Dualed (22 page)

My stomach sounds again, breaking the moment. “Don’t be gone long, okay?” I say to him.

For a full minute he just looks at me. Then he gets to his feet and moves toward the door.

“Spit it out, Chord.” I can tell something is on his mind, something bothering him enough that he wants to tell me but wonders if he should.

He stops at the door, staring at it as if it’s going to tell him what to do, before eventually turning back to me.

“You know what you said about her being more determined than you?” he says slowly. “That if she wants it more than you, then she deserves to complete?”

I nod stiffly, uneasily.

“It’s not true, West. I’ve always thought of you as one of the strongest people I know. But here’s the thing: the difference between you and her is that it’s not
just
determination you feel—you feel too much of everything, too much of the time. I don’t think you know how
not
to. Like being pissed off at me so much of the time. All the worry. Guilt.” A slight pause as his eyes go a shade darker. “Love, even.”

My good hand twists in the thin bedsheet.

I need him to go now, before he breaks me down completely. It scares me that it might already be too late, that I may be trying to shut him out when he’s already broken past my last defense. Even worse is that part of me that doesn’t seem to want to fight it anymore.

But it’s the other part that terrifies me. The idea of not being alone anymore, and everything coming back to life. Everything hurting again.

Without looking at him, I say quietly, “When you get back,
can you not wake me? My arm’s feeling better now, so you won’t have to stay.”

A long, long pause. “West, I—”

“I’ll see you around, Chord.” I blink rapidly against the warning of heat in my eyes. I breathe through the ache in my lungs.

“What did I—”

“You didn’t say anything, okay? It’s me. It always is. You should know that by now.”

He says nothing. Seconds later I hear the soft snick of the door shutting behind him.

I collapse inward until I’m curled up on top of the bed. The tears don’t come. Instead they fester inside me, like a punishment.

I fall asleep before Chord returns and wake up after he’s already left.

The cramped apartment is almost spacious now that he’s gone. And too quiet. The only sounds are the starts and stops of traffic outside and the heavy migration of footsteps on concrete. They come in through the thin walls like a rude wake-up call. The day is already in full swing.

Annoyed with myself, I inspect the food he’s left behind for me. Of course it’s all stone cold by now, but I don’t mind because it’s also from the complete section of the store. Pizza with real tomatoes and cheese. A chocolate chip muffin that has actual chocolate chips. A banana that’s still unbruised. Real orange juice. I say a silent, heartfelt thank-you to Chord for abusing the privileges of his status to feed me.

As I’m cleaning up my mess, I also find myself checking to see if he’s left a note for me somewhere. Just in case there was something else he wanted to tell me. Like when I would see him next.

There’s nothing.

I dump the crumpled wrappers into the trash with irritation. I don’t even know why I’m angry. It’s not his style to leave a note, especially since he knows the odds of my even reading it.

Well, I might have now. Despite how we left things last night, talking with him made me realize just how much I missed—

Enough. Get on with it
.

I sigh. Put the thought aside for now. I will have time later to dissect it all, what it means for both of us. Most likely at night, when I’m alone in the dark, trying to sleep and not think of him.

I inspect my bandages. Chord did a good job. Better than I ever could, anyway. I apply another layer of tape just in case and gingerly move my arm to test the shoulder. At least it missed the bone.

I wince at the intense soreness, though it doesn’t surprise me. A bullet is like a sharp ax shearing through a newly planted forest. Saplings splinter, crack, fall. I can imagine all too well the damage inflicted by this bullet, the fraying of muscles and smashing of other living parts. But I deserve no less. For failing to kill my Alt when I had the chance. For not finishing the job. Unworthy.

It’s raining again. I need to grab a proper rain jacket from somewhere. What I’m wearing now is still sodden from last night. Actually, I need to get more clothes, period. I don’t have another spare set. My fingers skim over the front of my shirt, over the buttons Chord touched, before falling away. He’s gone now, which is exactly what I wanted.

My cell buzzes with an incoming text, lifting me from my bleak thoughts. I pull it out to read it.

It’s a new striker job. As the details come through, a bright flare of doubt lights within me. I hesitate to accept the contract, hearing Chord’s words again in my head, from when we were in that tacky lingerie shop back in the Grid and he asked me point-blank why I was still a hired assassin. His plea at the very beginning, in Baer’s weaponry classroom, when I first decided to become one.

Is it so hard to just be here, West? To believe that when you get your assignment, you’re the one who’s supposed to win?

It was difficult to put it into words. How each Alt I killed made everyone who left me less vivid, softening their faces, quieting their voices. How filling my mind with nothing more than the details of the next job helped numb my guilt over Luc’s death, helped me forget Chord’s part in it. How going through the motions passed the hours and made it all almost easy.

Almost.

Because she’s never too far away. I only have to catch a glimpse of my face in a window, a reflection in a mirror, for it to come roaring back at me. My Alt is still out there, and Chord is more involved now than I ever wanted.

Six days left.

I punch in my acceptance of the strike without much feeling, though my shoulder is throbbing enough to remind me that I can’t fall short again. The specs arrive within seconds, and I read them, digest them, already working through them.

It’s time to go. I’ve slept past dawn, and the sight of my
surroundings in daylight has me feeling restless and out of sorts. But before I leave, there’s one more thing. Now that I know what I’m looking for, it shouldn’t be too hard.

I use the tip of my finest blade to open the back of my cell. Then I flick out a minuscule silver chip and let it drop to the carpet. Like the bullet from last night, it disappears without a sound. I replace the cover and tuck everything away.

I’ve only just gotten to Leyton Ward and already I’m itching to escape. I stick out like a sore thumb, with my cheap, wild hair, my stained, sketchy clothes, my wary eyes that see shadows everywhere.

Standing on the sidewalk, I can feel the movement of the crowd around me, smooth and controlled. The crowd here is different from the one back home. Less thick. Less chaotic and rough, driven not so much by the simple need to survive as it is by the need to keep things the same. I take in the minimalist street décor, the clean, sterile lines of the buildings, the storefronts built from welded steel, brushed aluminum, shiny bronze. The windows are perfectly transparent, thin as a sliver and without a ripple in sight—only premium-grade bulletproof glass for the businesses here.

Leyton is Kersh’s wealthiest ward. While Jethro fulfills the city’s industrial demands—as Gaslight does for hydro and Calden for agricultural—Leyton produces nothing of its own. Its contribution to Kersh is strictly white-collar, its businesses largely finance- and tech-based. And money has its own demands. Food gets trucked here before making its way to the rest of the city’s wards. Mandatory rolling blackouts are
shorter. Water seems to flow fresher; heat burns hotter; light shines brighter.

“Hold up, coming through, sorry.” The voice cuts into my thoughts, and I narrowly miss tripping over an active cutting in front of me to cross the street.

He’s moving in a hurry, but not so fast I don’t get a good look at him. Everything about him reminds me how Leyton’s money is obvious in more ways than one. His sure, quick movements speak of well-trained muscles. His clothing is made from the latest advanced fabric, disguised to look like typical cloth, thin enough to breathe yet strong enough to deter the point of a blade. And the gun peeking out from his jacket is one I’ll never be able to lay my hands on: a genuine Ronin, the same kind carried by the Board’s Level 2 Operators, the ones who specialize in field ops and tactical duties. Hocking it would probably bring in enough money to keep someone on the run for a good year, let alone one measly month.

I watch him disappear around the corner, knowing that he’ll most likely beat his Alt. The odds are good for Leyton kids. They can afford what’s considered elite training, which goes beyond the Alt Skills program offered by the public school system. It means being able to hire the most skilled completes as private instructors, or enrolling in courses that use only top-of-the-line, cutting-edge weapons as classroom material.

In this way, the Board is no different from us strikers. Just as we take money to kill the poor, they let class and wealth play into which Alt wins. Both of us let money become a factor, whether it’s fair or not. Wealth counters those things that simply can’t be bought: an innate sense of how to home in on
a target, an instinct to chase and not be chased, an attraction to violence, even.

Stats pop up in my head, long-memorized numbers that reveal Leyton’s advantage. On average, Alts from here complete 69 percent of the time. This rate changes depending on which ward their Alt is from. Against Calden, for example, the rate drops down to 63 percent; Gaslight sends it rocketing up to 74 percent. For Alts from wards other than Leyton who are pitted against each other, it’s a much more level playing field—close to fifty-fifty odds.

The real kicker is that it’s not just money or information or technology that drives this ward, but the fact that the Board calls Leyton home. Of all Kersh’s four wards, this is where the Board’s presence and power are felt the strongest.

I only have to look to the horizon to see the central tower of the Board’s headquarters rising above the sprawling structure of the main building. It’s sleek and silver and makes me think of bullets and blades and the tinny taste of blood. On top of the roof is the Board’s symbol, the profiles of two identical teenagers facing each other. It’s elegant, almost delicate, but still strong, like a spiderweb. Wrought from the same black iron used for the barrier, it’s all curves and bends and twists, no straight lines anywhere. Black spirals for the eyes, and only when you get close can you see that they’re long chains of iron numbers. All of it perching there like a figurehead on the prow of a ship, guiding the course of the Board’s filtration system.

I’m supposed to feel safe, seeing this symbol. Instead I feel vulnerable. Hunted.

The blaring of a clearing vehicle down the street has me asking for the time.

Half past four in the afternoon.

My client is a co-op. He’s supposed to be in his cubicle for another thirty minutes, which is when his Alt would be waiting for him to leave. Which is where I’ll be waiting for
him
—my client’s Alt. I’m the little bird that has to eat the spider that wants to swallow the fly.

But I need to change first. I can’t get anywhere near Leyton’s business core, let alone my strike, looking the way I do. The dried blood on my shirt and jacket is a visible remnant of my bullet wound, already making more than a few heads turn.

Slip in and out. Leave no memory. Leave no footprint.

The weight of the fresh cash Chord slipped into my bag, back in that cramped apartment in Gaslight, pulls at me. It wouldn’t be too difficult to stroll into a shop and buy a new outfit with it. But I’m reluctant to spend it right now. Six days left. Too long, too short.

On the corner there’s a boutique selling clothing. Not the kind of place you would find along the Market Strip in the Grid, but prettied up with slick displays and fancy labels. Frosted glass interior walls and a dizzying maze of silver wheeled racks help conceal me as I stuff a knit sweater, a pair of dark jeans, and a thin jacket into my bag. The security tags are attached with thin coils of wire—no match against deft flicks of my switchblade.

There’s a District Grill restaurant across the street, and I head over to it. The outside is entirely too clean, the lights
blazing, and the leather booths inside are smooth and unmarked. The contrast of this location with the District Grill back in the Grid is jarring.

Inside the bathroom, I slip on the new clothing, careful to transfer my gun and blades as well. I don’t recognize the brand, but I can tell just by feel that it’s better quality than anything I’ve ever had. I wish I’d thought to grab an extra pair of shoes, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I chuck my old clothes into the garbage. More pieces of my past, gone. I linger for a second over my shirt, the memory of Chord’s fingers, before letting it go as well. No looking back.

The door swings open and a bunch of girls file in. They’re all about the same age as me. They don’t even look up as they take over the long mirror, plumping and primping.

Their faces are fascinating, almost too smooth to be real. Their hair is too glossy, too healthy, their clothes too clean and tailored. And while they’re nothing like my friends back in Jethro, I’m reminded of them all the same. That sense of place with a friend, within a group, of belonging somewhere. Suddenly I feel a very real pang of loneliness. For that life again, the sheer normalcy of being nonactive.

Over their shoulders I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I look dirty and sick in comparison. Broken, almost. My skin is pale where it isn’t scratched or bruised. My hair is a nightmare, and I can see that a touch-up dye job will be needed within the next few days.

As they continue to speak in spurts of high-pitched squeals and shrill giggles, I decide they can’t all be completes. It just
isn’t likely, given their ages and that there are four—no, five—of them. Which means that some of them are idles. But I can’t tell the two apart. They’re all behaving without fear, doubt, worry.