CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

MINUTES LATER MARISOL rose to her feet. “What I said earlier wasn’t exactly the truth.”

I wondered which earlier she referred to as she helped me up.

“My father and grandfather believed in loyalty above all else. But not loyalty to country. Rather loyalty to doing what’s right, even if impossible.”

We shared a smile over the similarities between our fathers. “Nothing like taking up the torch of the foolishly perfect.”

“Indeed.” She began to pace. “It’s time to recognize my loyalty has been misplaced.”

Puzzled, I waited for her to continue.

She stooped to collect the items knocked from the dresser, including the photo of her and Evie. Opening a small drawer, she tucked the items away. “I’ve been instructed to keep you in the dark in several areas. Perhaps naively, I’ve done so.”

“The twitchers.”

She nodded. “The central thread that unravels them all. Buck,” she faced me, leaning against the dresser, “the twitchers are soldiers. But they don’t work for the Truth in History Society. They are and always have been loyal to their creator and general, Oleg Rodchenko.”

“Wait. The guy from the pulps? Oleg from The Austin Job?”

“I know, it’s crazy. Oleg wasn’t a totally unheard of individual during his day. David Mark Brown must have gathered bits and pieces about him and thought he would make an interesting bad guy.”

“You’re not saying—”

“No. Santa Maria, no. The books aren’t true. I’m just saying they aren’t totally fiction either. Oleg Rodchenko was real.”

I plopped down on the foot of the bed. “Was real? Or is real?”

She shrugged.

“You’re telling me this guy is over, what, a hundred and thirty years old?”

“He’s…unusual.” She removed her ARGs, placing them on the dresser. After massaging her temples, she continued, “What you need to know is that he’s bitter and dangerous and profoundly interested in you.”

“In me?”

“The twitch, everything, it all leads back to him.”

“The lab,” I mumbled the connection to myself.

“What about the lab?”

Then again, maybe Marisol didn’t know about Oleg’s original laboratory. “Nothing. I was just thinking back to the attack on the lab.”

“All of it was Oleg. I knew it after the first engagement.”

“The hybrid twitchers, you said Oleg was their creator?”

“He’s never stopped his work on the virus.”

I shook my head. “No. What I’ve seen today goes beyond the virus. The mental powers. It’s, it’s…we’re talking about telekinesis, for God’s sake.”

“Think about it, Buck. How well have living twitcher subjects been studied?”

“Pretty thoroughly, actually. The virus and the infection have both been studied for countless hours.”

“Forget the virus, Doc. I’m talking about the individual. The twitcher. You of all people should get that.”

I froze, wondering what she meant by that last part.

She continued, “Has anyone ever studied what they’re actually capable of?”

Finally her point struck me. I shook my head, dumbfounded I hadn’t ever considered the possibility. “They’ve always been so heavily sedated.”

“Exactly. I’ll tell you, doctor, I’ve studied more than my share without any sedatives whatsoever. And in my humble opinion, what you saw today most definitely was the virus.”

As crazy as it seemed, it was possible. Beyond the accelerated DNA replication and correlating mutations, the retrovirus could be responsible for matching one or more inactive genes with the right transcription factors. Assuming somewhere in our human evolution the blueprint for telekinesis existed in the first place, the twitch could certainly reactivate the ability. I’d unwittingly argued as much during my last lecture, but I’d been thinking only of the bizarre physical changes twitchers go through.

That would mean the retrovirus, in some form or another, was potentially as old as humans themselves. Due to the rapid cell division and therefore cell death, historically no one with the infection would have lived long enough to display any other symptoms. “So what you’re saying is, combined with the lost gene, Oleg’s twitcher army would not only possess amazing telekinetic powers, but would live full, healthy lives. Hell, if they were really telekinetic, if they could manipulate matter at a cellular level using nothing more than their minds…”

Marisol shrugged, “You tell me, doctor.”

“Theoretically, if they could sharpen their focus finely enough, they could heal any detrimental effects of the twitch. Cancer cells, poof. Mutations, gone. They’d not only be long-living, they’d be immune.”

“They’d be unstoppable and immortal servants of the desert god.”

“Wait,” I ran my fingers through my hair, still sitting on the foot of the bed, “who did you just say?”

“Oleg, the desert—”

“Of course.” I shook my head, remembering the desert flashbacks. “The desert god, the legend of Jinn Hariq, it was Oleg.”

“I’m sorry, Buck. I forgot you didn’t know.”

I reflected on the swell of new information. I had known the story of the mythical Jinn Hariq since I was five. I’d had nightmares of him since returning from the AOZ. Oleg had been interested in me since I was a boy, since before my work. Something happened in the desert, but I couldn’t remember what. “Not your fault. I should have put it together.”

“No, it’s just that, I can’t even tell the truth without uncovering another lie.”

Marisol’s raw emotion drew me away from my self-absorption. I wanted to show her I understood. “I hardly consider that a lie, but I get your point.” I reached out my hand.

“My point,” she sat down on the bed beside me, “is that I lied to you. I’m sorry, Buck. I thought it would make it easier.”

“Easier?”

“To do my job. Everything,” she teared up again, her face inches from mine. “So pathetic. I’ve always been about the job.”

“Evie saw it.” I put my arm around her waist, pressing my leg against hers.

“Saw what?”

“The truth neither of us could see, that in order for a final product to have value, the dedication to it has to be unselfish.”

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault she’s—”

I stopped her, my finger to her lips. “Maybe there’s hope for us yet.” I moved closer, until I felt the heat generated between us. Maybe two people accustomed to lies could be vulnerable together, and in that vulnerability empower a deeper truth. Pressing into Marisol, I took her lips in mine. More than ever, I needed to believe in that possibility.