Harmonic (2 page)

For a while.

You don't get to be the best by doing the minimum. And when my ranking slipped six months ago—from first position to third—I had to choose: Laurel or the job.

Two choices, one future.

I couldn't see a way to fit them both in, and I chose the one I'd been raised to do. I was a Walker first and a girlfriend second.

I ended us, as sharp and final as a cleaving. If you're going to cut off a limb, the cleaner it is, the faster it heals.

So I've heard, anyway.

But that's all interpretation. The facts are simple: I loved Laurel and she loved me, but I loved work more and she didn't love being second. Since then, I've avoided the Archives, mutual friends, or anything that might tempt me to reconsider. The choice is made, the past is locked in place.

I'm the top Walker in my cohort, and that's enough. It has to be.

And I can handle seeing her again. To prove it, I stop at her desk before I leave.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine,” she says, the word clipped and flat.

“Good,” I say, but she's not fine, and it's not good, and I know that we are one more thing I can't fix. I shift the books, trying to relieve the strain on my arms. “I should get these back to Lockport. He's going to wonder what's taking so long.”

Her eyes narrow. “Yeah. We wouldn't want to disappoint.”

I've disappointed enough people to last a lifetime, but I say, “That's not fair.”

“No,” she agrees. “But what is?”

C
HAPTER THREE

L
ockport is gone when I get back to the office. Apparently the data run is less urgent than he suggested, which confirms my belief something is up.

I set the reports and maps outside his door. I'm only halfway through the list, but I can't make myself go back to the Archives. Taking the easy way out is a luxury, and today I allow it. Wrinkling my nose at the half-eaten doughnut Bryn left behind, I sit down and begin paging through the reports I've brought from home.

Break analysis can't hold my attention, which has scattered in a million glittering directions, like a child's sparkler. Laurel's had that effect on me since the first time we met, a crackling, brilliant, breathtaking light in the darkness.

The problem is that sparklers don't last long. They burn out, and you've got nothing to show for it.

The Consort doesn't have a problem with me, or any other Walker, being gay. They care about choices, and liking girls is a characteristic, not a choice. It's my talent that matters, not who I kiss.

That's the official line, at least.

Unofficially, it's a different story. The sacred duty of a Walker is to protect the Key World. It's a task that grows more difficult each day, as the population grows and the Echoes increase exponentially. There are more than six billion people in the world and only sixty thousand Walkers. We can't keep up.

Which is why the
second
sacred duty of a Walker is to reproduce. Technically, I can do this. But there are . . . logistical issues, and everyone knows it.

It shouldn't matter, but sometimes I can't help feeling less. As if who I love, and my willingness to pass along the Walker gene, matters more than my Walking. I don't know if Walkers who can't have kids—or who don't want them—feel this way. I've never met one, and I haven't asked.

I have met other gay walkers—not a lot, but enough to notice that none of them have made it to the Consort. None of them are First Chairs or division heads. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe it isn't. But either way, it's unsettling to realize that everyone you look up to . . . is something you're not.

I'm the best Walker in my class, the best Cleaver among my cohort, but when the Consort reviews my file, they don't see a Walker. They see a lesbian who also Walks.

My only recourse is to focus on the work. To prove I'm just as talented as the other Walkers, that I can move between worlds with the same degree of ease, that I can manipulate the strings of a world with the same skill as I play my viola.

I want to be the best—not the lesbian. Not the best lesbian Walker, even. Just the best; the perfect Walker, the one who never sets a foot wrong. Twice as good as anyone else, so that when people talk about me, it's my ability and not my sexuality they're discussing. Not fair, but as Laurel says, what is?

Work is even more important now that I've spent the past month and a half stumbling around the multiverse with Del, doing more harm than good. We fixed the anomaly at the expense of Simon's life, but it's impossible to know how extensive the damage is. I've got a lot of ground to make up, though I'm the only one who realizes it.

I yank on my desk drawer, remembering too late that Bryn always pulls it off the track. It flies open and overturns, pens and spare tools dumping all over the carpet. “Damn it!”

For the second time that day, I find myself crouched on the floor. A pair of glossy black wingtips appears at the edge of my vision.

“Good morning, Addison.”

“Councilman!” My head snaps up. Randolph Lattimer, head of the Cleavers, stands at the edge of my mess, looking amused—or at least that's what I assume, given the way the corners of his mouth are pulled back. He helps me up, his hand cool and dry against my clammy one. “What a surprise.”

Which is absolutely true. Before the anomaly, spotting
any
member of the Consort outside the sixteenth floor was a rarity. They expect us to come to them. Lately, though, I've seen Lattimer everywhere, and it's beginning to feel like an omen.

“I'd heard you were still in the building,” he says.

I don't bother making excuses he'll see through. Instead, I smooth my hair back and give him my best smile. “Can I help you? Lockport is out right now, but I can pass along a message.”

“No need,” Lattimer says, and the smile stretches farther. “I was looking for you.”

The floor is mostly deserted, but the people who remain are gaping. This visit will feed their stories and speculation, making it that much harder for me to get back to work.

Lattimer notices their stares, nods in greeting, and gestures toward the elevators. “We'd like to discuss some matters with you privately.”

I bob my head. My hands are full of pens, and I throw them on the desk with a clatter. Before I can bend to scoop up the rest, he says, “Leave them,” and waves over another Cleaver to clean up instead.

Lattimer escorts me upstairs, to the Chamber of the Minor Consort, a grandiose name for what amounts to a boardroom. The hallway outside is deserted. The daily cleaving plans, the Repertoires, have already been delivered and approved. Lattimer waves the guards away and indicates I should stand in the center of the floor. It's the exact spot I stood in two days ago, when I formally testified against Monty. The other two Consort members—Councilwoman Bolton and Councilwoman Crane—are already seated behind the table, waiting for me.

My pulse drums a frantic tempo as I stand, hands folded in front of me, spine straight, wondering if I'm the next one on trial.

Years of watching Del get in trouble have honed my ability to predict it, and none of the Consort are watching me with the pinched mouths and narrowed eyes so often on display at my house. Rather, they look somber and a little pensive. Lattimer takes his seat, and Crane begins.

“Please forgive the interruption, Addison.”

The Consort doesn't need my forgiveness. The Consort is a law unto itself, answerable only to the Major Consort. I've sworn an oath to obey them. Crane's apology is so ludicrous, a nervous laugh bubbles up. I clamp my mouth shut and breathe through my nose, trying not to look rattled.

“We were very impressed with your handling of recent events: taking your sister in hand, dealing with your grandfather's betrayal, identifying the anomaly and disposing of it. All of these show the kind of leadership and insight we look for in our First Chairs.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” My stomach twists at her praise. Disposing of the anomaly cost a seventeen-year-old boy his life.

“When you took over your sister's training, we promised you a chance at advancement should things go well. We want to make good on that promise.”

The urge to bite my nails is overwhelming. I broke the habit years ago, but in the past few weeks it has come back with a vengeance. I twist my fingers together and force my lips into something approaching a smile as she continues.

“As you know, we've been working hard to control the damage from the anomaly, and we've made good progress. But it's clear that your grandfather couldn't have executed this plan on his own. He had the help of Free Walkers, and it's imperative we root them out before they can make another attempt at destabilizing the Key World.”

I nod.

“Your family history gives you a unique advantage. You know Montrose. You know how he thinks, his typical haunts, his habits,” Lattimer cuts in.

“Del knows him better than I do,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Your sister's perspective is skewed,” Bolton says, braids swaying as she shakes her head in dismay. “She was blinded by affection, and now she's blinded by hatred. We can't afford either extreme. Which makes you the perfect candidate to help us.”

Because I'm not prone to emotion. The laugh threatens again, and I cover by saying, “Why not ask my parents? My mom would know.”

“We need your parents for other matters,” Lattimer says. “And considering how little they knew about your grandfather's plans, one wonders exactly how clear-sighted they are.”

A threat lurks beneath the words, no matter how lightly they're delivered. He wonders if my parents knew—if they turned a blind eye to Monty's scheme. The idea is ridiculous. We all faced the Consort's questions, but my parents' interrogation ended more quickly than anyone else's. They knew nothing, they hid nothing; their bewilderment was genuine. My parents are loyal to the core. The Consort comes before everything, including family. It's what makes them so good at what they do.

My parents are the job, and I've learned from their example.

Lattimer continues. “We believe there are Free Walkers in the area. Perhaps even inside this building. We want you to find them.”

“You think there are spies in the Consort?”

The idea is as ridiculous as his suspicion of my parents. Except . . .

Except it's happened before. My grandparents and Simon's father were proof the Consort could be infiltrated. If it happened twenty years ago, who's to say it couldn't happen again?

A cold whisper at the back of my mind makes me wonder if I'm a suspect too.

“What would you want me to do? Arrest them?”

“Simply locate them,” Crane says. “We'll make sure they stand trial for their crimes.”

Bolton speaks. “Now that the Free Walkers' existence is widely known, it's imperative we prove how dangerous they are.”

By sending me after them?

“I'm flattered,” I say, choosing the words with care. “But shouldn't this be a matter for the Enforcement Branch?”

“Enforcement will follow up on any information you provide. We need your expertise—your knowledge of the Echoes and Montrose alike—to locate the Free Walkers,” Crane says.

“We'll provide you with security, of course. It is vital that you not engage the Free Walkers on your own; they're too dangerous, and you're too valuable, to risk that kind of contact.” Lattimer pauses. “Naturally, this work will take you away from your usual duties. As compensation, we're prepared to name you a First Chair at the conclusion of the assignment.”

I gasp audibly, and he smiles. A genuine smile, amused and nearly warm. “But I'm—”

“Still an apprentice,” he agrees. “We'll have to wait until the term is over. I'm not willing to disrupt the usual order of things quite that much. But yes, your own team. You'll be able to pick your Second and Third Chairs, as well as apprentices from the current class of fifth-year students. I'm not sure I'd recommend taking on your sister, but that will be a matter for you to decide.”

Working your way up to First Chair takes years, and it's not a given—it's bestowed by the Consort. Which this would be, technically, but it's a little bit like hearing that a minor-league batboy is now the Cubs' starting pitcher.

The will of the Consort is inviolate. They can grant me a Chair as easily as they threw Monty into an oubliette; as easily as they cleave worlds.

“You'll make me a First Chair. I'll build my own team.” As far as reasons for people to stare at me, this is one I can live with. I can handle cleavings the way I want; I can keep an eye on Del. I can send someone else on data runs, and never set foot in the Archives again. The idea fills me with relief and longing simultaneously. “And all I have to do is find some Free Walkers?”

“It's not an easy task,” Bolton warns. “Other Walkers have made it their life's work, and it's consumed them. But yes, that's what we're offering you.”

“We understand if you'd like to think it over,” Crane says gently. I wonder if she's giving me an out.

I don't take it. Better to be consumed by a purpose than a person. Especially one you can't have. “I'm happy to serve.”

CH
APTER FOUR

C
rane and Bolton excuse themselves, but Lattimer stays behind, eyeing me closely.

“Let's visit your new office,” he says.

“My office?”

“Unless you'd prefer to work at your usual desk.” He smiles to show he's joking. I wouldn't have guessed him capable.

I follow him through a warren of hallways and offices. “It's not much,” he warns. “But it's private, which is key. For now, we'd like you to keep the nature of your assignment to yourself. The fewer people who know the truth, the better chance we have of finding the Free Walkers.”

“What am I supposed to tell everyone?” My dad, for example, is going to want to know why I'm not showing up for my regular assignment.

“Explain that, considering what you went through during the anomaly, we felt it best you take on a more administrative role for the time being.”

“Like a suspension?”

“Hardly. You're reporting directly to me. If anything, people will view it as a promotion.” He continues down the corridor, and it's clear the subject is closed. “You'll have a working terminal, so you can access the digital archives. The Archivists will be happy to provide you with any other information you might need; we've upgraded your security clearance. Here we are.”

He opens the door of what looks like a supply closet. The floor is bare concrete, and there are no windows. In the center of the room are two desks facing each other, each with a computer and plenty of space to look over maps. Whiteboards line the walls. A file cabinet stands on one side of the room; a large supply cabinet, like a wardrobe, has been placed on the opposite wall.

“Two desks, sir?”

“We promised you security,” he says, ushering me inside. “It's only logical that your partner would share the space.”

“My partner?” The drawer glides open smoothly. It's stocked with the same supplies as my old desk—number-three pencils, pale green stenographer's notebooks, silver binder clips in every size. Black fountain pens, because I like the sound and speed and precision of the nib more than ballpoints.

They went through my old desk and prepared this one especially for me. They knew I would accept.

Suddenly the upgrade to my own office feels less flattering and more . . . intimidating. I wonder if they've been checking other aspects of my life, too.

“It's for your own protection,” Lattimer says. “I'll make the introductions tomorrow. For now, you have reading to do—the relevant files have been downloaded to your computer; all the hard-copy reports you'll need are in the bottom drawer.”

“Thank you,” I say, a little stunned.

“Take the rest of the day to catch up on your reading. I'll alert your First Chair of your new position; they should be able to arrange a suitable replacement quickly enough.”

The fact they consider me replaceable is less than reassuring. But I've never failed an assignment in my life, and I'm not starting now.

People, maybe. But not assignments.

•    •    •

I read until one of Lattimer's assistants drops off my coat and bag, which I'd left at my old desk. It's easy to lose track of time in this small, windowless room. I've barely made a dent in the reading, so I pack up and head home, mind whirling. By the time I pull into the driveway of our ramshackle Queen Anne, I have the beginnings of a plan: something that will fulfill my agreement with the Consort and protect Del, Eliot, and me.

The Consort believes Monty was working with the Free Walkers, and he's not setting them straight. I don't know why he's keeping our secret—he doesn't do anything unless it serves his purpose—but maybe guilt has finally gotten the better of him. Still, it doesn't mean we're safe. The Consort will dig until they find the truth, or something like it.

A local Free Walker group would fit the bill. According to the files I read today, Free Walker activity increased in this area over the past few years. They must have left a trail, buried in these reports. All I have to do is find it and send the Consort after them instead of us.

My parents' minivan isn't in the driveway, so I fix myself a pot of tea and sit down at the kitchen table to continue reading.

A short while later, Del pads into the room, still wearing her pajamas. “What are you doing?”

“Work,” I say. “Did you spend all day in bed?”

“I went out.”

“Where? Walking?” She's not supposed to Walk by herself, but I wouldn't put it past her. Del is not one to follow the rules, even now.

She stares at the ground. “Amelia's.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea? Does she—”
Does she blame you?
I almost ask. “Does she want company right now?”

“I'm not company,” Del says shortly.

“Did Eliot go with you?”

She shakes her head, and I wonder how many texts she's ignored, how many calls have gone to voice mail.

“What's this?” She jerks her head at the table, which is now completely covered with reports, maps, and my own notes.

“Research.”

“A cleaving?” she asks, the edge in her voice honed to a blade.

“No, actually.” Del's aversion to cleaving is going to be a problem if word gets out. Bringing her onto my team might be the only way to cover for her. “A special project for the Consort.”

Even though Lattimer said this was secret, I don't feel right keeping it from Del. It's not as if she's talking to anyone.

She shrugs and pokes her head into the fridge, looking for food.

“It's about Monty,” I say. She goes rigid. “They want me to find the Free Walkers he was working with during the anomaly.”

“Can't find what doesn't exist,” she says.

“But they
do
.” I tap the papers in front of me. “According to this, there are cells of Free Walkers all over the world. They're like . . . termites . . . or something, eating away at the Consort.”

“And you're the exterminator.” She flings the words like an accusation.

I flush. I'm doing what I was raised to do. What every Walker is called to do. Protect the Key World. “I'm just locating them,” I say. “Enforcement will handle the rest.”

“Handle,” she says, fingers curving into air quotes. “I'm sure.”

“What should I do, Del? The Consort asked me to help because they think Monty was in cahoots with the cell in this area. Should I tell them we lied? Tell them about Simon? Let them interview Amelia?”

“No!” She jerks back as if I've slapped her. “We
promised.
”

“This is the best way I know to cover our trail. And if it helps the Key World . . .”

“It helps the Consort,” she says. “Quit mixing them up. Was it Lattimer who asked you?”

“It was the whole Consort,” I reply. She's curious. I can use this. We need to find her something else to focus on, like I told Eliot. She needs to think about something other than Simon. The Consort hasn't reinstated Del yet. If I can convince Lattimer that Del's insights into Monty are vital, he might let her help. She can work through her grief and impress the Consort at the same time, helping her case. Everybody wins. Everything is fixed.

“What did they offer you?” she asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Lattimer always offers something. What did he promise you?”

I'm reluctant to say it. Like tossing a coin into a fountain, I'm worried speaking my wish out loud will keep it from coming true. But superstition is a weakness, and I refuse to fall prey. Work brings what you want, not wishing.

“First Chair.”

Even Del—jaded, weary, practically catatonic Del—is surprised by that. Her eyebrows arch, her lips purse.

“I can pick my own team next year if I do this. I can bring you in. Guarantee we work with Eliot.”

She softens at that, and I press harder. “Monty told you things he didn't share with anyone else. If we work together, we can find out who he worked with.”

“We know who he worked with,” she says. “Rose. And Simon's dad.”

“They weren't the only Free Walkers working this area. They had a whole network back then, and the Consort didn't catch everyone. There are still Free Walkers out there. We could find them.”

Something flickers in the hazel of her eyes, a flash of gold-green that makes me nervous and gives me hope all at once. But it vanishes, a trick of the light, and she slumps against the counter.

“I could really use your help,” I say, one last attempt. Six months ago I would have laughed at the idea, but now it's true, and no one is more surprised than I am. Del could be an amazing Walker, if she wanted.

The trouble is, I can't make her want it. Hearts are not as easy to control as the multiverse, and Del's heart has gone out of her, to a place I can't reach. The knowledge is as bitter as the cold tea before me.

“They're using you,” she says softly. “They don't trust you. This is how they keep an eye on you. On both of us.”

“That's not true,” I protest, even though I wondered the same thing only hours ago.

She smiles, weary and sympathetic.

Pity from someone who's hit rock bottom is disconcerting. Like you're about to tip over the edge, and you don't even realize it.

The sound of my parents pulling into the driveway is unmistakable, since the van's muffler is nearly shot. It's not like we're poor—CCM pays us, and pays us well—but my parents can't be bothered with things like routine car maintenance or repainting the house. They keep their interactions with Originals to a minimum. Their focus is entirely on the multiverse, and each other, and us, in precisely that order.

By the time the back door opens, Del has vanished upstairs, the sound of her footsteps on the treads the only sign she was ever here.

Mom and Dad, arms laden with grocery bags, don't notice the array of files littering the table. I scoop them into my tote bag before they can take a closer look.

Word of my special project will get out, and soon. But the Consort's cover story won't hold up to my parents' scrutiny, and I can't bear for my new assignment to be the topic of conversation at family dinner. Too many questions I can't answer, too many ghosts stirred up. Keeping secrets has always been Del's department, but I'm starting to see the appeal.

For a little while, secrets let you think you're in control.