Three took the Trivex jector from his pocket, placed its pepperbox-tip just above his finger, in the soft notch between Cass’s ribs. Aimed directly at her heart.
“Ready?”
Cass exhaled. Nodded. Inhaled. He fired. The jector hissed softly, punching its chems through the surface down deep into the center of her bloodstream. Cass’s eyes clenched so tightly a tear streamed, but she made no sound. The jector fell quiet. Cass exhaled. Three instinctively placed his hand on her chest, just above the jector. She dropped a cool, damp hand atop his. Opened her eyes, fixed him with a steady gaze.
“Come on, cowboy. Just four more to go,” she whispered. She patted his hand. He nodded, watched her close her eyes again. Didn’t ask her this time, just fired again. When it was done, she barely paused.
“Again.”
Three didn’t want to jolt her again so soon, but he knew better than to ask. He fired the third dose. Three was no stranger to jectors, having had to dose himself during some of the more unpleasant times he’d endured. He’d also been stabbed, shot, jittered, slashed, and burned. Given the choice of the six, dosing from a jector ranked third.
“Go, do it.”
Cass was trembling now under his hand, heart hammering against her ribcage. Sweat beaded on her exposed skin, as if a heavy dew had fallen across her. Three leaned closer, brushed her hair back from her damp forehead. Ran his hand over her scalp, soothing, and knowing the pain in her chest was overriding every other sense.
“Last one. You’re doing good.”
She nodded, but didn’t speak.
“Need a break?”
She shook her head, furrowed her brow. She didn’t want questions, she wanted to get it over with. He dosed her the fifth and final time. The jector hissed out the last of its chems; a single dose intended to shock a still heart to beating, to trigger adrenals to flood the bloodstream at full capacity. Three knew quint was the emperor of high-speed chems, but he’d also seen a man’s heart explode from a double dose of Trivex. This little sister had strength beyond measure. He gently closed her shirt, refastened it.
“We’re done, girl. Let’s get you some rest.”
“I don’t…” she whispered, mouth parched. “I don’t usually let people call me ‘girl’.”
Three smiled as he stood. He scooped Cass up off the bed, cradled her like an overgrown child. She didn’t resist. He walked around the bed and laid her gently beside her sleeping son.
He hovered over the pair, thought back to that first day. The first time they walked into his guarded, disciplined, secure world. And he wondered at just how far out from that world they’d brought him.
Three switched off the light in the room, tugged off his shirt, and decided he was going to allow himself a long, cool shower.
Cass could tell from watching him that he’d assumed she and her son were sleeping. He’d already startled her once walking naked by the open bathroom door, and now Three seemed to be oblivious to any notion of being watched, which was surprisingly uncommon for the man. The Trivex was working its way throughout her body, juicing long-starved muscle fibers and nerve endings. She lay motionless not for fear of being discovered, but because every joint, muscle, and nerve stung with icy vengeance at the slightest provocation. But here, with Wren cuddled next to her, she was warm, and comfortable, and safe. For the first time in far too long. Her body was deathly tired, and she knew sleep would come soon. It just hadn’t found its way to her yet. Outside, twilight was descending.
She watched Three in the dim orange light of the single bathroom bulb. Studied him, really. For all the miles they’d covered, and the trust she’d developed in him in spite of herself, she still knew so little of the man. He stood at the small basin in the bathroom, methodically shaving his head. His face. Careful, practiced strokes. Using a gleaming-edged knife not unlike the one Wren had cut his hand on. No, not methodical. Ritualistic. Preparation.
He wore no shirt, and from her vantage, Cass could see the rope-like muscles of his back, shoulders, arms. Not bulky, like those splicejob showboys. Just authentic, well-used, well-formed, like they’d been doing work for fifty years and would continue for twice that much more. “Go muscle”, she’d heard Ran once call it, “not Show muscle”. She’d seen more genetically perfect physiology before. But the history that Three wore upon him was more fascinating by far. His back and shoulders were a tapestry of crisscrossed scars punctuated by the occasional dark stain of ink where a masterful calligraphist had inscribed captivating ideograms upon his flesh, in lines vertical and horizontal, in circles, in spirals. She wondered at their meaning.
Three set his blade aside on the basin and splashed water over his face and head several times. After the final splash, he stepped back from the basin and knelt upon the floor, feet behind him, head slightly bowed. Cass watched as his breathing slowed to such a point that she began to wonder if he had ceased breathing at all. Several minutes passed, and his stillness amazed her. For a moment, she wondered if he had perhaps fallen asleep, and if he had indeed even intended to do so. She couldn’t remember having seen him sleep at all since the beginning.
Three rose like a liquid shadow, grabbed his shirt and blade, and switched off the light. A very faint residual glow emanated from panels placed around the room, like the softest of moonlight, intended no doubt to create an atmosphere that encouraged sleep while staving off the fears that a pitch-black room made of concrete might otherwise inspire. In it, Cass could just make out Three’s movements across the room to their loaded packs. The man was utterly silent, like a dark mist driven about by an unfelt breeze. It suddenly occurred to her that she might well just be dreaming the whole event.
He crouched, then rose soon after with a bundle in his arms. He moved to the door.
“Hey,” Cass whispered.
Three halted. But didn’t turn.
“Hey back,” he answered finally, in a low voice. He waited. Waited for her to say anything more. That seemed to be his way.
“I know your secret.”
He was silent for a time. Still. Cass felt sleep’s heavy approach. She wondered briefly if she’d actually said anything at all.
“I doubt that, girl,” he finally replied. “But we’ll talk when I get back. Maybe we can start being honest with each other.”
Three opened the door, and the dim light from the corridor framed him. Cass saw he had slipped on his vest, with his pistol and short curved sword in place. And she thought she could make out a bundle of what looked like blankets in his hands.
“Where are you going?”
Three inhaled, held his breath. She saw his shoulders go up, draw back. Frustration? No. Steeling himself.
He exhaled. Checked the blade at his back. Shifted.
“To see a friend.”
And was gone.
Sixteen
Three crouched atop the Vault as the final traces of day seeped from the heavens, unveiling the first stars. Clouds were rolling in, backlit by a half-moon on the wane, tinted red from the residual glow of the electric embers of the city beneath. The Weir cried to one another, some from a distance, others less so, the echoes reverberating through the steel and concrete sprawl. Three had learned to judge those calls, or rather not to misjudge them. Magnified by overpasses, twisted by alleys, muffled by high-rises. Misreading the sounds of the hunt could prove fatal. Or worse.
Jackson hadn’t been eager to let Three back out of the Vault so close to twilight, but the kid knew better than to argue for long. And the fight had gone out of him anyway, once Three had explained. Now, out here on top of the Vault, the temperature was dropping steadily. A light wind swirled out of the surrounding alleys and moaned softly through the skeletal maglev structure, streaming like water over the top of Three’s freshly shaved head. He thought briefly about grabbing one of the old blankets he’d brought with him, but decided against it. The chill kept him alert, and comfort was an enemy.