Jay Posey - Three

Then, finally.

“How long…?” Cass started. She closed her eyes, swallowed, tried again. “How long have you been here?”

“Longer than I’d prefer,” Three answered. He got to his feet. “Sorry your boy had to see that.”

Cass opened her eyes and nodded, though what she meant to communicate with the gesture wasn’t clear. Three watched her for a moment, noted the throbbing vein in her slender neck, the fluttering eyelids in her too-often blink. Days-old weariness, offset by adrenaline. Or the quint. It was always tougher to read a Chemic. Three moved to the agent’s desk with a slight shrug.

“Where’s the agent?” she asked.

Three rummaged through the agent’s desk, and flicked his head to the corner where the agent lay. Cass glanced over, sighed heavily, disappointed.

“You?”

Three shook his head.

“Your friend, Fedor. He was waiting when I got here.”

Now Cass shook her head.

“That isn’t Fedor. That’s Kostya.”

Three gave Kostya another look. Eyes, cheekbone, jawline… even the hair was the same.

“Clones?” asked Three.

“Worse,” Cass replied. “Brothers… twins.”

Three let out a deep breath, then went back to his work.

“What’re you looking for?”

Three held up his reply: the agent’s biometrically-sealed cashbox. Cass watched as he moved to the agent’s cool form, and swiped stiffening fingers across the panel. The box hissed open, and Three let out a low whistle. It was full of Hard.

He ran a quick estimate. Twenty-five thousand, at least. Maybe thirty. Three counted out the three thousand he was due, unbuckled his vest, and secured the Hard inside. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cass lower her gaze to the floor.

Three placed the cashbox on the little agent’s lap, and folded the old man’s hands over the top. He stood, and moved to the door. Cass didn’t look up.

“What about the rest?” she asked, quietly.

“This,” Three said, tapping his vest where the Hard was concealed, “is mine. And I’m no thief.”

After a thought, he added, “But he sure doesn’t need it anymore.”

Three saw her eyelids flutter, eyes darting quickly to the box and back. Yeah. She was thinking about it.

“Why’d you come here?” Three asked.

Cass looked up, bottom lip just barely catching her teeth again, almost too fast to notice.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Her eyes flicked to Kostya’s torn remains, then to the agent, then back to Three. He saw the despondency closing in now, the last traces of hope slipping away, the final slender thread of courage and will strained and twisting, just before surrender. Even with Fedor and Kostya no longer hounding her she had a hunted look, and trapped. Not the smoldering ferocity of a cornered animal, but the resignation of one wounded, seeing the way out, knowing it would never reach it.

Ah. Kostya had been waiting here for her, not for him. Three felt relief, without realizing he’d been concerned about it before. Still…

Three leaned his head outside the cube, checked on Wren where he sat cross-legged, pulling at a stray thread at the bottom of his too-thin jacket. He was going to need something warmer before much longer. Probably needed it now.

“How many more of them are there?” Three asked, looking back and catching Cass’s eye again. She shrugged slightly, shaking her head. Three nodded.

“OK.”

He stepped out of the cube, and walked the length of the hall to the glass entryway, footsteps dull echoes in the stone corridor. Three gazed westward. The sun was disappearing out there, beyond the wall. He judged the distance.

It would be close. But it was possible.

“Get what you need,” Three called back down the long hall, without turning. “Then let’s go.”

The trio pressed through the alleyways, Three leading the woman and child along with a barely restrained urgency, like a wolfhound straining at its leash. She’d given up asking for explanations, or plans, or even for hints of where Three was leading them. She was out of options now, and they all knew it.

Three hesitated at every corner, every intersection, every stretch of open and unprotected ground they had to cover, but never for long. Streets were emptying as residents headed indoors with the setting sun. The few that remained were quick to avert their gazes from his intensity.

Finally, they reached their destination. The wall. Specifically, the Wall, where a small side-entrance stood guarded by a squat toll-booth-sized shelter. Two night watchmen manned it, and one stepped out to halt them.

“Sorry, folks. Not enough time left for you to get out tonight,” said the watchman. He was tall. Tall, but young; lanky.

“There’s enough for us to get out,” Three answered. “We don’t need to get back in.”

The tall guard looked them up and down, suspiciously.

“Naw,” he replied, without warmth. “Like I said. Not enough time.”

“Trust me,” said Three. “There is.”

“You in some kind of trouble here, miss?” asked the other guard, now emerging from the shelter. Three checked him. Older, rounder, soft, but gritty.

“No, sir,” Cass answered, too quickly. “We’re fine.”

The older watchman’s eyes roved back and forth over Cass and Wren. Three sized up both guards. Tall one was eager: he’d be the first to try something. But it was the older one he had to watch.

The older one grunted, exchanged a look with the taller. Not a look. The look.

“OK, well,” said the older guard, turning back towards his shelter. “Why don’t you folks just—”

Before he could finish, Three smashed his forearm across the back of the older guard’s neck, slamming the watchman’s face hard into the wall of the shelter. In the impact, something flew from the guard’s hand: stunrod.

In the same instant, Three had his pistol jammed under the jaw of the taller guard, forcing the young watchman’s head up and backwards.

“Open it, and then close it behind us,” Three snarled, teeth gritting in the older guard’s ear. “Or I’ll do it, and leave it open. All. Night.”

The older watchman remained silent through the blood pouring from his nose. Three could feel the tension in the man, like a viper coiled. Half a slip, and the tables would turn. But the taller one made whimpering, agreeable noises. When Three lowered the gun off him, he quickly bustled to the door and opened it. The door led into a darkened chamber: a small airlock within the wall. Three pushed off the old watchman, floating his weapon fluidly between the two.

“Both doors,” Three growled.

The young watchman shook his head vigorously.

“It don’t work like that. You gotta get in, and shut this door. Then the other one can open, from the inside.”

Three started towards the guard, who stumbled backwards into the airlock, but there was no defiance there, only fear. Three knew he was telling the truth.

“Fine. Come on.”

Cass and Wren pushed into the chamber, and the watchman started to sidle out. Three flashed his gun, and teeth.

“No. You stay.”

The tall watchman looked to the old, color draining from his face. The older one paced closer; slow, determined, with barely restrained menace.

“Look. Whatever business you have leavin’ here at this time o’ day is your own,” said the older guard. “You leave him out of it.”

Three stared the man down, looked deep, and found steel. The old man had some bond with the taller guard. He wasn’t going to budge. Three ground his teeth. They were losing time.

A tense heartbeat, then another.

Finally, Three slid his gun back into its holster, gently, and motioned the young watchman out. Young slid behind old, wounded, frightened, sheltering behind the other’s strength. For a moment, Three wondered if they might be father and son.