Regan paused, mind racing, hands shaking. “Garrett Cole is the closest thing Parole has to a president. Or hope for survival.”
“Oh, yes, I agree completely!” Hans nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide and face earnest. “He’s done more for this city than maybe any other single person, other than beloved superheroine Evelyn Calliope herself. He’s Parole’s spokesman, resistance leader, strategist…” he yawned, slow and exaggerated. “Chessmaster, guiding hand that just happens to hold every string, every card—”
“We need him.”
“Right. Yeah, okay.” Hans nodded easily. “And I need him dead. See the dilemma here?”
“Why?”
“Mmm…” The teenage boy looked more like he was trying to decide how much to reveal about the last time he snuck out past curfew than planning a murder. Regan felt sick. “Nope. Can’t tell you. It’d mess up too many plans. Garrett thinks he’s the plan-master? Oh man, is he in for a surprise.”
“No.”
“Hmm?”
“Go fuck yourself. I won’t help you murder a good man.” Regan’s hands slowly balled into fists. “I don’t care what you have planned.”
Hans grinned. “Bet I can make you change your mind.” When several long seconds of silence and a deadly glare were his only answer, his smile faded and he spread his hands. “Well, okay then. Looks like you’re here to stay. Hope you like it hot.”
Regan said nothing as Hans floated up and away. He did not watch; even if the specter wasn’t actually there, even if this particular apparition was nothing more than a projection privately broadcast into his own brain, somehow it felt good to deny him the satisfaction.
“Oh, by the way—enjoy your victory spoils. That super-secret report? That little glance into the outside world? Yeah, no, it’s really not a nice place anymore. Everybody’s so eager to get out of this bubble, but… man, oh man, once you actually get out there and look around? Might just wanna stay right here, where it’s safe. You’d know that if you took a good look in those files. But I guess you’ll know all about that soon. You and your friend with the, uh. Brilliant name.” He still didn’t look, but heard Hans snort; it echoed around the inside of his skull. “Oh well. Know what they say—even if you escape the frying pan, you still end up in the fire… or something like that!”
Now Regan looked up—and his eyes immediately widened in shock. Hans was gone.
“Because everything comes back to escape… doesn’t it?” His mocking voice, however, remained very loud and clear, making Regan’s stomach twist. “Oh well. Enjoy the Star Trek.”
“Come back!” Hans’ smile appeared first, a bright white crescent against the dim expanse of the night sky. It reminded Regan of something, but his brain was teetering too close to the edge of complete panic to latch onto anything solid. “What’s out there? What’s outside?”
“Stick with me and find out. That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”
“I… I don’t…”
“You can’t stand one more second in this prison, can you? You’ve needed to get out of Parole for ten years, now you’re just at the breaking point. Don’t be ashamed, everybody hits it sometime.”
“You don’t have a way out. Nobody does.”
Hans stared at him without blinking or moving an inch. But he faded into thin air, much more gradually and deliberately than anything Regan could match. It was as if someone was just slowly turning down an ‘opacity’ setting that controlled his presence on this plane of existence. “Pretty sure I can go anywhere I want.”
“People chase escapes all the time.” Regan shut his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at the empty air in front of him. “There’s a new secret passage every week, but they only go one way. Down.”
“I know, and if any of them were legit, CyborJ’d know, and he’d be the one telling you, isn’t that right?”
“You heard that?” Eyes open again. The ghost boy was back and so was his smile.
“I hear ev-ery-thing!” Hans’ voice sounded like it was coming from all directions. From inside Regan’s head. All he could see were bright blue eyes, as hard and shining as a synthetic cat’s, but smiling, laughing. “I know everything. Everything that happens in this city. I know about you, and all about your runs. I know you’re the one who can get me what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“Believe it or not, I wanna help everyone.”
Regan caught a breath. “What?”
“You think it’s just you and Jay I’m letting out of this place? Nah. I want everyone out, all of us. Nobody burns, not one more person falling down into the fire. I wanna bring down the barrier once and for all. Pop the big bubble for good.” He made a popping noise with his lips, grinned, and rocked back on his heels as if he still had solid ground to stand on, and stuck out his hand for Regan to shake, like sealing a deal. “So what do you say?”
Regan stared, then slowly shook his head. “And you said Jay liked the sound of his own voice.”
A shrug of thin, half-transparent shoulders. “When I’m saying the right things. But you sure aren’t. What do I have to say to get you to see it my way, Regan?” He shook his head, long white hair swaying though there was no wind in the night, and certainly none that would effect him. “You can’t survive in here. You imagine just one more night in Parole and you panic. You know everything burns, it’s just a matter of time. And here I am, throwing you a lifeline, and you won’t take it! What’s holding you back?”
“It’s not a lifeline,” Regan said slowly. “If I already have a life. It took a long time to build it, but I did. So—so maybe you should get one.”
“Oh, ghost joke? Are we doing that now? Lazy, but—”
“Yeah, you’re a sad, powerless ghost, telling me to kill Parole’s greatest hero, for no reason.” His voice got stronger with every word. “Dangling false hope in front of my face, taking advantage, manipulating—you think I’m that scared? You think I’d throw everything I have away? For what?”
“For life,” Hans said in a very low, very dangerous voice. “Your life. Outside. Saving your life. Living it. All it takes is one man’s life.”
“No.” Regan shook his head, and took in the deepest, clearest breath he could remember. Everything about this moment was clear and open. His eyes, his head, his path. His throat, his lungs. Even the smoke in the sky seemed to fade. “Not for the price you’re asking, nothing’s worth that. My life in here’s worth everything. Even if it’s shorter, it’s worth so much more.”
Hans was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his whisper sounded like dry leaves on pavement. “I wasn’t talking about your life.”
“I won’t kill Garrett Cole for you, Hans. Forget it. You’ve lost.”
“I wasn’t talking about him either.”
Regan’s smile froze. Hans’ grew.
“And it wasn’t just one life. Like I said, I want to get everybody in Parole free—so really, it’s thousands. Thousands of lives against one.” He shrugged, tilted his head. “I’d call that a pretty good deal.”
“You’re… no. No, I—”
“Powerless ghost, you said? Yeah… hey, how long’s it been?” Hans asked, suddenly curious as he pointed to the silent earpiece. “Since you heard from your friend.”
Regan held perfectly still.
“You know, everybody thinks CyborJ is actually like ten people using one name, ‘cause he’s so good and fast and everywhere—or he has computer superpowers. It’s probably that, right? SkEye probably loves that theory, it’s not quite as bad when he embarrasses them. But this is amazing.” Hans cocked his head, smile spreading. “CyborJ really is just one guy, isn’t he?”
Silence.
“He’s so good at erasing his tracks, there’s no records of him anywhere, no real name—but it can’t be ‘Jay,’ that’s just—anyway, no birth date, nothing… but I guarantee I can pick him out of a crowd.” Hans lazily drifted sideways, looking dreamily faraway. “‘Cause I’m looki
ng at him right now.”
“Lying.” A harsh, forced whisper.
“Please. Parole has no secrets, not from me, and neither do you. Even if I wasn’t basically all-seeing,” he said with a casual shrug. “You’re not the only one who knows how to eavesdrop. I know he’s Native American—Tsalagi, specifically, I like specifics. But he’s really good at erasing his tracks, so no birth date, no real name. And I really suck at guessing ages now, aging’s for the living. Thirties? Early? I dunno. But that’s okay! I got his face, which is more than anyone’s ever done. And I’m great with faces.”
Reagan’s neck frill twitched as his breathing sped up. He clenched his teeth and said nothing.
“Lemme just grab the address and room number here…”
“You don’t have… you’re making it up.”
Hans gave him a smile that was almost pitying. “I couldn’t make this guy up if I tried. There’s so much crap in this room, does he collect dead computers or something? Huh, duct tape over the window shades, so that’s why it’s so dark. Sun doesn’t shine in this place. Like, ugh, be more dramatic. And sunglasses, in the dark—why? Is the constant screen glare too—that’s it, isn’t it? And the fingerless gloves, ponytail—is that a tank top or did that thing have sleeves once? did he just rip the…wow, what a look. He’s literally just a thirty-whatever Matrix-wannabe nerd holed up in a nerd cave full of nerd junk. This is who everybody yells about.”
“You do not see him. You have… nothing.”
“He’s only wearing one sock.” Hans tossed the words out like a dart, reveling in the resulting shudder when they hit the bullseye. “And the cat’s on the desk, staring at you on the screen right now. One of those famous magic-machine Danae creations, right? Named Seven-Of-Nine-Tails. Which is like, four puns in one, I gotta admire.”
He drifted easily down to Regan’s eye level, ghostly sneakers not touching the ground.
“So, yeah, the famous CyborJ’s secret identity? Not that secret, not to me. Nothing is. I see everything in here, and out there.” He waved one semi-transparent arm up at the barrier. “I can see the whole outside world. It’s just kinda tough to do anything about it without solid hands. That’s where you come in.” He lowered his arm and used it to point at Regan, then waited for a response. When he didn’t get one, he sighed, hand dropping. “I know this is kinda a lot to take in—do you wanna talk to your friend? I can totally make that happen, all I gotta do is un-jam the frequency. Should I, uh—”
“What did you do?” Regan croaked, taking a shaky step forward, even as the ghostly form spun out of his reach.
“Me? Nothing! Oh, I cut off your signal. But that’s it, I swear!” As Hans spoke, he rotated in midair, slowly turning like the hands of a clock until he was upside-down. “You’re gonna tell him about this, right? You gotta. I mean, he’s just gonna agree with me. Anyone smart would.”
“Shut up.” Regan actually grabbed for his dangling foot now, cursing as his hand passed right through. He tried again anyway, just to vent his frustration.
“Don’t forget the part about the one life, in exchange for lots of lives. Needs of the many, and few… he’ll appreciate that!” Hans giggled, an incongruously youthful sound. Regan’s skin crawled. “Just trust me on that, it’ll be priceless.”
“Shut up!”
“Hey, I’m not the bad guy here!” Hans danced away, easily evading his desperately flailing hands, though he didn’t actually need to move. The one time Regan’s hand closed over his ankle, he grabbed nothing but air as his fingers passed right through. “I really am trying to save the many. All it takes is the one life. Just remember… it’s totally up to you which life.”
“No! You bastard! Evil, twisted—”
“Regan?” A pair of quite solid hands caught Regan by the shoulders as he staggered backwards, and he spun around with a panicked gasp. The hands that steadied him were stitched together with seams, skin tones contrasting like pieces of a patchwork quilt. When they kept him from falling, their grip was cool but not clammy; when he looked up into the eyes of whoever held him, they were mismatched. His struggles immediately stopped, and he went still.
“Zilch!” He nearly collapsed against them with relief. He had no idea how his friend and fellow unseen navigator of Parole’s fiery streets had found him, but he didn’t ask either. Instead, he half-spun around while still hanging onto Zilch for support, wildly scanning the sky for a cackling, ghostly form. “Where is he? Where’d he go?”
“Where’d who go? You got SkEye on your back?”
“Wh-no! No, no—the kid—the ghost, the—he was—”
“Regan, breathe. Slow. Deep. I didn’t see anyone on my way over, nothing weird on my scanners. I think we’re alone.” Zilch’s level, calm tone slowly cut through his adrenaline and panic, and he gradually loosened his death-grip on their shoulders. Fortunately, Zilch’s nerve endings were limited, so he doubted they actually felt much. “Doing better?”
“I… I’m…” Regan sagged, suddenly exhausted. “Yeah. Thank—thank you.”
“No problem. You good to move?”
“Yeah. I’m—yeah.”
“Okay, then let’s move. Don’t wanna be out tonight anymore. Whole night feels… off. What happened out here?”
“We got cut off,” Regan mumbled as they started off in the direction he’d been heading. “I fell off that rooftop, but that part was fine…”
“What part wasn’t fine?” Zilch’s voice was flat, cold to the unaccustomed ear, but to Regan’s, it was gentle and reassuring. He still hesitated.
“What did you hear?”
“Radio Angel pinged me, said Jay’s line to you got severed entirely. Patched me in, and he told me—”
“What’d he say?!”
“I’m telling you. Breathe. He lost contact with you on audio, still had you on visual. You looked pretty bad, you were talking, but we couldn’t hear what you were saying.”
“I was talking.” Regan felt dazed again, head spinning. He reached up to his earpiece and adjusted the delicate side dial as he picked up the pace. Nothing but silence. “But not to him.”
“Who were you talking to?” Zilch kept their tone level, but now Regan could hear the concern creeping in. He didn’t care. He was far past the point of concern. “We didn’t see anyone else, on visuals, scanners, nowhere.”
“Hans…” Regan said faintly, continuing to manipulate the headset dial. Still nothing. “That’s what he says his name is. Don’t know if it’s real… but that’s what he says.”
He was staring straight ahead, so he didn’t see Zilch stumble, and clap a hand against their chest. He didn’t see their horrified expression, or the way they froze for one awful second. Two.
All he could see were the bright green lights of the Emerald Bar on the end of the next block. The drop point was the goal of every runtime. Right now it felt like coming home.
☾
Regan did go home. He was dimly aware of the fact that Zilch stayed with him to the door, but once it was open, everything in the world disappeared except stepping through it. He thought the floor might have tried to slip up and catch him, but instead it was arms; Zilch’s, but too many for just theirs. He saw feet, four of them—eight if you counted the cat under the desk—and saw that Jay still wasn’t putting his full weight on his left ankle. Something about that made him feel guilty, but he wasn’t sure what.
Their voices blended together. Jay’s voice sounded different than usual; higher, tighter, kind of… choked. Not like when he talked to Regan. Not even like when he talked to his cat. Regan didn’t like it. But Zilch’s low, regular syllables were steady and grounding and made his eyes slip nearly shut. He was lying down anyway. Against something, or on something… he recognized the angle of the room. Couch against the far wall. That’s where he was.
After a while, Zilch’s voice stopped. The door shut. Regan watched, half-awake, as Jay gingerly navigated across the small, computer-cluttered room, and sank down onto th
e couch beside him. He closed his eyes again, cold dread building in his chest, but of course he wouldn’t be lucky enough for Jay to think he was asleep or unconscious. Nothing else had gone right tonight.
“It’s over. It’s really over.” Jay let out a nervous, relieved laugh that turned into a sigh. “I have never been so glad for a run to be over. God, some weird shit went down tonight. What the hell was that?”
“Anxiety attack, that’s all,” Regan muttered. “Just a repeat of last week. Sorry. I’ll try to get a grip.”
“That’s bullshit.” Jay looked down at him curiously. “Tell me the real deal.”
“I told you, I just—just freaked out, that’s all.” He rolled over a little, turned away.
“Nah. I know one when I see one. Yours or mine. Seven’s got like twelve different settings for all the different, amazing possibilities. Tonight was something else.” His eyes narrowed. “You were talking to someone.”
Regan grimaced and slowly sat up. “Listen, can we talk about this tomorrow? Or later?”
“Then our connection cut out.” Jay started mumbling under his breath, eyes flicking back and forth as he re-ran the night, mental playback turned up to hyperspeed. “I lost sound, kept video. Someone fucking with my comms like that was no coincidence. Everyone knows I’m secure. Mine are the safest. Best in Parole. This was blatant, just—just flagrant. This was a challenge—a dare.”
“He would…” Regan whispered, almost below hearing. Jay’s head snapped up anyway.
“Who would?”
“Nobody.” Stand up. One step forward. Two. Head’s spinning because of exhaustion, not guilt, not terror, not anything else. “Forget it. Let’s just forget tonight.”
“Okay, you’re clearly exhausted or delirious or something, so I can write off about sixty percent of what you say right now.” Jay’s stare was piercing but tempered by worry. Slowly, he rose to his feet too. “But you’re also freaked out of your mind for a reason. So that forty percent is scaring the hell out of me. What’s going on here?”
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