SolCorp's Kyiv Office

She nodded to Mark and gave Nina’s arm a squeeze. “I’m sorry again.” Out in the hall with Mark, she continued repeating herself. “I’m sorry to wake everyone up, I just got freaked out.”

“It’s understandable.” She felt him scan her mind. “Let me pick up from where Nina left off. Any plan that even entertains the idea of integrating into the human world or revisiting SolCorp’s policy of secrecy has to address the Phagi. Right now they’re responsible for something like thirty percent of Neptune’s exposure callouts.”

“What about the Children of God? Aren’t they the ones meant to be keeping them at bay?” He led her downstairs and she focused on keeping up with his long legs instead of trying to see where they were going.

Mark scoffed. “The Children of God have been fighting the Phagi for centuries and there aren’t any fewer now than when they started. Phagi were around before knacked people and will probably be around after us. We can’t wipe them out, and why would we want to?”

“Because they kill and eat people.”

“Well, next to us, at least they’re making good use of the meat.”

“I’m not sure that’s funny,” she said softly. “And my understanding is that it's a mindless feeding frenzy, not well-researched targets. It’s not the same.”

“I know the current material paints them as monsters, but the Phagi and knacked people have common origins. Similar enough that Venus’s Post Breathe gene altering technology for knacked people should be adaptable to Phagi genetics. That’s what they’re working on.”

“You’re looking for a cure.”

“Sort of. We’re looking for a treatment that would eliminate the negative aspects. We’d be hypocrites if we tried to ‘cure’ them of their knack qualities like healing, strength, speed. Their frenzy is only every third night, so if we can eliminate that, their existence would be much more palatable.”

She raised an unconvinced eyebrow. “And the whole cannibal thing?”

“You know, I don’t let many people take that tone with me.” His voice was mild, almost amused, but Anise still felt an instinctual dread. He continued, “What do you expect them to do? What would you do if you woke up tomorrow without your knack, but with an undeniable need to consume human flesh and blood?”

She thought about it with a sour stomach. Setting her shoulders back, she remembered herself and the things she could do. “I would kill myself.”

Mark didn’t react. “That’s a very popular answer. One problem: Phagi can’t. They can try all they like, but they do not have the ability to kill themselves. So what are they supposed to do?”

She avoided the question. “Can they die at all?”

“Yes, with great effort. Are you suggesting we set up voluntary death camps?” Anise didn’t answer, because he had to know what she would say. Mark went on. “Venus has been researching mass-producible bioengineered blood and organs for medical use for years now. Kyiv is just increasing that push and expanding the range of use. The Phagi can eat GMO’s like the rest of us.”

Anise found they were back in the hallway where she’d started, stopped in front of that same door. He pulled out a keyring and unlocked it.

“After you.”

Bracing herself, she walked inside and he followed close behind. The word “lair” flashed in her mind, but it was nothing like that. It was simply a well-lit Venus lab. Two agents were working. There was room for many more, but it was three in the morning after all. One was hastily typing on a desktop and another was peering into a microscope the size of a refrigerator covered in complicated looking controls. Beyond them was a small chamber with clear glass walls. Inside, the man from the hallway was sitting upright on a hospital bed. His stare was blank like she remembered, and it was like he was in a blind spot of her telepathy.

Seeing them, the agents straightened. “Sir?” the one at the computer asked.

Mark waved his hand. “We’re just looking.” As though they were in a shop.

Anise studied the Phage. Red tubing was running from a machine in the room to his lips, where it was taped in place at the corner of his mouth.

“Are we safe here?” she asked.

“He’s fine.” Mark raised a hand to wave and the Phage returned the gesture, though there was no shift in his expression.

Anise took a step back and turned to the scientist at the computer. “Is that a big drinking straw?”

“No,” the Venus agent said nervously. “It’s a pump and it’s fed down into their stomachs. It doesn’t seem to hurt them and they have no gag reflex. We’d love to have a port put in, but it’s not possible.”

“Why?”

The agent looked at Mark, confused, and he took over. “They’re studying how much and how long we have to pre-load Phagi with food so that they sleep through their frenzy. It’s a stopgap until we can find a cure, as you put it, but it’s neater than the alternatives. Local Phagi who don’t want to hurt people in their frenzy come here so we can control them.”

“You’re trying to help them.”

“We are helping them, and why wouldn’t we? It’s more reasonable than an antiquated policy of ignoring them other than to clean up their mess and keep them out of the news. I would argue it makes us a better ally to humans as well.”

Mark turned to leave and she followed, flashing the Venus agents a look of thanks. It was odd to hear someone call non-knacked people anything but civilians. He was walking again and she quickened her pace to keep up.

“You think civilians would ever go for this without it turning into world war three?”

“I think the world is getting smaller. This isn’t the seventies anymore. Sol won’t be able to control the narrative forever, so we better get prepared to present the best face on both groups. Do you really think that civilians will make a distinction between the Phagi and a knacked person strong enough to crush a motorcycle? Or one who can control their minds? The bigger issue is that you think knacked people have more in common with humans than we do with Phagi. I think differently. And civilians will too.”

They walked in silence for a while as she thought about this. The arguments pinged around in her head. It all bothered her, but she was fresh out of school. What did she know?

The next time Mark stopped, she realized they were in front of her door. She looked from it to him. Her stomach ached with all the implications her head was formulating. His argument left too many gaps that she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to fill. She couldn’t have been the first to wonder about it, though. A program that involved both knacked people and Phagi was bound to bring up the question—it sounded too much like Entropy Games.

His eyes were tired, but not angry. “Ask me.”

There was a hiccupping in her chest. She tempered and avoided anything too dangerous. She’d gotten him up so late and he’d been so kind and understanding about it. “Does LAHQ know about all this?”

“They know enough of it. They’ll thank us later.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t expect that sort of answer, she had, but she was surprised that he hadn’t lied to her. It only created more questions.

His face went soft and he cocked his head. “Get some sleep. I’m sorry the whole thing scared you.” He patted her on the back and opened the door for her. “Big day coming up.”

She would have thought sleep would never come, but as he walked away, she felt herself beginning to drift. Anise barely made it to her pillow.

---

Sanctuary. Berlin, Germany.

Misha woke them up banging on the door as he opened it.

“Wake up,” he barked loudly. “What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s late.”

Reeve shot up in bed with a jolt and Alex, beside him, jumped, automatically going for his gun, which was just out of reach on the bedside table. They were under the blankets, but Alex’s stretch for his pistol had uncovered their top halves.

Misha’s eyes flicked between them and the bloody shirt on the floor next to the pile of the rest of their clothes.

“Gotta keep that closer, Alex,” was all he said, and he shut the door behind him. They heard him shout from down the hall, “We’re out the door in fifteen.”

Shaken, Reeve got out of bed. They dressed quickly in silence, listening to the voices down the hall at breakfast, the clank of silverware. If he could hear them talking about who brewed this terrible coffee, they’d hear them if they spoke. He had his hand on the doorknob when a tug on his shirt stopped him. Alex got his far hand on the other side of his shirt and turned him around. He just looked at Reeve for a moment, then tipped his head up to kiss him, soft and light, sending electricity through his veins. Reeve grabbed at his forearm to steady himself.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“You still okay?” Reeve asked, trying to keep his voice casual, glancing over at the door in case Alex missed the hint.

“You can stop asking,” he said quietly.

Reeve gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and forced himself out into the hall.

Alyosha offered to stay behind so the Children could get their sleep schedule back to normal while the rest of them accompanied Misha to get an answer. After last night, no one seemed in the mood to sit around twiddling their thumbs. They stopped outside a glass office building.

“You wait here,” Misha said, pointing to some benches. “You,” he looked to Reeve, “come up with me. I don’t want to listen to you bitch about not being there.”

He didn’t argue or mention that Misha seemed to bitch a great deal himself, and followed close behind. Misha gave his name, using the last name Church, at a shiny black reception desk. The pristine, professional look of it made Reeve feel uncomfortable, reminding him of Sol. Reeve in his buttondown at least seemed to fit in, compared to Misha in his long, tattered coat. The receptionist checked her computer and nodded. Misha took him to an elevator and selected the thirty-second floor.

Reeve watched him as he stood, leaning against the wall and staring, bored, at the numbers that marked the floors as they lit up one by one. He thought of the sharp look in Misha’s eyes this morning. Reeve lowered his gaze to study the floor.

“Are we going to have to have a conversation?” Reeve asked, keeping his voice as emotionless as possible.

“No,” he answered flatly.

Reeve raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“You’re surprised.”

Reeve let out a breathy, exasperated laugh.

“I mimicked you this morning,” Misha said, turning to look at him. “I didn’t go into any heads, just listened on the walk over here. He seems fine.”

Reeve blinked, heart pounding.

Misha continued, one eyebrow raised. “Are you?”

The elevator came to a stop and pinged for their floor. Misha brushed off his sleeves and knocked his dirty boots against the wall to shake off the worst of the clods in a rare display of personal grooming.

“Just keep your mouth shut in there, huh?”

Once they got the okay, they were moved into a well-appointed office with floor to ceiling windows. A man waved them in. He wore an expensive suit and looked to be in his early fifties. He had a body like a runner, rail thin and sinewy.

“Kurt,” Misha said a little loudly with a wide smile, shaking his hand as he stood up from behind a long desk. Misha continued in German and Reeve blinked, on edge. He caught the phrase “Reeve Church” and jumped to extend a hand to the man. Misha gestured to the man and overly enunciated, “Herr Fischer.” He didn’t like this. Not much point in him being in the room if he couldn’t understand what was being said.

Fischer shook his hand, nodding to him curtly. Afterwards, still looking at Reeve, he moved his left hand in small circles and said something.

“Your tattoo,” Misha muttered.

Reeve swiftly unbuttoned his sleeve cuff and rolled it up to bare the slightly swollen matchstick cross. Fischer smiled and sat down.

“Sit,” Misha said, before returning to some back and forth in German. “He is happy with the job,” Misha told Reeve smugly. “I will ask him about your information.”

Misha spoke and Fischer tapped at his desk absentmindedly. Misha translated quickly, staggering between sentences.

“I have heard of this Network. I met a man once, who came to us for work. He used to be a part of the American company, SolCorp. He was a superior ass and I didn’t much like him.” Misha paused his translating to give Reeve a sour look.

“He told me that he was trying to find the Network—but he didn’t know what city they were in. As he understood it, when you made yourself known to the Church in a city, the Network will somehow know. The Network would contact him when he was close to them.” Misha returned to German in a harsh tone.

“What did you just say?” Reeve hissed.

“That he needs to learn English because I don’t have the patience for this shit. Shut up.” Fischer continued. “He says he never saw the man again and didn’t give him work. No one has asked him about it until we did.”

“Can you ask him how long ago this was?”

“I can remind you to shut the fuck up.” But he translated anyway. “He thinks it was two or three years ago.”

Reeve nodded. “Tell him ‘Thank you.’” Misha did, and Reeve repeated it phonetically, using his surname.

“Now we go,” Misha said, sounding more ornery than usual. He practically shoved him toward the door. Staying behind, Misha shook Fischer’s hand again and accepted an envelope that looked stiff with bills.

Back in the elevator, Reeve said, “I thought we were working for information?”

“We did. This should be a much fatter stack. You are welcome.”

Reeve swallowed. “Thank you.”

“Does that help?”

“Yes—and no, not at all.”

---

Entropy Games Office. Paris, France.

Adjusting his grip on his suitcase, Wyatt ran through the list for the eighth time as he walked into the games office building, where the legitimate business side of Entropy Games was centered. He’d packed clothes, toiletries, one good suit, comfortable clothes for the ride, cash, and the company card.

The receptionist working the desk smiled in greeting. She was expecting him and brought out two large rolling suitcases from behind the desk as he approached.

“Liz dropped these off for you.” She asked, “For the convention in London?”

Wyatt smiled politely back. “Yeah, thank you.” He loved and hated working game conventions. He loved being away from home, being around normal people with normal jobs and families, and having space to just exist out of view. He hated the part where his father, Adler, would scrutinize his performance as a company ambassador to the smallest misstep when he got back, and knowing Arielle would be watching him as well. There would be five people working the convention, but there was always one whose job it was to report back.

Pulling the two bulky cases over to the side, Wyatt waited for Arielle. There were two vans going, and she was driving this one with just the two of them. He waited. And waited. Eventually, Wyatt resorted to thumbing through the suitcase contents. His father would blame him, surely, if they forgot something. The printed canvas banners were there, the games of course, tablets for point of sale, branded tablecloths, a range of branded merch, like buttons, tote bags, stickers, dice, playing cards, and clothes.

"That's a new one."

His father's voice made him jump. This was exactly what he was trying to avoid.

Adler had his suit jacket neatly draped over one arm and had caught Wyatt refolding one of their t-shirts for sale. It had the Entropy Games logo across the chest: a white pawn chess piece casting a shadow of a black knight chess piece, except in this version, the pawn was neon pink leopard print.

“Yeah,” he stammered, taking an involuntary step back.

“Arielle will be down in a minute.” Of course. He’d be giving her last minute instructions. His father plucked the shirt from his fingers and looked closer at it with a wry smile. “That’s ridiculous,” he chuckled as he folded the shirt and handed it back to Wyatt.

It was never good when his father was in a pleasant mood. It didn’t denote anything…safe.

“What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Of course.”

“You’re cheerful.”

“Well, I got some news. Actually, you might be interested to know. You remember Gareth, right?”

There was a jolt in his blood. Of course he did. One of the few of his father’s friends that he liked and that had liked him back. “He’s in Sol now.”

“Not anymore. They burned him some months past, but since then he’s been missing.”

“And?”

“And now we know where he is, so I’m going to set up a reunion.” The sincere look of glee in his eyes was distressing, as if he truly believed Wyatt would think this was great.

Wyatt was speechless.

“You’ll wrinkle that,” Adler said, as he put his coat back on. Wyatt realized he was crushing the t-shirt in his grip. Adler patted him on the arm. “Good luck at the convention. Push that new woodland creature co-op. It’s cute and the miniatures went way over budget.”

He left. Wyatt smoothed the shirt in his hands and repacked it.

When he arrived at their London hotel, Wyatt could barely recall the six hour drive. His mind had wandered off, going through his memories. Many of them were hazy fragments because he’d been too young to really remember them. It was less recall and more an innate sense of Gareth’s presence. But there had been a few that had taken root as he’d gotten older.

He knew he must have been nine or ten at the time, because Adler had been promoted by then and they were living in Paris full-time. His childhood had been a little lonely, he now understood after talking to people who didn’t grow up the way he did. There were very few other kids around, if any, let alone near to him in age, and most of the adults either treated him coolly or avoided him entirely.

Wyatt recalled walking through the dining hall, a little overwhelmed by all the dissonant chatter and guarded looks, but he had burst into a run when he spotted Gareth. Looking back and doing the math, Gareth had to have been only sixteen years old at the most, but to Wyatt, he was one of the grown ups and may as well have been thirty for all he could tell. Gareth was tall like Adler, but bulkier, strong. The kind of thing where Wyatt could latch onto his leg, sitting on Gareth’s foot, and it wouldn’t slow Gareth down at all.

He remembered running up to Gareth, who was sitting down to eat, and shouting excitedly, “Gareth! Gareth! It’s Friday!”

Gareth turned to look at him and took a second to finish chewing, face serious, before saying, “No, I’m pretty sure it’s Thursday, kid.”

“No,” Wyatt protested loudly. “It’s Friday and you—”

“Hey,” Gareth called to the table next to them where a group of people were chatting. “Hey, it’s definitely Wednesday right?”

Wyatt drew out the word “No” as long as his little lungs could carry him.

The people at the other table had looked confused and critical of the whole interaction. Wyatt understood now that it was because they hadn’t known to play along.

“It’s Friday,” one of them told Gareth with a dour expression.

“See?” Wyatt burst out, elated and relieved.

Gareth cocked his head with a deep squint. “Huh, I guess it is Friday.” All of a sudden his face transformed into a bright smile and he pointed one finger at Wyatt. “Wait, didn’t I promise to take you to the zoo on Friday?”

“Yes,” he whooped.

“Well, okay then.”

He remembered Gareth popping out of his chair and scooping him up with one arm, whirling him around as he spun. He recalled the giggling and hiccuping sensation of stopping abruptly at his father’s voice calling Gareth’s name. When Adler raised his voice, it had always frozen Wyatt in his tracks with a sinking feeling. It still did. His dad had never hit him. He had never needed to.

“What is it?” Gareth asked.

“I need to be on the ground in San Francisco for two weeks. You and Mia are coming with me.” If Gareth had been as close to an uncle as Wyatt had ever really had, Mia was as close as he’d get to an aunt. Looking back, he couldn’t strictly speak to what kind of relationship the two of them had, exactly, but they were around each other often and never complained about spending time with him.

Gareth put him down carefully. “Mia’s still recovering from her disagreement with Guillaume. Her leg’s a mess.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking her to walk there,” his father had countered.

Gareth sucked his teeth with a click. “When?”

“Now.”

Wyatt remembered feeling like a deflating balloon, but by that age, he’d learned not to challenge his dad.

“Come on,” Gareth argued. “I promised him all week I’d take him to the zoo today.”

Adler looked down at Wyatt with a scowl he recognized, his look of being inconvenienced. It was a look he was still very familiar with.

Wyatt allowed himself a tentative, “Please?” and a pout.

His dad’s expression intensified, causing a spike of fear, then broke into a thin half-smile. “You’ve got four hours.”

Wyatt remembered some few moments of their actual time at the zoo, but those parts had faded more than the dining hall and the silly faces they’d made at each other during the Metro ride. He wished he’d retained more of that day.

Gareth had never come back from that trip to San Francisco. Mia either. She’d been killed somehow, and he’d betrayed them for Sol. It had heartbroken Wyatt for a long time. He’d wanted for a good portion of his childhood to get a chance to see Gareth again, but he didn't anymore. It wasn’t that he no longer cared, or that he blamed him for leaving. (As someone around the age Gareth had been when he’d left, he got it.) But if Wyatt ever had the chance to see Gareth, it would be because Adler had found him. And Wyatt didn’t see a way for Gareth to leave that encounter alive.

At the hotel, Wyatt showered off his cold sweat and got dressed. He needed to be on tonight. His dad would know if he wasn’t.

***