“I know.”
Aidan’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, you know? You knew this whole time?”
“I didn’t know about Brian,” Caleb said. “And I’m so sorry you went through that, and that you felt like you couldn’t talk about it. It must have been awful. But I knew, in a more general way, that you were trying to keep me out of your life. That was obvious.”
“I was trying to protect you,” Aidan protested. “That’s why I was so unhappy when you took that job with Quint Services. And then you showed up at Facility 17—”
“We could have an argument about which of us needs protecting,” Caleb said, watching Aidan stack a second sandwich with haste and plop it onto a plate. “Or we could just agree that we’re in this together and be done with it.”
Aidan came around to the other side of the counter, set his plate down, and took the stool next to Caleb’s. “I think I’m beginning to get that. I’m just a little slow.” He smiled. “But what I was going to say is, having something bad happen to me that I couldn’t predict or prevent or get out of, that made everything worse. I was scared for me and scared for you. I don’t know how not to be. I care about you so much, Caleb.”
“I know,” Caleb said, putting a hand on his knee. “I care about you, too. And I know I might not really get the extent of your fear, but… it makes sense, after what you went through.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m scared for you—for both of us—but your work is important. I want to do it with you. I always have, even before I knew what an evil piece of shit Quint was. Being alone doesn’t make either of us any safer, but being together might. And putting Quint in prison definitely will.”
“You’re right. If we don’t find him, someone else will. But where do we even start?” Aidan said. “Either he’s a runner in good health and can go anywhere he wants, or, if Fake Caleb was right, he’s got the shakes and will appear randomly.”
“No one is better equipped to find him than us,” Caleb said. “You know almost every runner in the world. Get the word out to the Union to report any sightings. He might not have the shakes yet, but he will soon. I believe my double about that. Also, did you call him ‘Fake Caleb’?”
“Well, yeah. You’re the real one.”
Caleb smiled. It made him feel warm and almost weightless. Aidan was in love with him. They were in love with each other. They could do anything.
Aidan was used to sleeping in unfamiliar beds—or couches—in unfamiliar places. Squatting in Quint’s house had been more luxurious than normal, but just as temporary. He’d come to think of sleeping next to Caleb the same way, as a luxury that wouldn’t last, something he was borrowing that he’d eventually have to give up.
Slipping into bed in the safehouse, he folded himself into the curves and angles of Caleb’s body. So tired he was half-dreaming, he thought we could do this every night. They didn’t have to stop. He didn’t know where he’d be living when this was over, or what tomorrow looked like, let alone next week, but he could fall asleep with Caleb warm and solid against him. That mattered more than all the rest, so much that it made him giddy. His eyes were already closed, but he felt himself smile, buoyed by thoughts of the future for the first time in years.
With his nose pressed into Caleb’s shoulder, he mumbled, “D’you want sex?”
“You have the energy for sex right now?”
“You want it, I’ll find it,” he promised.
“Nah, I’m good.” Caleb pulled Aidan’s arm over his waist and intertwined their hands. “This is all I want right now.”
“Yeah,” Aidan said. “Me too.”
21
There's Only One You
“Are we seriously discussing rescuing that man?” Kit asked. He grimaced into his coffee.
Clear early morning sunlight poured in through the living room window. The four of them had gathered in the combined kitchen and living room in the center of the house, unable to sleep in with the problem of Quint unresolved.
Kit continued, “Can’t we just let him suffer his fate? It only took me a few uncontrolled jumps before I almost died. Either he’ll end up in space eventually, or he’ll die of starvation because he can’t stay still long enough to eat. Feels poetic.”
“I didn’t say rescue. I said find,” Caleb said. “If we don’t, someone else will. He’ll wriggle his way out of the problem like he always does. We spent some of his money, but he’s still a rich man. Our goal is the same: put him in prison.”
“We’re the only ones who can,” Aidan said. “We have the suppressant. All we need is Quint. We’ll offer to save his life in exchange for him turning himself in.”
“Good luck with that,” Kit said. “You know he’ll still be a threat even in prison, right? You can take away his money, but he’ll still be Oswin Lewis Quint. He’s gonna spend every minute inside scheming to get out, and he’s gonna come straight for you when he does.”
“I also owe my double some suppressant,” Caleb said, changing the subject. “He helped us. I have to get it to him. He’s still in Quint’s house in New York, which is as good a place as any to start looking for Quint.”
“You’d better go soon,” Laila said. She turned on the news, which was switching between aerial footage of a collection of vehicles parked outside the Quint Services complex in Tennessee and shaky body-cam shots from inside the hallways.
“Oswin Lewis Quint vanished from a Quint Services facility late last night after authorities were alerted to his presence there,” said a voice-over. “He has not been seen since. In the hours since his disappearance was first reported, eight properties owned by Quint or Quint Services have experienced an attempted break-in.”
The video switched to more aerial footage, this time of a burned mansion. Aidan didn’t recognize it; it wasn’t the house in New York. “At least one of his homes was looted and then burned.”
“Can’t feel too bad about that,” Laila said, looking up from her second cup of tea. Her tablet lay on the counter in front of her and she scrolled through it idly with her thumb. “How awful does it make me if I want to lay bets on the outcome of this?”
“I’ll be awful with you,” Kit said. He was seated next to her, his eyes on the news. “Fifty bucks says when he finally turns up, he’s a corpse.”
“Plenty of people would still cry at his funeral,” Aidan said. “I’d rather see him in disgrace and in prison before he dies.”
“We’ll put him there. Unless he’s dead. That would suit me fine,” Caleb said, his tone so steady it was alarming.
“Wow,” Kit said. “I always thought Aidan was the one to watch out for, but you and your evil twin have more in common than I thought. Maybe you’re both the evil twin.”
“He saved my life,” Caleb said, only to be ignored.
“Nah, our Caleb is definitely the good twin. I know because the scruffy murder-y thigh-holster one’s hotter,” Laila said. “The evil twin is always hotter.”
“Aww, I like our wholesome version,” Kit said.
“We all know what kind of wholesome nerds you like,” Laila said.
Caleb was pretending to be riveted to the wall display, which was looping the same footage over and over while some reporters discussed it.
Aidan patted him on the shoulder. “She’s wrong, don’t worry.”
Caleb’s jaw worked. He turned away, but Aidan could see the tips of his ears were pink. He swallowed and said, “I don’t think she is, actually. My double has abs.”
“Wait, you saw him naked?” Laila asked.
“You are so nosy,” Kit told her. “But did you?”
“We switched clothes,” Caleb said primly, laying their speculation to rest. Then he smiled. “He is a good kisser, though.”
Laila yelped “what,” and then burst out laughing. “Get the fuck out.”
“Like you wouldn’t kiss your double if you had one,” Kit said. “You know you would.”
“I’ve had better,” Caleb said, nudging
Aidan, obviously pleased with himself. “And we were just going.”
Fake Caleb was sprawled on his stomach on the gigantic couch in the living room, reading a leather-bound book chased with gold that was in pristine condition. It had probably never been opened before. The only light in the room came from the high skylight, cool and long-shadowed even in the middle of the day. He hadn’t straightened any of the living room furniture, and Aidan suspected the number of dirty dishes lying around the room was motivated by spite.
At least the dirty dishes were evidence of life. The emptiness of the rest of the huge house rendered it obscene and desolate, a ruin still standing. Aidan wanted to get out.
Fake Caleb lifted his head and put down the book when he saw them. “You got it?”
“We did,” Caleb said. He produced a syringe, still in its packaging, from his pocket. He’d insisted on buying new ones. “You gonna apologize for dragging me out of bed and tying me up?”
“Getting you out of Quint’s clutches doesn’t count?” he asked. He glanced at Aidan and added, “You can take that thing off your face, by the way. I disabled the AI.”
“How?” Aidan asked. He wished they’d done that sooner, but he’d thought it was impossible. Quint had made his fortune in that kind of tech.
“Cut the power.”
“Oh.” When Aidan put on his regular glasses, the first thing he saw was Fake Caleb smirking at him.
“Still waiting on that apology. Helping me not get choked was basic human decency. You can do better,” Caleb said.
“Sorry. I was improvising. I needed some time to think through my options, and I couldn’t do that if I got caught.”
“That’s a C-plus apology at best, but I’ll take it,” Caleb said. “Here you go.”
“You’ll get me back there, right? Because I’m not going anywhere after this,” Fake Caleb said, sitting up to accept the syringe and the vial of suppressant.
Aidan felt a pang of sympathy. Maybe he should think of Caleb’s double in some kinder way than Fake. He’d helped them, and he was about to experience a loss Aidan knew all about. “Yeah, I’ll take you home.”
Caleb’s double loaded and used the syringe with efficiency, a series of motions born of long practice. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, laying the syringe on the coffee table and not making eye contact with either of them. “This is better than dying from the shakes.”
“Thanks for your help,” Caleb said, and Aidan was grateful he’d intervened, because he didn’t know what to say.
“That’s a C-plus thanks at best,” his double said. He stood up from the couch, and then, after a moment, picked up the book he’d put down. “I’ll take whatever suppressant you have left. Other than that, I’m ready to go.”
“You can have seventeen vials,” Caleb said. He handed over the box where he’d packed them in old newspapers. “One’s for Quint and the other’s back-up.”
“That’s fair,” his double said. Clutching the box and his book in one hand, he took hold of Aidan with the other. He was casual about it, unafraid of where they were going.
Then Quint showed up.
He lurched forward on one foot, and before Aidan had even registered the gun in his hand, a shot blasted the wall behind him. Other Caleb yelled “Get down!” and forced Aidan to the floor.
Quint’s suit was stained all over with mud and water, his formerly white shirt peeking through the ripped shoulder seam. There was blood on his collar. His blond hair stood up in stiff tangles and his eyes were veined red above the deep, shadowed hollows below.
It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since they’d last seen him.
Clutching the gun in both hands, he swung his arms. Aidan couldn’t make sense of it. He had the impression that his brain had filled in missing pieces of the movement, like it was an animated sequence with frames missing.
There was an ugly purple bruise spreading across Quint’s face, and a smear of red across his teeth when he opened his mouth to speak.
“Where is it? Where’s the suppressant?”
The box Caleb had packed was hidden from sight because his double was lying on top of it. Caleb must have pocketed the remaining two vials. Aidan tried to memorize the carpet in front of his face so his gaze wouldn’t betray him.
He was the only one in the room who could jump in a controlled, precise way. He could solve this. He just had to pick his moment.
“Fix me,” Quint said. “Or I kill you all.”
Get right in his space. Get the gun. Hope the second you spend in the Nowhere isn’t long enough for him to shoot Caleb. Fuck. No. Not good enough.
“We can fix you,” Caleb said from his position on the floor, his voice soothing. “Put the gun down.”
Quint aimed at him. No, no, no, fuck no.
Other Caleb kicked Aidan in the ankle, made a second of fierce eye contact—what Aidan wouldn’t give to be a mindreader—and then stood up.
“I can fix you,” he said. “I have the suppressant. He’s lying.”
Quint twisted toward him, his movements strange. When he’d aimed the gun, Aidan jumped. He showed up inches from Quint’s face, breathing in the blood-and-sweat smell of him. There was a rotten note to it, muddy and sickeningly sweet, but also something so sharp and acrid it almost knocked him out. Stale piss, probably.
He grabbed Quint’s wrist in one hand and the hand that held the gun in the other, forcing his arm away and wrenching the gun down. Quint’s trigger finger twisted with an unnatural crack. A shot fired. The floor reverberated under his feet. Then Quint grabbed his throat, his fingers digging into the soft flesh under the hinge of Aidan’s jaw.
Aidan kneed him in the balls. Quint grunted in pain but didn’t let go. He clenched Aidan’s throat harder and Aidan brought his knee up again, missing this time. He couldn’t breathe. His hands were still tight around Quint’s gun arm, but slippery with sweat now.
Quint shuddered under his grip. They exited the world together, the Nowhere a flash of black, and then reappeared in an intersection, headlights and honks bearing down on them. Quint tried to shove him to the pavement. Cars screeched toward them. Aidan dragged them both back into the Nowhere, no air in his lungs, chanting living room, living room, living room in his mind like a prayer.
It worked. They returned to the room. Then Quint twitched under his hands.
The Nowhere. A humid forest at daybreak. Quint slammed Aidan into a tree trunk, and the pain blinded him for a moment. He dropped his grip on Quint’s hand, flitted into the Nowhere, and materialized behind Quint. Aidan tackled him, sending the gun flying from his injured hand.
The living room again. Quint left a streak of mud and blood on the white carpet while he struggled beneath Aidan.
Aidan’s body burned from back-to-back jumps, but Quint had to be worse off. He’d lost the gun. He had to give up soon.
Quint started to fade again.
“No,” Aidan shouted, the noise tearing out of his injured throat. He clutched at Quint, trying to force him to stay. If he disappeared, if he got away—but they were both in the void now, and then on hard, dry ground, loose pebbles scattering as they twisted and rolled. The sky arched over them, huge and brilliant with midday sun.
Quint had managed to flip them over, driven by inhuman rage. He spit bloody foam into the dirt next to Aidan’s face.
Aidan heard a pebble go flying, then drop and clatter against stone. A cliff edge.
Quint shuddered above him. The fit should have taken them back into the Nowhere, but its consequences were local. He couldn’t jump. Quint lurched to the side, his hands clawing at Aidan.
Then they fell. Cold air ripped at his clothes and skin.
Back, Aidan thought, desperate for solid ground. It wasn’t a plan, but a handhold. Back up there.
His panic bore results when he hit rock—not hard enough to kill him. He’d never been so glad to have the wind knocked out of him. Flat and gasping, it took him a moment to realize he was alone.
They’d been entangled, but Quint hadn’t come with him.
As soon as he could breathe again, Aidan pushed himself up to peer over the edge, then withdrew. He’d seen enough: Quint’s unmoving body, his neck at the wrong angle.
Dead.
Aidan checked again to make sure. There he was, his neck unmistakably broken. The awful sight, both unreal and necessary, became a fixed point in Aidan’s vision, blotting out cold, and hunger, and all his injuries.
Quint was dead and he was never going to hurt anyone ever again.
At first, Aidan thought he’d stared so long that his exhausted vision was beginning to waver. But he pinched himself and Quint’s corpse continued to shimmer and quiver, disintegrating shred by shred. This was what happened to people who died of the shakes. Their matter fell apart in some way human senses couldn’t fully perceive.
Only a dark stain against the rock below remained.
Aidan sat back and wiped a dirty hand over his teary eyes. The past few minutes crystallized in his memory, and his heart slowed its pace. He couldn’t suss out whether he was responsible—no, probably not—but he found he couldn’t care, either.
Holy shit. He was free.
Tears leaked from his closed eyes, forming tracks along the creases of his smile. He hurt so much, and it was okay. He was okay. He blinked to clear his vision. Under the cloudless sky, a pine forest stretched to the horizon.
Wherever he’d ended up, it was a nice day.
Aidan inhaled a lungful of sweet, cool air, and took himself home to Caleb.
The third time Aidan reappeared in the living room, he was alone. Caleb cried out at the sight of him, pale and motionless on the carpet, and flew across the room.
A pulse.
Aidan’s eyes flicked open, and his mouth quirked. That seemed to be all he had the energy for, but Caleb didn’t need more. Aidan was here and alive and that was enough. Caleb checked for wounds and, not finding any, pulled Aidan into an embrace. He buried his nose in Aidan’s hair, which was dusted with dirt and twigs, and didn’t ask what had happened. If Quint’s corpse wasn’t adrift in the void of space, Caleb would be disappointed. He didn’t want to ruin the moment just yet.
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