Edge of Nowhere Page 5

  There was a flicker of blue light. Kit squeezed him so hard their ribcages might get tangled. And then they were out.

  Kit was ashen and quivering, breathing too hard to get a sentence out. “Sorry—the thing—I couldn’t—”

  Emil wasn’t in a state to offer comfort to anyone. He wanted to heave or faint or curl up in the corner or lie down and black out for twelve hours. But years of training kicked in and he put on his I’m in charge voice and said, “It’s okay. We’re okay. Breathe. Calm down. Take your time.”

  It was good advice and it worked on him, too. He still didn’t feel like himself, but a few deep breaths went a long way toward making him feel like he wasn’t about to shake out of his skin. That was when he noticed they were still hanging onto each other. He didn’t let go. They were standing on a mattress on the floor of a room that was barely bigger than that. The ceiling hung low over Emil’s head. Three walls were a shade of neon green that might have made Emil flinch if he hadn’t just been dragged through the Nowhere, and the fourth was an aggressive shade of purple. There were piles of clothes, some folded and some wrinkled, surrounding and encroaching on the mattress. The mess wasn’t the haphazard mess of hastily discarded items, but the carefully curated, archaeological kind. It was more of a nest than a room. Emil would bet Kit could reach for any item in here and find it within seconds—and looking at the violet-haired, green-leather-jacketed young man in his arms, there was no doubt that this was Kit’s room.

  Outside the window, an elevated freeway roared by. What looked like morning light filtered through the roadway grime on the glass. They’d been gone all night.

  “I saw it coming and I panicked,” Kit said at last. “I couldn’t focus on the coordinates. I just brought us to the first safe place that popped into my head.”

  Your bedroom, Emil’s treacherous brain supplied. More specifically, your bed.

  “I can’t do another jump now,” Kit said. “Regardless of everything else, I’m exhausted. But we’re in Nashville, so you can get a car back to the Quint Services facility. They can hire another runner, if it’s urgent.”

  As he spoke those words, Kit looked like he was eating something very sour. The prospect of another meeting with Kristian Auer made Emil feel the same way.

  “I might not be able to for another day—not as far as you need to go, and not with that thing out there.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Emil said, even though he knew Kit’s suggestion was what the higher-ups at Quint Services would want, and therefore what he should do. Quint Services had been willing to pay for a runner to get him back to Facility 17. They wanted him returned as quickly and quietly as possible.

  But of course, they’d also want to get their hands on the first runner to cross into another reality. Emil wasn’t sure what they’d do if and when they found out, and he wasn’t ready to think of that yet.

  He still hadn’t let go of Kit. More importantly, Kit hadn’t let go of him. Emil was actually supporting most of his weight. He looked ready to collapse.

  “First things first, let’s get you some food—real food, I mean, normal food.” Shit. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks at the thought of their earlier encounter. “Is there somewhere around here we could do that?”

  If he’d perceived that Emil was flustered and blushing, Kit didn’t show it. More likely, he was too out of it to notice. “Bar, downstairs.”

  With one hand, Emil patted his pockets. He was wearing the clothes they’d put him in at Quint Services—his wallet was still at Facility 17, not that he had any need of cash or a driver’s license when he was living on an asteroid. Damn.

  This time, Kit had noticed what he was doing, and he looked amused. “We don’t need money,” he said. “It’s Zin’s bar.”

  That meant nothing to Emil, but when Kit made his way to the door, he followed.

  It took all of Kit’s concentration to get down two flights of stairs and into the bar. A little voice in his head kept pointing out all the convenient places he could stop and rest—in that landing, up against that wall, in Emil’s arms. But if he stopped now, he’d fall asleep for hours. When he woke up, the hunger in his belly would be an even sharper pain. Better to eat now.

  Kit was so focused on finding food and shoving it into his mouth that it didn’t even occur to him that Zin would be in the bar until she dropped the broom she was holding and swept him into a hug.

  “Kit! Oh my God, baby, I was so worried when you didn’t come back last night, I’m so glad you’re okay.” She punctuated her sentences with kisses to his temple, which he normally sidestepped, but today he was too tired. Yes. Too tired. Not scared and in desperate need of comfort. “But look at you, you’re all bruised and tired and dirty and wearing yesterday’s clothes, where have you been? No, I don’t care, I’m so glad you’re safe, sit down, let me get you something to eat—and who is this, oh my God, Kit, when I told you to get a boyfriend I was trying to get you out of trouble, not into more trouble than ever before, Lord, you will be the death of me.” Zin didn’t so much stop hugging him as deposit him into one of the booths at the back of the bar.

  Kit shook his head at her, but it was the most admonishment he could muster.

  “Oh, and your tall friend came by earlier this morning,” Zin said. “What’s his name? I can never remember.”

  Zin could remember perfectly well that his name was Travis Alvey. She just didn’t like him because he never made small talk with her. It was a stupid standard to hold him to. Kit never made small talk with anyone if he could avoid it, so in his opinion, it was a mark in Travis’s favor. But why would Travis have come by early this morning? They weren’t really friends. They worked together sometimes, and they had an equally transactional sexual relationship. Travis hadn’t been in touch about any jobs. And before nine o’clock in the morning was a strange time of day for the other thing Travis usually called him about. Kit frowned and put it out of his mind.

  Emil, meanwhile, was wide-eyed and gaping at Zin. It would have been adorable if Kit didn’t know exactly what it meant.

  “Hello, young man,” Zin was saying. “I’m Zin.”

  “Zin,” Emil repeated, awe coloring his voice. “Zinnia Jackson.”

  This was worse than getting knocked into another reality by some unknowable force of destruction. Emil was a fan. Kit’s commanding, uptight, strong, masculine soldier-acquaintance-parcel-crush was into deeply uncool, cheesy pop ballads from twenty years ago. Kit might have been able to handle it if they’d been some other singer’s work, but—Zin? It was too much. He didn’t want to be embarrassed or endeared. He was too tired for feelings.

  “That’s my name,” Zin said cheerfully, because she hadn’t caught on yet. “What’s yours?”

  Emil tore his attention from her and turned to Kit. “You didn’t tell me that ‘Zin’ was Zinnia Jackson.”

  Kit shrugged one shoulder. He’d had no reason to mention it. Honestly, he forgot sometimes.

  “‘Don’t Throw Me Away’ Zinnia Jackson. ‘Soft-Hearted Fool’ Zinnia Jackson. ‘Love You All Night’ Zinnia Jackson,” Emil said to him, listing a few of Zin’s more famous songs. “The Zinnia Jackson.”

  Zin clasped her hands to her chest, beaming. “Aww, Kit, you brought me a fan.” Then she hugged Emil and rocked him side to side a few times. His face was caught between wonder and bewilderment. Zin held him by the shoulders and looked him up and down. “Well, you’re handsome and you have good taste. What can I get you, mystery man?”

  “Emil,” he finally said. “My name is Emil Singh.”

  It was an unusual combination of names, but Kit wasn’t sure he could ask about it yet. He didn’t like it when people asked about his name. So he let Emil babble at Zin for another minute, before she directed him to sit down in the booth and went to find them both something to eat.

  “Oh my God,” Emil murmured to himself. He propped his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands, spiking up h
is bangs.

  “Calm down. She’s just a normal human being.”

  “Are you kidding me? A normal human being with the voice of an angel and a criminally underrated musical career! This whole time, you were living with a legend and it didn’t even come up.”

  “We were busy,” Kit said, and if it had a dark edge to it, well, he couldn’t be held responsible for that. He wouldn’t be so irritated that Emil was being goddamn adorable if Emil hadn’t rejected him earlier. And sure, yeah, Kit had been high off his ass and he was hellishly embarrassed about it, but his cards were on the table. He’d climbed all over Emil like an animal.

  He wouldn’t have done it sober. But it was done now and there was no taking it back. As mortifying as it was, in a way, it was a kind of gift. Kit hadn’t needed to work up the courage to say anything. It had all just happened. And now Emil knew and it could be perfect—they could skip all the uncomfortable talking and go right to the good part—if only he’d let it.

  But maybe Emil didn’t want that. Maybe he really hadn’t wanted to do any of it and he’d let Kit sit in his lap and kiss the ever-living shit out of him because of some kind of fucked-up politeness. It had been so easy for him to put a stop to it and walk away. He’d barely mentioned it since.

  “Yes,” Emil said, suddenly in command again. “We should talk about how we’re going to get back to Facility 17.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’? You wanna wait for me? As soon as I eat, I’m gonna crash. I’ll probably sleep all day.”

  Emil nodded. “You might have gathered but—the situation is delicate, up there. I want to talk to my team again but I don’t trust any communications channels. I have to do it in person.”

  “And you don’t have any ID or cash on you, so you can’t get back up there except with me.”

  “Well… yes.”

  Kit sighed. Would Quint Services even pay him for a job this late? Did he have the heart to say no? “It’s fine. I’ll do it. I just need time.”

  “Kit, there’s something I should tell you. My team has been at that Quint Services facility for just over three months, preparing for a mission.”

  Kit didn’t need to be told where that mission was headed. “You were supposed to cross the Nowhere into some other reality.”

  “Or failing that, another planet in this reality,” Emil said. “I got into this because I wanted to explore. Not to colonize or exploit. Just explore. I thought if I participated in the exploration, maybe I could help ensure that it would be ethical. And the scientist who was in charge, Dr. Lange—I think he wanted to explore, too. But he’s gone now and I don’t know who will be in charge when I get back. But I’m a little unsettled by the way Quint Services has treated me, and I’m… worried.”

  “About your team.”

  “About you.”

  Kit fixed him with a look. “I can transport myself to a different continent with a thought. I’m not part of your team. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “If anyone there finds out that you’re the runner who crossed through… there’ll be questions, to say the least.”

  “Like I said, I can get by. I don’t need your protection.” Kit stared Emil down as he said it. Then Zin came back in with bowls of pho for both of them, and she pushed herself into the booth right next to Emil, which made him all flustered. Kit rolled his eyes and ignored their conversation—mostly Emil praising every obscure track Zin had ever recorded and Zin cooing over him—in order to eat as much as he possibly could. Three bowls later, he stood up. “I can’t stay awake any longer.”

  Zin stood up and let Emil out of the booth. Thankfully she didn’t ask any questions about where they’d been—probably because she assumed they’d had some kind of wild sex last night, which was both way too close and way too far from what had actually happened.

  Emil said, “Let me help you.”

  Kit frowned. He’d made it down the stairs earlier and now that he’d eaten something, he could trudge back up on his own. Did Emil want to lie down with him? In his bed? He narrowed his eyes, but Emil’s sweet, open expression wasn’t giving anything away. Fuck that. Kit’s bed was reserved for people who hadn’t rejected him. If Emil liked Zin so much, he could sleep on her couch. “Zin, can you put Emil up until—I don’t know, tomorrow sometime?”

  Zin raised her eyebrows at that, and Kit was grateful that she didn’t say anything. She’d joked about Emil being his boyfriend earlier and Kit did not want to return to that topic. “Of course. Sleep tight.”

  She put a hand on Emil’s shoulder and said something to him that Kit didn’t hear because he was already halfway up the stairs.

  5

  Suspect Loyalties

  Emil had been stranded in another reality only an hour ago, and now his childhood pop idol was offering him a towel and a toothbrush. Zin—she’d insisted he use her nickname—lived above the bar in a long, narrow apartment that didn’t show any sign of being inhabited by a world-famous pop star. No photos of her glory days on the walls. No awards decorating the shelves. It was painted in the same burst of colors as the bar below and Kit’s room above, and from where Emil stood, he could see walls of magenta, orange, and piercing blue. The couch she’d offered him had probably once been bright green, but like the rest of the place, it was worn down. Not that Emil was complaining. He was tired enough to sleep on a hardwood floor, and if that hardwood floor belonged to Zinnia Jackson, it would be his honor.

  Still. Somewhere above him, Kit was curling up on that mattress, in his little nest of blankets and laundry, and Emil had been very clearly disinvited. More worrisome than thinking about touching Kit was the fact that Emil was contemplating that room with anything but horror. A neat freak since the age of fifteen, Emil ought to have been overcome with the urge to organize. Instead, he’d been charmed.

  He was being ridiculous and he had to stop thinking about this. Kit was upset with him, and he was perfectly justified in it, and Emil shouldn’t wish for anything more. He’d behaved disgracefully. And now he was about to drag the kid into further danger, and who knew what would become of either of them once they got back to Facility 17.

  As Emil walked into the bathroom to shower, he noticed something in the pockets of his sweatpants. He reached in and his hand came away sticky and red. The berries. He’d forgotten he had more stashed away. Guilt flooded him, but then his rational brain took over. They were biological samples from another reality. He had to bring them back and study them.

  He walked to the kitchen—Zinnia Jackson’s kitchen—and went hunting through drawers until he found a plastic bag. Not many of the berries had survived the trip intact, but he was able to scoop out his pockets and bag the contents. He tucked the plastic bag away for later.

  Emil showered—in Zinnia Jackson’s shower—and brushed his teeth—with Zinnia Jackson’s toothpaste—and changed back into his clothes. Winslow and Heath would probably confiscate them and try to study whatever particles remained from that other place. He might end up in quarantine. This wasn’t the way the mission was supposed to go. He should have been with his team. They’d been preparing for months now.

  He settled onto the couch, which was just a little too short for his full height. He’d have to sleep with his knees up. He drew the throw blanket, a blue-and-beige plaid wool that didn’t go with anything else in the apartment, down over himself.

  What had happened to his team in his absence? Had Heath and Winslow told them anything? Did they think Emil had abandoned them? What did they know about the incident—and Dr. Lange?

  Dax would be suspicious. They were a smart kid. Miriam would be furious no matter what anyone had told her. Chávez and Beck would be worried, but they’d follow Dax’s lead. And McCreery… well, Jake was so tough and stoic it was hard to tell how he’d react. He was a good team member, always got the job done right, but he held himself apart. The weirdest thing about Jake was that sometimes, Emil could swear the guy had a soft spot for cranky, acid-tongued Lange… weirder
yet, sometimes Emil could swear the feeling was mutual. If so, Jake would be upset about the incident.

  Emil hadn’t harbored any affection for Dr. Lange, and he was upset about the incident. Had Dr. Lange died? If he had, was that better or worse than just… vanishing?

  The aftermath, in particular, unsettled him. He’d known all the research at Facility 17 was classified, but the secrecy surrounding the incident went beyond that. Heath and Winslow had isolated him from his team. They’d treated him like a suspect. Maybe he should be treating this whole venture with more suspicion of his own. Strange things happened at the facility all the time. After a while, Emil and his team had simply accepted that sometimes doors opened on their own and things fell off tables with no explanation. They’d stopped asking Lange, who glared instead of answering, and Heath and Winslow, who smoothly changed the subject.

  Beck had sworn he’d seen a bright light darting down the hallway once—but he’d been with Chávez, who hadn’t seen a thing, and who had teased him about how all the drugs he did were going to interfere with their mission. Chávez herself probably had indulged back on Earth, since New York’s laws weren’t too strict on that point, and as long as she turned her master’s thesis in, none of her anthropology professors were likely to care. But Beck was originally from Arkansas, and he’d only gotten out by joining the Orbit Guard, so Emil couldn’t imagine him taking the risk.

  Besides which, there was nowhere to get illicit drugs at Facility 17. Emil was in charge of the greenhouse and he wasn’t about to get fired for unsanctioned plants. Still, they’d all laughed, because it was easier than taking it seriously. There was an understanding that these things had to be shrugged off. When you signed up for a secret mission that might take you to another reality, you accepted that some weird shit might go down.