The Next Chronicle (Book 2): Damage (8 page)

The best thing about living in bourbon country, in Ray's opinion, was the fact that shots of prime spirits could be had for a reasonable price.

He sat hunched over the bar at Drake's, the watering hole frequented by OSA employees. It was mostly underground, the windows hugging the ceiling about even with the street outside. Ray had been reluctant to drink at first, worried about his ability to keep his powers under control, but careful experimentation eased his fears.

Archer, who had invited him out, sat on the stool next to Ray with one massive hand curled around a glass of dark beer. From the way the big man was putting them away, Ray thought Archer must be trying to put Drake's kids through college. Maybe even med school.

“It never fucking ends, you know?” Archer griped, then swigged his beer. “It's always one damn thing after another. I'm not talking about the day to day stuff. That's all fine. It's dealing with one crisis only to have another one fall into my lap. It sucks.”

Ray smiled, and didn't point out to his boss that this was the third or fourth time he'd said essentially the same thing. “But you handle it well,” he said instead, raising his tumbler in a small salute. “Without you and Kit, who knows where we'd be.”

It was an understandable frustration; they had spent the day going over (and over, and over) different methods they could use to capture James Shane. Ray figured into about half of them, since his powers were an effective way of cutting off the man's ability to teleport. He had been in the room as the group grew more frustrated, each pushing their own ideas while minimizing the input of others.

Hence the drinking.

“I know,” Archer said. “It's just...we have
other
stuff to deal with, remember?”

Ray's eyes flashed a warning, which Archer thankfully caught on the first try. Their small cabal—Ray, Archer, Kit, Deakins, and the mystery technopath whose identity Archer kept to himself—were stalled on their investigation into Fairmont. While Ray wanted to know the truth as much as, if not more than, any of them, circumstances were what they were.

In the wake of Thomas Maggard's attack on the facility there had been too much work to do for Archer and Kit to free up much time. Ray had been in training. Deakins, who had been inducted into their little club a few days after the attack, was tasked with setting up, staffing, and training the Operations department. Kit did what she could to weasel information out of Robinson when the man called her, but had to be careful not to raise suspicions.

That left their technopath, and from what Archer said he hadn't been able to find any new material. It was hard not to be frustrated, but Ray reminded himself that without the initial proof the technopath had culled from the NSA facility he had hacked, none of them would even know that Ray's explosion at Fairmont had been anything but an accident.

Archer had the good grace to look embarrassed, but Ray pointedly ignored it. There were few places and circumstances safe enough to talk about the situation, and a bar full of OSA employees was nowhere on the list.

“We're always gonna have a bunch of stuff to do and half the time we need to do it,” Ray said, because it was true and to cover for Archer's near-gaffe for anyone who might have overheard. “I did ten and twelve hours some days with training, and still made sure to do my required hour a day with Nunez so I could be his lab rat. It blows, but what are we gonna do? Quit?”

Archer shrugged. “I don't know, man. Some days it feels like quitting would be the best thing. The stress is just unreal.”

Ray laughed, unable to help himself. “You? No way. You sleep in your office most of the time. You're the most driven person I've ever met. Do you even have your own place anymore?”

“Sure, I still have my house,” Archer said defensively. “I was there...two weeks ago, I think.”

Ray shook with more laughter. “Two weeks? Wow. Dude, you need a life.”

Archer waved a dismissive hand. “If you'd seen the thing growing in my fridge, you wouldn't want to go back either.”

“Okay, big fella, in you go,” Ray said as he stuffed Archer into the passenger side of his car three hours later.

“Hahaha, that's what
he
said,” Archer slurred.

“Very funny,” Ray agreed, shutting the door and circling the car.

“Because you're GAY, get it?” Archer shouted.

Ray took a breath before sliding into the open driver's side door. “Yeah, I got that. And now everyone else in the parking lot is also aware.”

“Aww, don't be mad,” Archer said. “I was only kiddin'.”

“I'm not,” Ray assured him. “I grew up getting the crap kicked out of me for being who I am. You're not even on my radar.”

“That's good,” Archer said.

Ray shot him a glance. “Don't think I won't remind you of this in the morning, though,” he said. “I fully intend to get extra vacation days out of this.”

Archer laughed as if this were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Ray sighed and started the car.

The Mustang roared to life, settling into a loud purr as they eased out of the parking lot. Under normal circumstances, anyone else driving Archer's car would have been grounds for an ass-beating of cosmic proportions, but he
had
given Ray the keys.

Fortunately the restored car had several modern conveniences, and the GPS had Archer's home address programmed in. Ray pulled up in front of a house on the edge of the city a short time later, tires crunching over the gravel driveway.

Rather than fumble with unfamiliar keys while trying to haul his oversize employer inside, Ray unlocked and opened the door to the house first. Archer was more responsive than expected—apparently that healing ability of his helped a little—but still stumbled more than once in the twenty feet from car to home.

Ray stoked his internal reserve of Surge energy, routing it into his muscles to make the job easier. In short order he had Archer situated on one of the couches in the living room—there were three—and made a quick circuit of the house.

Had he been forced to guess what Archer's house would look like before tonight, Ray would have been wrong. His opinion would have been based on the state of the man's office, which hovered somewhere between a messy dorm room and a library after some horrific disaster on any given day. The house, while somewhat messy, was otherwise disturbingly normal. It contained none of the signs Ray had come to accept as hallmarks of a place occupied by Rowan Archer. No stacks of books teetering, papers sticking out between them. No sheets of paper tacked to maps on the wall, with handwritten notes all over the place.

The place had a bath and a half, three bedrooms, a den, a living room, and an amazingly nice kitchen, clearly much newer than the house itself. Ray took time to splash some water on his face before hunting down a closet stocked with extra blankets.

When he returned to the living room, Archer was snoring softly. Ray smirked and covered him with a blanket, setting a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the coffee table.

Then an evil idea sprang into his head, and he set something else on the table.

He was still chuckling as he curled up on one of the other couches.

Ray was cooking breakfast and whistling softly to himself when Archer woke up. The living room was open to the kitchen by way of a pass-through opening in the wall, which doubled as a bar. As Ray flipped the bacon, Archer shot upright on the couch, looking around in confusion. His gaze fell to the table, sliding over the water and pills and resting on the last item there.

“What the fuck?” Archer mumbled, then seemed to notice the sound of frying bacon. He slowly craned his head toward the bar, catching sight of Ray, who smiled broadly.

“Good morning,” Ray said, waving the spatula.

Archer blinked, clearly trying to make sense of the facts in front of him.

“Ray? What are you doing here? And why is there an empty condom wrapper on the table?”

Ray paused, his face innocent. “Seems like you already put those two together.”

Archer's mouth fell open, his face disbelieving. “Are you serious?”

Ray tried not to laugh, he really did. After a few seconds he couldn't help it.

Looking slightly relieved, Archer shook his head and joined in. “Guess I had that coming. Good one.”

“Thanks,” Ray said graciously. “I'm guessing you remember last night, then?”

Archer nodded, then untangled himself from the blanket. “Took me a second, but yeah. I generally don't forget anything when I get hammered. What's for breakfast?”

Ray looked at Archer with uncertainty. “You sure you don't want to hydrate and take a couple of those?” he asked, pointing toward the aspirin with his chin.

“Nah,” Archer said as he seated himself at the bar. “I don't get hangovers anymore. I do get hungry.”

“Well, we've got bacon, eggs, toast, and biscuits,” Ray said. “If you give me a few minutes, I'll have some gravy made up, too.”

Archer looked impressed. “I didn't know I had all that stuff here,” he said.

“You didn't,” Ray explained. “I ran to that little shop on the corner when I woke up.”

Archer frowned. “You didn't have to do all this, man. You should have gotten me a cab and taken my car so you could sleep in your own bed, not babysit and cook for me.”

Ray gave him a sunny smile. “I don't mind. Really. This has actually been a lot of fun. I haven't cooked—for myself or someone else—in a long time. I haven't had a night out, either. I spend most of my time being the guy trying to make up for that horrible thing he did. It was nice to spend a night dragging a friend back home after listening to him bitch about his job. It felt...normal, I guess. The way my life used to be.”

Archer accepted a plate of food, onto which Ray poured gravy a minute later. “I never thought about it,” he admitted as Ray made his own plate. “You live at the facility, work there. Someone has to be with you when you go out. It must be rough.”

“It's not that bad,” Ray said with a shrug. “Not how I imagined my life would turn out, but at least I'm doing some good. Makes little things like this even better for how rare they are.”

“Now I kind of feel like a dick,” Archer said. “Here I am with all this freedom to go about as I please, and I'm always at work. Must seem like a waste to you.”

“Not at all,” Ray said. “Some people might think that way in my situation, but I don't. You're your own person. I'm not going to be jealous or upset just because you choose to spend your time how you want. That's a waste of energy.”

Archer's fork was halfway to his mouth, and froze. “Huh. That's a pretty good way of seeing things.”

“Wise,” Ray corrected with a smile. “I prefer to be called wise. Now, finish eating and go take a shower. We're on the clock in forty minutes, and since your brain isn't damaged by alcohol, you'll remember we've got some important decisions to make regarding James Shane.”

“Yes, mother,” Archer said, scooping the last of his food into his mouth.

The boys had asked her to go out and have drinks with them, but Kit declined. Instead she took a few minutes to straighten up the conference room in a vain attempt to keep the room from spiraling into the messy chaos which followed Archer to whatever work space he occupied.

Giving it up as a bad job she left the room and let the heavy doors fall closed and lock behind her. For a brief moment she reconsidered heading out to spend time with Archer and Ray, but the urge vanished as quickly as it appeared. There was something to be said for a night out, just not tonight.

She made a quick call to Peep as she drove home.

“Hey,” Kit said when Peep answered. “Want me to grab anything on the way?”

“Nope, I'm good,” Peep answered. “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.”

“Awesome,” Kit said, not bothering to ask what it was. Peep liked to surprise her. “I'll be there in ten.”

She let herself into the back door of The Bean a short while later, dropping the security bar into place before dashing up the steps two at a time. There was no smell of food wafting down the stairs through the open door at the top of the steps which was a slight disappointment.

Kit tossed her keys onto the table next to the door as she entered, and made her way to the giant squashy recliner she preferred to lounge on.

As always, she took a moment to appreciate the place she called home. The Bean was an old building, and designed without modern concerns about saving space or being efficient. The floors were aged hardwood, polished glass-smooth by decades of tender care. The living room was thirty feet on a side, with a kitchen half that size attached to it. The three bedrooms each had their own bathroom, and while none of them were as large as the common area, they were still bigger than any bedroom Kit had occupied before.

The apartment took up the entirety of the second floor, its high ceilings and ancient crown moldings a reminder of a time when even the small details of homes were pieces of art.

Kit loved the place.

Peep appeared from the darkened hallway leading to the bedrooms, hair wrapped in a towel. Her shower habits fell somewhere between compulsive and ritualistic, driven by the desire not to perpetually smell like coffee and baked goods. Kit found that baffling, personally, but supposed she would probably be tired of those things if she worked in a cafe.

Kit kicked off her shoes while Peep got comfortable on the couch opposite her, tucking her bunny-slippered feet under her legs. Peep had an impressive collection of pajama bottoms, which she liked to wear at all times when at home. Tonight's were thin cotton in a dark blue, with buckets of popcorn printed on them in a repeating pattern. She wore a bright pink tank top with the words 'World's Sexiest Grandma' scrawled across the chest in sparkling rhinestones.

“That shirt is amazing,” Kit said.

“Thanks,” Peep said with a grin. “I found it at the thrift store. Can you believe someone didn't want it?”

“Inconceivable,” Kit said.

“I don't think that word means what you think it means,” Peep said in a thick Spanish accent.

Kit smiled. “So I guess we're watching
The Princess Bride
tonight?”

Peep shrugged. “We can decide after dinner gets here, but I was thinking a couple hours of
Call of Duty
might be in order. You sounded frazzled on the phone.”

Dinner arrived a few minutes later, and Kit was happy to run down to pay the delivery man. Some days called for hot pizza, cold beer, and killing as many digital bad guys as possible.

Kit couldn't see anything. The darkness was absolute, but she refused to let that bother her. The weapon in her hands was cool, waiting to be used.

The lack of sight was an annoyance, but not the crippling disadvantage in a fight it would be for someone else. Without the distraction of visual information, she was able to focus her attention on her other senses. Even without amplifying them with the Surge—which she was currently doing—they were much sharper than those of a normal human.

The dozen background noises usually filtered out by her brain were as obvious as music, now. Each was a note which changed in predictable ways as she slowly made her way through the room, pinging off surfaces and objects to create a rough map for Kit to follow.

The enemy was close. Her nose caught the faint suggestion of a person, a mixture of natural odors and chemical ones unique to human beings. It was the change in air pressure which warned her, a difference so small that machines would have been needed to note it, were she not superhuman.

Kit threw herself sideways, sliding along the hardwood on one knee and firing her weapon only a fraction of a second behind her attacker. There was no thunder of bullets, only a dry snapping sound followed by a disgusted curse.

“That's so goddamn unfair,” Peep groused.

Kit grinned as she pulled the blindfold from her face. Peep stood several feet away with hands on hips, toy dart gun in one fist. “How do you win every time? Without being able to freaking see? In what universe is that fair?”

With a flourish, Kit twirled her own weapon like an old west gunfighter. “Hey, it was your idea to play tag. Not my fault I'm awesome.”

Peep tossed her gun on the counter. “We kicked the shit out of those guys online.
Call of Duty
wasn't much of a challenge. Man, I
really
thought the blindfold might even things up. Next time we'll have to add earplugs.”

Kit nodded agreeably but didn't mention the many other ways Peep had given herself away. Every footfall reverberating in the floor was a road sign pointing directly to her, as far as Kit's enhanced brain was concerned. The slow exhalation of breath before shooting had sent a wave of information outward. Kit could no more forget years of obsessively honing the understanding and use of her powers than Peep could suddenly forget how to walk.

But hey, maybe Kit would let her win one of these days.

Peep grabbed a piece of pizza from one of the open boxes—there were four, two of which Kit had emptied on her own—and leaned against the counter. “What's next? We could play some cards. Smoke cigars. Maybe talk about boys.”

The last had the sound of a joke, though Kit knew better. Her last relationship had been a brief if enjoyable month long, ending when the agent she had been dating got an offer he couldn't refuse. The shrewd operative in Kit, the one who measured every variable, had a suspicion that Robinson had arranged the promotion for Ben Carlton as a way of keeping Kit focused on her work.

Peep assured her this was paranoia speaking. Kit thought she might be right. Be that as it may, talking about Ben brought out the one trait in Peep that Kit truly disliked, which was a ceaseless interest in helping Kit develop a love life.

Kit didn't have a problem in that area. She liked dating, even the occasional pick up game at a bar or club, but it was her business.

“We're definitely not talking about boys,” Kit said. “Actually, I should try to get some sleep. Work is going to be a bitch this week.”

“Sure,” Peep said, half relieved and half frustrated. “Sleep tight.”

Just like that, the fun had evaporated from the night.

Kit shuffled to the end of the hall, not bothering to switch on the light. She locked the bedroom door behind her.

Recessed lights mounted near the floor slowly came to life, triggered by the room's scanners registering her identity. Being one of the higher-ranking OSA officials in the country came with advantages and responsibilities, and her bedroom was one of the few overlaps between the two she found beneficial.

Because she would occasionally need to work from home, her room was incredibly secure. The standard home package for OSA directors and above included climate control, a voice-activated digital assistant, a dedicated fiber optic internet connection, and a bunch of other stuff. Kit's favorite part was the projected interface, a combination system using lasers and sensors allowing her to gesture anywhere in the room and get a visual projection as big as a wall.

She was too tired to bother with that tonight.

“Alan, are you there?” she asked her computer.

“I am here, Director Singh,” Alan said in one of his programmed responses.

“Are my files synced with my office?”

“Yes, Director.”

“Project screen onto ceiling,” Kit said as she changed for bed, feeling luxuriously free as she stripped out of the clothes she'd been wearing all day and into an oversize t-shirt and a pair of soccer shorts.

“Would you like to switch to AirTouch interface?” Alan asked.

“No, stay with voice,” Kit ordered, pulling the covers back. “Put the projection on preset three, though.”

The home screen of her computer appeared on the ceiling above, angled precisely to give the best view from her bed. She checked for new material on James Shane, read several messages from department heads, and generally caught up on everything that had happened in the handful of hours since she left work.

“Alan, set a sleep timer for sixty minutes,” she said. “Give me a one minute warning on silent.”

“Timer set, Director.”

She worked for a while longer, not bothering to reply to any of the messages. They were all things that could wait until the morning, mostly administrative errata too minor for more than a single sentence in response.

Long before Alan's warning flashed across the projection, Kit had fallen asleep. The room went dark as the machine shut down, the light fading over a troubled and restless form.