Three pretend people sit in the restaurant of the Sofitel in Saigon Plaza in a quiet corner facing the entrance. Even with sundown imminent, the heat is oppressive outside, something they feel every time the doors open. Outside the restaurant window, the early evening crush of traffic is visible.
Jeanne Sevigné and Annick de Rohan converse in rapid-fire French, their native fluency belying the fact that neither of them possesses a Gallic forebear. For nearly thirty minutes they chat as old friends do, recalling nonsensical childhood adventures and excursions they've taken together over hot drinks: tea for Annick, coffee for Jeanne. The stories are funny, sentimental, touching, and wholly untrue. The women wear their disguises like a second skin, performing with Oscar-worthy caliber.
Jeanne's husband Alain nurses his whisky judiciously, his half-smile affectionate and indulgent as he observes his wife and her friend. His relaxed demeanor masks a hyper-alert scan of the room, that superior brain creating and discarding possible scenarios at an expeditious rate.
When he finally nods imperceptibly, having ascertained their safety, three non-existent people drop their feigned shared past, and proceed to cover the topic for which they've gathered.
"Outcome," Nicky murmurs, her agile mind pulling up the image of one Colonel Eric Byers. She shakes her head. "Vosen ran Blackbriar, and I heard rumors about Outcome but according to Vosen, we were years away from putting it into play."
"Well they did it," says Marta bitterly. "Right in plain view, right under everyone's noses."
Marta gives Nicky a primer on Outcome, the chems created in Sterisyn-Morlanta by scientists designing next generation modifications to what had been Treadstone. She describes the physical and neurological effects of the chems, the mitochondrial updates that enhance speed, muscle regeneration, oxygenation; the manipulation of neuroplasticity that improve sensory function and pain suppression. She tries to keep her voice flat as she recites these facts but Cross and Nicky can see the flush in her cheeks, the intensity in her eyes. The scientist is coming to the forefront and it's hard for her not to betray the excitement she still feels about leaps they made in human enhancements.
Nicky's eyes narrow. Marta catches the condemnation in that gaze. Her jaw hardens and she leans forward, anger in those hazel eyes. "You don't get to judge me. I didn't know. I was hired by a corporation to run labs and read data. Did you know what was happening to them, what was being done?"
"I didn't have the luxury of not knowing," Nicky bites out through clenched teeth.
"But you did it anyway."
They're both so angry, so full of censure; half of it is self-directed. Cross knows this, says nothing. His brain is evolved enough to know the stupidity of stepping in between two livid women; but even so, he shifts in his seat, lifts his hand and brushes Marta's cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers. The deeply intimate caress causes Marta to draw in a swift breath, breaking eye contact with Nicky to look at him. Cross relaxes his guard and lets her have everything she needs to see. Marta exhales slowly, venting her fury, accepting the complete forgiveness and trust in his eyes, the naked tenderness in his expression. For a moment they both forget Nicky, where they are, what they're doing; Cross could not be telling her – or the woman across from them – any more plainly how he feels about Marta.
When Marta returns her attention to Nicky, she is startled to find the stark pain etched on the other woman's face. Nicky's agony is a vivid canvas, painted with longing, guilt, and sorrow, the last a cancer that's eating away at her soul. It's enough to give Marta pause, to reconsider her own judgment of the former Treadstone analyst.
Marta continues, disconcerted: "The results are permanent in Aaron. We viraled him off the last chem he needed."
She explains what they had to do in Manila, injecting Cross with the cognitive virus.
"Jesus," Nicky murmurs when Marta's recitation is finished. She looks at Cross, light brown eyes skimming up and down his upper body. "So you're the next step in evolution."
Cross acknowledges with quick jerk of his head.
"What does this have to do with me? Why are you here?"
They both stare at her blankly for a moment. Her eyes widen with disbelief and she leans back in her seat.
"You thought I could help you?" Nicky asks incredulously. "That you'd somehow get your lives back? That you'd be safe?"
Her laugh is bitter and scornful. Cross' eyes narrow.
"I don't need to be safe or get my life back," Cross snaps. He glances at Marta. "But I want her clear and free of all of this."
Marta shoots him a startled glance. What's he saying? Aren't they together? Doesn't he mean "us" rather than "her?" What's he saying?!
"The only way she's clear and free – any of us – are clear and free is if we've got something they want, or if we've got something they're trying to hide."
Cross nods. He knows that. "They burned down Treadstone, Blackbriar, and Outcome. Bourne's all they have left of Treadstone. I'm all that remains of Outcome. They'll be after us forever. But there's at least one other program we know of, and it's operational. Larx."
"What is Larx?" Nicky demands, her face screwed up with confusion.
Cross glances at Marta and nods encouragingly at her.
"Bourne was behavior modification. Beta I," Marta says. "Soldiers were broken down and reconditioned and reprogrammed. But they had physical problems because of the first gen enhancements, including chronic headaches, fatigue, and sensitivity to bright lights. Beta II – Outcome – used chemical fine tuning to get rid of those inconsistencies. But the problem is that the enhanced intelligence came with emotional variances."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means that we weren't automatons," Cross shoots back. "We developed feelings about things. About people. We had opinions." He glances at Marta, those blue eyes softening again.
This time, Nicky grinds her teeth together, schools her face to remain impassive.
"Larx is Beta III. I didn't work on it, but it doesn't take a genius to know what's next in the super soldier series. If Outcome was designed to reduce the inconsistencies of Treadstone, then Larx is meant to delete emotional response. They're machines," Marta continues.
"We were chased by one in Manila. He's me without distractions," Cross says plainly. "It's the secret they're trying to hide. If we can get proof of the program, we can force –"
"No." Nicky is already shaking her head. "No, it won't work."
"You haven't heard –" Marta starts, but Nicky is already standing, not even maintaining her façade that this is a friendly reunion. Her glare is hostile, those brown eyes hard.
"I don't need to hear what you have to say or what you're proposing. You're talking about becoming visible again. I'm off the grid, I'm alive. I'm a fucking ghost and you want me to resurrect myself? No. No."
"If you won't, what about Bourne?" Cross asks, a hand unconsciously moving to Marta's knee in a gesture of comfort.
Nicky's bark of laughter is devoid of mirth. "I thought you said he had enhanced cognition," she says contemptuously to Marta. "You have no idea who Bourne is." She glowers at them, their physical familiarity with one another fuelling her irrational and incandescent rage. "Unlike you, he has nothing left, nothing to fight for or care for. He's surviving and punishing himself for it."
Marta's face is drawn with despair but Cross is calm as he tells her: "You know how to find us."
Nicky turns on her heel and marches off, her body quivering under the onslaught of so many emotions she cannot sort ire from grief. It stays with her all through the ride back to her room, that hollowness; she recalls the way Cross and Marta moved in unconscious symmetry, one shifting and the other leaning in to maintain the shape of their intimacy. She aches for what they possess; what she cannot have.
When she returns to her room in District 11, she knows.
She doesn't turn the light on, moving with practiced familiarity toward the dresser against the wall. Faint illumination comes from the street lamps outside, the room a play of shadows and light. She throws her keys into a cheap glass dish, then reaches up to divest her earrings, dropping them into the same dish. She unravels the knot at her waist and removes the light, long-sleeved cotton shirt she'd thrown on over her tank top, tossing it to the chair in the corner. Hands resting on the dresser, she finally looks up at the mirror, directly at the reflection of the steely-eyed man sitting behind her on her bed.
She was right about how he'd respond.
Bourne is pissed.