by Amanda Cyr
The broken thoughts were interrupted when Val tugged loose of my grip and shed his jacket. “Quick, trade shirts.”
I didn’t understand, but if I trusted anyone in the underground to have a plan, it was Val. Getting my sweater off took me longer than it did Val. The second it was over my head, he snatched it away and pulled it on. It was a size too big for him, and the material bunched around his wrists.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“When we went over that fence back there, you probably got blood all over it,” Val said, pushing the baggy sleeves up to his elbows and bending to pick up his jacket. “If they see blood on the next fence, they’ll think we both went over.”
It was a good plan. There was one problem, though. Val was still betting he’d make it over before the Grey Men could catch him. He forced his sweater into my hands and said, “Here, use this to keep pressure on that hole in your gut, all right? Stay right here. I mean it. I’ll come back when it’s safe.”
“Okay.”
I lied. I was going to step out of the shed and address the Grey Men the second Val was gone. It was time to go home. Val wouldn’t see me again. He’d accept I was a casualty of the Grey Men’s attack. I’d fade out of his life like I did when every mission came to its end.
As I closed my hands around the sweater to take it from Val, I felt his hands trembling beneath my own. They were so cold, his fingers like bony icicles weaving their way between mine. Blood loss must have been affecting my judgment, making me think foolishly and respond involuntarily. I didn’t recoil like I should have. Instead, I squeezed his frozen fingers and traced a thumb over the soft skin of his wrist as I told him, “Be careful.”
Val was gone a second later, but the chill lingered where his fingers had pressed to my skin. I stayed propped against the wall, close to the door, and held my breath until I heard a familiar whistle telling me Val made it over the fence. He was safe.
I waited another minute in silence before I heard the last Grey Man scramble over the first fence. Then, gathering up as much composure as I could, I stood upright and stepped out of the shed. The Grey Men rushed up to present themselves in a straight line in front of me.
“My name is Nikolas Zhukov,” I told them proudly. “Lieutenant Colonel of the Y.I.D. and commanding field officer of Battalions Alpha, Tau, Delta, and Zeta.”
“Sir!”
All three Grey Men clacked their heels together and threw their right hand up into a salute. They didn’t move an inch from the stance, save for the one in the middle, who stepped forward to speak.
“Sir, your orders?”
That was a true Grey Man. He didn’t ask why you were shooting at him, or why you’d run like a guilty man, or why you were standing there with your shirt off and a scarf tied around your waist. He simply obeyed.
I opened my mouth to reply, but only a wet cough came out. The adrenaline was fading and the pain from the gunshot getting worse. I leaned forward slightly to ease the discomfort. Despite clearly needing medical attention, the Grey Men wouldn’t do anything to help me unless I explicitly told them to do so.
“Take me to the hospital,” I said, hoping it at least sounded like an order.
“Impossible,” replied the center Grey Man. “The hospital here failed to renew its confidentiality agreement.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” I sighed. I would bleed to death at this rate. With the hospital not being an option, there was only one alternative I could think of. “Take me to Governor Granne’s.”
“Yes, sir!”
The Grey Men turned on heel and marched toward the street. I made it four steps after them before collapsing. The impact made my body ache, but not nearly as much as I knew it should have. I recognized the warning signs of a blackout. My vision rocked out of focus. The world spun around me, everything swirling together in a colorful haze then fading to black.
The next thing I knew, someone was shouting. They might have been saying my name, or they might have been saying the world was ending. I didn’t care to reply either way. My body was warm for the first time in ages. Every ache and every pain was gone, even the old ones I’d long-since learned to live with. I was either dead or drugged.
“Lieutenant Colonel.”
I was Lieutenant Colonel, but I hoped to God the bratty voice slurring my title was only in my head. Bright lights scorched my eyes as they opened wide. The underground was always so dark; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been around such a blinding, artificial light. My hand shot up to shield my burning eyes.
“Finally, there you are. You’ve been out for hours.”
That was definitely Tristan’s voice. His silhouette loomed overhead, obstructing the lights. I blinked until the spots in my vision cleared, and I could see my surroundings. The rich colors and fabrics I was tucked under told me I wasn’t in a hospital bed, but it took several more seconds and a slimy smile from Tristan to realize I was in the Granne home.
How did I get there? Why wasn’t I in my noisy bed back at the revolutionaries’ base? The others will worry if I don’t get back soon, I thought in my sedated daze. It all came rushing back at once. I sat upright like I’d just been jolted with live electricity.
The Oxford District. The Grey Men. Val and the others. A nurse I hadn’t noticed before rushed over to try and make me lie down again. I wouldn’t budge. Tristan waved her away like an annoying bug. While I felt on the verge of a heart attack, Tristan looked positively bored.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You were shot,” Tristan replied with a condescending casualness, complete with a smile, which I’d have really liked to punch off his face.
It didn’t feel like I’d been shot, but the memory and pain were fresh in my mind. I pushed the blankets away from my body and looked at the gauze bandages that had replaced Val’s scarf. There were two IVs on my arm, one supplying me with blood and the other a painkiller. From the way I couldn’t feel the hole in my gut, or my toes for that matter, it was safe to assume it was a strong one.
“The Grey Men said you asked them to bring you here,” Tristan said.
When I looked up from the IVs, I saw him shamelessly staring at my chest. It made my skin crawl. Even though the two of us had only exchanged a handful of words, I felt an unexplainable loathing for Tristan. Maybe it was because of the pompousness he oozed. Maybe it was because of the way he’d hurt Val.
“Convenient, isn’t it,” Tristan took a brazen step closer to the bed, “How the Grey Men found you but, somehow, didn’t catch the person they saw you with?”
“Yeah. Funny how that happened.”
“Too bad. I was hoping to get my toy back.” Tristan sighed.
“From what I’ve heard, you don’t play well with your toys,” I replied, my fists clenching under the blankets. The suggestion that Val was a toy, and his toy nonetheless, struck a nerve I didn’t know existed.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I break him too much for you?”
I was not feeling protective. Definitely not. Val and I weren’t even together… But Tristan didn’t know that. So I bit the bullet, grinned around it, and told him, “You just made him more fun to fix.”
The taken aback expression on his face was wonderfully satisfying. Before Tristan could recompose and snap back a response, the door opened and the governor rushed in.
“Ah, good. You’re looking much better,” boomed Governor Granne.
I looked like a total mess compared to him. The governor was dressed to impress in a sleek, gray suit, which set him out of place in Seattle. Granne looked as jovial as he sounded that night I’d overhead him from the cupboard. He was a stout, square-shouldered man who appeared to be somewhere in his mid-fifties. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed in a traditional, military cut, which many older officers had. Granne, himself, was too out of shape and rosy to be mistaken for anyone with combat training, though.
He strode to the side of my bed and held his hand out to introduce himself. “C
harles Granne, Governor of Seattle.”
“Don’t you mean Washington?”
Both Grannes laughed. I must have been more sedated than I thought, because I didn’t see what was funny about my question. The governor fanned his bright red face as he told me, “Oh, there’s nothing really left of Washington outside of Seattle. Of course, there are the little suburbs down south, but they function just fine on their own without me.”
Translation: Granne doesn’t care about them.
As I shook the governor’s hand, I noted the weak grip and lack of calluses. He was over twice my age, and somehow, my hands were five times rougher than his. Wealthy family history and a cushy desk job, which required very little work, that was Charles Granne, in my opinion, and I’d just met the man. Val’s cynicism must have worn off on me.
“Brigadier McKee has told me a lot about you, Lieutenant Colonel, and I must say, it’s an honor to finally meet you in person. I was very much hoping you’d have paid a visit sooner, or, at the very least, under different circumstances,” the governor said with a small nod toward my gunshot wound.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been really busy.”
“So the brigadier was telling me. Well, no matter. You’re up just in time for dinner. The missus has been working on it all afternoon, and she can’t wait to meet you.”
There was no way it was that late already. I looked at my watch and saw it was almost eight o’clock. I’d been out for eight hours. The governor laughed at my obvious shock. “Yes, you’ve been asleep for a while. I’ll send the missus up shortly with a plate. Don’t want you moving around in your state.”
“It’s fine. I can come downstairs,” I told him.
The governor looked thrilled, but wary. “What about your injury?”
I wasn’t keen to explain to him or his son my enhanced healing abilities, especially considering the dubious nature of their existence. While we weren’t Grey Men, all dogs were given diluted versions of the same chemical compounds that made the monsters virtually indestructible. I’d been off the supplements for almost a week now, meaning it would take the gunshot wound two or three days to heal at least, as opposed to the twenty-four-hour turnaround I was used to.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” I assured the governor with a placid smile. “Besides, I’ve wasted enough of the day in bed.”
The governor didn’t ask questions, but laughed. “That’s a soldier for you, Tristan. I bet you’re lousy at vacations.”
“What’s vacation?” I asked.
“Hah! Something you’re overdue for, I imagine. Why don’t you clean up and come downstairs when you’re ready? I’ll have a maid bring up some clean clothes which don’t look like they’ve been through hell. Come along, Tristan.”
Governor Granne left, Tristan following close behind his father. The pale nurse from before stepped into the room when they were gone. She smiled politely and asked, “Would you like some more morphine, sir?”
“No, no. I’m feeling fine,” I said as I removed the IVs from my arm. I was already numb. If I took any more morphine, I’d end up rolling down to dinner like a limp noodle, assuming I didn’t accidentally drown myself in the shower first.
“I’m glad to hear that, sir,” she said. “Shall I help you to the bath?”
“I’ll be all right on my own, thanks.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll be in the hall if you need anything.” The nurse excused herself with a small curtsey.
I swung my feet off the side of the bed and carefully eased onto them. Just because I was too sedated to actually feel any of my injuries, didn’t mean they were magically all better. I’d been patched up enough times to know I still needed to be mindful of the sutures holding me together.
The guest room I occupied was twice the size of the room I shared with Tibbs, and the room attached looked more like a marble museum than a bathroom. I whistled and listened to the way it resonated off the walls. When it faded, the room felt different somehow. Emptier.
I walked to the vanity, removed the brown contact in my right eye, and set it aside. Returning to my actual eye color always felt like the first step in the debriefing process. The longer I studied my reflection, the more obvious it was that I’d changed since coming to Seattle. I’d been sleeping more and stressing less, but somehow, I looked more worn out than ever. Older.
I ran a hand over the bit of stubble I’d grown. The scratch of it put my skin on edge and roused the memory I’d been suppressing. Val’s cold fingers curled between mine. How they shook and how I held them tight, silently trying to assure him everything would be okay, even when I knew it wouldn’t be.
What happened to Val? Did he make it out of the Oxford District? What had he been doing during the last eight hours while I slept? I imagined how he was probably sitting on the porch, taking a long drag from his hundredth cigarette and tapping his fingers against his ribs. Waiting for me to come back.
A deep breath became a low growl. I scowled at my reflection, appalled at my foolish sentimentality. I was Lieutenant Colonel Nik Zhukov. There was no reason to think about Val anymore. The mission was over. It was time to stop thinking about my targets.
Governor Granne’s Estate—Seattle, WA
Tuesday, November 17th, 2076—8:00 p.m.
hen I came out of the bathroom, there was a three-piece suit laid on the bed. An elephant would have been just as out of place in the underground as the expensive getup. It fit too well to be one of Tristan’s, and I suspected the governor, known for his lavish spending, had it made specifically for me. A quick once-over in the mirror reminded me why I hated suits; everything about them screamed espionage.
I found the governor’s wife waiting in the hall. She curtseyed so low; I nearly mistook the movement as her fainting. Her attire was more extravagant than my own. The purple gown shimmered as though it was made entirely of glitter, and it hurt my eyes to look at when it caught the light. With a pound of makeup on her plump face and tight red curls caked in hairspray, she looked like a big, porcelain doll.
“Such a pleasure to finally meet you, Lieutenant Colonel,” she said when she rose from her curtsey.
“Likewise, Mrs. Granne,” I replied.
“Please, call me Ramona.”
I extended my arm and offered to escort her to dinner. She prattled away about how delighted she was to have me staying in her home, how she admired how much I’d accomplished at my age, how she’d been looking forward to meeting me, and on and on.
Occasionally, I would nod or offer a humble chuckle to indulge her, but my heart wasn’t in it. After the day I’d had, the last thing I wanted was to be social. As we sat down to eat at the long table, though, I realized it was going to be more of a press conference than a meal.
So, how are things in D.C.? Is this your first time out west? Did it take you long to find those silly revolutionaries? You look thin; have they been keeping you fed? Does your injury hurt? Would you like more morphine? Was that the first time you’ve been shot? What about the other times? How long have you been doing this?
They were relentless. I’d managed to get in three mouthfuls of food in the course of fifteen minutes. At least I didn’t have much of an appetite; a shame, since everything looked delicious. I got a break from the questioning when Ramona struck up a conversation with her husband about the whereabouts of their dog. I raked my fork through a scoop of couscous on my plate, tuning out their words and letting out a small yawn.
As I let my focus slip from their conversation, I became aware of how intently Tristan stared at me from across the table. He seemed far more interested in me than his dinner. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asked.
“Tristan,” scolded his mother.
Tristan didn’t mind her, and I didn’t mind his question. It had been a while since anyone asked me about them, and I was proud of my mutation.
“Born this way,” I told him.
“Fascinating,” Tristan said. “Don’t you worry someone mi
ght recognize you?”
“I have a contact I wear so they’re both the same color.”
“Well, where is it?”
“I took it out before dinner.”
Tristan leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. He folded his hands under his chin and grinned. “So, you’re saying nobody down here, present company excluded, knows who you really are?”
He’s going to tell him. The morphine in my veins was replaced with chilling dread, and my mind rushed into damage-control mode. Would Val listen to him? Would the revolutionaries even let Tristan anywhere near the house? Would I have to dive across the table and silence him with a fork to prevent the truth from coming out?
“Nobody,” I said, keeping my tone even. I would not let a brat like him think he could get away with intimidating me. “And it’s best if it stays that way. Blowing the cover on an undercover operation, like this one, would result in a very, very bad situation.”
“For you?” he asked.
I dropped my voice and leaned forward a bit so Tristan understood I was speaking directly to him. “Yes, but it wouldn’t be nearly as bad for me as it would for whoever was responsible for the slip.”
“Are you—?”
“Tristan, hush and eat your vegetables,” Ramona interrupted with a huff. Unfortunately, the next thing out of her mouth was almost as bad as Tristan’s veiled threat. She placed a hand on her husband’s arm and smiled at me as she said, “We think it’s incredible what you do, Lieutenant Colonel. So young and yet so gallant in serving our nation. You know, Charles and I were even thinking we should send Tristan back with you.”
I reached for my glass of wine. Normally, I didn’t enjoy drinking, but if I was going to make it through dinner, it would be necessary. I took a long, bitter swig as the governor added his two-cents.
“Yes, we talked it over as a family and decided it would be good to get him out in the world. Put some hair on his chest. How better to do that than through the S.O.R.? Bit old for the Y.I.D., don’t you think?”