Dualed (6 page)

“So what’s with the swords, then?” I ask, feeling stupid, beginning to doubt my decision to come now. I was expecting … well, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but not this.

“As beautiful as they are, they’re still made to kill. So why not swords?” His look instantly makes me defensive.

“It just seems kind of pointless,” I say slowly. “I mean, they make guns and knives available to us for our assignments.” Sales of any such weapons in Kersh are tightly controlled, but it’s usually no questions asked with the scan of an active’s encoded pupils during purchase.

“Learning how to use a weapon is never pointless,” Baer says. “Each one of them helps with reflexes, coordination, muscle strength. At all times, you’ll need the three to defeat your Alt.” He holds the sword out to me, hilt first, obviously expecting me to take it.

I do.

The smooth arc of metal in my hand is heavier than it appears, and I peer down the length of it, marveling at the sleek craftsmanship, the balance of its lines.

Baer picks up the sword on his desk. Slightly longer than mine, the shiny edge just as sharp. His face is as harsh as ever,
but a smile twists one side of his mouth up. “Care for a test, West Grayer?”

I stare at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” But I already doubt he can be anything else as I toss my bag onto a desk behind me. With both hands, I grasp the soft leather-covered hilt more tightly.

His eyes have gone even paler with concentration. “I didn’t invite you here to help me organize my classroom materials. Head up.”

He slices the air between us, the sound of the blade a whoosh in the air, and it’s all I can do to fend off flashes of caught light and twisting silver. The world narrows to nothing more than Baer and the thin screaming rasp of steel against steel. I can hear my breathing; I can smell my sweat, sharp and clean and proof that I’m doing my best not to die. I’m moving more by reflex than skill, no time to think between defensive slashes.

“Speed up your recovery,” he barks. “It leaves you wide open.”

As I joust around Baer’s sword, I begin to form an attack of my own. But it’s like trying to skewer a fast-moving animal, with a sword that’s growing heavier and heavier with each passing second. My arms are soon aching with effort.

How is Baer making this look so easy?

Suddenly he steps back. Lets go of his sword with his right hand, so only his left is wielding it. “Now, just your left arm.”

I push my hair back, sweating, both of us knowing my left side is my weakest. “You’re crazy, I can’t do that.”

“Your Alt won’t be so generous as to give you a warning. Remember that.” He lunges, his blade coming within inches of my neck.

“Watch it—” The words are a stutter on my lips as I scramble to adjust my grip in my already cramping left hand.

Another jab. “Again, will your Alt give you such an allowance?” Baer’s voice is made of the same kind of steel as our swords. “This is your life on the line, Grayer.”

And we dance, the clang of hammered blades echoing throughout the classroom, each one a reminder of how close we are to death.

“You’re trying to kill me, remember, not tickle me with the damn thing!” Baer yells at me, when my sword makes one too many wild swings.

“I’m using my left arm!” I shout back at him as he swings. “What do you expect?” I circle him, my arm on fire, my chest one flaming knot.

Baer stops short. Doesn’t even flinch as my sword barely misses his shoulder. His face is stone cold. “I expect you to do whatever it is you need to do to kill your Alt. As you should expect the same of her.” He lets his arm fall to his side, his sword at rest.

I do the same, willing myself not to be so winded. Or at least to hide it as best as I can.

“You will do well in this class,” Baer says. “I hope to see you here next year.”

Of course I will be here. No way can I pay for any kind of training outside of school. And Baer’s class could rival any of the paid lessons, I think. A thought hits me. “Well, unless something happens before then.”

Baer frowns. “Your assignment, you mean.”

I nod.

For a second, Baer says nothing. Then he sheathes his sword, places it on top of his desk, and turns back around to face me. He leans against the desk with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“What do you know about strikers?” he asks. He could be asking about the weather, his tone is so nonchalant. But I’m caught by surprise. Why is Baer asking me about strikers?

Assassins for hire, strikers are paid by wealthy people to kill their Alts. They mostly stay underground, working contract to contract, loyal to their work if not to each other. Supposedly. As much as Board members stay out of the public eye, strikers are even more mysterious.

“Well?” Baer says.

“I don’t know, I guess about the same as everyone else.” I shrug and place my sword down on top of his desk. “We just hear stories, but nothing for sure. And if someone really did contract out their assignment, they’re going to keep it quiet, anyway. So who knows if they’re even real. Strikers are like an urban myth—”

“Such as how I strangled my Alt with my bare hands when I was but a child of ten?”

I let my gaze slide away, uncomfortable. Though I should have known he would have heard all the talk—

He pulls out a business card from his pocket. It’s creased, faded, as if he’s been carrying it for a while. Hands it over to me. “They are no urban myth,” he says.

There’s a number on the card. “What, you want me to call this number? And ask for”—I glance down at the card again—“this person named Dire? Who is he?”

“He’s … an old friend,” Baer finally answers. “Though certain differences in perspectives have led us to … drift apart, I think he can help you. If you want his help.”

“With what?”

“You don’t qualify for weaponry right now, and if paid lessons are out of the question, then Dire might be able to give you the best kind of training there is.”

A chill runs down my back as I connect the dots. “He’s a striker, isn’t he? Your friend. Dire.”

Baer shakes his head slowly. “No, he isn’t. He only hires them.”

“But I always heard strikers work independently.”

“They do, but they also have to get their contracts from someone.”

“So, he’s like a pimp.”

The corner of Baer’s mouth twitches. “I think Dire would prefer the term ‘recruiter,’ Grayer.”

“Why me?” I ask him. I place the card down on a nearby desk. Suddenly it weighs too much—it weighs of decision, a fork in the road, a path to take. One that could lead to darkness from which there is no way out.

For a second, Baer doesn’t answer, and I’m almost glad. It should make it easier to walk away, especially when a part of me is already curious.

“Sometimes the system isn’t right, no matter what the Board tells us,” Baer says. “It’s not always black and white. Dire will tell you the same thing, even if he’s not quite so … restrained with his words. We both skew what nature might have intended, though my training method’s an approved one
and his isn’t. And as much as I might not agree with how he works, I do think there’s a method to the madness. You’ve got skill and guts, West Grayer. If you have the chance now, does it truly matter how you get better, as long as it helps you complete your assignment?”

Slowly, I pick up the business card again. Despite the card being so worn, the number is still impossible to miss.

“But don’t walk in there blind.” Baer’s gaze doesn’t waver, confirming what I’ve already begun to suspect. It would be the point of no return. “It can get to you, completing assignment after assignment, even if it’s not your own—perhaps
because
it’s not your own. And then there’s the Board. Right now, unnatural completions at the hands of strikers don’t happen often enough for them to warrant much of the Board’s manpower. As far as they know, at least. But that doesn’t mean it’s never going to happen. And if it does, and they manage to catch you … Well, it’s not a choice to take lightly.”

“Yeah, I get it.” It’s all I can think of to say.

With that, Baer moves to the cabinet that lines one side of the room. He pulls out a cardboard box, starts tossing weapons inside. Each is more surreal than the last—daggers, nun-chucks, shurikens, some that I don’t even recognize.

The clanging of the class materials is loud, but the next words out of my mouth are even louder. They can’t go unnoticed. Or be taken back.

“What’s that?” he asks, the new wariness on his face telling me he didn’t miss what I said the first time. The box sits forgotten in his arms.

“
Is
it true that you killed your Alt with your bare hands?”
Saying it out loud again just makes it sound more idiotic than ever, and I feel the way I used to whenever one of my brothers managed to fool me into something. I mean, it’s Baer I’m talking about here—a
weaponry
teacher. Not combat, not kinetics.

After a few seconds of silence, he finally answers. “Yes, it’s true.”

I can’t hide my confusion. “But why the weapons, then? Why do you want to teach us how to use them, if you didn’t even need them to complete your assignment?”

“Because as I was strangling him, I knew it didn’t have to be that way,” Baer says, his voice flat.

I try to picture Baer as a little kid, fighting his Alt at ten, but it’s impossible. Not that it matters; he probably relives it enough in his own head.

Baer shifts the box in his arms. “About Dire. If you do contact him, he’s got quite the bark, and he can bite, but his hatred doesn’t lie with you.”

“You mean the Board?”

Baer watches me with his cool eyes. “As I said, the system doesn’t always work the way we want it to.” He gives me the slightest of nods, just as he did in the library yesterday, and I know he’s done. “Thank you for a rather interesting session. One year. Don’t die on me before then.” Then he’s gone from the classroom, his footsteps moving heavily down the hall.

I’m standing in the empty classroom, my mind going a mile a minute. Trying to think back and remember everything I’ve ever heard about strikers. It’s not much. And I have to cut through the smoke and mirrors thrown up by kids’
imaginations, the spread of stories and rumors. But clearer than anything is the stark realization that I haven’t actually decided against it.

“West.”

The sound of my name from the doorway startles me enough to make me drop Dire’s card on the ground. But I already know who it is, and I use the excuse of having to bend over to pick up the card to steady myself.

When I look back up and into Chord’s face, my heart both lifts and sinks. As long as I’ve known him, I’ve never felt this way before. Anxious, awkward, a kind of sweet and painful desperation to renew something that’s been lost.

Why did it have to be his Alt who drove us apart?

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his expression slightly guarded, unsure. He turns to say good-bye to someone in the hall behind him. His friend Rush, who was friends with Luc before, too. Rush, who’s a complete now, as of last year.

“What are
you
doing here?” I ask in return when Chord faces me again. I’m wondering how much he heard of the conversation between Baer and me, or if he heard anything at all. Because if Chord picked up on the word
striker
even once—

“I forgot something in my locker. It’s just across the hall.” His eyes are nearly black, too dark to read. “I heard your voice.”

I want to stuff the card into my pants pocket, but I’m worried if I draw attention to it he’ll ask me about it. My hand closes into a fist, and I can feel the card crumple inward. “Um, yeah, Baer wanted to talk to me about weaponry. For next year, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know. I heard you guys talking,” he says.

The accusation in his voice is undeniable, and my mouth is dry. “Can I grab a ride home with you?” I blurt out, busying myself with my bag. I sling it over my shoulder, fiddle with a strap, press the card further into my palm.

“Sure, let’s go,” Chord finally says. But then he takes my hand—the one still awkwardly trying to hide the card—and teases my fist open. He pulls the card free, smooths it out without reading it, and offers it back to me.

“Here.” His voice is low and exceedingly calm. “You might want to put this away. I don’t think you want someone else finding this, if you accidentally lose it.”

I shove it into my pocket. Fine. He knows. And I have absolutely no clue what to say to him.

Suddenly Chord’s sitting down on a desk, pulling me to stand in front of him, his hand still holding mine. We’re nearly at eye level, inches apart, and I’m no longer breathing. My heart flips in my chest, lazily, languidly.

“Tell me it’s not true, West,” he says. It’s how I know he’s really upset. The way his eyes shoot fire even as his tone stays soft. The effect, as always, is more unsettling than if he just lost it outright.

I can only shake my head. All too easily I could let him fight his way through, his plea deciding for me.

“So you’re serious?” Chord’s jaw goes tight. “You’re actually going to call that guy up and sign on as a striker?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I manage. His hand is warm around mine, and it’s hard to think.

“Do you know what kind of trouble you could get into with the Board if they find you? They would—I don’t even want to say it.”

“They would have to kill me, probably.” I can’t pretend there’s another choice, not when there wouldn’t be. “I mean, being a striker and interfering is the very opposite of what we’re supposed to do, right? Let nature weed out the weak so only the strongest are left, in case the border is broken.”

“The filtration system is set up to protect us,” Chord says, agreeing. “Why would you fight that? Don’t you think if there was another way, we would’ve taken it by now?”

“I’m not sure what I think,” I say. “Except it wouldn’t be because of that. I wouldn’t be
fighting
anything.”

A pause. “You know they offer free counseling down at Board headquarters in Leyton Ward, if you think that might help. There’s a satellite branch somewhere here in the Grid, too.”

“No, I can’t.” No way. No way am I talking to some stranger about stuff I can barely stand to think about, let alone begin to try to accept.