Chapter One -- Past
Perfect
A young British chick named Jane
Austen once wrote, "The younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures
of the elder." Believe me, I could
be the poster boy for that sentiment. My
brother's work was his pleasure and I've paid for it in spades. Slavery, madness, nobility, self-sacrifice --
you name it and I've given it.
Of course, I've gotten
something out of it too - like a partner and a purpose and a Keeper. Now my Keeper, who happened to be another
young British chick, once asked me to trust her. To which I cite Mason Cooley, a world-class wiseguy from the roaring Twenties: "Trust, but look
for exits."
His first
clear memory of its inception, though, was of standing before Kevin's grave,
trying to make sense out of his brother's senseless decision. He'd realized then how long it would take to
find a solution, an answer to steal the sting from the scorpion that lived
inside his head. He'd felt the crushing
weight of the years -- the years --
of waiting ahead of him. The years of toiling away as a slave for the Agency. The years of being hunted down by one madman
or another every other day of the week. And he'd known that he wouldn't make it that long. He'd either be dead or insane, if not from
the gland then surely from the monotony, before the Keeper found an answer.
Hobbes had
chosen that moment to interrupt his thoughts. Bobby had only wanted to comfort him, to let him know that Kevin had
made his decision out of love. But Bobby
hadn't known Kevin, hadn't grown up with the daily arrogance of Kevin's genius
or the selfishness of his love. Oh,
That's when
