asset debriefing.”

  “What’s that?” Oliver asked.

  A wry, rueful smile tipped the corner of Jenifer’s mouth. “It’s where you give Altair your life history. Go on. Don’t keep him up too late, Smith,” she added over her shoulder.

  Oliver followed the man into a bedroom that had been furnished as an office. The blinds shut out any view of the rainy night. In the closet a set of monitors displayed exterior and interior angles of the house.

  Smith gestured to the chair behind a large desk that dominated the room. “Have a seat.” He fiddled with a narrow camera mounted on a tripod. “I have to record this. You don’t have to look at the camera. Just answer my questions as best as you can. If you don’t know something, you can say so, and we’ll move on.”

  Oliver’s nerves writhed. He’d been interviewed by the police and by General Stone, and he’d had surveillance cameras trained on him his whole life. Why did this situation worry him so much? He fixed his gaze upon the desk, his left hand tracing invisible patterns across the surface. Smith settled into a chair behind the camera.

  “For the record, please state your full name and date of birth.”

  “Oliver Henry Dunn, September 18, 2042.”

  “What’s your earliest memory, Oliver?”

  He glanced up from the desk in surprise, his brows knitting together. His earliest memory? What was it? A flash of images cascaded through his mind. “I remember the nursery at Prom-A. The workers would only hold the kids who cried, so there was a lot of screaming.” His chest tightened at the unpleasant recollection.

  “Did you cry a lot, then?” Smith asked with a faint, lopsided smile.

  “No,” Oliver said. He shook his head, attempting to clear the fog around those far-cast days. “I mean, I must have, because I remember being held, but when they put me down I was…” He paused to consider the tangled emotions that he associated with that era of his life. “I was angry. Those worthless workers pandering to whichever kid screamed the loudest and then abandoning them for someone else. And the stupid kids who couldn’t shut up. We were all in the same boat. They weren’t in any more pain than I was.”

  A note of bitterness had crept into his voice. He cleared his throat to reset his emotions. “It was… it was dumb, all of us in cribs all in a row. And if you figured out how to crawl out of the crib, they put a screen over the top to keep you in, like a caged animal. And if you figured out how to push the screen off and crawl out anyway, they scolded you and left you in a gated playpen area instead.”

  “Did you figure out how to get out of that, too?”

  Oliver, jarred from his memories, looked up at Smith. The man was trying to contain his concern in a neutral façade. “I wasn’t tall enough to reach the latch on the gate, so I threw toys over the top to the other side. I ended up alone in the pen, but I wasn’t going to be one of those ninnies who cried for attention.”

  Smith nodded his understanding and moved on. “What do you remember after the nursery?”

  Prom-A’s early childhood system had been rigorously scheduled.
Oliver had transferred from the nursery to a pre-K group on his third birthday. He had started Prometheus’s kindergarten curriculum when he was still four years old. He summarized his early years at the school with a sense of confinement eating at him. He had been a prisoner there. How had he never seen that before?

  “Tell me about your null-projection,” said Smith.

  “They tested kids regularly to see if they were projectors,” said Oliver. “I was flagged, for some reason, when I was six, and they kept testing me. I remember Principal Jones—Genevieve Jones—came in to watch. After one test, she crouched down in front of me and told me I was very special, more special than any other child in the school, so special that they might need me to help them sometimes. The awful old hag was manipulating me, and it worked.” The scowl on his face deepened. “I already knew at that point that I was better than the screamers and crybabies my own age, but as a null, I was suddenly better than everyone. There was another null a couple of years older than me—Quincy, her name was—but I tested stronger than her. Everyone knew she helped the administrators from time to time, but after I tested positive, they came to me instead.”

  “And how did you help them?”

  Oliver recounted the incidents. His null-projection had solidified by the time he was seven. Projectors at Prom-A were stable, but there had been issues at Prom-C and Prom-D. He told of his travels to both of those schools—multiple times to Prom-D, and for different kids each time. The offenders were always transferred to Prom-F. Everyone knew it was the armpit of the Prometheus system.

  “And there was never any issue with these problem students after they got to Prom-F?” Smith asked.

  Oliver frowned, his mind suddenly stuck on a thought. “I don’t—I don’t remember any of them being there.” He had traveled to Prom-F just after he turned ten; they had hosted the Institute’s yearly exhibition, and all the top students from each eligible grade in each school had attended. Perhaps Principal Gates had kept the troublemakers out of the way for the event, but Oliver had transferred into the school less than a year later.