Broken Mirror (53 page)

“I—I’d have to think about it. Maybe,” he said. He couldn’t tell her that he’d just dreamed about New Venice. “But what about Europe? I could work from the office in Cologne.”

“Maybe,” she said. “You better brush up on your German first. Let’s talk about it again in a few months. But what about New Venice, hmm? It’s quiet, sophisticated. I’m sure your grand-granma Florence would let you stay with her.”

He hadn’t seen Florence in years. “She must be ninety years old,” he said.

“Exactly. I’ll tell you, Victor, family connections grow more important with age. I’m sure she’d love to see you. Let me know soon, and I’ll start the paperwork for Samuel’s transfer.”

Flames and smoke danced around the edge of Victor’s vision. “What?”

“I know how you must feel about him. But he is essential to the project. We can limit your contact with him.”

Victor remembered his grandfather’s message urging him to study Samuel. A queasy feeling turned his stomach. Had everything in his life been predetermined? He had trouble forming words. “I never said
—
I can’t stand the thought of being near him, but the chance to study him might . . . I think . . . maybe help us study the connection between mirror resonance syndrome and dreams.”

“Dreams,” she said in a quavering voice.

He asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. We’ll need to discuss this later. We’ll have a nice long chat about your treatment and our plans for the clinic. I’ve got to go. Take care, Victor.”

She terminated the feed.

Victor walked to his car. The blankness had been
full
. What did that mean?

A single phrase from his grandfather’s message repeated in Victor’s head. It was the one he’d been warned to disbelieve: “Chosen to be a bridge between worlds.” That was the psychosis that had broken Samuel Miller.

The blankness was gone for now, but it would surely return. One day Victor feared he would dare to invite it in and cross over.

I didn’t know at the time that moving to New Venice would expose me to people with such twisted minds. I thought Samuel Miller would be the worst. But it was bound to happen—I am an Eastmore. We attract them like gravity.

—Victor Eastmore’s
Apology

Some wicked parasitic vine had sent its tendrils into Elena’s skull. Nothing else could explain the pain and pressure in her head. It might crack at any moment.

The agony pushed out all words, and Elena waited, willing the tide to recede, but as minutes passed, she remained submerged, silent, and suffering. She couldn’t wait. She needed relief. Flinging the covers off, she opened her eyes.

The clock on the nightstand blared its message: seven a.m. Sunlight coming through the glass doors to the balcony seared the room. More drapes. They needed more drapes. The word repeated in her head.
Drapes, drapes, drapes.
Next item on the list, next step in the cohabitation process. Always something to add to their nest.

The throbbing in her head threatened to blossom into a full-blown migraine unless she did something. The solution was obvious. Stimsmoke. Unfortunately, it would also worsen the problem. Just a single puff. She could inhale the precise amount needed. Just a puff.

Her first waking thought was about getting normal
—Yep! Congratulations, you’re still addicted!
She hadn’t taken Aura yesterday, opting for the cheap stuff instead. Big mistake. Half the high and twice the hangover. Never again.

Elena rolled over and pulled an arm across her face, covering her eyes, temporarily masking the headache. She needed relief. It was a stark choice. She could either start her day with a pick-me-up or suffer through withdrawal for hours, likely days. Even the best pharmaceutical pain relievers were pretty much ineffective.

She had brought this on herself. No one else to blame.

Except maybe Victor.

He ingested a different substance every night, now that Pearl was shipping him herbs. There were no rules for self-medication, he’d said. Whatever worked.
Anyone could do it.

His side of the bed was neatly tucked in. Had he slept in it at all? She thought she remembered him snoring next to her, but that could be a memory from anytime over the past few weeks. Usually he was a loud-growling, dream-tortured sleep-monster. But last night she’d been pretty much dead to the world, stim-crashed beyond the ability to form any memories. He could have had sex with her, and she wouldn’t have noticed. Not that he would do that. But he could’ve.

So why couldn’t she smoke stims? Living with a person with MRS should be classified as a medical condition meriting the strongest prescription available. His moods, the whiplash of being emotionally tuned to someone on the edge
—
that’s what had pushed her to stims again.

The covers exploded away from her thrusting arm. She rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up. Her headache spiked. She pulled on a clean pair of pants, wrapped herself in a silk button-up, and stepped into a pair of dull gray flats. She was slimming down again, fast. Too much stimsmoke. If she didn’t stop the upward trajectory of her usage, she would be emaciated and knock-down sick within a week or so. Typical see-saw. Healthy sick, sick sick, healthy sick, sick sick. Never normal once you’ve been addicted.
You can never go back to who you were.

“Victor?” she called out.

The house sounded empty. That didn’t mean anything. He wouldn’t be able to hear her from his hideout downstairs, and vice versa. If he had gone somewhere, she could step out onto the balcony and take care of her problem. A quick puff and be done. Her luck, though, being what it was, meant that if she ever let her guard down and took the easy route, he would catch her in the act, which was definitely against the rules: his rules, the Puros’ rules, and her own, until recently.

She had become skilled at breaking the rules in secret. That meant no smoking indoors, or on the balcony when he was home, and no smoking outside in public places
—
it was too likely one of her fellow Puros would spot her. They would punish her brutally; it puckered the skin on her arms to think about getting caught. He’d seemed more perceptive lately, but her denials thus far had kept him in check.

She would only smoke when she was absolutely certain no one could spot her. Lockable one-person restrooms in sparsely trafficked establishments were the best. Or in a car at night far away from any streetlights was another good option. It would be so much easier to be a Corp, to relax with your mates, do whatever drugs you wanted, and never have to worry about it.

Maybe she could get away with a quick puff on the balcony. Just this once.

Elena hunted around the bedroom for her purse. It wasn’t on the dresser, by the bed, or hanging from the doorknob
—
all her usual places. The headache surged as she moved faster, but she powered through, looking high and low, determined to put an end to it as quickly as possible.

There was nothing, no bag in the bedroom. Had she left it downstairs? She must have. Elena pulled a scarf from the peg in the closet. It was never warm enough now that she’d shed so much weight.

She trudged downstairs and hunted in the living room and the dining room, but still couldn’t find her purse. A ragged growl escaped from her throat.

Her bag must be in her car. A muffled shuffling sound came from Victor’s hideout. So he was home. She would just pop by his cave to say a quick good-bye.

When she pulled back the curtain, she found him hunched over his Handy 1000.

“Morning,” she said, half expecting him to ignore her, which he did at first, and then he raised his head and met her eyes. She patted his shoulder. “I’m going to the store.”

He blinked at her but said nothing.

“Do you need anything?” she asked.

Victor didn’t respond. His lips were pressed together, almost covered by his mustache experiment. He hadn’t shaved his upper lip in two weeks, and she could barely stand it, but this wasn’t the time to pick a fight.

Elena said, “As soon as I find my purse, I’m out of here.”

Victor reached behind his chair and pulled up her bag. He held it at arm’s length toward her, bunching its synthleather material in his hand. His eyes narrowed.

“Give that to me,” she said. “What do you think—”

“I found your stims,” he said.

His voice grated on her ears. Elena snatched her purse and plunged her hands into it, digging underneath cosmetics, tissues, keys
—
she found it. The tension drained out of her when her hands closed over the small cartridge of doses and the fireglobe.

“You need to stop,” he said.

“Hush,” she commanded.

Victor scratched his cheek rhythmically. “It’s changing you.”

She wanted to pull and tear at his face.

“Elena—”

“I know. I’m trying. It’s just a little bit.” Her hands vibrated, eager to begin the ritual.

He looked down at her feet as he spoke: “I have to go.”

Elena maneuvered the bag’s strap onto her shoulder and tucked her paraphernalia carefully inside. She couldn’t do it with him watching. “No, it’s fine. I’ll
go to the store. Tell me what you need.”

He looked up and cocked his head. “No, I mean: I have to leave Amarillo.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen. It’s time. I know what I need to do.”

“Vic, I’ve got a bad headache this morning.”

“They’re moving Samuel Miller to the clinic at New Venice. I’m going to start working on a cure there.”

“What does he have to do with a cure?”

“I don’t know, but I have to find out.”

“No. No, you don’t.” He shouldn’t put his life, his stability, at risk again. “Please say you’re kidding,” Elena said.

He shook his head slowly.

Hot tears started to swell her eyelids. She wanted to punch his face, to shake the stupid notion out of him.

He watched her, his eyes cold, his mouth firm.

Her words finally found their freedom in a whisper. “I’ll stop using stims. I’m done. Starting now.”

“Elena—”

“I promise. From now on.” She threw the bag off her shoulder, and it landed on the ground with a thump.

His pressed his hands together and lifted them to his lips. “I’m going to do this. I have to. And you’re coming with me.”

She ran a hand through her hair. It snagged, and she yanked free more than a few strands. She looked away, toward the home they’d not yet finished making. “No way.”

“The clinic there—”

“This is crazy.”

“I might find some answers, and you might finally beat your addiction.”

She screamed at him. It felt good, like pieces of her lungs were ejecting from her mouth and splattering him with her anger. Who was he to speak to her so sanctimoniously? She wanted to get clean
—
of course she did. Yet here she was screaming at him, willing to do anything to take another puff.

He got up and hugged her. “I’ve been in touch with Ozie and Pearl. They’re going to help you. They’ve got more brain-fixing tricks than any doctor in the world. Between them and the clinic staff, we’ll make you better.”

Shock him
.
Shock them. Shock everyone to hell.
She had wasted months on him, fantasizing that they could be friends again, and now that she had him, she’d ruined it. But she still had her Puros. She would get by without him.

***

Victor placed his bags in the trunk and pushed the lid closed. It clicked pleasantly. He felt the urge to open it, just so he could close it again and hear the sound again.

Elena stood by, watching him sleepily. Her fight for sobriety used every bit of her strength. He wished it were easier for her. They’d fought for an hour before he finally convinced her to come with him.

“I know what it’s like,” he’d said, “and the best thing is to start some place new.”

Now, standing by the car, he said, “We’re ready?”

“Is that everything?” she asked. “Did you pack all my clothes too?”

“I think so,” he said. He smiled at her. “Are you sure you’re ready for the Louisiana Territories? Can you manage to live somewhere stunsticks are illegal?”

A smile flickered on her face but left a moment later. “I’m going to be fine.”

“The Louisiana Territories are civilized, especially New Venice,” Victor said. “We’ll be safer there than here, that’s for sure.”

“Tosh is going to find you eventually,” Elena said.

Victor had used the Handy 1000 to disable the tracking device Tosh had put on Victor’s car. “I know. But he’s got Granfa Jeff’s tongue. I’ll have to deal with him some day.”

Victor opened the car door, glanced at her, and nodded. She climbed in. He started the car and they drove away.

Low, dust-caked houses of Amarillo spread across the plain. The car rumbled across a set of train tracks and crossed a bridge over a dry arroyo. At the edge of town the street came to a T. Left would take him to the O.W.S. and SeCa, and to the right was New Venice in the Louisiana Territories. He turned right.

They passed a turn off that would have taken them through a subdivision and to the kennel.

Good riddance, Victor thought.

Two minutes later, without thinking, he turned the car around, bumping across the dirt median, and took the turnoff. Soon the façade of the Lone Star Kennel appeared, and he pulled into the parking lot.

“Why are we stopping?” Elena asked.

Victor said, “Give me a minute.”

He got out of the car. There were no other vehicles in the lot, only pavement, grass, and sky, covered by high clouds
—
big, remote, and unhelpful. The wind brought an acrid, stinking tang of animal waste. He tapped the car with his fingertips, in three-second intervals.

If Jefferson had done something to the dogs, getting proof wasn’t going to be easy
—
he’d need a laboratory. Victor could be patient but not endlessly so. He’d be back soon.

Grasses rustled in the breeze. A flock of birds flew in from the north, alighting on scrubby trees at the edge of the parking lot, and twittering loudly to each other. Victor imagined the dogs in the kennel rolling over in their sleep, twitching.