by Alex Hughes
It looked like a scene from the movies, only dirtier. Stalls like horse stalls from a barn were lined up in a row, guys with guns pointing at the concrete wall thirty feet away, the paper targets set up.
The first crack hit me in the confined space, and it took everything in me not to hit the deck. That was a bad sound. A dangerous sound, a sound that crawled into the back of your head where the survivor lived, and told you to run. When I’d heard that sound on the streets at a lower decibel, people had died.
Cherabino pulled me over to the first stall. Three more cracks hit the space, two higher, mostly dampened by the ear protection. Those didn’t make me do more than flinch. But the last—another dark, deep crack like the world blowing apart—made me want to run. Hide.
Cherabino said something to me, but the sound was lost in the space. She repeated herself louder, but I still couldn’t hear; instead I listened in through the Link, the words behind the words.
She demonstrated how to load and unload the gun, the cartridge snapping up and in, the upper part of the gun sliding forward to indicate a bullet in the chamber. She made me repeat the motions, loading, unloading. I handled it gingerly, all the time struggling not to flinch every time I heard that dark, deep gunshot crack.
“It’s a gun,” Cherabino said, me hearing most of it through the Link. “It’s not going to bite you. I mean, gun safety is good—watch the end of it—but it’s not going to do anything you don’t tell it to. You don’t have to be so cautious.”
She took the gun back and set up a paper target, the mechanism carrying the thing all the way down the range away from us. “Loosen up, enjoy this.”
Meanwhile the whoomp, crack, crack of the gun range kept burrowing into my brain, telling me to be somewhere, anywhere else.
“Adam.” She brought my attention back to her and away from the line of tough-looking men and woman, only some cops; the rest for all I knew about to shoot me dead on the spot. “Adam.”
“What?”
“Pay attention.” She demonstrated the correct double-handed stance. “Watch your hand; with a semiautomatic like this one, the top of the gun will pop back and it’ll get you if you aren’t watching. There’s a kick.” She adjusted her stance, and for the first time I could see the muscle tension behind the movement, like she really was expecting it to hit her hard. Then she squeezed the trigger three times.
When she pulled the target up, there was a tight cluster in the center body. Kill shots.
She reset and handed me the gun. “Your turn.”
My hands shook and I tried to brace myself for whatever kick she was talking about.
“Loosen up,” her breath came by my ear.
The shot went wide, nearly hitting another guy’s target down the range. The gun had leaped in my hand like a rabbit on speed.
Cherabino was all too close, the warmth of her body tangible as she adjusted my hands on the gun, my arms in front of me. “Now try to hit the target this time, if you can.”
Something about the comment hit me like a burr on the butt, and adrenaline was already pouring through my system. Just to see if I could, I stole into her mind in careful degrees, control shaking, and “borrowed” her gun skills, the muscle memory she’d built over years of practice, the skill that was sitting on the forefront of her consciousness. I was rewarded with the headache of the century, pounding pain and brief flashes of light, but I did it. I actually did it. The skills sat in my head like a foreign lump, and, squinting through the pain in concentration, I sank into them.
I shot—and hit the target. To the right of center, but I hit it nonetheless. I squeezed off another round, and another, the shells flying off the gun and onto the floor as the gun made that strangely visceral crack in the small space.
I shot a perfect card the next time, almost as good as Cherabino. But the next was all misses, as her memory fought with my reality. I shot another card, and another, inconsistently, and finally stepped back, my head and arms aching. Despite everything, I was smiling like an idiot. I’d done it.
All those exercises and all the pain were finally worth it. The telepathy was coming back.
“Good shooting,” Cherabino said, with a satisfied smile, and handed me the broom to clean up my shells from the floor.
As we returned the gear to the gruff lady behind the counter, I realized I hadn’t thought about Swartz in an hour. Part of me was suddenly guilty, and the rest oddly relieved.
“Now let’s get you some food. Then back to the station. I’ve got an appointment with the district attorney I have to make.”
* * *
On the way back in the car, Cherabino let the silence sit while my head pounded dully. Finally I broke it.
“Are you serious about keeping Jacob away from the Guild?”
Her conflicted emotions darted around like a school of fish fleeing a predator. “Is that even possible?”
“If we’re careful.” I had done my research, and with a tag in my head—I poked around to make sure Stone wasn’t there—with a tag in my head and under unnamed debt, I was happy to do anything to keep the Guild from getting what they wanted. “If he’s careful. His medical condition will help us at the moment—reasons for people to be coming and going, reasons for him not to mix with the regular kids.”
“Won’t they catch him on the test?”
“Better than even odds they won’t. Teleporters don’t always show up on the screenings, especially with another talent to mask the signature. To look at, he’s a midrange telepath. He can take a few classes, learn a few skills in a roomful of loud minds and probably no one will notice. Opt out of the Guild when they ask, do just fine. It’ll be rough around the time of the screening, but it’ll get easier if everyone’s careful.”
I shifted in my seat, pulling at the seat belt so I could face her. “Cherabino, you’ve got to understand. He has to be trained. Especially with the teleporting—we can’t let that go. He could do damage to himself or someone else. And he needs a solid ethical footing. But there’s a friend of Kara’s, an independent associated with the Irish here in the city. We’re going to contact him, and we’re going to pay him to talk to us about details. I have the feeling if he won’t train Jacob—quietly—he’ll know someone else who will.” The thought of this working—of me sticking one to the Guild—was lifting that depressive feeling. That, and the telepathy coming back and, though I wouldn’t tell Cherabino, shooting holes in things.
Cherabino shook her head. “You yourself said the Guild has absolute legal jurisdiction.”
“If you’re Registered, sure. Unless you protest or you apply somewhere else. Over a certain level it’s mandatory—but there are loopholes. And hell, Isabella, I’m going to do everything in my power to put him directly in the middle of one.”
“My sister says she won’t move to the Cayman Islands.”
“They aren’t recognized by the US Guild anyway. And you have to be born in Russia to join their Guild, most of Europe is hostile, and India has an extradition treaty. But the Irish Guild . . . the Irish Independent Telepathic Corp takes Americans, if you don’t have a record and you can convince them you have something to offer them. We get him trained and we apply there. It’ll be a fight, but we’ll get him through the system, and the Guild won’t be able to do a damn thing. He can live right here in Atlanta and the treaties make him untouchable.”
A cautious hope was starting to grow in her mind as she pulled to a stop at a stoplight. “All my sister wants is to raise him herself. If this would let her keep him at home . . .”
“It’s hell living with an untrained telepath, worse with a teleporter,” I said, with strong warning. “And keeping the secret will be worse. It’ll take the whole family. The earliest the Corp will take him is fifteen. It’s a long time. And he’ll need an anyonide shielding installed to block—”
She was suddenly there, her lips l
anding on mine in a short, intense kiss that half merged our minds in a beautiful, intense moment. Before I could really get into it, she pulled away; the light had turned green.
I blinked, trying to catch up. “What—?”
“Thank you. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart. My sister will be thrilled.” She looked back up and put her hand on my cheek; I had to block quickly to keep the sexual thoughts from seeping out. “Thank you.”
“What does this—?”
She pulled away, and got stiff. “Just let it be, okay?”
“Okay.”
The rest of the trip was spent in silence, with me doing my best to hold my fractured thoughts to myself, control my headache—and wonder what the hell that had meant.
CHAPTER 18
“What is it?” Paulsen’s voice was annoyed, and I almost turned around and left right then.
“Come in,” she said.
If anything, the pile of papers on her desk was higher than I’d ever seen it. A huge pile of folders climbed the side of the desk, and brightly colored sticky notes covered the back wall like shingles. She’d even stuck a few to the cactus—one of the blooms was half-broken in favor of a bright yellow note about payroll.
“I had a question,” I said, stalling for time.
She gestured to the chair, which was currently covered in yet more paper. I moved a pile and sat carefully on the edge of what was left.
“What’s the question?”
I couldn’t shake what Cherabino had said. “Would a PI license work? For the certification requirement?”
“I don’t see why not. Assuming you’re eligible. Why?”
“The Guild for certain isn’t going to renew my license, and you did say I needed a certification to keep my job.”
She made a face, looking exhausted. “There’s a case to be made for independence, for sure. That’s part of how I got you back on board the second time. You’re a . . . rare commodity, in that respect. We hire a few PIs occasionally, when we’re booked up and need some basic footwork done. It might be easier to get you accepted in under that bracket than otherwise. Assuming you can deal with the Guild. They called twice this week, and it’s not a recommendation.” She sighed. “Even if you survive, though, your hours are going to get cut back. You won’t be able to do as much out in the field; we just can’t afford to share with Homicide that much. I’m losing another interrogator for certain.”
I nodded, numbly. “Those are personnel files there on the floor, that huge stack.”
She nodded. “Somebody’s going to have to be cut. Several someones. And the uniformed police force is no exception. We have to do another round.”
“Why not fire me? Why give me the chance, then? Especially with the Guild calling you. I don’t understand.”
She leaned forward, and glanced behind me. “Close the door.”
I did as she said. I sat back down with a sinking feeling.
“Look, the truth of the matter is that we don’t pay for your health insurance. We don’t have to pay any state or federal taxes on you. The Guild handles all of that, and what it doesn’t handle, there’s a legal loophole to cover it. You have one of the highest confession rates in the department and you get results. Furthermore, I’m a sucker for a hard-luck story. You check a lot of boxes here. You also need a hell of a lot of handholding, kicks in the ass, and enough drug tests that the lab sends me flowers on my birthday. But you’re half the cost of a cop in your job, and your results are as good or better.”
“That’s why you’ve been lenient.“
Paulsen shrugged, looking sad. “I like you, but I like a lot of the guys we’re having to put out on the street, and their families are not going to understand. Frankly, it’s a numbers game right now. It’s hard to say no to half the cost when half the cost is doing twice the work. I’m willing to work with you on the rest of the crap. I’ve been doing that for years. I’ll kick you in the ass every day if I have to, and Lord knows I do enough handholding in this department already for a whole fleet of kindergarten teachers. Even the top brass agree with me on keeping you on, with a simple overtime cut—like I said, it’s a numbers game. But this new policy. . . . Well, there’s a reason they call it policy. Politics is what it is, pure and simple. It’s not about the money. It’s about getting votes in next year’s election.”
She folded her hands. “Have you thought about becoming a private investigator for real?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You should start thinking about options. A backup plan at least.”
“You think I need a backup plan?”
“It would be wise. Did I answer the question you came in here for?”
And here was the fork, the decision, the moment. Should I tell her? Swartz would say, Absolutely, take responsibility, and it was high time I did. “I screwed up.”
“How?”
I told her about Bob, and the phone call from the federal guy. At the end of it, she looked even more tired. “And he was okay with you having this information?”
“He said he was.”
“Then you are a lucky, lucky son of a bitch. That could have gotten us all hip-deep in more crap than you have any concept of. Hell, we might have been swimming in agents and jurisdiction faster than you can say when.”
I paused. “Am I in trouble?”
“For getting Bob to raid federal databases to get information you probably could have gotten for a please and a thank-you? Are you in trouble? Yes, you’re in trouble. Go out and get me results now. A nice, shiny arrest would be perfect. Or come hell or high water, numbers game or none, there’s nothing I can do for you.”
* * *
The medic met me in the lobby of the medical office building next door to the hospital. It was a place of worn cushions and waiting rather than panic and ghosts, close enough for convenience for him and far enough to protect me. He’d agreed without much fight, but then again, he was Guild.
The cushy waiting area in the lobby was already full of people flipping through magazines and talking in a small, dull roar. The other side, the side with four uncomfortable chairs, a razor-sharp prickly plant, and a small desk with a phone, was empty except for me, with a good fifteen feet of empty space.
Boredom, waiting, and discomfort seemed the trend of the space, and that I could deal with. No one was dying here; no one had died recently, or died again and again in one spot over time. No one’s emotions here would try to kill me. No cops were judging me, no suspects trying to outdo each other in mental volume and protests of innocence. Actually, this lobby was quite restful. If it hadn’t been for my worry about Swartz, I’d have camped out here for the winter.
When the medic came through the doors, no one noticed. After the Tech Wars, they’d worn robes, big pretentious showy robes with a large Guild purple seal. The idea was to identify anyone with medical training—especially anyone who could do Guild-certified medical miracles—so you could see them at a glance. Starting a few decades after Koshna, though, when the Guild got everything it wanted while the normals dealt with a staggering economy and few options, well, the men in the showy robes got shot. They got shot enough that even the Guild had to change its mind about dress code.
So now, the microkinesis medic dressed in normal blue scrubs, with a tiny lapel pin with the Guild seal sitting right below his chin. You’d almost have to know what it was to recognize it.
I was grateful to see the man was a stranger, and just a little too old to be one of my contemporaries; he wouldn’t expect me to know him even if I was active. Mid- to late forties, tall and thin, he said his name was Vega, I believe. He had a presence to him, like most of the good medics did, a humility that said he held lives in his hands every day . . . and never was able to save them all.
Vega came over, nodding to me before taking a seat smoothly. Deep circles under his ey
es attested to his recent labor, and his hands—before he clasped them firmly together—were shaking.
It had been a long time since I’d interacted with a medic; even when we were in training, our specialties didn’t really overlap. He was concerned with the fine-grade physical world, manipulating cells and nerves and organ sections, forcing a faster rate of cell division for critical nerve healing, breaking up the proteins that let a cancer cell divide. Pulling out toxins from a failing liver or, in this case, forcing the cells in the artery to divide and bind together, the tissue to grow faster and stronger. My work, on the other hand, while just as delicate, had had everything to do with the mind—the physical body, to me, was still a mystery.
“You were the one who wanted me to meet you here,” Vega said quietly. “What do you need to know?”
“How is Swartz? The old man you healed as a favor. How bad is the long-term damage? What were you able to fix?” I paused. “Could you use regular language please? Every time I talk to the doctors here, I can’t understand them.”
“Okay. Let me think how to say this.” He took a breath. “It was good that you called me when you did. The damage in the blood vessels was extensive, and the tissue wasn’t going to hold up well on its own. The surgeon, well, I am certain he is qualified in his own specialty, and the patient was alive and stable. But there was damage from the surgery that needed to be repaired—and repaired carefully. A very difficult task, but the results, I believe, were good. How can I say this in plain language . . . ? The immediate area has been cleared of blockages—which I ensured that the body absorbed safely. Plainly, I had to force cell regrowth in an extensive section of the arterial wall. I believe the scarring should heal cleanly, with enough elasticity to improve long-term quality of life.”
I knew he would be expensive, but I’d talked to the accountant, and I had money saved up. “What does ‘improve’ mean, exactly? In plain language—for a heart patient? Swartz won’t do well confined to a bed.”