"I know that hurt, buddy, but concentrate on what you've achieved," Mike said. "You get more control over it every day. Okay, you lost a chance there, but she might well like you all over again. It's not as if she knows who you are, is it?"
Mike had a gift for knowing when Ian needed to go to ground. He steered him back to the car and they sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the rain trickling down the windshield. Mike reached up to the rear-view mirror and angled it for Ian to see his reflection.
"Livvie's going to be thrilled," he said. "You'll probably get a peach margarita out of this. Hell, I might even get one."
Ian almost expected the face to evaporate as he stared at it. But it was there, all right. This was what he remembered. This was him.
It should have been a triumphant moment. If he could revert to it once, he could revert again. He could decide exactly how he needed to look. For now, though, he'd put all his effort into staying just the way he was.
"Beer, birds, BMW." Ian wasn't sure if he was heartbroken or ecstatically happy. The two could feel equally painful, he realised. "We'd better get those photos done."
TWELVE
There's definitely an eccentricity gene in the Brayne family. Leo donates his Senate salary to charity and covers his own expenses. He says that if he let the federal purse simply not pay him, some bureaucrat would piss the savings down the drain without doing any good. And I hear his son's still serving frontline. They're a hair-shirt kind of dynasty.
One member of Leo Brayne's golf club to another.
CHALTON FARM, WESTERHAM FALLS
MID-OCTOBER.
"What's so funny?" Livvie asked.
Mike slid the breakfast tray onto the nightstand, not realising that he was smiling to himself. "You said having Ian around would be a good test run for adoption, and here we are, waiting for the kids to be out playing before we have sex."
"It's a really big house, Mike." Livvie scrutinized the tray of tea, wholegrain toast, lime marmalade, and slices of Havarti cheese. It was her favourite breakfast when they were at university, too odd for Mike's tastes, but he knew it had the nostalgic power of a long forgotten perfume. "Where's the goddamn single red rose?"
"I didn't need it. You've already succumbed to my charm."
Livvie took a playful swing at him with a pillow. Mike hadn't realised how much pressure he'd put on her in the quest for a baby. It was only looking back on the contrast between what he'd thought was a happy Livvie and the woman he saw now that brought it home to him. Did I do that to her? How do you end up grinding down someone you love? Rob had warned him, though. It was easier to see the signs from the outside.
"Go on, eat your freaky breakfast," he said.
"It's no weirder than cheese and chutney." Livvie piled the Havarti on the toast, smeared it with marmalade, and munched contentedly. "So where are the kids?"
"In the gym. You had to ask?"
"I'm going to have get in there more often myself. Ian thrashed me at squash."
"You took him to the sports club? We should have discussed it first."
Livvie gave him a mock-peeved look, lips pursed. "Not the club. We used a wall in the stable block. I got my ass handed to me."
"He's half your age, honey. Suck it up."
"He's never played a racquet sport before. His coordination and reaction times are amazing."
"He's eighteen," Mike said. "It's effortless when you're that age."
"It's time to get him out and about more."
"You're probably right. I'm over-anxious."
"It's not entirely misplaced." Livvie tapped her teacup to indicate that she wanted a refill. Mike poured obediently. "He's so mature that I keep forgetting he never had a normal childhood. But we're part of that abnormality now."
"Because he's still isolated?"
"Because we're reinforcing the war-hero standards Maggie set him. He excels at military skills and he gets approval. The real test will be when he mixes with the civilian world and all the soft, undisciplined, irresponsible assholes out there."
"I don't know what else to do with him, honey. He'll always need to watch his ass twenty-four-seven." Mike's own childhood kept resurfacing lately. Mom and Dad hadn't been smotheringly protective, but he'd been left in no doubt from an early age that his name and wealth meant he had keep his head down. "We can teach him that everyone's out to get him, which makes him into a scared victim. Or we can do it the Army way and train him to be situationally aware, which gives him control."
"I didn't say it was wrong. Just pointing out that kids get raised by guesswork."
Mike could have bought the world's top specialists, but giving them access to Ian was out of the question. The best that Mike could do, according to the Rob Rennie manual of dealing with young lads, was to give Ian confidence and a strong sense of self reliance.
I really have taken over as a surrogate father. I don't know who needs it more, Ian or me.
Ian was certainly gaining confidence. It was the self-assurance born of pushing his physical limits rather than learning to tell dazzling jokes at parties. He still had that modest yes-ma'am-no-sir manner, but when he had something to say now, he didn't hesitate to say it, and he never griped or refused to do anything. Everything was always "fine"; every response was "okay." Mike was struck by his inability to hold grudges. If anyone had lied to Mike on the scale that they'd lied to Ian, he'd have wanted vengeance, and got it.
Perhaps Ian still didn't realise what he'd lost and would never get back. But it might simply have been impossible to deal with, so he'd buried it in order to move on.
A few days later, Ian's passport arrived via overnight delivery. Mike signed for it with a sense of paternal satisfaction. This was Ian's confirmation of freedom. It needed celebrating as a rite of passage. Even if he couldn't drive alone yet and still had to wait a few years to buy a beer, he had his own bank account, and with a passport that meant he could go anywhere he pleased. Mike suspected the driving licence would mean more, but it was good to mark these milestones to show Ian that he was building a new life.
Mike checked his watch; Ian would be in the gym with Rob until eleven. It was worth interrupting the session for this. Rob was watching Ian doing triceps dips on the bars when Mike walked in and held up the envelope.
"Something you've been waiting for, Ian," he said.
Ian was counting under his breath, eyes fixed on the opposite wall. Mike could see his lips moving. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. He didn't look up until he said twenty aloud and lowered himself from the bars.
"Wow," he said. "It's real now, isn't it?"
He wiped his hands and paused for a moment before opening the envelope. Then held up the passport to Rob like a detective showing his badge. Rob applauded.
"Now you can visit civilized countries that let young gentlemen drink in bars," Rob said. "Like England."
Mike watched Ian's face for signs of a smile. "What our arts correspondent means is that you can now visit all the great global centres of learning and culture."
"That's what I said, didn't I?" Rob took the passport and scrutinized Ian's photo. "Nobody ever looks like their passport picture anyway. Have you checked your fingerprints, by the way? Do they change?"
"Shit." Mike hadn't thought of that. He couldn't believe he'd overlooked it. "Have you, Ian?"
Ian inspected the pad of his forefinger. "No, but I haven't given any fingerprints yet, so even if they've changed, I'll be okay. Scans are only ninety per cent accurate anyway." It sounded as if he'd already done his homework on that. Mike reminded himself that Ian had been raised by the queen of paranoia. "Thanks, Mike. I'd never have been able to get this without you. I'll go put it in the safe."
He trotted off, looking more stunned than delighted. Maybe he was just starting realise how much his horizons would change now. Rob wandered over to Mike and leaned in for a discreet chat, arms folded.
"I don't want to scare you," he murmured, "but when did you last train wit
h him?"
"A couple of weeks ago."
"What sort of weight was he pressing?"
"One-ninety, two hundred pounds."
"Were you pushing him? He did two-sixty pretty easily today."
"Christ. Really?"
"I'll show you." Rob waited for Ian to come back. "Ian, can you manage a few more benches? I want to check your max."
Ian took any suggestion as something between an order and a challenge. He shuffled himself into position on the bench underneath the barbell stands. "Okay."
"We'll add ten pounds each rep, and you keep going to failure, yeah?"
"Remember there's no shame in can't." Mike looked down at Ian and ensured he had eye contact to make his point. Ian would injure himself before he'd give in. "You reach your limit, you quit, and we take the bar. Understood?"
"Yes, Mike."
Rob started Ian at two-sixty and went up ten pounds at a time to three hundred. It was a visible effort, but Ian still wasn't struggling enough for Mike to call a halt. Then Ian hit three-ten.
And that's my maximum. Oh boy.
Ian strained to lock out his elbows at three-twenty. "Come on, one more." Rob gave Mike a look as they added two more plates. "Three-thirty. You okay, Ian?"
"Fine."
Ian managed to lock out, but he was starting to wobble. One end of the bar dipped. He made a couple of attempts to lower it before Mike and Rob moved in to take it.
"Good lad. Bloody good effort." Rob threw him his towel. "Grab a shower and don't forget your protein drink."
Ian strode off, flexing his fingers as if they hurt. His build and posture had changed completely since he'd arrived, and it was nothing to do with morphing. Mike raised an eyebrow at Rob.
"I know it was just single reps," Mike said, "but he's beaten my maximum."
Rob nodded. "Mine too. I'm gutted."
"And we've both got twenty-five or thirty pounds on him."
"He's young, he works his arse off, and he's eating right. So he's filling out. Lads do."
"Sure, but without drugs, that's still on the dramatic end of the bell curve."
"What do you think?" Rob asked.
"What do you think?"
Rob spread his arms. "Okay, maybe it's a side effect of whatever Kinnery did."
"Morphing involves muscle fibres." Mike tried to recall what he knew about cephalopods, which was mostly what he saw in documentaries. "It's not just pigment."
"He hasn't got superpowers, Zombie. He's just very strong, very coordinated, and very fast."
"So are cephalopods. They're incredibly strong for their size."
"Yeah, I get it."
"And an octopus's nervous system is more like a computer network with a mainframe. Their arms make decisions independently."
"So does my dick, but how does that change anything?"
"I told Dad that morphing was no real use in the field."
"It isn't. Handy for a shoplifter, though."
"How about that level of strength and coordination?"
"The services are full of super-fit blokes already. You told your dad the truth. Stop fretting."
Mike was starting to doubt himself. On the outdoor range, he watched Ian make perfect, confident transitions between weapons and knock down targets with unerring accuracy. He was approaching the stage where he'd need the kind of training facilities that even Mike didn't have.
Should I tell Dad all this?
Ian cleared his pistol, checked it, and took off his ear defenders. "I'm scaring you, aren't I?"
Mike wanted Ian to see himself as talented rather than abnormal. Even in regular people, it amounted to the same thing.
"I'd prefer to say impressed," he said. "You're good. I'm just wondering how much more Rob and I can teach you here."
"I still can't do what you do. All the judgement calls. And I'd probably crap myself when it got rough."
"You want to learn to search and clear buildings?" Mike had seen enough of Ian's reactions to know he'd never back down even if he was pissing his pants. "I can set up the stable block as a house layout. And we can use airsoft or simulated ammo. It still hurts enough to make the point."
Ian nodded. It was real enthusiasm this time. "I'd really like to try that. Thanks."
Mike realised he'd just increased Ian's subconscious expectations. No matter how often Ian said he knew he'd never have a military career, Mike knew it couldn't erase the dream. Ian would become more proficient and watch the gap between his skills and the chance to use them growing wider each day. That was crushing.
I've been there. In the end, your differences make the decision for you.
What was he obliged to do, stop Ian from doing something he loved, and tell him what a fine alternative career he could have in law or accountancy? That would be making decisions for him. It was still early days. There was no telling what Ian could and couldn't do yet.
And that's actually wonderful. Damn, it's fun being a dad.
KWA had now been silent long enough for Mike to feel that he could file them under generic potential threats along with terrorists, armed robbers, and kidnappers. The situation was stable enough to get on with the future. He wasn't much nearer to a firm plan for the company, though. He sat down at his desk and cleared his correspondence like he did every morning, and gave himself until the end of the week to come up with something better than threat evaluation or training expatriate workers to stay out of trouble overseas. He hadn't managed to do it himself, after all.
Rob did a drum roll on the open door with his fingers and ambled in, as near to a muse as Mike was likely to get.
"I'm still kicking ideas around." Mike gestured to the leather armchair. Oatie had staked his claim to the sofa under the window, and he was a very long dog when he stretched out. "The Brayne business gene must be recessive."
Rob snapped his fingers at Oatie and gestured off at him. Astonishingly, the greyhound complied. Rob lounged on the sofa with his hands meshed behind his head.
"Your dad's still paying me every month," Rob said. "For training services. He really doesn't have to."
"Does it bother you?"
"It wouldn't, if I was doing anything to earn it."
"But you are. You put your life on hold to sort out Ian."
"It's only been a few months." Rob balled up a piece of paper and lobbed it at him. "Anyway, why are you still fretting?"
"It would kind of help if you narrowed down the questions. Or did subtitles."
"Ian. Have you kept your dad up to date with what he can do now?"
"Not every detail, no."
"And you're feel like you're lying to him."
"I hate secrets. But the more I tell him, the more he's got to worry about."
"Mike, for all we know, Ian's strength isn't linked to Dr Frankentosser at all. But we'll never know because we can't get him tested." Rob sat up, allowing Oatie to tiptoe back and curl up next to him. "All your dad cares about is the security angle. Okay, a medical company would kill to have Ian, but he's not a military game-changer like a foolproof IED detector."
"How much would he have to develop before he was, though?"
"So what? Why did you give him a home in the first place?"
"Because his right to live his life trumps whatever use he is to someone else."
"Exactly. Your dad asked you to get involved because he trusted you to do what's right." Rob could always rinse everything in clarity. That wasn't easy where family was involved. "And you did."
"You wouldn't humour me, would you?"
"No, I always call a twat a twat. Even if he's my best mate."
"Okay."
"So if your dad asks, tell him exactly how well Ian's doing. If he doesn't ask, he's decided he doesn't need to know. Which means he's worked it out for himself."
Rob's tangled logic always made sense. "You're my permission to be a bad boy, aren't you?" Mike said. "A weaponized Jiminy Cricket."
"Yeah, like you need it. The first thing I saw you d
o was gut a bloke with his own knife, take his AK, and put a round through him. And I thought to myself, 'Y'know, I bet we have the same taste in opera as well.'"
Mike laughed, unburdened again. "Bromance at first sight."
"There you go."
"So what am I going to do about Ian? Carry on making a soldier out of him, or talk him into taking a nice law degree?"
"How much plain Rob-talk can you handle in a day?"
"Okay, get it over with."
"Whether you like it or not, you and Livvie are effectively his family now. You can't hand him back. And you can't run his life. The best you can do is whatever feels right on the day. That's all I could do with Tom."
Mike knew that he should have had these conversations with his father long before Ian showed up. But it had felt too much like planning for something that would never happen, and the more detailed a dream became, the harder it was to let go or divert it into something more attainable.
"That doesn't answer my question."
"What feels right?" Rob asked.
"Let him carry on. Let him excel. But that might not make him happy. It might be worse for him than never knowing."
"Well, let's see what he can do, let him do it, and see if he still wants to do it after he's tried it. It's not like we can't create a security job for him. Then he'll be in the same position that we are."
It made perfect sense. Rob always knew when to stop thinking and start doing.
"Come on," Mike said. "Let's check out the stable block and see if we can turn it into a kill house for urban ops."
Rob jumped up. "Hoofing. Even if Ian doesn't enjoy it, I will."
Close quarters battle training really got the adrenaline going. If it made Ian even more certain that he was meant to be a soldier, then Mike knew he had only himself to blame for fanning the flames.
But he had money and influence. One way or another, whatever Ian wanted, Ian would get.
CHALTON FARM, WESTERHAM FALLS
LATE OCTOBER.
Gran had told Ian never to trust any technology that could tell someone where he was. He took that to heart more than ever now.
She stuck to the oldest technology that still worked, and the Internet was a forbidden world. The computer kit that Mike kept buying for him was predictably the latest and the best, though. It scared the crap out of him. He didn't download software, he checked every link before he clicked on it, and he stuck to the vaguest search terms. E-mail – he didn't need it. Everyone he needed to speak to was here in person.