Echoes (Echoes Book 1)

by Therin Knite

  “Not too shabby there.” She alternates between patting my back and rubbing light circles into my shoulder blades. “I’ve seen new recruits do far worse on first missions way easier than this one.”

  “Don’t recall saying I was joining your little dream-hunting organization.”

  “Echo Detection and Prevention Agency, actually. And you don't have to say you’ll join. You will. One way or another.” Her hands gloss over a few cuts and forming bruises on my face, inspecting without touching in the way only someone with years of experience can. At the end of it all, she raps one of the boots-that-should-not-be with a knuckle.

  “I joined the IBI for a reason.”

  “Reasons operate on a relative scale, especially when they’re based on uncertainty.” Her finger traces the rubber rim of the blood-logged boot. “Good craftsmanship, by the way. Most untrained controllers have trouble creating complex objects in their own dreams, and here you are doing it in someone else’s. Though I can’t say I’m surprised, given your—”

  “Are you implying I’m one of these echo makers?”

  “No implications necessary. How did you think you got here?”

  “You can’t enter an echo unless you can create them?”

  “Not naturally, no. You can use the Neural Nexus down at EDPA HQ to get here, like I did, but makers have an ability called crossing, where they enter another maker’s dream.”

  The dragon struggles to free itself again, battering against the side of the clothing store. Umbrella girl helps me to my feet as the rooftop jostles back and forth. Sharp grinding assaults the air, fused with intermittent screams of despair.

  “We should go,” she says. “We have to find the maker before that thing gets free. Or worse, the dream ends. There’s no guarantee he’ll be back tomorrow now that he’s aware we’re a formidable force and won’t stop until we catch him. If we don’t locate him in the dream before he ends it, we’ll lose our best chance of nabbing him in real life. It’s much harder to track down a maker in the real world. Conventional means are a bore. As I’m sure you’ve learned from your brief stint with the IBI.”

  A way down is found in the form of a drain secured on the opposite side of the building, and umbrella girl climbs down at twice the speed she ascended the fire escape. I’m twice as slow with my ripped-open foot, and by the time I make it to ground level, my traveling companion is pacing around a light pole at the end of the street, muttering about slow-ass kids.

  “How did you know?” I lean on the pole for support, cutting off her imaginary advance.

  “That you’re an echo maker?” She stares up at me, her tongue working out how to phrase the ideal response—to reveal enough and not too much. “Call it a hunch.”

  “I need a better answer than that.”

  “No, you want a better answer than that. You want to know everything all the time.”

  “And you don't?”

  Her grin stretches ear to ear. “I know you’re an echo maker because I know you, whether you want me to or not. I know you beyond keywords in decade-old therapist files and detention slips for proving you were smarter than all your high school teachers. I have to know you, simply because knowing people like you is part of my job description. Granted, I’ve never known someone who exists in the same plane of reality that you do. I’ve never known someone who sees the things you see, who sees cause and effect like commuters see traffic lights. But regardless, I know you. And I know the reasons why you do the things you do. Why you joined the IBI. Why you’re practically dead inside. Why you get up in the morning and go to sleep at night. Why you even try instead of taking the easy way out, despite it being the far more attractive option.”

  My hand slips off the pole, and the added weight on my foot sends a spike of pain shooting up my leg. “Why bother? Genius or not, I can’t be that important to you.”

  “You’re an echo maker. One of the strongest in existence. You proved that five minutes ago.” She bumps our boots together. “The average maker can’t control his own dreams. Yet, here you are, manipulating another maker’s without even a day’s worth of training. You are the one percent of the one percent. And soon enough, when that last bit of adolescence drains out of your fiery red head, you’ll be one of the most coveted and one of the most dangerous people in the world.” Her eyes collide with mine, absolute zero in a shade of green staring into a corner of my mind I’ve never shown to any living soul. “You brought yourself here just by thinking about it. That makes you the most important man of the hour, maybe even the year.”

  “I’ve never done it before. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never created a dream that’s hurt people in real life either. Have I?” The possibility of doing something I can’t remember pounds the levies in my brain, threatening a flash flood.

  Umbrella girl takes two equal steps back. “You’re young. Puberty suppresses the echo-making ability. Brain development and hormones and what not. It tends to mature in the mid- to late twenties.”

  “And I’m twenty-three.”

  “Astute observation, Agent Adamend.”

  * * *

  “You could walk a little faster, you know?” She takes two steps for every one of mine, skipping ahead with a fleeting childish air. Fleeting because her happiness is derived from the prospect of a violent death by dragon or a violent kill of one.

  “I’ve got about half a pint of blood in my boot.” The affected foot is on fire and drowning all at once. Each step is slower than the last, and if I couldn’t see the winner’s circle getting nearer, I would have given up ten minutes ago.

  Umbrella girl whirls around (and keeps walking backward), eying my temporary disability with disdain. “Then pour it out.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Would be easy for you, too, if you hadn’t hurt yourself.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot it’s all my fault we’re being chased by a dragon.”

  A forlorn shriek in the distance makes me miss a step, and I almost go tumbling over.

  “It is your fault. You came here.” Her boots send up a wave of murky puddle water as she hops off the sidewalk and onto the street, coming to a dead stop in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Manson’s property lies on one side, still immaculate. “Now make yourself useful and tell me why the killer reset the dream without the damage incurred from killing Victor Manson.”

  “I have a feeling you already know.” I hobble up beside her, and she pretends not to relish my pain.

  “Do it.”

  “Fine. He’s obsessed with neatness, accuracy, and difficulty. You said it yourself: this echo is complex. He took the time to replicate every single building in the neighborhood. Even the star patterns in the sky are correct. It explains the dragon, too. The unnecessarily intricate scale patterning, the flawless expertise that crafting a nonexistent animal would require. Hell, it explains using an echo to kill Manson. It’s a nice, neat package of death. And there’s no need to clean up your tracks afterward because you don’t leave any. At least any that a normal investigative team can follow.”

  Umbrella girl tries to hide a triumphant smile with a mock-coy lip bite.

  “You annoyed me into profiling a criminal for you. Congratulations.”

  “You’re surprisingly easy to set off for an emotionally damaged genius. You have so many buttons. I guess I can chalk some of your irritability up to your unfortunate foot affliction. But the rest of it? It’s almost painful to watch you interact with people you don’t like. Briggs, for instance.”

  “It’s painful to watch Briggs interact with anyone. Except Weiss.”

  “True enough.” She rises onto the pads of her feet and slowly returns to Earth, appearing to contemplate the existence of the universe in all of five seconds. “Well, go on. Keep profiling. Keep reconstructing. I’d like to find out who killed Manson tonight, if that’s okay with you.”

  My weight drifts to the left in an attempt to ease the pressure on my weeping foot, but every few moments, a
throb derails my thoughts. “I usually don’t work while in pain, so I apologize if I’m off kilter.”

  “Oh, no worries. I’ll fix that issue in your training. Your pathetic physical performance is one of your top flaws. Having the mental capacity to catch criminals is all fine and dandy until you end up having to rely on much less competent people to physically catch them for you. A middleman is never a good thing.”

  “I still haven’t given you any indication that I’ll be working for EDPA any time soon.”

  “I understand the hesitation. Some offers look far too good to be true.”

  “Yeah, that’s the reason.” My thin pajamas—which must have manifested on my dream self out of habit, considering I fell asleep in my underwear—let in the night air like a sieve, and goose bumps dot my skin. “All right. We have a murdered high-profile lawyer, who, as far as I know, works with political clients and the super rich. Access to most of his cases requires a moderate level of security clearance, which suggests an attempt to hide political corruption and scandal from the media. Then we have a murderer whose weapon of choice is something he couldn’t even have accurate knowledge of without the highest security clearance possible. Therefore, Manson’s killer must either be a client with Level Six clearance or someone with it connected to a lesser or equal client. Most likely the latter, given Manson’s perfect track record. I’m thinking it’s either someone he defeated in court or another lawyer.”

  “What about his partner, Burke?”

  “No motive. No means. The firm is dead in the water without Manson—Burke’s going to lose everything he has in the next week or so. And the man’s been in Paris for the last month. Unless you can project echoes across the ocean, he’s out.”

  “Acceptable analysis, I guess.” She nibbles on her lip. “Out of his cases, then, which opposing parties strike you as the most likely candidates?”

  “I…don’t know yet.” My cheeks grow warm. Twice in the span of a day. Damn her. “I had a late night and only got through two hundred four of the client files. I suppose you know the most likely candidates, though, right?”

  At some point in my explanation, umbrella girl bent down and picked up a stray chunk of asphalt. She examines it now like a lab specimen, and to her, it may very well be. “So accurate,” she whispers. There’s a hint of admiration in her voice. I understand it. This echo—this dream—is a masterpiece. “Such a pity.” She chucks the asphalt across the cul-de-sac, and it lands on the front porch doormat of Victor Manson’s house. “Now, what were you asking? Oh, right! Manson’s clients.”

  She produces an ear-com from a small pouch on her belt and sticks it in her right ear. Her torso jerks like she’s been stung, and she cringes. “Whoa, there! Calm down, sweetie pie. I’m right here.” Pause. “No, I’m not dead. Do I look dead? I’m lying right there in the middle of the room.” Pause. “Yes, I know there’s a cross. No, it’s not another bad guy. It’s our new recruit.” Pause. “The guy I told you about earlier. You saw him at Manson’s.” Pause. “Yes, the IBI guy.” Long pause. “Yes, he did cross all by himself. Told you he’s something special.” Short pause. “I know he’s messing with your systems, honey. Deal with it. Plus, I have a non-Nexus task for you: bring up Manson’s client files. The short list. I need…”

  She spins around, hand fumbling for a gun. The dragon breaks out of its suicide dive at the last possible microsecond and decks her with a sideswipe, the gun skittering across the street. A spiked tail rockets for me, and I try to duck. Try. Fail. My foot gives out. Four meter-long spikes skewer my torso and rip themselves free a second later.

  I hit the ground bleeding. The dragon hits the ground without a sound. Like it’s a figment of someone’s violent imagination. Like it isn’t real.

  Somewhere, a murderer is laughing.

  Somewhere else, I’m dying.

  Chapter Five

  Hospitals are the most fascinating of all boring things. They’re white, sterile, flavorless, and yet, somehow, they serve the role of both eternal savior and bastion of death. So many die from careless mistakes. So many are saved by ingenious miracles. I suppose one’s opinion of hospitals can only be based on unforeseen experience. Right now, for example, I hate them with a passion. My throat is dry, my lips are cracked, and my thoughts are a hundred hues of paint all washed into the same cup of water. I must stare at the cheap-tiled ceiling for five minutes before I gather enough brain power to focus on something else.

  That something else is Jin. He sits hunched over in a chair at my bedside, face in his hands. His hair is unruly and flat—washed but not dried. A shirt with three missed buttons signals a rush now cooled into exhaustion, and emergency is written all over his work slacks in blood. My blood.

  “Adem?”

  My eyes take an awfully long time to rise a couple inches. The double vision doesn’t help. “Hey,” says the scarecrow-voiced invalid I’ve apparently become.

  He slides off the chair in the slow, fluid way that only a mourner can and leans over my bed, hands gripping the railing so hard his fingers turn white. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m not feeling. Can you reduce my med dosage a bit?” There’s a self-access medicuff strapped to my wrist, but my lethargic fingers refuse to turn the dial back from high as a kite to pleasantly numb.

  “I shouldn’t. You deserve having your brain fried for what you’ve put me through.” He does it anyway, though, lifting my pale wrist like a delicate flower and suspending the mind-clouding flow.

  “You should go home and change your clothes.”

  “You should shut the fuck up.” The words have no force behind them. Jin has no energy left to spare. “You really should.”

  “Can I pee first?”

  His laugh is dry and hollow. “If the nasty hospital bathroom will make you feel the full weight of this situation, then yes.” He lowers the bed railing and props me up against his chest while I get my shaky footing. I cling to his haggard shadow of a self as we stagger to the bathroom door.

  “I’ll take it from here.” Closing the door with my elbow, I grip the sink for support with one hand and roll up my patterned hospital shirt with the other. My last dragon dream memory is a glimpse of my own shredded torso, bones and organs spilling out onto the pavement, but the man in the mirror doesn’t have a scratch on him. The only indication that I was impaled with four tail spikes last night is a line of four faded red circles stretching diagonally from shoulder to hip. The skin is smooth to the touch, but when I trace the circles, ghosts of pain radiate outward.

  Med-four. Three hundred forty-two types of eighth-generation nano-machines all mixed into a single injectable solution. One level down from the most advanced life-saving technique ever conceived by man. Used in cases where the doctors have no lesser choice—that’s how close I came to dying.

  Shit.

  I scramble to the toilet and vomit up acid. The taste triggers another wave of nausea, and the burning in my throat sends me into a coughing fit. I rest my dizzied head against the toilet seat and force myself to breathe in and out, deep and slow. After a minute or so, my stomach settles, and the bile creeping up my esophagus retreats. A dull throb beats at my temples, but I ignore it, stand up with a slight waver, and flush the toilet.

  I am Adem Adamend. I am a genius. I do not panic. I do not lose composure.

  Jin knocks softly and mutters a half-joke about hogging the bathroom. He’s standing two inches from the door when I open it. So am I.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, even though I shouldn’t.

  Because it’s never the tragedy or crime or let down that sets Jin off. It’s always the apology.

  “Half,” he murmurs, standing motionless for the few seconds it takes his mental bands to snap. Then he whirls around and kicks his chair over. It clatters to the floor, scuffing the tiles. “Half! Half your damn blood volume, gone in minutes. What did you fucking do?”

  The story almost spills from my lips word for word, but the memory of that silent dra
gon stops me short. Telling Jin the truth about Manson’s death will put him in more danger; it’s bad enough he knows a dragon did it, bad enough he’s connected to someone who is now the target of a killer—me. Not to mention that umbrella girl’s wrath will likely descend upon him if she finds out I told him Level Six secrets. Jin’s still an outsider to the Manson murder, but he’s tottering on the edge. If I push him over…

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You know everything! How can you not know how you got skewered? The doctors said they’ve never seen injuries like yours before. They ran your wounds through every scan in existence and found no matches. And you expect me to believe that you have no clue what happened? You might get a kick out of pretending I’m an idiot on a regular basis, Adem, but I’m not nearly as fucking naïve as you want me to be.” He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging hard at the thick patch near the top. Faint stubble lines his frown. He forgot to use anti-shave this morning. From happy-go-lucky Cyber Sec agent to society’s poster boy for depression in the span of a couple hours. Such is the nature of Jin Connors.

  “Jin,” I say, wetting my lips. “I. Don’t. Know.”

  Understanding blooms in his expression, and he struggles to manage the onslaught of emotion. Confusion. Anger. Fear. Guilt. “You don’t need to protect me, Adem. It’s supposed to be the other way around, for gods’ sakes.”

  The meds make my lips curl into a dimpled grin. “Why? Because I’m twenty-three and you’re thirty-four? Because I’m the newbie and you’re the seasoned agent? Relationships aren’t always linear, Jin.”

  He snorts. “You’re one to talk about relationships.”

  “I could say the same about—”

  There’s a knock on the door. A (pretending-to-be) cheery nurse marches in, bouquet in hand. It’s fifty shades of blue speckled here and there with white, and in the middle is a rare violet rose. “Arrived for you a few minutes ago, Agent Adamend.” He sits the vase on my bedside table and adjusts it so I can see the full arrangement. “You must have some nice friends. It’s an expensive piece. One half this size cost me a pretty penny last anniversary.”