Chimera

Three House Rules

My cell phone woke me from a fitful sleep with an insistent buzz. A specific buzz, too, telling me I had an urgent message from the War Room—a function programmed into all of our phones.

Debriefing at noon.

Joy. It was almost eleven already, which gave me enough time to grab a hot shower and get something to eat. The shower loosened sore muscles and comforted my newest bruises. Since I was already blue in many places (except for the purple and pink parts that were burn scars), bruises turned my skin inky black. My back looked like a fountain pen had exploded all over it.

I’ve been blue-skinned since I was eight years old. Out of the last twenty years of my life, I’ve spent maybe two of them hating my unusual appearance—the first year and the year after the War, when we lost our powers and the surviving Meta kids were sent our separate ways. For the rest of those years, I’d had people around me who accepted me for who I was and what I looked like. First the Rangers, and then my foster parents. I’d learned to love my unique (to say the least) appearance.

Lately, though, the very things I used to love make me turn away from my reflection. And don’t think it’s because I’m vain and my scars make me sick. It isn’t that, not really. The scars are part of me now. It’s how my powers have changed. I’ve always felt like a lesser Meta than my friends, with a less useful power that only occasionally comes in handy. Now that my powers are barely functioning and I’ve resorted to running around with a gun . . . well, you can figure it out.

And no amount of pep talks from Teresa or tequila shots with Ethan have made me feel better about my situation. It didn’t help that the front-runner in this year’s presidential election was running on a successful anti-Meta platform, and that in six months we had a very real chance of being locked up as weapons of mass destruction. People were scared of us, period, and the Recombinants running around causing trouble (not to mention devastating 9.0 earthquakes in California) were only digging our grave faster and wider.

It’s hard to get up every single day and fight for a future we don’t have.

But I do, because it’s just not in me to lie down and die. It’s not in any of us.

I headed down to the cafeteria on the first floor to grab some coffee before the debriefing. There’s no regular meal schedule, just an open kitchen that’s kept stocked with basics so people can come and go as they please. It’s probably not the most cost-effective system, but trying to schedule mealtimes and assign cooking duties would be pointless. We’re off the island at regular meal hours half the time, anyway.

But there is always plenty of hot coffee ready, and I poured a mug to take with me. I contemplated a platter of bagels that was left out on one of the dozen round tables, then seized one that looked like blueberry. Might as well put something in my stomach besides caffeine. On my way out I nearly ran right into Double Trouble. An exhausted, pale Double Trouble who looked like she wanted to find the nearest receptacle and toss her lunch.

Three months ago, through a series of unfortunate events, our newest teammate Dahlia Perkins permanently joined bodies with hybrid-Changeling Noah Scott (Aaron’s younger brother). They can take turns “owning” the body—controlling the physical actions, as well as appearance—but so far we’ve been unable to figure out how to separate them from each other. I’d never say it out loud, but I feel sorry for them. I don’t know how I’d cope, always having someone else in my head.

And lately the pair hasn’t been looking so hot—in either face. Noah is in control more often than not, and when Dahlia comes out she always looks exhausted. Or like she’s getting over a serious bout of food poisoning. Changelings weren’t meant to carry more than one host at a single time, and the former Changeling called Ace (who took permanent residence in Noah Scott back in June) had been hosting two for the last three months. He couldn’t absorb Dahlia permanently, and because her physical body died when she was absorbed, he also couldn’t kick her back out. They were stuck with each other, and it wasn’t doing either of them any favors—except when they combined their two Meta powers. Dahlia absorbed fire; Ace the Changeling was telekinetic.

Then they were pretty damned amazing to see in action.

At the moment, Dahlia was in control. Here on the island, Noah and Aaron were free to wander around in their own faces if they wished, but outside our little world, they were still wanted criminals. Noah hid behind Dahlia on the rare occasions when they went out, while Aaron had created an entire persona named Scott Torres, who was quite well known among the Manhattan prisoners.

“Sorry,” I said, even though I was the one whose coffee nearly ended up on her clothes.

“My fault,” Dahlia said. “You okay?”

“Fine, why?”

“I don’t know, you had this odd look on your face a second ago.”

“This is what I look like on four hours of sleep. I know it’s not pretty, but there it is.”

She scowled. “Never mind. See you later.”

A tiny flash of guilt cooled my stomach as she brushed past me. That had been happening more often lately—not so much me snapping at Dahlia, but feeling guilty about it afterward. Being stuck to Noah like that couldn’t be fun for her (God knows it blew for the rest of us), but I never used to care what she thought of me. Or anyone else, for that matter, except for Teresa, Gage, Marco, and Ethan.

Something occurred to me and I turned around. “Hey, Dahlia? Are you going to the debriefing?”

She paused while reaching for a bagel, and when she looked over her shoulder, her face was stormy. “No.”

“Okay.”

Halfway to the War Room, the significance of her exclusion hit me. Dahlia had been with us since January, and she’d been part of most of our biggest operations, up to and including the move to the East Coast. But she hadn’t been part of last night’s stakeouts, and she wasn’t invited to the meeting today. Why?

Who cares?

I made it to the War Room with a few minutes to spare. Both a conference room and a communications center, the War Room has a long, U-shaped conference table lined with chairs, two large monitors set up on the wall opposite the windows, and a workstation below them. A shoulder-high wall splits the conference room from the communications side, where the majority of Marco’s computer magic happens.

Marco Mendoza was at the conference terminal when I entered. He glanced up and nodded, then returned to his work. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Marco smile. Or willingly join in a casual conversation. More and more, he reminded me of the nearly feral kid who spent more time as a panther than as a human, just so he didn’t have to make friends. Ever since he was absorbed by another hybrid-Changeling for a day, and then pulled apart by our ally Simon Hewitt, a powerful telepath . . . Marco had changed.

I grabbed a seat and ate my bagel while the others filed inside. Teresa and Gage McAllister, together for a change, but with a noticeable distance between them. Alexia and Ethan came in together, in the middle of a chat about Alexia’s daughter Muriel. His left wrist was wrapped tightly in a bandage, the fingers less swollen than when I last saw him. The only face I wasn’t used to seeing in these meetings was Sebastian Rojas, another pardoned Bane. He could spit acid and was super-strong, and he had actual pre-War military training that Teresa seemed to find useful, so she kept inviting him to these things and asking his opinion.

The sour look Gage gave Sebastian did not go unnoticed by me.

Except for Marco and Sebastian, no members of the other stakeout teams were here. Alexia, Ethan, and I took turns narrating what had happened last night, focusing on how Jack and Jill (which, to my surprise and delight, everyone started using in lieu of Target One and Target Two) used their powers.

“It probably sounds odd,” Ethan said, “but Jill? She really reminded me of Mayhem, you know? The way her powers worked and how she looked when she fought.”

“Crazy?” I asked.

“Pissed and scared.”

I hadn’t seen the scared in either of those kids earlier this morning. They worked like seasoned thieves, never panicking or taking an extra, unnecessary step.

“It sounds as if they’ve had training,” Teresa said. “The big question is, from who?”

“I doubt they picked up those skills at community college,” I said.

“No, but someone must have been training them for this since before our powers returned. Learning how to be a competent thief is one thing, but doing it with the added stress of adapting to new Meta powers?”

“It’s not impossible.”

“No, but it’s unlikely.”

“So was someone training future Metas on purpose,” Sebastian said, “or is this a coincidence?”

“I don’t like coincidences.”

“They do happen.”

“I’d buy one of them being Meta as a coincidence,” Gage said with a little snap in his voice, “but not both.”

“Agreed,” Teresa said.

Marco muttered something in Spanish. “I think I have something,” he said more clearly.

He tapped his keyboard. One of the monitors came to life with the photo Ethan had taken on his phone. Jack’s face was pretty clear, angled mostly at the camera, while Jill gave us only profile. Their features were easy to make out, though, and a collage of lines and dots appeared. “I used facial recognition software to pinpoint certain features and find possible matches in the government’s identification database.”

Marco code for: I broke into the federal licensing system and we’re matching them up like yearbook photos.

“And you have a match?” Teresa asked.

“It is not perfect, and it makes no sense.”

“What do you mean?”

Another image appeared next to the first. This was an official prison identification photo taken the day all of the depowered Banes were rounded up, weeks before the prison walls and defenses were finished and the inhabitants set free to roam. He was fifteen years younger, but I recognized the face.

“No way,” Ethan said.

“Derek Thatcher?” Teresa said.

Thatcher was one of the loudest protesters when it came to our government and its policies regarding Metas. He firmly believed that one day the government would declare all Metas dangerous and criminal, lock all of us up in Manhattan, and make us subject to the whims of the regular humans who feared and hated us. It was the only time I’d ever actually agreed with a Bane.

“There are a lot of reasons why that’s not possible,” Ethan said, “starting with the fact that Derek is twenty years older than the kid we fought this morning.”

“Not to mention he’s in jail,” I said softly.

Ethan shot me a glare, and I shrugged. It was true.

“I have to admit, there’s a strong resemblance,” Teresa said. “And we’ve fought clones before.”

“Of Rangers, not Banes. Thatcher was never a Ranger.”

“Does Thatcher have any children?” Gage asked.

All eyeballs in the room bounced between Ethan, Sebastian, and Alexia—the three people who’d spent the most time with the man. Ethan and Alexia looked as perplexed as I felt. “None that he ever mentioned to me,” Alexia said.

Sebastian was silent, though, which earned him a lot of unwanted attention. He looked at Teresa’s curious, expectant face, and he sighed. “This may or may not be relevant,” he said. “A few months after the start of our incarceration, Thatcher had a rough patch emotionally. We weren’t friends, at the time I didn’t really care what he was dealing with, but I overheard some others talking about him.”

“Saying what?” Teresa asked.

“That he had a wife and kid on the outside, and that they’d been killed in a fire.”

Her eyes widened. “A son?”

“I only heard kid, but they mentioned he or she was three.”

Marco was back on his computer, searching away.

“The age fits,” Ethan said. “And in a way, the powers do, too. Jack is telekinetic, and Derek’s chemical transmutation powers work on a similar level of telekinesis.”

“So someone tells Thatcher that his wife and kid are dead, but instead the kid is alive and . . . what? Taken to Sherwood Forest and trained to rob people?” I asked.

“It’s a theory.”

“I have information,” Marco said. Both photos shifted to a single screen. The second showed a news article with photos and the headline “Tragic Fire Claims Lives of Two.” “Jennifer and Landon Cunningham, ages twenty-nine and three.”

I looked at the date. Three months after the end of the War. I was still in the psych ward then, oblivious to everything except my own pain. The article also had photos of the pair. The little boy possessed the exact same eyes as Thatcher. Jack, too.

“One moment,” Marco said. He did something on the computer that pulled Landon’s childhood photo away, then began to age him. A number beneath the photo went upward from 3, 4, 5, and the little boy slowly morphed into a teenager. Marco stopped on 18. He pulled Ethan’s cell photo back over to compare.

“Holy shit,” Ethan said softly.

Jack was Landon Cunningham—I’d swallow my own tongue if he wasn’t.

“Still think this is a coincidence?” Gage asked Sebastian.

Sebastian met his glare, and I swear the room temperature dropped a few degrees. “It seems I was wrong. I don’t mind admitting to my mistakes.”

Gage flushed. Teresa sighed, and I was totally lost. But I wasn’t without my favorite tension breaker, so I leaned across the table toward them. “Seriously, do I need to whip out a measuring stick, or what?”

“I will research this connection further,” Marco said, louder than usual to get everyone’s attention. “In the meantime, a visit to Thatcher may be in order.”

“To rub the past in his face?” Sebastian asked.

“To see what he knows of recent events, as well as inform him of our discovery.”

“I want to be certain first,” Teresa said. “Certain that the boy from the warehouse really is Landon Cunningham, and that Landon is also Thatcher’s son.”

“Of course, Catalepsia.”

“Can your program de-age a photo, too?” Ethan asked. “Might be worth trying that on Jill, just to see if she supposedly died fifteen years ago, too.”

“Good idea,” Teresa said.

“I will do that, as well,” Marco said.

“If we do talk to Derek, I’d like to be there,” Ethan said. “He trusts me, so he’ll know we aren’t trying to jerk him around with this kind of news.”

Teresa nodded. “All right. Renee?”

“What?” I said.

“I want you to go with him.”

A chill rippled down my spine. I hadn’t set foot on Manhattan in fifteen years, and I had no intention of going now. “Why me?”

“Because you saw those two kids up close and personal, just like Ethan.”

“You know my diplomacy skills are about as good as your Spanish.”

She gave me a wry smile. “I trust you to behave and do your job.”

“Which is going to be what, exactly?”

“Presenting Thatcher with whatever evidence we have, and then finding out what he knows about his son possibly being alive and a criminal.”

I could do that. “Okay.”

“Good. I’ll let you guys know what Marco finds.”

We were dismissed. I moved slowly, hoping for a chance to talk to Teresa alone, but she hung back with Marco. Gage made a fast escape, too. Not that I’d have chased after him. Gage was stubbornly laconic when it suited him.

Ethan, on the other hand, was waiting for me outside in the hallway. “You don’t look all that excited to be working with me again,” he said, falling into step next to me.

“It’s not you, Windy, it’s the situation,” I replied.

“We can have Thatcher brought to the observation tower. You don’t have to fly to the Warren to talk to him.” The Warren being the name of the old apartment building outside Central Park where the prisoners had settled.

“Am I that transparent?”

“Slightly opaque.”

“Gee, thanks.” I chewed on my upper lip. “Can we really do that? Question him at the observation tower?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Thanks.”

We walked in silence for a bit, until we found ourselves outside heading toward the open field on the north end of the island. Past the foundations of brick homes long since destroyed. A place called Fort Jay had once stood farther out past the fields, and it was now a barren hole in the ground.

“So was that a little awkward just now, or was it me?” Ethan asked.

“You mean with Gage and Sebastian?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not you.”

“Have you talked to Teresa lately?”

“Not about anything too serious. You?”

“No.”

Half a dozen people were on one of the fields doing self-defense exercises. Marco usually taught those classes, but one of the Greens (i.e., new, untrained Metas) who’d joined us during the earthquake cleanup was also a martial arts instructor, and he’d been helping out. We settled on a wooden bench under a tree with leaves just turning yellow.

“Do you think something’s going on with them?” I asked, stretching my feet out in front of me—normally, not all crazy bendy.

“With Teresa and Gage? Or Teresa and Sebastian?”

“Either. Both? I don’t know. All I know is the vibe was freaking weird.”

“Yeah.” He lifted his left hand and inspected the visible fingers, flexing each one as though testing to see if they were still attached. The bandage looked tight.

“Sorry about this morning.” The words got out before I could stop them.

Ethan shifted on the bench and stared at me. “For what?”

I hadn’t meant to apologize out loud. “Not being more useful. Not shooting them both and stopping this faster. You getting smashed into a wall. Take your pick.”

“You were very useful this morning. You did the best you could against two very powerful Metas. My getting smashed into a wall wasn’t your fault.” He pulled a face. “Besides, you’ve seen my track record for attracting injuries, so it was probably inevitable.”

“We’re all pretty good at getting ourselves hurt.”

He wrapped his right hand around my left and squeezed. I returned the gesture, grateful for the support and the understanding. It’s what I loved most about my friends—I didn’t have to explain things. They knew. We gazed out past the training exercises to the Manhattan skyline, and I couldn’t help wondering what it had looked like fifty years ago. Long before destruction cut down its tallest buildings. Before the world’s tallest fence rose up around it and all bridges were destroyed. When it had once been a thriving metropolis full of the hopes and dreams of its residents.

Long before the battles between Rangers and Banes destroyed it all.

We sat there until our cell phones buzzed with identical summonses back to the War Room. Teresa and Marco were still there. She handed us a tablet with the information we needed.

“I found a marriage license from the state of Georgia,” Marco said, “between Jennifer Elizabeth Cunningham and Derek Alan Thatcher.” The date was the year before the official outbreak of the War. “The marriage was invalidated two months later because it came to light that Thatcher was only seventeen.”

Ethan gave a start. His mouth puckered up. I did a few mental calculations to peg Thatcher’s age at thirty-seven or -eight. Made me wonder if Thatcher looked older or younger in person. His nonwife was twenty-nine when she died, making her twenty-four when they were married. Interesting.

“The age of consent in Georgia is sixteen,” Teresa said, answering a question I hadn’t dared ask.

“What about her son, Landon?” I asked. “Any proof he’s Thatcher’s?”

“The original birth certificate lists Thatcher as the father,” Marco replied. “Jennifer changed it to no name a month before the end of the War. I also aged the photograph of Landon several different ways. His features still match the photo of our burglary suspect.”

I thumbed through the information on the tablet, my stomach twisting up tight at the thought of our impending mission. “Fabulous,” I muttered.

“Derek is not going to react well to this,” Ethan said.

“You think?”

“I’m serious, Renee. He and Freddy have always argued the loudest and strongest for the children living on that island. Derek has supported everything Freddy has said or done to keep their kids safe. Finding out his own son has been alive and kept from him all these years?” Ethan shook his head sadly. “This isn’t going to go well.”

Freddy McTaggert—aka the Bane formerly known as Jinx, Ethan’s biological father, and the father of Ethan’s eight-year-old half-brother Andrew. Freddy, along with Thatcher and a few other loyal followers, had avoided contact with the prison authorities for months in an effort to protect Andrew and another child from being taken from them. I might have zero sympathy for Derek Thatcher as a Bane, but he was a father, and my heart hurt for the horrible truth we were about to lay on him.

For once in my life, I would be absolutely content to let Ethan do all the talking.