I let the rain clean my skin as I stand on a street near the western shore of Gaslight, looking at the back lot of a strip of buildings. Not too far behind me the city barrier cuts across the sky. It’s thin and almost spindly from far away, but I know up close its bars would be as thick as my leg, the iron black and solid.
Completes are on tour out there, monitoring their sectors of the barrier. Even just behind me, traipsing back and forth as they cover their appointed ground, looking for signs of intrusion, for signs of the Surround. I think of Kasey, who is out there right now, walking his sector somewhere in Jethro. They must feel the rain like I do, their uniforms turning dark with moisture, droplets glistening off their watch cuffs.
I can’t see the ocean from here—it’s much too dark out now—but I can smell it. The brine of an endless slate of bobbing gray, the end of land as I know it, no further place to go. Even if you find yourself beyond the barrier for some reason, the ocean only meets up with war on the other side … if you don’t meet warships on the water first. The waves make a soft, hollow echo, and I imagine the distant slap of it against the aged signs nailed to posts shoved into the ground, right before the shoreline:
this sign marks the marinal and military divisions between kersh and the surround. do not cross. thank you the board.
There’s a tinge of salt in the air, a stinging damp on my lips as I watch the front of the building across the street. I wonder with a kind of practiced, clinical distance what I could have missed. Something on the spec sheet that I must have misread. The mistake is on my end, absolutely, because there’s no way any Level 1 Operator would have overlooked such a significant detail.
Because what I’m looking for isn’t here.
A scooter. Which should be parked in the back lot of the beverage distillery where my target works part-time as a server, this idle who is supposed to be driving that same scooter home. This idle who is my strike, the Alt of a stranger I’ve decided to save. Guilt flashes again, and it’s right to be there, but I push it away.
Think, West. You don’t want to be chasing her all night, do you?
And I
am
thinking. So hard that I can feel the first twists of panic start gathering inside my gut. With no spec sheet left on my cell to fall back on, I’m stuck with my memory. Maybe it’s not as ready as I thought it was—because she is not where I need her to be.
“Time,” I say quietly on a low exhale. My breath is a puff of heat that splits the cool air.
My watch beeps back at me:
20:17.
She should have been done with her shift seventeen minutes ago. I’ve been waiting and watching since a quarter to, but I don’t think I could have missed her slipping out early. And Sabian specifically noted her wanting this shift, so I have no reason to believe she just wouldn’t show. So not only is she late to leave, but also her scooter’s gone.
I swear under my breath. Resign myself to go inside. I can risk being seen by her because she is an unsuspecting idle, but I’d wanted to keep it cleaner than that.
Out of old habit—old but far from forgotten—I hitch my thumbs into the straps of my bag to tighten them. Run my hands over the pockets of my light rain jacket and my jeans pockets to make sure my weapons are there. But they’re not, of course—not the gun or the blades I know. The Roark gun, jostled with my searching hand, bounces against my waist, and the swing of its weight brings me back. To being an active … to being a striker.
Just three more. And what are three more when I’ve already killed so many? Especially three who are insignificant, unworthy, a threat to Kersh … though they hold my freedom in their hands.
As I cross the street, carefully weaving a path through the slow slink of traffic before heading down the side alley toward the front of the buildings, my feet are muffled echoes on the pavement. I turn the corner and walk along the storefronts.
As I enter the distillery, steam and heat is a warm wave. Too warm, and a coil of nausea starts to unfurl before I manage to snuff it out, leaving nothing but a bitterness in the back of my mouth.
Which quickly goes dry.
I see her.
She’s near the back of the store, her face a match with the one on my cell: hair dyed a light violet and pulled back into a loose ponytail, eyes a coppery brown, skin flushed pink with the humidity that’s like an invisible film in the air. She’s vivid and alive against the hissing steel machinery of the distillers that line the wall, the long slabs of metal counters made dull by years of washing and wiping, heating and cooling. In the fall and winter, this place would be serving hot drinks to go; now that the weather’s turned warm, she’s serving cold drinks during her after-school shifts.
She’s pulling a blue jacket over her uniform and talking to one of the workers. Fast and agitated, it’s obvious something’s wrong. She points toward the back exit, the one that would take her to where her scooter should be. So she’s realized it, too, then. Confirming that her scooter isn’t where it’s supposed to be.
I take a few steps farther into the shop, neither straying too far from the entrance nor getting deep enough inside to be mistaken for waiting in line. Looking at everything, yet nothing in particular, is the best way not to be noticed. It is the
between
where I don’t exist.
It’s impossible to hear what she’s saying from where I am. The chatter of customers waiting to pick up their drinks is too loud to filter out. I move closer and against my will find myself holding my breath.
“I don’t—” he says, frowning.
“—someone took off—” Her voice, angry and clipped.
“—should just call and report—”
“—not going to care, it’s just a scoo—”
“—might turn it in.”
A lull in the noise in the store and for a few seconds her voice is perfectly clear. “Whatever,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s gone. I’ll report it in the morning. Inner ward train it is, then.” A frustrated sigh and she’s tying an airy yellow scarf around her neck.
Stylish utilitarian jacket for the rain and a summer scarf to soften the look. A heart or neck shot is still technically possible, but not being able to see exactly where I’m aiming is too risky. So I’m down to the temple now. I had wanted to shoot her from a distance there in the back lot, sight unseen. Catching her alone and distracted as she begins to climb on her scooter to drive home.
I went from having three options in which to make the perfect shot to just one.
She’s waving good-bye to the guy and walking toward me. I can’t help but watch her closely as she passes. Her eyes skim past me, no sense of doom or ill-fated connection—I’m just another customer in the store. Only when the muggy air stirs enough in her wake to lift strands of my hair am I somehow able to move. Propelled by guilt, need, and the knowledge that I’m doing what is best for Kersh.
I’m outside, moving steadily. The sight of her back thirty feet away on the crowded sidewalk is a beacon, and I follow it, keeping it in view despite the jumble of bodies flowing around us. Step for step … at first. Without even knowing I’ve made the decision, I’m slowly speeding up. Catching up.
Road traffic is a bit lighter, the cars moving so fast that no one dares to cut across. She’s going to the corner to cross the street at the light. The train station is a block away, the inner ward one that’s headed in the direction of her house. The memory of her address from her spec sheet burns with cruel finality, the fact that she is about to die, and for a second I wish more than anything that I can simply forget what I’ve learned about this idle. Because without a doubt she is the weaker Alt. The unworthy one. Against any normal Alt, she might stand a chance. Even at sixteen and with nothing more than the basic Alt skills program to her name. But against an Alt who’s not only from Leyton but also from the Board?
No chance at all.
I’m twenty feet behind her, and she’s ten feet away from the corner.
Fifteen feet behind her, and I’m narrowing in at the perfect pace.
The light at the corner turns red, and the crowd gathers there, waits. It will be perfectly reasonable for a girl to suddenly stumble and fall with so many bodies moving all at once. Maybe she’ll have dropped something and is groping around for it. There’ll be no need for anyone to fight the crowd and go back and check if she’s okay.
Slowly I lower my hand into my pocket. Fit the small gun into my palm, slip my finger around the trigger. It takes me more than one try to do it, my palm sweaty as hell, my nerves close to shattering.
Five feet behind her now, and she reaches the corner. Stops at the edge of the crowd and pulls out her cell as she waits.
I do that all the time,
I think, the realization vague and dim. I watch as she brings the cell to her ear, waiting for someone on the other end to answer. All the while, her yellow scarf continues to flutter in the wind, holding my gaze.
I’m at the corner, right behind her. We’re both still, everything’s still, as we wait. Only my breathing is erratic to my ears, jumpy and nervous. The gun in my pocket is heavy, pulling on my jacket, and I wonder how any of these people can miss what I’m carrying.
The light changes. Red to green.
Go.
All around us the crowd surges. She follows, and I’m swept up, too. The edge of her scarf—it’s soft, flimsy—and tendrils of her hair flow out and brush my cheek.
We cross the street and are back onto the sidewalk. I close the gap with her until we’re shoulder to shoulder, at the back of the crowd. She’s slowed, probably too distracted by her conversation to keep up. She’s on my left, and I start to lift my elbow to knock her phone from her hand. I can see it already. How she’ll stop dead, give me a dirty look, crouch down to find it at her feet. Her temple near my hand, the poison at the ready—
When her words make me hesitate.
“—coming home now, Mom.” She pauses, listening. “Don’t worry, I know which train to take.”
Mom.
Yes. Of course she’s got a family. Why wouldn’t she?
Someone nearly steps between us before falling back again, and I know my chance is slipping away.
Sweat is a thin dribble down my neck.
Someone in front of us laughs, someone beside me sneezes.
The breeze. It lifts her scarf again. Up close, I can see that it’s actually a floral print, delicate and pretty against the blue of her jacket.
She taps her cell to sleep and is starting to tuck it into her pocket.
Now.
Do it.
I stick my left foot out and she stumbles over it. I lift my left knee and shove it into her hip. Already off balance, she goes down fast.
“Hey—” she says. An abrupt protest.
I sense more than actually see some of the crowd turn around to see what’s happening behind them.
I rush to bend over her. “I’m so sorry,” I say to her through numb lips. “I tripped. I’m so sorry …” And I am.
I am.
The crowd turns away, no longer interested.
Just me and her left on the sidewalk. For only a handful of seconds, though.
“You didn’t trip, you pushed me,” she says, scowling at me from where she’s still lying on the ground. Her eyes, narrowed in anger. “I felt it, don’t lie. It was your—”
The Roark gun is at her temple now. Steady as I’ve ever held any gun. Just the slightest taste of nerves in my mouth, the thin boom of my pulse in my ears. It tells me I’m still human, still West, still the girl Chord loves. I picture the clear poison contained within the tiny cylindrical dart, ready to be heated and given life even as it ends one.
Her eyes widen, the bright copper of them gleaming.
I’m so sorry.
The words are on my lips, seemingly the only thing I can think to say to this idle I’m supposed to kill.
I’m so sorry.
But what I say instead is this: “I’m supposed to kill you. But I don’t want to do it. And you’re in trouble. So if you want to figure a way out of this, then get up and follow me.”
The alley in this part of Gaslight is dirty and run-down, making me think of the Grid. Bricks and windows crusted with a thin layer of shimmery dust. They say if you swipe your finger along it and dare to take a taste, it’s salty. I guess being this close to the ocean, sea spray is thick and seemingly on every single surface.
Another reason why this isn’t the Grid. The alley is deserted. No one else here.
I still have the gun pointed at the idle, but I know now that I can’t pull the trigger.
I’ve failed. Chord, Kersh, myself.
And this idle. Because even though I can’t kill her, neither can I let her go. She’s been marked for sure death by Sabian, whether it’ll be by my hand or the next person he decides to hire.
“What did I do?” she asks, the question strung out on a long, shaky breath, as though speaking steadily would make me pull the trigger. “What do you want?”
“I’ve been hired to kill you.” I’m repeating myself, no clue what else to say. Remotely aware that my own voice is just as low, just as uneven. Like I’m scared, too. “But I don’t want to do it.”
“You already said that, back on the street.” She swallows. The pretty floral scarf wobbles, still knocked askew from her earlier fall. It’s stained with dirt and the dark wet of her tears. “I still don’t know what you want. Why am I in trouble?”
“Someone important wants you dead and your Alt alive.”
“I don’t … I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” There’s near hysteria in her voice now, which means soon she won’t be capable of a rational response to any question or choice.
Choice.
And I think I already knew what I was going to do, deep down. But it’s taken me this long to understand it, what it means for everyone.
“I’m going to give you a choice,” I say to her. “Live the only way left for you now, or die.”
The idle backs up until her back hits brick with a smack. Her face is sickly pale against the dull gray-red of it. “I don’t know what you mean. What does that mean? ‘Live the only way left’? I don’t want to die!”