by Alex Powell
The memory appeared, casting the image in a different light that made Joanne look less warlike and more inspirational.
“It was the very same day that King asked me to join your group. This painting was not meant to help fan the flame of revolution, however. It was just meant to be beautiful.”
Writing appeared on the wall next to Joanne’s image, scrawled in Simon’s spiky cursive.
Fox read it and he didn’t want it to be for him—it couldn’t be for him. Yet, how could it not be? There was no time right now to figure it out.
He didn’t think Simon was the spy. Simon was a terrible liar at the best of times, and having just had his deepest secret revealed, was even worse at it than usual. He didn’t want it to be Joanne, because he liked Joanne. It didn’t seem like Mrs. Parks was the type either, but one never knew.
Simon. Joanne. Karl. Mrs. Parks.
Who was the spy in their midst? Karl never revealed anything, not even his face. That didn’t mean he was the spy, but everyone else appeared much more transparent. Fox had to figure it out. What he really needed was sit down, go over all his memories, and find the discrepancies. It would probably take forever, but if he wanted to figure it out, that was the place to start.
“Well, dears, we should break it up for now,” Mrs. Parks said cheerfully. “We’re making some real headway into the mission. Karl, Simon, we really need to discuss how we’re going to go about finding King now that we know where the agents are coming from.”
Joanne looked at Fox.
“I think I have an idea,” Fox told her. “It can wait, though, until we’ve rested a while. It shouldn’t be difficult to figure out, because I’m sure that it’s me this time.”
Joanne nodded. “Yes, all right.” She looked over her shoulder at the group behind them. “I should go…talk to Simon.”
As Fox left the domain, he hoped Simon remembered the warning in the poem. There wasn’t any time left for revolutionary hearts.
* * * *
Seven found himself unconsciously touching his mouth again, and jerked his hand back to his side, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed his momentary lapse. Twelve and Eighty-Eight were both scanning the area, their backs to him.
“Are you sure he came this way?” Eighty-Eight asked, yawning and stretching.
“This is the exact sector, yes.”
“He can’t stay in the Cerebrum forever,” Twelve remarked. “He has to return to his body sometime, especially if he’s not using his home link-in.”
“What I don’t get is why he’s in the flat, middle bit of our country that everyone forgets about,” Eighty-Eight replied. “There’s nothing there.”
Nothing except the secret government facility where King’s body was being held, Seven amended in his head, because the other two didn’t know that. Seven wasn’t even supposed to know that. No one had told him, he’d simply inferred it from the reactions of the Reaper and the Cat to being told what sector Fox had been in. Nothing so obvious as a temper-tantrum, but they’d both gone still when Seven had reported in and told them where Fox’s had been.
Seven could be wrong, of course, but they’d seemed distracted after that.
Manitoba, they’d called it. Winnipeg was the closest large city to the area that Fox likely occupied at this very moment.
Fox was in trouble. They were going to find him, probably before the day was out. Seven wasn’t sure how he should feel about that. There was absolutely no guarantee that Seven would ever see Fox again if he were to be captured. Fox still had a full-functioning mind, and to Seven’s knowledge, didn’t know how to replicate King’s mind-deletion trick. Who knew what they would do to Fox if they captured him?
Yet Seven wanted to see him again, if only to ask him about the method he’d chosen to determine Seven’s humanity. Who was to say there wasn’t a way to program those exact reactions into an AI?
“How long can one person stay in the Cerebrum anyway?” Eighty-Eight asked, breaking the monotony of waiting. “It’s been hours and hours already.”
“An entire lifetime,” Seven remarked.
“We’re not like the rest,” Twelve broke in. “Ordinary people don’t have special care taken with their bodies so that they don’t have to leave to eat, drink, or use the facilities. The Fox must leave eventually, or he’ll die.”
“He has at least three days before that happens,” Eighty-Eight rejoined. “He’ll probably void his bowels before that happens also. He may have done that already.”
“Ew, don’t be gross,” Twelve shot back, wrinkling his nose.
“But it’s true,” Eighty-Eight protested.
“There he is,” Seven said, feeling a hard, heavy weight in his stomach. “Let’s go.”
Fox had already seen them and jumped back the way he’d come. The agents weren’t far behind, and even from here, Seven could tell he was tired.
“Can’t we just go back and wait by the link-ins?” complained Eighty-Eight. “He has to come back anyway, unless he wants his body to go haywire in his absence.”
“He may prefer that to being captured,” Seven pointed out. “We have to find him before that point.”
“He’s obviously tired. He may fall asleep before that happens,” Twelve offered gamely. “I still think we can capture him before that. Look, he’s flagging already.”
“I have another scramble bug!” Eighty-Eight said brightly.
“No!” both Seven and Twelve said.
“I also have a tracking program,” Eighty-Eight added. “I was about to say.”
“Why do you never tell us these things?” Twelve asked, rolling his eyes. “We could stand to know you’re carrying important and useful equipment at the beginning of a mission.”
Seven frowned. “Where are you even finding these things?”
“I’m not finding them, I’m the one making them!” Eighty-Eight snapped. “I have tons just hanging around my domain because, when I’m bored, I make more. Can we focus?”
“Can you shoot him with the tracking thing?” Twelve asked.
“Probably.”
“You’re not a very good shot,” Seven pointed out.
“Fine, you do it!”
Eighty-Eight handed him a little red dart that had a flashing light at the end, and Seven took it carefully, looking at the odd creation. Eighty-Eight could have made it look like anything.
“Why does it have a flashing bit?” Twelve asked. “He’s bound to notice that he has a bright red flashing dart stuck in him.”
“Yes, he’ll probably notice it.” Eighty-Eight threw his hands in the air. “But it doesn’t matter. Once it’s in, he’ll have a hell of a time getting it out.”
Seven thought up a dart gun that looked like the kind he’d seen on the history channels about hunting big game, then loaded it with the dart. Seven normally thought of himself as a good shot, up until he’d encountered that robed woman and been unable to hit her. But of the three of them, he had the best chance of hitting anything at all.
If he were in Fox’s position, would he rather die than get caught? Or was Fox just hoping that somehow he would find a way out without having to resort to such drastic measures?
Seven had to catch him. There was no other choice, because no matter what happened to Fox, Seven would never be able to leave. Fox didn’t matter that much, in the grand scheme of things, really.
Seven bit his lip and raised the dart gun to his shoulder, bracing it, and lining up the scope. He didn’t think real dart guns needed scopes, but he couldn’t miss. He squeezed off the shot and watched the red dart find its mark, right between Fox’s shoulder blades.
“We can go back,” Eighty-Eight pointed out. “We can find his path from anywhere now.”
“You and Twelve go back. I want to see if I can catch him,” Seven said.
“Suit yourself,” Twelve said and shrugged. “You’ll know where to find us.”
The two of them blinked out of sight, leaving Seven and Fox by the
mselves. Fox noticed the dart and tried to yank it out. But no matter how he contorted, his hand always missed the dart. Fox looked back, and seeing only one agent chasing him, stopped jumping down links.
“You had better be Seven,” Fox said, stopping just out of reach.
“What would you do if I wasn’t?” Seven asked, but pulled his goggles up and over his forehead so Fox could see his eyes.
“Run away.”
“You should still probably run away. I’m the one who shot you.”
“It doesn’t hurt. It’s itchy.”
“It’s not meant to hurt you. It’s a tracking device. I suppose it doesn’t matter if you run away now, I’ll still be able to find you.”
Fox sat without warning, and Seven blinked at him, tilting his head in confusion.
“I’m tired,” Fox whispered. “I’ve been here for so long, and I have no idea how you manage to do it, because I just want to sleep for days.”
Seven sat carefully next to him. “You’ve been in the Cerebrum too long. You can’t stay here much longer without sleep or sustenance.”
“It’s too late, isn’t it? To escape, I mean. I didn’t figure it out in time, which one of us was the rat. How close are they to finding me?”
“I’ve already found you,” Seven said, leaning against his bent knees.
“No, my body.”
“Close. We know you’re somewhere near Winnipeg. It won’t take long now, especially because you’re foreign. It’s a simple matter to look at passenger names on flights that came into the province and narrow down which people are from other nations. Background checks, some cross-referencing, past aptitude tests; they’ll betray you eventually.”
“I lied on my aptitude tests,” Fox said with false cheerfulness.
“Still, you must realize that it’s a matter of hours before we locate you.”
“Yes, well, the place I’m in right now is basically on lockdown because of the weather, so good luck getting a team to my location.”
“There’s already a team at your location.”
“Impossible. You couldn’t have known I was here until today, and the weather has had the city at a standstill for nearly a week.”
“I admit, you would be safe for a few days if you weren’t in Winnipeg. But I’m fairly certain you’re in the same region as the supposedly impenetrable secret base that my superiors were dead sure you’d never locate.”
“What?” Fox stared at him dumbly.
“I think they believe you know where it is, and that’s why they’re trying so hard to catch you.” Then he frowned as he realized something. “Oh, I’ve just told you where it is. They don’t know I know either, so there you go.”
“Why are you telling me all these things I shouldn’t know?”
Seven had no answer for that. It was the same sort of thing as being able to tell his fellow agents apart; he just did it. It could be instinct or intuition, but when he saw Fox, he wanted to tell him things, and he just kept doing it without thinking about it. It hadn’t kept him out of danger, so Seven had to wonder what use it was.
Fox sighed, and leaned back, closing his eyes.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Seven said, reaching out to push his shoulder, but stopping before he made contact, his hand hovering awkwardly.
“Is that not a thing you do?” Fox asked sleepily.
“What?” Seven said, hastily snatching back his hand.
“Touching,” Fox replied with a twist of a smile.
“It’s not real touching,” Seven said defensively, hugging his own knees.
Fox gave him one of those looks, the ones that made Seven want to curl up in a dark corner and never be looked at again. It was the kind of look that wondered if he was even human enough to want to be touched. It was a look that made Seven wonder the same thing. His insides twisted, and he turned away his face. It wasn’t so much touching as being touched and having no control over his reactions.
“It’s a good impression of real touching,” Fox said, his voice suddenly nearer than it had been. “Do you really not like it?”
“There’s no need,” Seven said to his knees.
“But do you like it?” Fox persisted. “It’s okay, most people do.”
Seven remembered warmth and softness and squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t actually sure if he liked it or not. It made him feel like he was melting, as if his edges were dissolving and he was becoming nothing, lost in a haze of something he couldn’t describe.
“Let’s try something,” Fox suggested, closer now. “I won’t do anything too invasive, just a hand on your shoulder. If you don’t like it, I can stop. Is that okay?”
Seven’s throat had become too tight to speak, so he just nodded, agreeing without knowing why.
Fox put his hand on the solid deltoid muscle of his arm, not squeezing, just there, a warm weight on his shoulder. He left it there for several seconds, and Seven breathed. Even just that felt strangely reassuring.
Just as Seven was getting used to that, Fox’s hand slid to the junction of his shoulder and neck, and his thumb dipped into the hollow next to the collarbone. Seven tensed. Fox’s hand stopped moving, and Seven fought the wiggling urge in his stomach to pull away. Several deep breaths later, he relaxed again.
“Are you okay?”
“Why am I letting you do this?” Seven whispered, his voice rasping.
Fox didn’t reply, and Seven thought it must be the same thing he’d had trouble with, the knowing without knowing how you knew, but knowing all the same. He tilted his head, this time away, exposing his jugular vein, probably visibly pulsing.
Fingers ran up the side of his neck, round his nape, and buried themselves in the short hair at the back of his head. That felt electric, and Seven convulsed in helpless reaction. The fingers caressed his scalp and Seven unconsciously leaned into the touch.
“You do like that, don’t you?” Fox said in his ear.
Seven blinked his eyes open and turned toward Fox, looking at his hand in Seven’s hair.
“Last time, when I kissed you. Did you enjoy that?”
Seven’s face suddenly burned hot; that one close-mouthed kiss had been the best feeling he could ever remember.
“Can I do it again?” Fox asked, watching his face.
Seven stared helplessly back at him.
“Just so you understand, this is not a ‘don’t-say-no-and-I’ll-kiss-you’ situation, it’s a ‘don’t-say-yes-and-I-won’t-kiss-you” situation.’
“Is there a difference?” Seven asked, embarrassment forgotten with the strangeness of the distinction.
“The most important difference there is in a situation like this.”
“You didn’t ask before.”
“I was wrong before.”
Seven didn’t want to decide. He didn’t want to say no, because what if Fox never asked him again? He also didn’t want to say yes, because that would be like admitting he’d been affected.
The pad of Fox’s thumb soothed the soft spot of skin behind Seven’s ear, and as he made a small noise in his throat, he realized he was already affected. “Yes,” he breathed, and tilted his mouth to meet Fox’s halfway.
His eyelids slid shut this time around, and he tried to match his movements to the gentle pull and press of Fox’s lips. Fox licked at the crease of his mouth, and he capitulated, leaning back his head and letting Fox break down another barrier. It was hot and slick, and the wet slide was far more addictive than Seven had imagined it could be.
When Fox finally broke away, Seven was panting and trembling. Fox pulled him closer, and Seven rested his cheek against Fox’s collarbone and tried to breathe.
Seven stayed there for a while, letting the warmth and the solidness of the arms holding him lull him into a strange sense of security. They didn’t talk at all, just held on and didn’t let go.
Then, Fox’s head lolled to the side. At first, Seven thought he had finally succumbed to the call of sleep, but upon investigation, found Fox’s
eyes glazed and unfocused. Dream Dust.
“They got you,” he said grimly.
“You have to take me in, don’t you,” Fox whispered, muscles starting to go limp.
Seven wished suddenly and intensely that he didn’t have to take in Fox, that he could let him go and Fox would escape. But the damage was already done, and nothing Seven could do now would change it.
“We could stay here,” he said into Fox’s ridiculously red hair.
Fox dazedly shook his head. “No.”
When Seven hauled Fox’s limp form into his arms, he almost forgot that, in the Cerebrum, weight didn’t matter.
Chapter 7: The Sands of Egypt
“And the sleeper wakes. About time, really.”
Fox blinked in confusion and tried to move. An involuntary whimper tore from his throat as pain shot through his temple and quickly spread down his jaw and neck. His shoulders joined in their complaint, and as awareness of his own body came online, his nerves sang a cacophony of pain.
“What?” he asked, struggling to rest on his elbows in spite of the dizziness in his head and the weakness in his arms.
“What are you doing back here?” a voice spoke nearby. “Seven said you wouldn’t return.”
Fox’s vision came into focus, revealing King leaning over him, staring at him in concern. He flopped onto his side so he could look around, and realized he was in Seven’s sitting room. “I guess Seven was wrong,” he rasped, closing his eyes again.
He’d seen all that was necessary to figure out what was going on, and he’d rather rest his eyes than look around Seven’s sparse sitting room. He’d been captured, obviously. He vaguely remembered being carried, but after that, nothing. He’d been dusted. Having witnessed the effect that it had had on King, Fox recognized it in himself shortly before passing out.
He was back with Seven. Why had they put him here with King when they could be putting him somewhere with stronger protections, or a better Mindwall? Surely they knew he could break out of a single-layered Mindwall in under ten minutes, after all that had happened in the last…