Agent Gemini

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Are you gonna hold a gun on me?”

  “That’s not how I do things.”

  “Okay, then. I’m outie. Remember, this is for her, when she wakes up.”

  “I think she’s getting there. Fray, are you sure—”

  “See you.” Quick light footsteps, an interior door opening and closing.

  Trinity’s eyelids drifted up. Things were a bit blurry, but she kept blinking until they cleared and found herself staring at a white ceiling while a brown ceiling fan turned lazily. Its mechanism wasn’t choked with dust, and there was no yellowing tape on the ceiling where flypaper used to hang.

  That’s right. I left that room. She focused afresh and found a familiar blue-gray gaze.

  Holly Candless, her straight black hair secured in two braids wrapped around her head, smiled. She looked positively glowing with health and had gained some weight. Enough that her cheeks were no longer hollow, and her essential beauty shone through.

  “You’re looking well,” Trinity croaked.

  Holly beamed, bending over the bed and helping her to sit up. “Hello to you, too. I’ve been wanting to see you for ages.” She propped two crisp pillows behind Trinity’s back, and her goldenmusk scent held no tinge of stress, anger or terror. She pushed the sleeves of a peach knit shirt up and cracked a bottle of Evian from the nightstand.

  “Why?” Trinity’s throat wouldn’t work quite right. Holly held the water bottle to her lips, and Trinity subtracted it from the other woman’s fingers, taking long even swallows. It felt wonderful, but not as good as food would. She needed fuel. Some manner of sponge bath had been administered, probably by Holly, but the itching and crusting all over her told Trinity she was in dire need of a shower, as well. First, though, there were more important questions to be answered. “Where are we?”

  “Nogales. Safe for the moment. Reese wasn’t happy about using one of his contacts here, but—”

  “Cal?”

  Holly’s face fell slightly. A sharp stabbing pain went through Trinity’s chest, and the world grayed out for a moment, came back in a rush of color and noise.

  “—so he’s sleeping now. The bullet went all the way through him. They were worried about infection. But the virus...well, he pulled through.” Candless’s slight frown deepened. “He kept calling for you.”

  “How did—”

  “Well, it’s a long story, but I had a feeling Cal would need help. And I wanted to see you again. You left in a hurry last time.”

  Sinaloa. “I didn’t want—”

  “I know. Look, you smell hungry. Let’s get some food in you. I went shopping, got you some clean clothes. As soon as Cal’s able to get up we’ll be on our way. I hope you’ll stick around this time.”

  “Why?” It made no sense. They were obeying different directives than the ones she was familiar with. They had risked themselves—or had Eight discovered he was, after all, angry at her? Was it revenge? Why would they not have left her to Caldwell’s tender mercies, then?

  “I like you, Trinity. Have you ever thought about that?”

  “No.” I am not likable. “Ms. Candless, I was there when you were brought in. I ran the percentages on that operation. I also—”

  “Saved me from Bronson, and saved Cal and Reese, too.”

  “I wasn’t going to save them.”

  “Oh, you said it wasn’t a good percentage, but you came along anyway. Stop trying to talk me out of how I feel, all right? Reese does that sometimes. It’s irritating.”

  “Apologies,” Trinity mumbled. What did Candless want?

  “Also,” the other woman continued, “Fray left this for you. Said you’d want it.” She laid the file in Trinity’s lap. It was labeled TOP SECRET, CLASSIFIED, and the typed label on the tab simply said GIBRALTAR THREE/OMEGA.

  Trinity’s missing file. “She... Fray. Who is she?”

  “A hacker, I think. Here.” Candless produced an energy bar. “Start with that and the water. I’ll bring up milk and some supplements, and make you some eggs. You like eggs?”

  Trinity nodded, although she could have informed the woman that her only experience with eggs was the powdered kind endemic in United States Army mess halls. It would be far more palatable to simply dump protein powder into a milk shake. It would be very worthwhile to learn how to make her own milk shakes, in whatever time she had left.

  “Good. I’ll scramble them. The boys will be hungry, too.”

  “Ms. Candless—”

  “It’s Holly.”

  “Holly. I...have been thinking.”

  “Oh?” She halted near the door smiling, a stripe of sunlight down her face.

  “I am...sorry. If I hadn’t helped Division, you wouldn’t have suffered...what you did.”

  The other woman nodded, studying Trinity gravely for a few moments. “Reese thinks like that sometimes. The truth is, well, things worked out. Don’t beat yourself up over it, okay? You did the best you could.”

  Did I? But Trinity didn’t respond. She simply bowed her head, staring at her blanket-clad knees, and listened as Holly left, closing the door with a quiet click.

  She touched the folder’s manila outside with one fingertip. Fray. Very strange.

  This, then, was what she had risked everything to acquire. Why, now that she had it, did she suddenly want to tear it into unrecognizable bits?

  Fear. She was afraid, and had been for some time. The unsuccessful induction had jolted some things loose inside her head, electricity uncovering forgotten shoals, the drug cocktails turning reality into a blurring, twisting nightmare. One thing was clear: the first induction process had not removed emotional noise. It merely masked it, numbing the subject and removing memory instead.

  Without a past, anyone could be molded into the most useful shape. A creature traumatized into numbness could even gnaw off its own limbs to escape a trap.

  She’d been so sure she was initially free of emotional noise.

  Doesn’t look like it from out here, Cal said in her memory. Why had he come after her?

  Strange. She’d thought she could rest after she held her file. With the threat of deconstruction somewhat removed, other desires surfaced.

  First, though, she had to know who she had been, even if that other woman, the pre-Trinity, had been...what? A willing participant, a follower of orders, a petty tyrant?

  Like Bronson? Like Caldwell?

  There was always a risk.

  Trinity’s throat was dry. She flipped open the folder and began to read.

  * * *

  He woke up with the worst goddamn hangover of his life, his gut on fire and his head pounding. Someone held his shoulders, and he almost starfished, throwing out arms and legs to fend off an attack, but then he smelled her—a strong, beautiful, deep blue flood—and it soothed him as nothing else could. She was here, and he quieted, drinking the water in long gulps.

  Next came a protein shake; it tasted awful but at least there weren’t any greens in it. A slight medicinal tang—penicillin. It wouldn’t kill the virus, so why were they dosing him? Was he in a hospital?

  It didn’t matter. She was here. “The fever’s going down.” Her voice, soft, without its usual crispness. “It’s a good thing the slug didn’t hit bone.”

  “The boys are back.” Another familiar voice, a woman’s, but not her. Cool fingers on his forehead, and Cal opened his eyes.

  The light stung, stabbing and scouring the inside of his skull. The room was bright with reflected sunlight, and a few sniffs through his crust-congested nose returned a confusing palette of dust, fried food, chilies and blood. Where the hell...

  It didn’t matter, because Trinity leaned over him, holding the protein-shake bottle. Her cheeks had hollowed out, her face pared down to bone, and the thinness gave her an ethereal
quality. Her honey hair fell damp against her shoulders. An edge of harsh soap told him she’d just bathed, and the clothes were new—a navy V-neck T-shirt, a pair of jeans that weren’t quite broken in yet. Bare arms, dotted with rapidly fading bruises and the pink stripes of fresh scar tissue, and her expression was thoughtful, no longer blank.

  Her eyes, though, were still the same, wide and wounded. Moss-dark, threads of gold in the irises—she was dusted and woven through with gold, inside and out.

  She just couldn’t see it.

  “Stay still,” she said softly.

  It was her fingers on his forehead; he twitched and caught her wrist. His hand was clumsy, kitten-weak, but she made no attempt to evade him.

  “Don’t leave,” he rasped. “Stay here.”

  She was about to reply, but there were heavy footsteps, the door opened and Reese appeared.

  Behind him loomed the black-haired agent Cal had hit with a car and thrown down several flights of stairs. It felt like ages ago. He tensed, but Trinity simply glanced at them and didn’t appear to judge Black Hair as a threat.

  Black Hair stopped, his head lifting. “Where is she?”

  Holly appeared at the other end of the room, carrying a fully laden tray. “Good Lord, I can’t believe I used to do this all the time. Hi, guys. Looks like someone’s awake.”

  Black Hair, however, was having none of this. “Where is she?”

  “Fray?” Holly looked supremely unconcerned. “She had things to do, she said. I think she’s planning on mischief. It should be interesting—”

  Black Hair took two steps toward Holly, violence prickling in the air, and Cal might have leaped to his feet if Trinity hadn’t grabbed his shoulder, forcing him back down on the couch. It didn’t matter, because Reese stepped sideways and dropped his center of gravity, and Black Hair stopped cold.

  “I don’t think you want to get nasty, friend.” Reese’s dark eyes were level, intent and very cold.

  Black Hair subsided. “Where. Did. She. Go?”

  Cal couldn’t help himself. “Who? Where did who go?”

  “Fray,” Trinity supplied helpfully. “This is Agent Bay. Short for Beta. I have some questions about the induction process I want to ask him, but—”

  Fray and Bay? It sounds like a sitcom. “Fray? What?”

  “She hacked Division’s main core.” Trinity looked over her shoulder, studied Bay intently. “It appears Agent Bay was only tracking us to follow her.”

  “Spectacles Girl,” Cal muttered. “I knew it. Complementary. This is going to be good.”

  “I have to go.” Bay relaxed, muscle by muscle, but his expression didn’t change. He kicked the door shut behind him, closing off a slice of darkened hallway, and Cal’s midsection gave another twitching jab of pain.

  His head throbbed, too. “Christ, can you keep it down?” His throat burned, and Trinity tried to raise the protein shake to his lips again. He kept his hand on her wrist, not quite willing to believe she was here, and alive, and safe.

  As safe as she could be with Cal weak and feeling like death warmed over.

  “Okay,” Reese said calmly enough. “You know how to get in touch if you want to join forces, Bay. Go get your girl.”

  “She said something about a beach,” Holly supplied helpfully, setting the tray on a rickety maplewood table. “Don’t you want breakfast before you—”

  “No.” Bay turned on his heel, his shoulders coming back up, and halted. He cast one brief, passionless glance at Cal. “You.”

  I ran him over. He’s probably not feeling charitable. “Uh. Hi.”

  “Thank you” was all the black-haired man said, before popping back out the door he’d just kicked shut.

  Silence returned. “Didn’t you incapacitate him?” Trinity tried to pull her wrist away, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “Yeah, well, that works both ways. Trinity. You’re here.”

  “Yes. You need calories.” Just as calmly as if he hadn’t been chasing her all over creation. “Drink this. Ms. Candl—Holly made breakfast. Another dose of penicillin should—”

  “Don’t ever leave me like that again.” He meant it to sound forbidding, but it came out flat and tired instead. “Do you hear me? Don’t do that.”

  “Cal...” Her face fell. “I...”

  “Hi, honey,” Holly said brightly across the room. “Come help me in the kitchen.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” Reese let her pull him along, with only a token glance in Cal’s direction. “I don’t trust him, and Felipe’s edgy.”

  “In a little bit. Come on.” And, neatest trick of the week, she tugged him into what had to be a kitchenette. Cal vaguely remembered someone saying something about the border, and hanging between two agents while Holly and another slight female form half-carried a coughing Trinity, sand gritting underfoot and a van burning behind them, a smoking crimson star in the night.

  Trinity tried to straighten; he kept her wrist. She didn’t pull free, though.

  “Don’t.” He tugged at her. “You thought I— You didn’t know, for Chrissake. You aren’t responsible for Tracy. You didn’t—”

  “I calculated.” Her cheeks were pale, bloodless. She needed a few more meals and some downtime. She needed some safety and a place to relax, and he needed to get his arms around her, lock them tight and not let go until he got it through her stubborn, beautiful brain that she was not going anywhere without him. “I planned—”

  “Yeah, well, I did the killing for them. We’re both just as wrong, okay? Okay? Don’t leave me. Don’t do that again.” His belly twinged again and he suppressed a wince. If she hared off to go do something else suicidal, he was going to have to get up and follow, even if it ruptured tissue-thin repair around his guts and they spilled out like gray noodles.

  “I thought you would want...revenge.” Her mouth pulled down against itself, and she looked so sad and lost it threatened to break whatever in his body was still functioning. “I thought you’d be furious.”

  “I am. Not at you. At them, can’t you see?”

  Her gaze dropped, and he found the strength to raise his other hand. All his limbs felt like slabs of recalcitrant beef. “Trinity.” Running his callused, dirty fingertips over her smooth porcelain cheek. The scraping reminded him of just how harsh he probably sounded, just how dirty he was.

  Inside and out.

  A single, crystalline tear slid down her other cheek. She swallowed hard. “Fray had my file,” she whispered. “It wasn’t complete, but...my name was Anne. Anne Hampton. I was a medic.”

  Okay. The pain was coming again. What was she about to say?

  She finally met his gaze again, and the raw aching in her eyes was worse than his insides burning as they healed. His body was cannibalizing its reserves, and he needed food.

  But he needed to understand, and make her understand, first.

  Her throat worked. Finally, the words came, small and stark. “I don’t know who I am.”

  Cal let out a short, harsh breath. Is that it? “Okay.”

  She seemed to expect more, searching his face, and he was abruptly aware of how filthy he smelled.

  “Who do you want to be?” he finally added and decided to tack something else on. “And don’t give me any of that deconstructing noise again. You’re going to survive, dammit. You’re going to be fine.”

  Whatever she was looking for in his dirty, stubbled face, she seemed to find it. The thin, drawn sadness eased a little, and she leaned closer. He tried to curl up to get closer, but his stomach flared with pain.

  It didn’t matter because she crossed the remaining distance and her mouth was on his; he tasted her toothpaste and felt a brief flash of regret at how he smelled before most of his aches miraculously disappeared and an entirely new, pleasant half-pain ap
peared.

  I got shot in the gut. I should have died. But he hadn’t, and Trinity was right in front of him, and God but he wanted to prove they were both alive in the oldest way known to their species.

  She pulled away, and his hands fell to his sides. The weakness was maddening.

  “Just tell me what you want me to do.” He tried not to let it sound as if he was begging.

  The thin, pallid smile blooming on her face was worth a little begging, though. “I want you to eat. Restoring mobility and combat capability is crucial. Then...”

  “Then what?”

  The smile struggled, then widened, and it knocked all the breath clean out of him.

  Trinity straightened. “I’ll tell you after breakfast.”

  Six Weeks Later

  “I don’t like this,” Cal muttered for the seventh time. “It feels off.”

  Trinity raised the binoculars, scanning the row of brownstones. “Fifteen percent chance of passive surveillance, if they suspect the induction process is imperfect.” Tension had settled in her shoulders; she breathed in deeply, focusing out through the rain-spotted windshield. Two paper cranes stood sentinel on her side of the dash, one blue, one yellow. “It’s occupied.”

  “Well, this is DC. Lots of people looking for a place to live.” He scanned the street again, shifting a little in the seat to keep his muscles supple. There was still an angry explosion of scar tissue on his muscled abdomen, and she sometimes traced the ridges and valleys, imagining a star birthing itself. He froze when she did so, and the edge of deep blue musk his scent took on was...interesting. Equally fascinating was the result of such caresses.

  He was certainly inventive.

  The radio warbled softly, liquid streams of Chopin rising and falling. It was almost time for NPR to broadcast the news, but for now she could savor the pattern of the notes, analyzing where each would fall, and no fog of pain or distortion interfered. She lowered the binoculars, searching the street. Dripping trees, a streetlight peering through tossing leaves, cracked pavement.

  “Does it look familiar?”