The Fever King

by Lee, Victoria

  “You’re a telepath,” Noam croaked out.

  Dara stared determinedly at the streetlamp, a muscle pulsing in his jaw.

  “You’re a—you can read my mind?” Noam was going to throw up, he was sure of it. His thoughts were nothing but white noise. “You didn’t . . . you didn’t tell me—you didn’t—Jesus. This whole time? This whole time, you knew what I was doing with Lehrer. You knew how I . . .”

  How I felt about you.

  “I’m sorry,” Dara whispered.

  “And Lehrer? Have you been reading his mind too?” Noam only knew some details about the coup. If Dara read his mind and reported back to Sacha, the plan might be safe. But if he’d read Lehrer’s mind . . . Noam felt dizzy.

  “No. Not Lehrer. I can’t read Lehrer’s mind.”

  “Why not?”

  Dara exhaled. “I just can’t. I suppose if you get to his age, you pick up on a few tricks. Either way, I can’t read his mind any more than you can.”

  Noam didn’t believe him. He had to imagine Dara would say anything to help him and Sacha achieve their ends and bring down Lehrer, but . . .

  But Lehrer would have known Dara’s presenting power too. It was probably the reason he took such a personal interest when Dara first survived the virus. Lehrer wouldn’t risk having Dara so close if he thought Dara could read all Carolinia’s secrets from his mind like words on a page. He must have safeguards in place.

  Safeguards Noam definitely didn’t have.

  That must be why Lehrer had always been so cryptic with Noam before, only told Noam his plans on a need-to-know basis. He knew that anything he told Noam, he might as well be telling Dara.

  And Sacha.

  “Why?” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me? Because you didn’t trust me to trust you? Because you can’t read Lehrer, and you figured the closer I got to him, the more you could know what’s going on in his head?” Every breath was broken glass. “Or was it because you liked having access to my private thoughts without me knowing?”

  Noam hated the hot lump that swelled in his throat. He felt too tight, skin stretched over bone, vision blurry.

  “You’re right,” Dara said. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

  “I hope it was worth it.”

  Noam started walking again, still away from the complex, even though he was starting to wish he could turn around and go back. Dara followed, his steps a beat slower than Noam’s, just out of sight, though Noam felt his gaze on the back of his head. Felt Dara, slipping between his thoughts.

  “Noam,” Dara said eventually. Noam didn’t turn around. He knew what he’d see. “Noam, please.”

  “What.”

  “Noam, please look at me.”

  Dara’s fingertips touched the back of Noam’s arm, and Noam whirled around, yanking himself out of reach. God, he fucking hated the heat prickling at his eyes right now. Dara would be in his mind, too, reading exactly how Noam felt, every last sickening beat of his emotions on vivid display.

  And a part of Noam didn’t mind that. Some fucked-up part of him still wanted Dara there, twining their minds together. Like he craved being near Dara even now, after everything.

  “I love you, Noam,” Dara said. It was almost pleading. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I know you better than anyone. I’ve had almost a year in your mind—I know what you’ve been through. I know what you want, what you’re afraid of, all those secret thoughts you’d never tell anyone—I know you. And I love you.”

  Two weeks ago, Noam would have been the happiest person in the world. Now those words were poison. Noam tasted venom like heat on his tongue.

  “So read my mind,” Noam said, brandishing a hand toward his own temple. “I believe you, Dara. I just don’t care.”

  He relished the look on Dara’s face, as if Noam had torn out his guts with his bare hand. And he left him there, standing alone on the sidewalk as Noam walked away and didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As it turned out, Noam didn’t have to avoid Dara over the next week. Dara avoided him instead.

  If Noam came into the room, Dara found an excuse to go out. He only returned to the bedroom late at night, presumably so he wouldn’t have to undress for bed while avoiding making eye contact. They were forced together for meals, which neither could finish. Noam respected food, he did, but his stomach rebelled against every bite of porridge. Everything he ate congealed in his gut.

  It wasn’t that he was oblivious to the effect all this had on Dara. More than once he came into the bedroom only to catch Dara scrambling to hide a liquor bottle under his mattress or lying alone and quiet on his bed at midday.

  Guilty conscience, Noam thought cruelly and half hoped Dara overheard it. For all he’d said, “I believe you” to Dara, he knew Dara didn’t love him at all. Dara would have said anything.

  And yet Noam hadn’t told Lehrer the truth either. He carried that flopcell in his pocket everywhere he went, feeling out its shape with technopathy even as he pretended to listen to Lehrer’s instructions during lessons. He knew he needed to turn Dara in. But turning Dara in was tantamount to signing his execution warrant, and Noam—that was something Noam wouldn’t do.

  “I need you to pay attention now,” Lehrer said one day, just as Noam had been fiddling with the flopcell again. Noam startled, a little guiltily, and sat up straighter. Lehrer looked back steadily, and for a brief, reeling moment of panic Noam thought, He knows.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  The expression on Lehrer’s face was wry, as if to say: I doubt that very much. Lehrer shifted in his seat to put down his coffee cup, but when he turned back, it was with that same intensity of focus. “You’ve been following the news,” he said. Not a question.

  Noam nodded. And then, because he knew Lehrer liked it when Noam provided his own interpretation of current events, he added, “Between martial law and General Ames’s assassination, I’m surprised there hasn’t been a riot.”

  “Exactly.” Lehrer tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair. “It’s time to start one.”

  Noam’s pulse stumbled over the next beat. He leaned forward, hardly daring to breathe. It brought him into Lehrer’s space, but he didn’t care.

  “It’s time, Noam,” Lehrer said. “There’s no point in drawing this out any longer. Conditions will never be better. Half the world is itching to attack us while we’re down—and they will, if we don’t move fast. But if I’m in charge, they won’t touch us. The European Federation learned their lesson back in the 2010s; they know exactly how far I’m willing to go to protect this country. Sacha’s government is fatally wounded. We need to strike the killing blow.”

  It felt . . . too soon, somehow. Like there was something else they ought to have done, some preparations left unfinished. But Lehrer was right. Both refugees and Carolinians were fed up with the current system; they were desperate to accept any replacement, even a military junta. Lehrer had planned this for years.

  And Dara saw it coming a mile away.

  “It sounds like you already have something in mind.”

  “I do,” Lehrer said slowly, as if tasting each word. “But you’re not going to like it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We need a large gesture, something we could easily pin on Sacha, that would catapult people into action. It needs to destabilize the refugee population and put them in a position where revolt is their best option.” Lehrer had both hands clasped in his lap, like he was discussing an assigned chapter. “The most efficient way of accomplishing this is to assassinate Tom Brennan.”

  Noam stared at him. Just hearing Lehrer say it was enough to make his stomach churn so violently he almost thought he was going to throw up.

  “You’re right,” Noam managed. “I don’t like it. There’s another way.”

  Right?

  “I’m afraid not,” Lehrer said, nearly apologetic. “Killing Brennan will catalyze refugee anger without sacrificing many mor
e innocent lives. It’s better than cutting off food or medical supplies or introducing some sort of disease threat. This way, only one person has to die, and we get an immediate reaction. With Brennan gone, there will be no one in a centralized position of authority to prevent riots. Brennan’s a pacifist; we’ll never see violent revolution while he’s alive.”

  It was so . . . so brutally logical. This was almost worse than if Lehrer had given him no reason at all. Noam could have railed against the shapeless enemy of Lehrer’s undisclosed reasons and felt like he wasn’t so fucking . . . complicit.

  Instead Noam hated himself, because his first thought was Yes, that makes sense.

  Noam’s head hurt. Like a goddamn vise was being slowly tightened around his skull. He gritted his teeth, which of course only made it worse—

  This was all Dara’s fault. If Dara hadn’t killed Gordon Ames, if Dara hadn’t been fighting Lehrer every step of the way, they might not be in this position. They wouldn’t need to make a move before England or Texas did. They’d have time.

  Lehrer was wrong, had to be wrong. He only chose killing Brennan because it was convenient.

  On the other hand, it was convenient for a reason. Brennan was the last thread holding back the cause.

  It felt wrong that Noam should be so easily persuaded they should kill someone he’d once loved like an uncle.

  “I’m sorry. I know you were close,” Lehrer said. He touched Noam’s knee very lightly, just a brush of fingertips Noam barely felt through his trousers.

  Were being the operative word. Had they ever been close?

  Even before, they’d never had something like what Noam had with Lehrer. Lehrer was ten times as powerful as Brennan, was minister of defense, but he still found time to teach Noam personally.

  Lehrer had saved the world a dozen times over—and he’d done it using tactics just like this.

  “I need to think,” Noam said. He lifted both hands to his head, thumbs pressing against his temples.

  “We don’t have time for that,” Lehrer said. “We have to move quickly, before the rage dies down and people become complacent under martial law. I need you to say that you will help me in this.”

  The headache kept getting worse.

  It was impossible to think of anything else but that pain. Pain and the awful decision that coalesced in his mind like dark fog—yes. Yes, Noam would help Lehrer.

  Yes, of course.

  Yes, yes, yes, yes.

  He loathed himself, because he didn’t even bother trying to fight it.

  “God,” Noam dropped his head back, face toward the ceiling. “Fuck. Okay. Okay. I’ll help you. Jesus.”

  He was selling his fucking soul.

  “Thank you,” Lehrer murmured. His hand curled around one of Noam’s wrists, fingers cool against skin. “Noam, this is what I’ve been training you for all this time. I’d planned to use Dara, of course, but that isn’t going to be possible now. You have the skill and the knowledge. And most importantly, you have my trust. You are, perhaps, the only person I can trust.”

  Noam knew where this was heading. He was so stupid; he should have realized, of course, of course. His gut sloshed, full of salt water.

  “I can’t be anywhere near this. You know that,” Lehrer said, hand tightening slightly on Noam’s wrist. “It has to be you.”

  “Surely you have people for this,” Noam said, lowering his head to look at Lehrer again, struggling to keep the tension out of his voice. “You’re minister of defense. Don’t you have some kind of personal assassin you can use?”

  “Most of those people are on government payroll. I can’t be sure they’ll be loyal to me over Sacha, in the end. If caught, they might betray me.”

  “And if I’m caught, I won’t? Even if I refuse to say a word, everyone knows I’m your student.”

  “Don’t get caught.” Lehrer said it too evenly, like it was that easy. But then, after a beat, he added, “If you do, I trust you’ll do what’s necessary to keep this quiet.”

  Noam got the gist.

  He tipped forward, bracing his forehead against the fingertips of one hand and staring at the other lying there in his lap, Lehrer’s fingers still curled around its wrist. That other presence in Noam’s mind, that shadow version of himself, twined its way through his every thought. Was this who Noam really was?

  Maybe. Maybe he’d known the truth for a while: that he’d do just about anything to win this war.

  “How long do I have to plan?”

  “Two weeks.”

  Noam and his first girlfriend, back before the virus, used to sit and plot out what they called the “perfect murder.” He had a feeling the real thing took a bit longer than a few hours in Carly’s tenement to plan.

  Noam touched his throbbing temple very, very gingerly.

  “All right.” Just thinking about this made him want to go to sleep for a year. “But what about Dara? He’s a telepath. He’ll know what I’m planning.”

  And tell Sacha, because he’s a traitor.

  Shit. He shouldn’t have mentioned Dara’s telepathy. Lehrer already knew, of course, but Noam probably wasn’t supposed to.

  “Speaking of Mr. Shirazi . . . ,” Lehrer said. Although he must have noticed Noam’s slip, he didn’t mention it. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he hasn’t been well lately.”

  Noam had noticed. “He’s stressed.”

  Murder tends to have that effect on people.

  “It’s not stress. I’ve seen this before. I should have done something sooner, but . . .” Lehrer ran his fingers through his hair, a few fair strands falling loose over his forehead. All of a sudden he looked older. Tired. His attention dipped away from Noam’s for a moment, grasp finally dropping from Noam’s wrist. “I told you about Wolf.”

  It took Noam several seconds to realize Lehrer meant his brother, not the dog.

  And then his own heartbeat was all he could hear.

  “You don’t think . . .” He swallowed against the rawness in his throat.

  The manic glint in Dara’s eyes as he’d paced back and forth across their narrow bedroom. The dry-desert heat of his skin. His wild theories, his paranoia. I won’t be the one that kills you.

  Noam’s nails dug into the meat of his palm, but the pain didn’t chase this away.

  “I’m afraid so. I’ve had my concerns for a while now. I thought perhaps—Dara’s always been high strung, and with his drinking problem . . .”

  Lehrer looked positively anguished. Noam didn’t have time to care about that.

  “Are you sure it’s not just—Dara hates you. Maybe he just—”

  “Dara’s fevermad, Noam.”

  Was he? Noam struggled to sift through all his memories of the past several months, stringing them together like beads on a thread. It fit. It . . . fit.

  And a part of Noam felt as if he’d already known that.

  Lehrer squeezed his knee. Noam barely felt it. “It’s the early stages,” Lehrer told him. “He can be treated. It will take a few months. But it’s possible, if I keep him safe.”

  Noam thought about saying, Convenient, how “keeping him safe” also keeps him out of our way.

  As if he knew what Noam was thinking, Lehrer sighed. “I know none of this is ideal, Noam, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

  “I will. I . . . do.”

  What the hell had this come to? How had he ended up here?

  “Remember what I’ve taught you,” Lehrer’s voice said. Noam couldn’t see him, had closed his eyes. “The life of one is worth nothing compared to the lives of many. This is why I chose you as my student. You’re capable of things that others are not. You’re intelligent enough to understand why such things are necessary, and strong enough to pursue what’s right. Don’t disappoint me now.”

  Noam floated back to the barracks in an odd haze, his mind drifting far above his body. He took the long way back. He needed time to think.

  Think about what? There was nothing to
think about.

  Just Brennan, who would die.

  Dara, who might be dying.

  He was walking in circles, had passed the same security camera five times. Somewhere on the other end, a guard was probably wondering what the hell Noam was doing. Noam really couldn’t afford to get caught loitering in the government complex a second time.

  And that was another thing. Security cameras. He’d have to remember to take care of those when the time came to kill Brennan.

  His feet dragged as he turned into the hall toward the barracks. He considered turning around and doing another loop of the training wing, but . . . but. He needed to get this over with.

  He had to face Dara.

  He opened the door and stepped inside. Bethany launched out of her chair the second she laid eyes on him, face white. On the sofa, Taye and Ames sat in silence, both of them staring at the TV, although Noam got the sense they weren’t really watching.

  He dropped his satchel by the door and said slowly, “Where’s Dara?”

  “He’s gone,” Bethany said, every word agonized. “Soldiers from the Ministry of Defense came by just a few minutes ago. They took Dara. We don’t know where he went.”

  Stolen from C. Lehrer’s personal collection

  Wolf,

  Here are the files you wanted from Azriel.

  I need to talk to you when you get a chance. It’s about your brother.

  Let’s put it this way: there’s something I can’t tell you. I hope you understand what that means.

  —Raphael

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “They have to say what they’re arresting you for,” Bethany said over breakfast, which none of them ate. “That’s Carolinian law. They didn’t tell Dara anything. Just, ‘Mr. Shirazi, you need to come with us,’ and Dara went.” She twisted her napkin between her hands, tighter and tighter. None of them could come up with a good reason why Dara hadn’t asked questions.

  Except Noam, of course. Noam knew.

  “He’s fine,” Lehrer assured him during their meeting the next day, as he pressed a warm cup of coffee into Noam’s hands. “He’s sedated and on a steroid drip. He’ll feel better in no time.”