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But she wasn’t really sure Walt would have even taken that into consideration. He was probably of the “they have to grow up sometime” school.
She had no way of knowing whether Patrick was okay inside those walls, or what his plan was to try to get out . . . at least, until the front gate opened, and a dusty, mud-stained black pickup rumbled out. Walt was in the driver’s seat, and next to him . . .
Next to him was Patrick.
Patrick seemed perfectly at ease. They were laughing together. Walt shook a cigarette out of a pack, and Patrick took it and lit up with casual competence. I didn’t know he smoked, she thought. Not that it mattered. Patrick didn’t smoke; the role he was playing did. Even the little motions—the way he sat, the tilt of his head—those were alien to her from the way Patrick normally moved. She’d never realized he was such an expert chameleon.
Funny how that seemed such a betrayal just now.
“Come on,” Bryn said, and grabbed hold of Reynolds’ arm. He was feeling better now, and from the look he shot her, he was starting to think about resisting. She twisted the arm up behind his back and stepped in close. “I’m not feeling like putting up with this, so let’s not dance, all right? Just move. ”
“You won’t kill me. You need me. ”
“That’s true,” she said. “But I have a really sharp knife, and I promise you, regenerating things that have been cut off is painful and slow. Think about all the things you could lose. I’ll be nice. I’ll just start with an ear. ”
That got him moving, willingly. He kept up with her when she settled into a run, though he was out of shape—she wondered how that worked. Did the nanites see his extra pounds as being normal? That would suck. It meant no matter how much he dieted or exercised, he’d never permanently lose a pound. They’d just find a way to put it back on. Another way that medical miracles could screw someone, she thought, and almost laughed. Almost. Luckily, she didn’t really have the breath.
The vehicle trail was full of switchbacks, to avoid too steep a grade for safe braking, but Bryn plunged straight down the slope, with Reynolds running beside her. He wasn’t too sure-footed, but he grimly kept pace until she slowed about halfway down to check their progress. Good. They’d pulled ahead of the truck, and the farther they went, the easier the footing . . . but then, the vegetation was growing more dense as the elevation fell. More brambles, thicker trees. She cut right, trying to keep the switchback road in sight as they ran.
By the time they’d forced their way through the thickest mass at the very bottom of the slope, she was exhausted, and Reynolds was gasping for breath like a man about to expire of a heart attack. He wouldn’t, of course, but he definitely wasn’t looking too good. Was his skin just a little gray, beneath the brown? She thought it might be. And his eyes had dulled, too.
He’d been Revived, not upgraded, like her. The nanites were starting to lose their ability to heal him completely, and unlike her, his couldn’t be recharged through proteins. They were starting to break down into waste products in his blood.
He was in the early stages of decomp. S
he saw it in the clumsy way he folded up when they reached the edge of the road, clinging to a tree. There wasn’t much time to get what they needed out of him, not without another shot of Returné on hand.
She almost, almost felt sorry for him.
“Please,” he whimpered. “Please let me rest. ”
“Soon,” she said. “Just stay put. ”
He didn’t have the energy to bolt, even if he had the will, so it wasn’t much of a risk leaving him there. She readied the knife, and watched as the truck made the last set of turns on the access road and stopped.
This was the moment. She had no idea where Walt was heading. . . . If he was going toward civilization, he’d probably go left, and pass near her. If not, he’d go right, and she might miss her chance.
But she saw Patrick point, and the knot in her chest eased. They were turning toward her.
One . . . two . . . on three, she bolted from cover and jumped onto the running board of the truck. Walt reacted exactly the way most people would have, with an instinctive flinch away from her, and so he didn’t see Patrick making a lightning-fast grab for the knife in Walt’s belt holster.
She didn’t have to make a move. Walt slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop, and Patrick jammed the knife into the flesh at the base of his throat—almost exactly the same spot Walt had selected when they were in opposite positions. It wasn’t, Bryn felt, an accident.
“Well, shit, Vaughn,” Walt said. “What kind of special-effects dickery is your dead girlfriend?”
“No CGIs were hurt,” Bryn said. She opened the door and stepped down from the running board as she did. Patrick unlocked Walt’s seat belt—she was mildly surprised a rebel like him was bothering to wear one—and Walt, upon some gentle knife-related urging, eased his way out of the cab. Bryn watched carefully, waiting for the tensing of muscles she knew would come; the second it did, she added her own knife, pressing in just over his kidneys. “This doesn’t have to go badly for you, Walt. Just relax. ”
“What happened to my men?”
“Sorry. ” She wasn’t. He turned his head just enough that she saw the hateful gleam in his eyes. “Didn’t have much of a choice. They weren’t going to just let us go. ”
“You were dead. I know you were. . . . ” Walt’s voice trailed off, because he’d caught sight of Reynolds clinging to the tree. His mouth opened, as if he intended to say something, but nothing came out.
“Yeah, we were,” Bryn said. “Call it a miracle. ”
“Not from any god I’d worship. ”
“I’d be surprised if you ever worshipped any god except your own ambition,” Patrick said. He was no longer being Vaughn, and the cigarette was gone, stamped out on the road. He looked taller now, and straighter. “Taking the truck, Walt. Do you want to live to make it back to your compound?”
