by Jasmine Walt
“Ready or not, here I come!”
Brennan found himself standing in that same library now; his steps had led him here without thinking. He smiled slightly as he looked around the room. The shelves, solid units set inside alcoves in the wall, were less imposing than he had thought as a child; the tallest one was still within arm’s reach for a man of Brennan’s height. But the ambience had remained unchanged. The twilight of the setting sun filled the room, and motes of dust floated in and out of sight as they passed through the sunbeams. Brennan breathed deeply; the library had a delicious aroma to it, the smell of books and wood. He sat down heavily in one of the luxurious leather armchairs and let his fatigue flow out of him, down through the chair’s pegs and into the aged hardwood floor. The room took away his pain and worries and it left him feeling relaxed, refreshed, and rejuvenated. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the chair’s comfortable embrace.
There was nothing in the world except his calm, steady breathing of the rich aroma of books. He felt a sense of ease and comfort that had been estranged from him for many years. The soft, golden light of the room was like a warm blanket over his weary eyes. In a way, this solitude was Brennan’s personal form of paradise. He didn’t believe in an afterlife, neither heaven nor hell; but this, here, this library and the life of leisure, this was his dream.
He had had it once, long ago.
“And it could be like this once again,” said a soft voice. “Forever.”
Brennan’s eyes shot open. To his left, in the doorway, stood a slim figure of average height and reddish skin. It was the same man who had been impersonating a nurse in his nightmare. This time, he was dressed in the attire of a butler from Brennan’s youth, complete with the Brennan family crest embroidered on the blazer.
“You have a beautiful home,” the man commented, stepping lightly into the room.
Brennan watched him through veiled eyes. “You tried to kill me last time,” he said. He shifted slightly in his seat, positioning for a better view of the would-be assassin.
The butler shrugged. “Those were my orders. Why would you leave such a life?” he asked, gesturing to the mansion in general.
“You’re already inside my head,” Brennan replied. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
“I have tried,” he said simply. “Your defenses are—” The butler hesitated. “You aren’t the man I was expecting.”
Brennan, sitting as he was in the comfortable chair, barked out a harsh laugh. “That would be an understatement, to say the least. Were you even told why I was assigned as your target?” He chuckled in spite of himself. “I mean, come on, assassination on the first meeting?”
The butler stared at him silently, but his eyes spoke volumes.
“That’s not what we do,” Brennan continued. His voice was quiet, but it carried across the room like a deadly curse.
“I don’t question orders,” the butler said. There was an accusatory tone in his voice.
“And I don’t follow them blindly. That’s what can get a man killed.”
“You know that we Sleepers can never retire, not with what we know.”
“I’m out,” Brennan said. “I’m living a normal life; just leave me be.”
“Not with what we know,” the butler repeated. “You’re a threat, whether you realize it or not. With the knowledge you have, you can’t be allowed to wander around unprotected and unsupervised. I’m here for your memory in service, nothing else.”
“My memory…” Brennan said uncertainly.
“As a Sleeper, yes,” the man replied, his voice measured and reasonable. “Nothing else.”
Brennan was surprised, but the only reaction he showed was narrowing his eyes by a hair. The powers of a Sleeper were incredible enough on their own. As far as Brennan knew, though, there was no such ability as memory-stealing in the repertoire of a Sleeper. If such a thing were possible, their dispute could end right here. But it would mean sacrificing his memories as a Sleeper, years of his life given to service. Years of obedience, betrayed by the actions of his former mentor.
And above all, Brennan didn’t think it wise to let the Sleeper take another step closer.
“My memories are mine,” Brennan growled. He sensed the other man tense in response, and he tried a different approach. “There was a reason I left the service. If I could just talk to you for a moment, man to man, you might realize you’re playing on the wrong team.”
The two men stared at each other from across the room.
“Those aren’t my orders,” the butler said softly.
The temperature of the room dropped suddenly. Wood groaned and creaked and splintered as the water trapped inside froze and expanded rapidly. The air became thick, like mud, and time slowed as the butler Sleeper went to draw a concealed knife from behind his back. From years of experience, Brennan knew that the Sleeper would turn the draw into a fluid throwing motion.
But he was prepared this time.
The moment that he had stepped into the library, he’d known that it was a trap. As wonderful as that room had been for him in his youth, the light had never been that beautiful nor had the books ever been that ornately arranged. The memory had been altered, romanticized, to make him want to stay and be calm and relaxed.
In a word, it was too perfect. And if Brennan knew anything by now, it was that the world wasn’t perfect.
“This is my dream, dammit,” he said, rising from the chair. His movement was fluid, prepared—and as fast as a striking cobra. He wrested control of the atmosphere away from the Sleeper and kept the slowing, numbing influence from touching him. Brennan crossed the room in two short strides and knocked the Sleeper off his feet with a powerful strike to the chest.
Upon later reflection, the fight was horribly one-sided.
The Sleeper arched gracefully as he glided slowly through the air from the punch. Brennan grabbed the man by the ankle and lashed him bodily in the opposite direction. He heard a pop as the Sleeper’s ankle dislocated, and bones crunched when his face collided with the hardwood floor. The wooden boards, already weakened from the abrupt drop in temperature, cracked violently under the impact, and splinters of wood buried themselves in the man’s face. His mouth gaped in a voiceless scream of agony.
Brennan approached the nearest block of bookshelves. With groans of protest, he gouged handholds in the wood with his bare hands. He ignored the blood that flowed in rivulets down his fingers. The wood shattered beneath his grip as he took hold of one side. He heaved mightily, his arms popping under the strain and the muscles of his back flexing painfully. Slowly, the bookshelf tipped forward from its alcove.
It moved slowly at first, like a tentative snowball rolling down a hill. As Brennan pulled it further and further toward its tipping point, it gained momentum, until it became an unstoppable avalanche. Books flew from the shelves like canaries from a mine, and then with a rush of air the entire structure fell upon the slowly writhing Sleeper with a terrible, sickening crash.
The pressure of the room abruptly vanished. Brennan’s breath was still visible, but as he pulled back his mental efforts he no longer felt the Sleeper’s numbing aura. He stood there, panting, bleeding. He could hear his pulse beating heavily in his ears, and his hands twitched as they regained feeling and instantly regretted it. Shards of wood up to an inch long pierced his palms and fingers.
Brennan stood there and contemplated the fallen bookshelf for what seemed like a long time. The room around him never changed; the sun stayed perfectly poised in its position in the sky, and motes of dust swirled in the air without any regard for what had transpired. The other bookshelves, likewise, were neither impressed nor worried about their own future. His image of a perfect evening remained untouched by the Sleeper’s passing.
The illusion wasn’t of the Sleeper’s making, said a small voice inside. Brennan ignored it. There was no perfect future in this house. Not anymore, not for him. He made his own way.
He left the libra
ry and walked down yet another hall. He was becoming more aware of the very real fatigue his body had felt before falling asleep, yet despite being aware of the dream, he was unable to wake up from it. He took it as a sign. The house was identical to that of his youth, and there had only been one adult-sized bed in the mansion at that time. He trusted his feet to carry him by memory to the master bedroom.
It was a large room, even for two people, and it was clean and orderly in the fashion following a visit from the maids. The bed was wide and long—perfect for Brennan—and he threw himself upon the soft covers. He laid his head to rest upon a platoon of pillows and let his eyes shut of their own accord.
It was his first peaceful sleep in a very long time.
Brennan’s eyes fluttered open and he rubbed the sleep from his face.
He cast a glance at the clock by his bed and had to do a double-take. It was afternoon already, and he had slept soundly for nearly seven hours. He felt a pang of guilt. Of course, he hadn’t slept soundly. His mind dredged up the events of his dream, from the empty mansion of his youth to his brutal attack on the Sleeper. He hadn’t killed the man—not physically—but he may as well have. The Sleeper would very likely be Fractured, lying near comatose in a room somewhere in the city. Brennan’s stomach twisted with the thought.
A noise from the other room made him sit up in bed.
He prepared himself for the corresponding pain, but his body felt better. It felt great, in fact. There were still bruises on his ribs, but the aches and pains of the past twelve hours had melted away into merely uncomfortable reminders that made themselves known if he stretched the wrong way. He tested his shoulders, rolling them forward and back, and turned his head each direction until the stiffness in his neck cracked and popped away.
Another noise, and Brennan remembered that Bishop had taken the couch. Suddenly conscious of his nakedness, he slipped on a fresh pair of pants and checked himself in the mirror. He buttoned up a collared shirt as he left his bedroom.
On the couch, covered by a large gray blanket, was Bishop. Her head lay against one of the armrests, and gold hair fell across her sleeping visage. The blanket had been made for someone Brennan’s size, and it wrapped around her small form twice. Very tightly around her form. Brennan’s eyes drifted to the closet, inside of which were his washer and dryer. He could hear the telltale sound of clothes tumbling in the dryer, and he realized Bishop was completely naked beneath the blanket.
He gulped and moved quickly to the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass from the highest cupboard. From the fridge he grabbed orange juice and eggs, and he popped a slice of bread into the toaster as he heated up a skillet on the stove. By the time Bishop woke, he had breakfast sizzling and the dryer had finished its final spin.
“Brennan?” she asked sleepily. She rose slowly, keeping the blanket held against her. Sleeping against the armrest of the couch had given interesting temporary lines to her face. “Sorry, I must have dozed off longer than I…” Her voice trailed off. “Are you making breakfast?”
“It’s the most important meal of the day.”
Bishop inhaled sharply. “I am starving. Brennan, I could kiss you.”
He wrinkled his nose and grinned. “Best not. You probably have morning breath right now.”
“Alternatively, I could kill you,” she suggested.
“Your clothes are ready,” he told her, his grin growing wider.
Bishop wrapped the gray blanket more tightly around herself and marched over to the closet, liberating her warm, dry clothes and cradling them in a bundle under one arm. She paused at the entrance of the bathroom and looked back at him. “You look…healthy.”
“I think that was almost a compliment.”
She shook her head and laughed lightly. “Sorry, that came out poorly. But seriously, you look ten times better than yesterday.”
Brennan lifted both arms and clasped his hands high over his head. His knuckles brushed against the ceiling. “Fit as a fiddle,” he said. Truthfully, his shoulders were still sore and the movement was a bit stiff, but there was something about a full night’s sleep that rejuvenated his spirit. Even though his body wasn’t fully recovered, he felt better. “In fact, I need to call Sam right away.”
Bishop grimaced, but she said nothing. She knew the score; McCarthy was part of the case, as aggravating to her as he might be. The bathroom door closed behind her as he pulled the phone from his pocket. McCarthy picked up on the third ring.
“Brennan, what’s up?”
“I need you to look into something, Sam.”
“I don’t know,” McCarthy said. “I’m still waiting on this weekend’s payment. Two days’ work, cash.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill.”
“And I’m still on retainer for Noel.”
“Well I’m using her time, then. She’s here with me now.”
“Really? I’m near the station right now, I’ll meet you—”
“No,” Brennan said, cutting him off. “We aren’t at the station, we’re at my place.”
There was a pause before Sam spoke again. “Arty, you sly dog,” he said. Brennan could hear the grin in his voice. “I didn’t know I had you to compete with as well.”
“It’s not like that,” he sighed. He glanced uncertainly toward the bathroom, even though he knew Bishop couldn’t overhear the call. “And I wouldn’t get too hopeful on that front, if I were you. Look, I’m taking Bishop back to her place now, so I won’t be able to meet you at the station for another half hour. I need you to look into something while I’m away.”
“What do you need?” Sam asked, sobering up instantly.
“We found out that the hallucinogen used in the patches is a drug called Chamalla.”
“Chamalla? Huh, they must be a fan.”
“A fan?”
“Battlestar Galactica?” Sam spoke slowly. His voice rang with disbelief. “Only the best sci-fi show to come out of the early 2000s.”
“Huh. I didn’t take you for a nerd, Sam.”
“I believe the proper term is ‘geek’.” There was a brief pause. “And no, hey! That’s not me!”
“Uh-huh, sure. Anyway, I need you to look into everywhere that Leviathan could be gaining access to it in large quantities. Hospitals, factories, anywhere.”
“Leviathan, huh? Never heard of them.”
“New outfit on the scene, I guess. If we move fast enough, we can shut them down here and now. My guess is we only have another day or two before they find another source of NicoClean patches, and if that happens, we’ll have to start off from square one.”
“Right.” Brennan could hear a pen scribbling on paper on the other end. “I’ll start looking and get back to you when I have something.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
Brennan ended the call, and Bishop emerged from the bathroom fully dressed in her dry clothes. Her face was bright and alert, though she still frowned at the phone in his hand. He wondered how Sam thought he had even the slightest chance of getting back into her good graces. Brennan doubted that she would ever open up to Sam like that again.
“What’s so funny?”
Brennan didn’t realize he had been smiling. “Just a bad joke that came to mind.”
“Want to tell me what it was?”
“Maybe another time,” he murmured.
The two of them dug into the breakfast Brennan had prepared, eating in companionable silence and letting the warmth of the food fill their bellies. When metal scrape against porcelain, Brennan collected the plates and rinsed them under the sink, leaving them in a pool of sudsy water to be washed later.
He got the door for her, and they walked out into the hall. A minute later, they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped out onto the street. The rain had stopped falling, and sunlight peeked through the clouds. His pocket vibrated just as they started walking toward the precinct. “One second,” he said to Bishop. He lifted the phone to his ear. “Greg? What’s going on? How is your mother?”
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“Bad,” his nephew replied. His voice shook speaking just that one word. “Uncle Arty, you need to come see her.”
A heavy pit formed in Brennan’s stomach. When Greg had called him the other day, he had sounded worried but still somewhat in control. Now, he seemed on the verge of hysterics, and Brennan found something incredibly unnerving in the way his nephew had chosen his words. Come see her.
“All right,” he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. “Try to soothe her, keep her in bed, and I’ll be right there.”
“We aren’t at home!” Greg said in a panicky voice.
“Where are you?”
“Come to the hospital.”
18
The living room of the Scott ranch was a mess.
Before the storm abated in the valley, Nathaniel and Uncle Rick had taken over the living room, laying out a strategy for surveying the southern reach of the valley for future development. Their plan was to get to the Tower, assess the surviving infrastructure, and then see what could be done with the surrounding land. On the floor around the two men was a smattering of essential hiking supplies: boots, jackets, a compass and topographical map, several bottles of water, and some dried food.
Jeremy walked into the room just as his father shrugged on a waterproof jacket. “I want to come with you,” he said.
“Absolutely not!” The three men turned toward the bedroom from which Annabelle’s voice emanated.
Nathaniel frowned. “I have to agree with your mom on this one,” he said. “We’re going into some wild territory, and there’s no telling what we might find there. Besides, the ground is slippery and unstable, and the storm could return at any minute.”
“But you only need to look at the sky to see if it’ll rain!” Jeremy argued. He leaned to peer out a window. “Oh, looks clear to me! And as for not knowing what is out there, that’s exactly why I want to go! There could be more to the Tower, and I’m the only one who’s been there for more than five seconds.”