I was just home from practice, sitting on my couch, waiting for Micah to let me know he was done in the weight room and on his way over, when my phone pinged.
<UNK01>: Hi Jordan. Remember when I said things were getting weird around here?
Jordasaurus: Marta?
<UNK01>: Yeah. How many people do you know who have anonymous IDs?
Jordasaurus: Honestly? At this point, I’m not totally sure.
<UNK01>: Whatever. Anyway, like I said—things are going down the rabbit hole at Casa Longstreth. Mind if I come hang with you for a while?
Jordasaurus: What about the snipers?
<UNK01>: I promise not to bring them along. See you in an hour?
Jordasaurus: . . .
<UNK01>: Great. I’m on my way.
The front door banged open, then slammed closed. A few seconds later, Micah clomped into the room.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said. “No heads-up?”
He shrugged.
“Didn’t think about it. What’s for eats?”
I folded my arms across my chest as he dropped onto the couch beside me.
“Well, if you’d pinged me when you were leaving Briarwood, there’d be a pizza here.”
He pulled out his phone.
“Not too late, right?” He tapped, tapped, said, “Pepperoni,” tapped once more, and tossed the phone onto the coffee table. “There,” he said. “Done.”
“Wow,” I said. “You’re buying tonight?”
He grinned.
“Wonder of wonders, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Right. Completely unrelated—you remember Marta?”
The grin disappeared.
“Yes, Jordan. I remember Marta.”
“Yeah, well . . . she’s on her way over here. She’ll probably get here about the same time the pizza does.”
Micah leaned back, and narrowed his eyes.
“You’re not going breeder on me, are you, Jordan?”
I rolled my eyes.
“No, Micah. I am not going breeder—and if I were, trust me, it wouldn’t be with Marta Longstreth. She’s kind of creepy, honestly.”
“Okay. So tell me again why you’re spending so much time hanging out with her?”
“Well,” I said. “At first, I was just humoring my dad. You know that. Now, though . . .”
“Now what?”
I sighed.
“You remember what we were talking about last weekend, after the party?”
“You mean about you hiding out in my basement?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, no, not exactly. You were talking about Hannah’s family keeping things on the down-low, and you learning how to handle a rifle, and then Marta—it sounds like she lives in a fortress, you know? An actual, factual, towers-and-snipers fortress. I guess I’m starting to wonder if everyone else knows something that I don’t.”
“Okay,” Micah said. “I get that. Things are scary. How do we get from there to Marta Longstreth coming over here to eat my pizza?”
I thumbed open my phone and handed it to him. He stared at it for a minute, then handed it back.
“Huh,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Huh.”
“Hey,” Marta said. “Don’t look so happy to see me.”
She was standing at the bottom of the marble steps that led up to our portico, arms folded, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, wearing a hoodie and track pants and what looked like beat-to-hell hiking boots. She did not look like the wealthiest sixteen-year-old in North America. She looked like a homeless person.
“Uh,” I said.
She frowned.
“That was sarcasm,” Marta said. “I was actually hoping that you would be happy to see me.”
“Oh, he is,” Micah said as he came up behind me. “He’s just worried that we might start fighting over him. Jordan has no stomach for violence.”
I elbowed him, hard. He didn’t seem to notice. Marta’s frown relaxed, and she nodded.
“Right. You’re the boyfriend, huh?”
Micah grinned and gave her a sweeping bow.
“Well don’t worry,” Marta said. “I’m not going to steal him. I’m mostly just looking for a place to crash right now.
“Excellent,” Micah said. “You can imagine my relief.”
Marta’s face twisted back into a frown. I stepped between them.
“Right,” I said. “I’m glad we’re all having fun here, but do you mind telling me what’s going on?”
Marta shrugged.
“I told you. Things were getting weird around the Longstreth compound.”
“Weird how?” Micah asked. “Are things going all Island of Doctor Moreau over there? Daddy turning all the servants into rat-men and whatnot?”
Marta turned to me, one eyebrow raised.
“Rat-men?” I said.
“Well,” Micah said. “I’m sure they prefer to be called Rodent-Americans.”
I snickered. Marta was decidedly not amused.
“So,” Marta said. “Hypothetically speaking, which do you think is most important—loyalty to family, or loyalty to society?”
We were sitting across from each other at the wrought-iron table on my back deck. I looked over at Micah, who was perched on a filigree-encrusted chair that didn’t look like it ought to be able to support half his weight. He shrugged, and crammed most of a slice of pizza into his mouth.
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” I said. “Can you give me an example? Hypothetically speaking, I mean.”
Marta looked over my shoulder, to where a half dozen geese had just landed in the reflecting pool.
“Well,” she said. “Imagine you found out, without snooping and entirely through no fault of your own, that your . . . uncle . . . was kind of a . . . I don’t know . . . super villain? Like, imagine you found out he was building a death ray in the basement or something. Would you call in the Justice League, or whatever? Or would you feel like family comes first?”
I looked at Micah again. He was dialed in on his pizza, and wouldn’t meet my eye.
“Huh,” I said. “That would be quite a conundrum.”
“Spill it,” Micah said around a mouthful of cheese. “What’d he do?”
Marta turned to look at him.
“What did who do? We’re talking hypotheticals here, remember?”
“Right,” Micah said, swallowed what was in his mouth, and washed it down with half a glass of lemonade. “Your dad really is making rat-men, isn’t he? Gonna breed himself an army, maybe refight the Stupid War?”
I laughed, but Marta just looked uncomfortable.
“Wait,” I said. “Rat-men? Really?”
Marta shot Micah a look, then turned to glare at me.
“No, you idiot, my father is not creating an army of rat-men. He’s got more money than God, remember? If he wanted an army, he’d just buy one, like all the other trillionaires do.”
“Okay,” I said. “That’s good. So what are we talking about?”
She shook her head.
“You haven’t answered my question yet.”
“It’s a matter of numbers,” Micah said, and stuffed another slice into his mouth.
We both turned to stare at him while he chewed and swallowed. I sometimes had to remind myself that Micah was not actually stupid. With that chest and those shoulders and that face, he definitely looked the part of the mimbo, and he liked to play to the stereotype, but his average at Briarwood was higher than mine.
“Well,” he said, “that and DNA.”
“What are you talking about?” Marta asked. “I told you—no rat-men.”
“Yeah,” Micah said. “I heard you. I didn’t mean rat-man DNA. I meant yours.”
Marta leaned back and folded her arms across her chest.
“Mine?”
“Right,” Micah said. “We just talked about this in Gen Anth. From a genetic standpoint, all you need to know is how much DNA you share with whoever you’re planning to snitch on. Then you compare that to how much you share with all the folks he’s planning on killing, and pick whichever one is bigger. Your dad’s got half your DNA. So do your siblings.”
“I don’t have any siblings,” Marta said.
Micah waved her off.
“Just go with me on this, okay? Your dad’s got half your DNA. So do your siblings. So, if your dad is planning on killing two of your siblings, you should turn him in.”
“Wait,” I said. “What if he’s only planning to kill one of her siblings?”
“Flip a coin. Anyway, aunts and uncles have a quarter of your DNA, and first cousins have an eighth. So, if your dad is planning on wiping out his sister and her family, you need to know how many kids she’s got. One? Tell him to go for it. Three? Turn him in.”
I glanced over at Marta. The look on her face said that she was starting to wonder if coming here might have been a big, big mistake.
“Ah,” she said. “Okay. This is what they’re teaching you guys at Briarwood?”
“Well,” Micah said. “The context was a little different. Dr. Merrick was actually talking about the evolution of altruism, and when it would make reproductive sense to sacrifice your life to save someone else. I’m kind of extrapolating here.”
Micah leaned forward to take the last slice of pepperoni. Marta’s first slice was still sitting on her plate. She looked like she was about to be sick.
“What about strangers?” I asked. “Using this model, it’s open season on them, right?”
Micah had to think about that for a minute.
“Well,” he said finally. “We’re all related at some level, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s true. So? How many randos would Marta’s dad have to be plotting to kill for it to make sense for her to turn him in?”
“Hard to say,” Micah said. “A lot, I guess. How about it, Marta? How many randos is your dad planning to kill?”
He was grinning, but that faded as Marta stared down at her pizza without answering.
“Marta?” I said.
She looked up at me.
“I think we need to call the Justice League.”