Agent Gemini

by Lilith Saintcrow

  It rasped against his nerves. His headache wasn’t getting any better. At least they’d both been able to shave. “We worked for them, too, man.”

  “Point.”

  “And no, she wouldn’t turn on us.”

  “She turned on Bronson.”

  “That’s different.”

  “You sure?”

  “If you want to leave, go ahead. Go get Holly and take her back over the border.”

  “She’d kill me.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  The pause that followed wasn’t quite comfortable. Maybe Reese was thinking about Cal’s own treachery, hunting him and Holly after Tracy’s...death. They might have gotten away clean if Cal hadn’t tracked them as far as Boulder before digging the small capsule out of his hip.

  If he hadn’t, he would never have met Trinity, though. He wondered if she had a matching scar on her hip, if she’d ever been chipped. He hadn’t thought to ask.

  “Cal.” Reese, very quietly. “Do you have a headache?”

  “Yeah.” Who wouldn’t, in this weather?

  “Huh.” A short, thoughtful noise.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Reese’s shrug was a masterpiece of indifference. “Tell you later.”

  A blood-dipped sun slid fully below the horizon. Thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning flashes playing on far-off mesas. They’d done nuclear testing out in this part of the States, scientists with dark glasses thinking a bunker would protect them.

  Later, they found out the invisible had its ways of killing you, too. The same arrogant bastards, or their heirs, had probably made the virus swimming in both men sitting in a hot car in a New Mexico sunset.

  Cal waited, though every inch of his skin prickled with the urge to get out. To run. To find wherever she was, beat down any door in his way and make her listen to reason.

  Finally, Reese slid the prepaid cell out of his pocket, hit a few numbers and let it ring twice. On the other end, Holly would know they were beginning their run. Her part was rendezvous support—she’d been determined to come with them; it took both Cal and Reese to talk her out of that.

  Even with a full viral load, she was still a civilian.

  And even Trinity, with her training and analysis, wasn’t ready for this sort of fieldwork. Besides, dammit, this was a man’s job.

  Wasn’t it? After all, what else was he good for?

  Reese hung up, glanced at Cal and twisted the key in the ignition.

  Showtime.

  * * *

  She fought to rise, to surface from the black hole, but there was a sting in her arm and a fresh wave of velvet-black, blurring sedation. The virus ate the chemical sludges, but they kept changing by degrees, and each wave required adaptation, which consumed precious time. Over and over, she rose from the swamp and was forced back down.

  Tiny bits of audio filtered in.

  Look at that, her blood pressure...stable, very nice...she just keeps burning it off, it’s incredible...would kill a horse...give her the ket, let’s see what that does...

  In the middle of the confusion, medical jargon and the confused, blurred impressions of activity buzzing around her, a familiar voice.

  “Don’t give her ketamine, for Chrissake, what’s wrong with you? Check the restraints.”

  They’re clear, sir.

  “Good. Get out.”

  She’s going to wake up soon.

  “I know, Hector. Clear the room, folks.”

  Are you all right, sir?

  “Hector, get out.”

  Audio drained away. The chemicals burned in her veins, blurred over her skin.

  Trinity. That’s my name. The thought sent a wash of strength through her, and more sensation bled through the sedation—smells of disinfectant and pain, discomfort building in muscles and joints, rasping against her stiffened hair. Rainwater always did that, left sediment on strands and scalp. Gritty dust all over her as well, from the records room.

  That’s what happened. Gas, in an airtight climate-controlled chamber.

  As traps went, it was a patient, crudely effective one. Not at all like Bronson’s paper-shuffling overkill.

  Bronson’s dead. Where are you now?

  Her fingers and toes were all present and accounted for. The virus was burning away sedatives, adapting more quickly each time since there were only so many chemical families capable of producing the required effects. Sweat beaded on her forehead, dampened her arms and legs, no energy left over for regulating it and besides, excreting whatever the virus couldn’t eat of the drugs would help her regain capacity sooner.

  That was a logical thought, and she clung to it. More sensory input, a confusing strobe light against her eyes, compressed bullets of scent. Hospital. I’m in a medical facility.

  For some reason, the realization caused a cold bath of sensation, and the final wave of sedation shattered. Trinity lunged for consciousness, pulse and respiration easing, her eyelids sliding up just a little, enough to give her a limited field of vision. White glare—lights focused at her face, probably to rob her of visual input. Shallow breathing brought in a tangle of scents—illness, the rasping testosterone acridity of excited males, overheated coffee, nylon webbing, disturbed dust, her own body’s metabolizing of the chemicals a sour metal undernote.

  Another tang, of sweat, excitement and sickness. It overlaid a familiar scent, blond and male, and for a moment she couldn’t dredge the name or face out of memory.

  Had deconstruction proceeded so far? Was she finally what she’d feared, a mindless husk?

  “I know you’re awake,” he said. A smooth Midwest accent, and now she had the face. Blond, certainly, a strong jaw and muddy hazel eyes. He’d been attached to Bronson near the end, a major’s uniform and his hungry, hungry scrutiny whenever their superior wasn’t in the room.

  She finally found the name. Caldwell. His orders had been brief and to the point. He had even ordered hot showers and fresh clothing for her. Despite that, his muddy gaze had always made her...not precisely uncomfortable, but cautious. There was little calculation in such caution, but a great deal of instinct, and Trinity had been careful to keep her distance.

  Ah. So that’s who set the trap. The machine inside her head shuddered—she hadn’t judged him subtle enough for such a thing, but his handling of Bronson might have been far more adroit than she’d guessed. Ironic; if Trinity hadn’t shot Bronson herself, Caldwell might have made other arrangements.

  And if Caldwell was behind the other agent hunting her, the one who had survived induction, he was much higher in Division’s confidence than she’d initially assumed.

  Each consideration passed through her brain with what felt like lightning speed, but she couldn’t be sure, with the fog of sedation and the chance of deconstruction having proceeded. She remained very still, testing each limb in turn.

  Restraints. She knew the feeling—the tough fabric pulled tightly at wrists, elbows, shoulders, hips, knees, ankles. One strapped over her forehead, and another over her throat, not snugged too tightly, but impossible for her to move her head from the small, shallow bowl in that end of the metal table.

  Oh.

  “I said, I know you’re awake, Three.”

  Good for you. She let her eyelids drift upward another fraction. The glare stung, her tear ducts prodded into producing a trickle of hot water. Don’t call me that. Perhaps the deconstruction had halted for a few moments, which meant she had to maximize whatever advantage she could.

  I’m tied up on a table, for God’s sake. I need every edge I can manufacture.

  Caldwell coughed slightly. A fresh wave of necrotic illness cut through his scent, and Trinity’s nose threatened to wrinkle. Ugh. What is that?

  The light shining in her face clicked off, which wa
s a relief. She tested the bonds, one after another—very little give. Which left one or two unpalatable options, if she discounted chewing through her own limbs to get away.

  Funny how that suddenly seemed a viable option if the situation took a few more turns. Trinity opened her eyes.

  Half-familiar shapes loomed over her. The table was slick and cold, the harsh cheap fabric of a hospital johnny slid inadequately between her skin and chill metal. Caldwell swam into focus, a tall blond man wearing a major’s oak leaf, just as she remembered him. Except he was sweating, and he smelled deathly, powerfully sick. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and he grinned as if he’d just told the world’s best joke and expected her approval.

  The metal arms hanging above her were definitely familiar. This wasn’t just an exam room, it was a fully equipped medbay, and a small, cold, sharp spear went through Trinity’s brain. “Sir.” The word was bloodless, whispered through her chapped lips. If he thought her stupid or amenable, there might be a chance of escape.

  “I’ve missed hearing you say that.” Caldwell’s smile widened before he dug in his pocket and produced a crisp white handkerchief, Sua Sponte embroidered on its edge in red. He coughed into its embrace rackingly, and she strained to analyze his illness. It didn’t sound like a common cold. “I’ve been chasing you all over.”

  Well, that answered that question. She studied him, trying to ignore the metal arms. A terrifying, hideous possibility had occurred to her. Surely the shapes were coincidence, and they didn’t intend to—

  Caldwell coughed again, into the handkerchief. He twisted the cloth around a cargo of sputum and beamed at her. “I’d debrief you, but it’s not necessary. I don’t care where you’ve been or what you’ve been after.” His smile widened. “After a little while, you won’t, either.”

  Her throat was too dry. It wasn’t a side effect from the sedation. Her gaze flicked back to the metal arms; Caldwell turned aside and pressed a button on the console next to him. A familiar whining sound began, drilling into her bones, and the arms twitched. Delicate servomotors moved, well oiled and silent; there was a crackle and the smell of ozone.

  “We’ve perfected the process,” Caldwell said over the noise. “Just hold still. It will all be over soon, and we’ll be together.”

  There was no avoiding the truth. He meant to subject her to the induction process again.

  Trinity began to struggle.

  The restraints, the table, and Caldwell took no notice whatsoever.

  * * *

  Two men with fresh crewcuts, fatigues and white lab coats should have been able to slip into any military hospital unchallenged, especially if they moved and even smelled right. Unfortunately, some brass had chewed someone out, and the MPs at every entrance were an unforgiving bunch. Secondary security was also tight, which left getting creative. The kitchen was oddly deserted for a place this size, and its back door only had one or two easily circumvented countermeasures, since there was no use in making staff sign in and out every time they took scraps to the Dumpsters. Reese popped the lock while Cal used some wire and ingenuity to tell the door sensor that it was closed, no really it was, just do your job and don’t make trouble. Then it was a simple matter of shadow-moving to avoid cameras, penetrating a cadaverous, dusty kitchen.

  Nobody had eaten here for a while.

  The place reeked of floor wax, pain and the greasy industrial staleness of military, a familiar mix of sweat, bad orders and gun oil. It took him back to working for the program, coming in for blood draws, the interminable poking and prodding and tolerance tests, the endless round of psych evals. How’s your digestion? Any uncomfortable thoughts? When was the last time you dreamed? What did the dreams consist of? Urinate into this receptacle, we’re going to do a cheek swab, we have tolerance tests scheduled, a full workup.

  And even before that, sitting in a dust-free office, its window looking out onto a stretch of green lawn, while a striped, starred and mustachioed bigwig tented his fingers and said We have a special program, son.

  “Yep, smells familiar,” Cal muttered.

  Reese glanced at him. The man was a ghost, quiet even for an agent. Surprisingly, though, he offered a tight smile, wrinkles at the corners of his dark eyes fanning out. “I was just thinking that.”

  The halls around the kitchen, full of cameras and tense expectancy, were also dusty. This part of the facility hadn’t been used in a while. His head ached, sharp jabs stabbing down his neck no matter how often he breathed deeply or pushed his shoulders back. “What about the headache, Reese?”

  The other agent checked around the corner. “Cameras, standard pattern. Those? Holly gets them when we’re not together.”

  Oh? “What about you?”

  “I get other effects.” With any other man, the comment might have sounded salacious. From Reese, though, it sounded...dangerous.

  To be stable, the agent and the gemina have to exchange...one virus has what the other lacks... All sorts of things were starting to make sense now. “Oh, man.”

  “Yeah. I spend too long away, I start getting stupid. And slow.”

  “Degradation. Trinity says the agents and geminas need each other to be stable.”

  “Geminas?”

  For once, Cal had an answer. “The girls. You know, what with the virus being Gemini now.”

  “Oh. That other agent, you think he might get a girlfriend?”

  “Dunno. Didn’t stop to ask him if he had a sweetheart.” But now he thought about the girl with spectacles and chestnut hair, and he wondered. “The induction might stop that, though.”

  “Induction.” Reese shook his head a little. “Like we’re lab rats.” He froze, and Cal did, too.

  Footsteps. A standard patrol of six, coming down the halls in order, little clicks of gear and the breathing of excited, testosterone-high meatheads. Something was definitely going on in here, the whole place bubbling like a poked anthill. It was probably Trinity. God knew the woman could cause havoc just by breathing.

  If she was here, it could only mean she’d been incapacitated in some way.

  Caught.

  Just stay alive, honey.

  Cal’s weight dropped onto his back foot as Reese glanced back at him, a silent question printed on his face. You ready?

  They were going to take this patrol down. Good. Cal held up one finger.

  Leave one for questioning.

  Reese nodded and braced himself.

  The logical extension of the headaches was pretty goddamn simple. If he needed Trinity to stay stable, she probably needed him, as well. She was already so goddamn fragile, and her fears of degradation so intense... Jesus. Her pale, set face, trying so hard not to give anything away. Standing across the room, not even sure if she’d be invited to eat.

  Never even tasted a milk shake before.

  “Hey, Southie,” one of the men around the corner said. “You wanna get some beers after shift?”

  “Sure thing,” another man responded, but it was too late. Reese was around the corner, Cal was, too, and from there it was simple—strike to the throat, small bones crunching, a short kick to a knee, more bones breaking, a swipe of hot blood because Reese had a knife, its blade blackened so no betraying gleam pierced the dark. It wasn’t even a contest, six men against two prepared agents.

  He used to feel bad about that. Now he just wanted to find Trinity and get the hell out of this hideous little place. He used to be a patriot, and these guys were just doing their jobs, planning on going out for beers afterward.

  Now none of them would.

  At the very tail end of the fight, the shortest of the patrol had the wherewithal to yell, a cry choked off almost as soon as it started. A body hit the floor with a dull thud, and Cal stopped, cocking his head.

  Reese halted, too, one booted foot on the pat
rol leader’s wrist, trapping the gun down and away. He crouched atop the other fellow, one of his hands cranking the helmet back so the strap levered the chin up, his other hand clamped over the man’s mouth, denying him leverage and the means to make another sound.

  It came again, muffled but distinct, and Reese’s eyes gleamed in the dimness. Cal swallowed hard.

  “We know where she is now,” Reese said softly and made a violent movement. There was a snap, the battlefield stink of death-loosened sphincters, and he stood up, his boot crunching casually on the erstwhile prisoner’s wrist. “Let’s go.”

  It came again, a long trailing howl of female agony.

  Fury ignited deep in Cal’s bones.

  * * *

  Fray exhaled softly, pulling the last jump drive out. A printer whirred into life, hard copies of the most important and damning papers about to be spat forth into the world.

  It hadn’t even been that hard, not when she knew what she was looking for.

  The big dumb black-haired lug stood at the window, peering out into the parking lot. “I don’t like this,” he muttered in that weird toneless voice.

  “The door’s right there,” she pointed out, wrapping the USB stick in a Ziploc, sealing it with practiced efficiency. “Just boogie on out if you’re so offended.”

  That earned her a whole thirty seconds of silence, during which he turned from the office window to look at her, steadily, thoughts moving below the surface of those dark eyes. Then he turned back, staring out into the gloom of approaching sauna-humid twilight. Fray tried not to feel like a bitch, but in point of fact, she was one, and there was no use in gilding the lily, as her grandmother often used to remark.

  It’s a good thing you’re smart, Nan used to remark drily, when Fray came home from playing in the woods covered in gunk and clutching jars of frog spawn.

  “Why are you helping me?” she asked, for the tenth time. “I mean, you could get into serious trouble for this.”

  His only reply was a shrug. He didn’t seem to consider taking her to his boss’s office and letting her play on the electronics a big deal. The whole thing could be an elaborate send-up, but Fray didn’t think so.