Sideswiped (3 page)

Milo was bright-eyed with threat. “Think about this, Silas,” he intoned, the retired agent able to recognize the draft as easily as he.

“Every day of my life,” Silas said, and with no more thought, he rabbit-
punched the professor.

The man dropped like a stone. Silas turned, again shutting down the slick-suits' paralyzation. They'd gone back twenty seconds, but every one of them would remember what had happened until time caught up and the drafters forgot. They wouldn't get shot again.

Suit coat furling, Silas bolted out of the small back room. The smell of spent gunpowder hit him and he recoiled. Allen was standing in the middle of the dance floor, hands raised, as the bouncer aimed the rifle at him, muzzle shaking.

“It's okay,” Allen said calmly, and Silas exhaled in relief. Summer was safe behind Allen. Ethan and Beth were to one side, Heidi and Karen to the other, protecting the cowering people by the back door. “We're all okay. Stand down. It was just a little game.”

But the gun went off. Shocked, the bouncer dropped the rifle, shouting, “I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!”

Allen fell. Behind him, Summer jerked at the sudden warmth spraying her, her eyes wide in horror as Allen hit the floor with the sodden sound of a wet bag.

“No!” Silas shouted, and he saw Allen's eyes, full of pain as he realized his death was moments away. They were in a draft. To draft within it would cause them all pain.

But Silas looked at Summer, nodding. “Do it,” Beth said, grimacing, and Karen, gripping Heidi's arm, nodded as well.

Summer took a shaky breath. Once more, blue sparkles spilled down from the spinning disco lights, racing over Silas's already overstimulated nerves like poison
. He breathed them out, and he shook, catching his balance as he again found himself just outside the back office's door.

“Excuse me,” Silas said loudly to distract the bouncer, ducking when the frazzled man turned, the rifle going off. The shot was an instant of warmth past his face, and behind Silas, Professor Milo grunted in pain.

Allen lunged, bringing the bouncer down. Bellowing in anger, the man fought back, but there were seven of them and one of him.

And then time caught up and smacked Silas across the head.

With a simultaneous cry of pain, the students fell away from the incensed bouncer. Silas reached for the bar, knees giving way as pain blossomed from inside, fighting to find a way out of his skull through his eyes. Gasping, he leaned over the bar and panted, trying to keep from throwing up. He hadn't been bitch-slapped by a double-draft for years.

“Yep. Still hurts,” he groaned. Someone was throwing up. Someone else was crying hysterically. But it wasn't anyone he knew, so he didn't care.

“Get that rifle!” Milo shouted, and Silas looked up, smiling weakly at Allen helping Summer up off the floor. She was pale but unhurt. Allen was alive—he'd replace her memory. That's what an anchor did. It had been worth it. Everyone had agreed.

“Dr. Silas Denier,” Milo said sarcastically, and Silas's stomach lurched when the angry man spun him around and Silas fell back against the bar. A wet, red stain spread from the professor's shoulder. He'd been shot, but clearly it wasn't life-threatening. Sirens were sounding louder in the nearby distance, and people were leaving, racing for the door. “I told you not to interfere,” the professor said as he roughly motioned for his students to get out as well. “This was a test.”

“Yeah?” Peeved, Silas used his coat to wipe his brow. The Band-Aid on his forehead caught, and he pulled it off, having forgotten it was there. “You can shove your test up your ass, sir. These are my friends.”

Milo pushed into his space, cheeks red. “It was a test. And you just failed. You, Summer, Allen, and everyone out here.”

“What!” Anger gave Silas the strength to stand upright. “Me? I wasn't being tested. And why flunk them? I'm the one that hit you. Is it because they didn't let one of their own die? Double-drafting isn't grounds for failure. It just hurts like hell. If anything, you should commend them for ending this with all parties alive!”

“You didn't fail because Summer drafted within a draft,” Milo said. “You didn't even fail because you hit me. You failed because you didn't adhere to the spirit of the test.”

Silas went still, seeing the understanding in the eyes of Karen and Heidi as they limped past him, supporting each other like fallen soldiers. “Is that so,” he said dryly.

“You were here to gather data for your thesis and monitor the slick-suits,” Milo said, jerking Silas's attention back with a hard jab to his chest. “You interfered. They failed. Get out.”

Summer waited for him by the door. Allen leaned heavily on the wall beside her.

“I said get out!” the professor shouted when Silas turned on a heel to go back into the office for his tablet.

“I forgot my data,” he said as he passed Professor Milo, the man quivering in rage. The professor had not liked him ever since Silas had proved one of his theories wrong in his freshman year.

Silas looped his arm in Summer's as they crossed the threshold, and she tucked her head against his shoulder, their pace matching perfectly. He breathed in her scent, fighting the shakes. He could have lost her. But he hadn't. Her ability had saved not just herself, but everyone out there.
How can I live with her doing this every day if I'm not the one at her side anchoring her? Keeping her safe?

“I think we won, Allen,” she said as they got into the waiting Opti van with the other drafters and anchors, all nursing migraines the size of Montana. “I got the chocolates out.”

She'd eaten them.

Silas looked up, seeing the rueful nods and rolling eyes of the students around them. Allen chuckled, the sound ending in a groan, and Silas smiled, even if it did hurt.

Failed? Not yet. They had three days until graduation, and time was on their side.

CHAPTER

THREE

T
he bar's thermostat was set blessedly low, and Summer had used her womanly charms to get them the large round table in the back, right under the air-conditioning vent. It wasn't their usual place, but with seven of them, the bar's usual community college clientele ignored them after their cursory assessment of “academy asshats.” Word had gotten out that they had been responsible for the campus-wide migraine every drafter, anchor, and the retired-agent staff had endured last night. Being out of sight was more than prudent.

Silas licked his fingers clean of the last of the wings; he'd been starving after the headache-instigated fast. His glass tablet was a soft glow before him as it scrolled through his most recent data, and he meticulously cleaned his fingers with the Handi Wipe that Summer had found him. The noise from the bar, full on a Friday night, was a pleasant background, and he could almost ignore the electric country the place seemed to be stuck on.

Across from him, Karen and Heidi were working on their second glass of red wine and a bowl of gluten-free crisps. Ethan and Beth were to his right, their beverage and snack of choice being beer and wings. Allen was a dangerously quiet lump to his left. Summer was at the bar getting food and solicitations for her phone number. It had been almost twenty-four hours, but everything was still fresh and raw, seeing as Heidi, Ethan, and Summer had only recently recovered their missing twenty seconds. Migraines prevented their defrags until this afternoon.

“Can we just forget about it for tonight?” Heidi said, trying to coax Karen into a better mood. “And get your hand out of that bowl before you put on ten pounds,” she added.

Lips pressed, Karen shoved the bowl to the center of the table. “As far as I'm concerned, it was a major screwup and we deserve to have to repeat the test.” Karen slumped in her chair, staring at the bowl. The woman was a rail. Ten pounds would look good on her.

Elbows on the table, Ethan tipped his bottle up and took a swig. “They don't run them again for another six months. I checked,” he said, wiping a drop from his tidy beard.

Allen stirred. “I'm not waiting another six months to graduate.”

A collective sigh sent guilt through Silas. Maybe hitting Professor Milo had been a mistake, but that paled in comparison to the professor taking a bullet in the rewrite. That Silas might end up out on his ear—irreplaceable skills and techniques aside—would be a real concern if half the administrating body hadn't wanted to punch the distasteful man on more than one occasion.
Let them die. Bullshit.
He had a feeling his punishment simply hadn't been decided yet. They'd probably put him in charge of the freshman drafters, every one of them a maddening mix of justifiable arrogance and insecurity.

He was guiltily grateful that no one at the table blamed him, even if it was his actions that led to their failure. It had been their mistakes that put him in the position to have to make that decision, but no one wanted a classmate to die.

“Six months,” Karen groaned, pulling the bowl back to herself. “Our lease is up in two weeks. Silas, can we crash with you and Summer?”

“No.” Silas's eyes went to Summer as she laughed, the tone telling him she was trying to diffuse a situation at the bar. Seeing someone standing a smidgen too close to her, he put on his leave-my-girl-alone face, hunching his shoulders to look more massive when she cheerfully pointed him out, the ribbon that had been around the chocolates now in her hair. Beside him, Allen chuckled as the student's face twitched and he turned away.

“I'm
not
waiting another six months to graduate,” Allen repeated, pushing his glasses back up his long nose.

Ethan set his beer down hard. “You have another choice? It's not as if we can long-draft back and try again.”

No, not yet, anyway.
Frowning, Silas dropped his gaze to the data he'd gotten from Summer's double-draft. There had been an unexpected sink of gravity paralleling the secondary Doppler shift. He wasn't sure if it validated his theory that drafters were creating a temporary, parallel universe when they drafted, then yanking that created pocket of parallel existence into the current one, in effect allowing a reboot of time. If that was true, drafting back further in time was possible—apart from the massive damage it would do to the drafter performing it.

Silas hit the
PROCEED
key to start the data-compiling, and the screen went clear to conserve power. Under it, the table was scratched with initials in a heart, and Silas's lips twitched. “I wouldn't do anything different if I could long-draft,” he said.

“I would.” Ethan's jaw was tight as he looked at Allen in accusation. From across the table, Karen and Heidi clinked glasses and downed their drinks.

Allen raised a hand in placation. “We all would, but they'd still fail us. Professor Milo is right. We treated it like a game, not reality.”

A smile crossed Silas's face, his psychology training coming to the forefront. It never failed to amaze him how tooth-and-nail they could be with each other until one of their own was threatened, and then there was no doubt of their loyalty to each other. But then again, Opti took steps to foster that kind of behavior.

“It was a game.” Silas slid down the bench as Summer approached with a plate of fried vegetables. “They dress you up in training suits and give you guns that don't hurt anyone, then set you all against each other to fetch a box of chocolate. They aren't treating it seriously, either.”

“They are now,” Ethan said as he held up his hand to show the silver band around his wrist. Silas was the only one at the table without one. It had a tracking chip in it, a product of their probation. The only reason Silas was exempt was because they knew he'd find a way to get it off, and then everyone would know, when he shared the information.

“I'm going to lodge a formal protest,” Allen said as he glumly twisted the band around his wrist before hiding it behind his sleeve. “Who do I go to for that?”

Ethan snorted as Heidi looked into the bottom of her wineglass. “Milo,” she said softly.

An odd sensation of protection and pride pinged against Silas's thoughts as Summer's tall, willowy frame eased past Allen and easily shoved him down so she could sit beside Silas. Allen went without complaint, happy to be at her other side, if not the focus of her immediate attentions. The plate of fried vegetables steamed, and she wiggled closer to Silas, touching almost his entire body's length. The scent of her hair was everywhere, and he put an arm around and behind her simply to maintain their balance.

“Anyone want some?” she asked as she handed Silas the second pair of chopsticks, and a mild negative response rose up.

She smiled as their eyes met, but a faint look of panic in her eyes made him feel as if it was ending. She was there, warm beside him, but they both knew time would pull them apart. She needed him as much as he needed her.

“Maybe we can get extra credit,” Allen said, eyes on a breaded pepper.

Karen sat back from the table in disgust. “Dude. He got shot. He's not going to give us extra credit. Besides, this isn't high school. We pay the price and move on.”

“No!” Allen protested, angry now. “I won't do nothing. There's got to be a way to fix this.”

Heidi shot Karen a tired look, and the taller woman sat up. “Okay, I can see where this is going,” Karen said. “You can count me and Heidi out of whatever cack-brained idea you have in that head of yours.”

Allen pushed his glasses back up his narrow nose and glared. “Hey! I don't even
have
the idea yet. Let me come up with one before you diss it.”

Summer laughed as she angled a fried broccoli between her teeth. “Does it involve a thermonuclear device like your last idea?” she asked around her full mouth.

“That was a good idea!” Allen protested, ears red.

“I can't afford another screwup,” Ethan said.

“Me, either,” Beth agreed, and Allen's expression darkened.

Summer leaned toward Allen as she chewed, and Silas felt the coolness slip between them. “Lots of people fail the final,” she said as she used her chopsticks to put a hot pepper on his crumb-strewn plate.

Silas hunched lower in his chair. “Not because of me, they don't,” he said, but he didn't know what they could do to make it right, either. He'd already talked to Professor Woo, and there was no extra work, no teaching of classes, nothing.

His head came up as Ethan and Beth stood. “Okay, we're out of here,” Ethan said, and Beth came around the table to give the women a hug good-bye. “See you guys later.”

But Heidi and Karen had stood as well, making Silas feel as if they were being abandoned. “Us, too,” Karen said. “There's too many people here. We're going to another bar where we can sulk in peace. You want to come, Summer? I seriously need to blow off some steam.”

But Summer only settled more firmly against him. “No. Thanks. I'm good here.”

Allen grumbled something unheard, but Silas ignored him, feeling at the same time protective, loving, and depressed. Summer loved him back, and that's what hurt. This extra semester they now had might seem like a boon, but it would only make the inevitable parting harder. They
would
graduate. She
would
move forward in the Opti drafter/anchor program, and he
would
continue on in academia, developing tools and techniques to keep her safe.
From a distance.

No longer hungry, he stuck his chopsticks straight up in a piece of fried onion.

With a final wave, the four left together, probably going somewhere to burn Silas in effigy. Allen was silent, shifting to take advantage of the increased space.

“Are you sure there's no extra credit we can do?” Allen mused as he pulled the plate of vegetables directly in front of him.

Silas eyed him, then decided Allen could have his dinner if he left his girlfriend alone. “Classes are over,” he said. “It's done.”

“Not until I say it is,” Allen grumbled, and Silas watched Summer and Allen finish off the plate, vying over the choice bits, their working relationship easy to mistake for attraction. There wasn't a flicker of jealousy in Silas. He'd figured out long ago that Summer didn't love Allen. She loved Silas and had chosen to work with Allen because Allen would never risk Silas's anger by trying to move their working relationship to a new level. She'd been using Allen to keep serious anchors at a distance. But someday she would move on. And Silas had been holding her back.

Silas's hands clenched. “Summer. I'm sorry.”

Knowing he wasn't talking about last night, she leaned in to give him a kiss. “I wouldn't change a thing,” she said, making it worse.

Allen's expression went sour, fully aware of his part in the trio. “I'm tired of getting shot. How come I'm always the one who gets shot?”

Silas chuckled, his good mood hesitating as a slim, petite woman passed between him and the bar. She was limping, and he stood in a rush, recognizing her voice when she politely refused an unwelcome advance. Summer and Allen stared up at him in surprise. “Excuse me,” he said as he angled his bulk out.

“Who is it?” Summer asked, seeing his gaze on the woman, who was now standing with her back to them as she looked over the music selection at the jukebox.

“I'm not sure,” he hedged, pulse fast as he got free of the table and made his way across the room.

People got out of his way, and he still had no idea what he was going to say when he reached her. In a quandary, he froze. He couldn't just walk up and say, “Hey, you owe me for screwing up my test grade.”

She stiffened, feeling him behind her. “I'm not a bitch for saying no. I came here to get away from everyone, okay?” she said as she turned. But her peeved expression shifted to one of recognition, and then she flushed the most comely shade of red.

“Hi,” he said flatly.

She recovered fast, running her gaze up and down his more casual clothes once, before leaning in to be heard over the noise. “Thanks for the migraine last night, Dr. Banner.”

His lip twitched at the thinly veiled reference to the Hulk. “It's Dr. Denier, actually. I have to retake my exam, thanks to you.” The music changed, and his shoulders relaxed as the electronic country shifted to something a little more sophisticated, with brass and complicated rhythm.

“Yeah?” she said tartly. “I spent last night in the dark with a washcloth over my eyes.”

His shoulders regained their belligerent hunch. “There were three drafters on site amplifying it, but if it makes you feel better, I'll let my best friend die next time.”

Her eyes flicked behind him to the table. He could feel Summer watching, sense Allen's amusement. “Sorry,” she said, and he could tell she didn't say it often, but when she did, she meant it. “It wasn't you who double-drafted anyway. It was
her
.”

Silas turned at her caustic tone, wincing at Summer's pointed, inquiring look.

The small woman leaned casually against the jukebox, effectively preventing anyone from changing the music. “But no one gets mad at tall, blond, and beautiful,” she finished dryly.

Silas's attention came back to her, the way she looked against the jukebox with the light accenting her curves. “And you're tiny and deadly,” he said. “What's your beef?”

The woman's eyes flicked to his, her surprise that he thought her competent obvious. Slowly she pushed herself up. “None of them deserve to pass,” she said frankly. “I heard what happened. No one blocked the 911 calls, and local authority was on the scene in eleven minutes. Everyone was focused on get in, get the tag, get out. Everyone had a cell phone, and
no one
did a search on who might have a gun, who carried a concealed, how many times the bar had been hit by armed thieves, and the chances they had an SOP for gunplay. No one even bothered to see if the back door was open.”