The next morning started out bright and early with breakfast and then a debriefing in the office. I don't know exactly why it is that we have debriefings after every mission, but we do. It's something that Wizzit insists on, and I have to admit, it sometimes helps to sort out what actually went on while we were out there.
Shelley was behind the desk when the rest of us trooped in. That was a bit of a surprise, because Prime Commander had always sat in that particular chair, with Shelley in the team leader's spot. Still, with Commander Windham gone, there was nobody I would rather see sit there.
Mike narrated the vid of the mission. It didn't take long; heck, I'm lousy at narration, and even I could have done that one in my sleep. When he finished, Shelley nodded and asked whether there were any questions.
"Yeah, I've got a big one," Mike declared. "Why did I suddenly find myself looking down the barrel of a rifle -- held by a policeman, of all people? And what are we going to do about it?"
"That's two questions," Nicolai pointed out. Padma shushed him with a jab of her elbow.
Shelley shook her head. She looked tired; the past few days must have taken a lot out of her. "I'm afraid I can't answer that," she said. "Wizzit is investigating, and we're hoping to come up with a solution." She glanced around at the rest of us. "Anything else?"
No one had any more to say, so Shelley dismissed us. "All except you, Mike. I need to go over a few things with you."
With nothing else on today's agenda, I decided to grab my blaster and wander out to our shooting range for some target practice. After that, I sat down in my room to practice some Gershwin.
Yeah, you heard right -- Gershwin. In case I haven't mentioned it, my mom is a piano teacher -- she teaches at the local college -- and she has taught all us kids to play. She still gives me lessons whenever I'm home for a visit, so I figure that the least I can do is to practice whenever I get a chance. It's a good idea, I think, for a Prime to have some sort of hobby apart from just training all the time. I mean, I like my teammates, and we play a lot of cards and generally enjoy each other's company, but everybody needs time alone.
I practiced my scales and arpeggios for a while, then spent a solid hour on my current assignment, Gershwin's second prelude. It's a slow, sinuous number that's hard enough to get just right on a piano. It's dang near impossible to do well on an electronic keyboard like I have, but I manfully kept at it. And I unwound after that with some Bach stuff from The Liturgical Year and my current favorite piece, Joplin's "Gladiolus Rag".
Then I sat down on my bed and tried to figure out what to do with the rest of my day. It occurred to me that I had never spoken with Trina about why she blew up at Mike the way she did. So, two minutes later I found myself heading down the girls' hallway. "Hey, Trina," I called when I got to her room. "It's Trevor. Can I come in?"
"Door open." In response to her spoken command, the door to her room unlocked itself and allowed me to push it open.
Trina's hobby is art. She was sitting at her desk flipping through some of her old sketches when I entered. The mythical nudes she had once drawn of Shelley were not among them, I noticed. I have heard rumors of the existence of those sketches, but as far as I know, no one has ever seen them except Shelley and Trina. The one she was looking at now, though, caught my eye.
"Is that the one you drew of me and Padma?" I asked.
"Of you and Robin, you mean?" she said, smiling. She passed it over to me. "Padma mentioned that she had told you about it. I suppose there's no harm in showing it to you now."
I sat down and studied the sketch. It was quite a romantic-looking scene of two young lovers looking deeply into one another's eyes. It was very good, very life-like, especially when you considered that one of the figures in it had been drawn completely from memory. Trina had done it one morning in Padma's room. I had just broken Padma's arm (don't ask; long story) and the dear girl was experiencing her very first healing coma. I was sitting beside her bed, holding her hand, and Trina was hanging around, providing moral support . . . and drawing.
Trina hadn't originally wanted to show me the sketch, and looking at it now, I could understand why. She had drawn it while watching Padma and me, but the woman in the picture was not Padma; it was Robin South, who had been Prime Blue back when I was Prime Violet. I felt my throat close up. I hadn't seen Robin's face in quite some time -- not since her funeral, in fact -- but that was definitely her smiling up at me.
"You can have it if you want," Trina offered.
I closed my eyes and shook my head mutely. I coughed to clear the tightness from my throat. "Thanks, but . . . too many bad memories."
I felt her lay a hand on my arm. "I understand," she said sympathetically. "But you should really stop blaming yourself, you know. Having your weapon break could have happened to anyone."
"Yeah, well, explain that to Robin. She died because my weapon broke, and because I didn't get to her in time." Not couldn't, I reminded myself. Didn't. I was sure I could have if I had only tried harder.
She didn't reply; she merely squeezed my arm. With her other hand, she gently took the sketch from my grasp. "Do you want me to destroy it?"
"No, it's too good for that, and . . . I might want it some day." I looked up at her, swiped away a bit of moisture from my eyes, and smiled. "You don't happen to have any of Lily, do you?"
Trina's eyes widened. "I have several. She was a most cooperative subject. Are you sure you want to see them?"
"Yes, please."
"Very well. You're certainly a glutton for punishment." She pulled out a sketchbook and handed it to me, commenting, "I had never drawn a murderess before." I gave her a sharp look, and she added hastily, "I'm sorry, that was insensitive of me."
I shrugged and began flipping through the sketchbook. "You don't have to apologize; we all know what she is and what she did."
She smiled sympathetically at me. "Poor Trevor, unlucky in love. First Robin, then Padma, and now Lily."
"Now, hang on a second," I protested. "I was never in love with Padma. We were just . . . friendly, that's all."
"Very friendly, from what I saw."
I chuckled. "Well, okay -- very friendly. But it didn't mean anything then, and it doesn't mean anything now."
She shrugged. "If you say so."
"I do." And with that, I looked down and began studying her sketches in earnest.
In contrast to the first picture she had shown me, the pictures of Lily Lee -- drawn during the short time we had held her captive -- were not terribly life-like. I couldn't blame Trina for that, though; Lily herself had not been terribly life-like when Trina had drawn them. She had done a good job of capturing the serene beauty of her face, but it seemed like the face of a statue, not a living woman. Just like Lily herself.
But then I turned to the last page, and I inhaled sharply; this picture definitely stood out from the others. Lily was in the same seated, meditative pose, and her face held the same sense of immobile perfection, but now a tiny frown creased the space between her eyebrows and a single tear had crept out of one eye and slid down her cheek. It was a subtle difference, but one which somehow transformed her from a lifeless statue to a figure of great sadness. Trina had caught her mood perfectly.
I immediately knew when that particular picture had been drawn, because Shelley had shown me video footage of this same scene, filmed just after I had paid Lily a visit and spoken to her in Cantonese. "Um, Trina," I said, "could I --?"
"I am afraid not," she said. She was standing at her mirror, fixing her pale blonde hair.
"But you don't even know what I'm going to ask!"
"There is only one picture in that book that would make you gasp so; it is the one of her crying, yes?" She patted one last lock of hair into place, then turned to face me, smiling. "I would love to give it to you, Trevor, but I am afraid I must use it for another purpose."
&nbs
p; "Oh," I said. I got to my feet. "Okay."
"Aren't you curious?"
I shrugged. "If you want to tell me, sure, I'd like to hear about it, but I don't want to pry."
She stepped closer and took the sketchpad from my hands. "You know, don't you, that I have been telling my parents that I am working as an artist and model?"
"Yeah," I said. Figuring out how not to tell your folks you're a Prime had always been one of my biggest challenges, as well. Mine thought that I was bumming around the world with a Tae Kwon Do demonstration team. "But they've never really believed that, have they?"
"No, they haven't. And in our last conversation, they said what they really think." She looked down, and her mouth twisted. "They have told me frankly that they think I am prostitute."
Trina really speaks very good English. Her Russian accent comes out -- and she starts dropping her a's, an's, and the's -- only when she is excited or upset. I laid a hand on her shoulder and looked into her pale blue eyes. "Trina, I'm sorry."
She nodded. "Wizzit has arranged for me to enter art competition in Moscow. I send in my five best drawings and we see how it goes. That one of Lily is one of the best pieces I have done in years. I want to send it in as one of my five. And . . . I had been thinking of sending in the one of you and Robin as well, if that is all right with you."
I grinned. "Trina," I said, "I can't think of a better use for it."
She smiled her thanks. "I do not expect to win, of course," she went on, "but even entering will maybe help convince them that I am not a --" Here she used a Russian word that was short and ugly, probably something like "whore."
"I think you'll do fine," I told her. I left her room a few minutes later holding one of her other sketches of Lily rolled up in my hand, whistling and feeling strangely light-hearted. It wasn't until I got back to my room that I realized that I had never asked her about Mike.
Chapter 4
Attack Doll 3: Protocol Black Page 3