She hesitated. “My name is Gabrielle.”
“Leave me alone.” He turned off the set, and she faded to a tiny white dot.
Harris, still blinking sleep from his eyes, walked into the laboratory with the new box in his hand.
Doc, Alastair, and Gaby sat on bar stools at one of the tables. Gaby was wearing a belted knee-length dress in dark green, obviously one of the fair world styles, and black pumps. Doc looked like his former self, with weariness in his eyes and darkness under them the only visible signs of what he’d gone through. Seeing Harris, Doc smiled and smacked his hand on the tabletop. “It works.”
Harris looked at him, confused, and waved the box, a black metal thing about the size of a VCR tape. “I found this on my bed when I woke up. The note said to turn on the switch and come to the lab.”
“My note,” Doc admitted. “And my box. Yours, now.”
Harris moved over to join them. The table, he saw, was piled with food—more of the meat-filled pastries, a big platter of cold cuts and bread.
Alastair waved a hand over the mass: “Care for anything?”
“My stomach isn’t awake yet. God, I must have slept almost a whole day. I’ll take some of that chocolate drink if you’ve got it.” Harris took an unoccupied stool. “So what’s the box?”
Doc gestured at the volt-meter on the table before him. “I rekeyed this to show you, as it did the first night. But it doesn’t. Not while you carry that box. It’s something I’ve made to conceal your presence.”
“Great.” Harris slipped the box in his jacket pocket. “You whipped this up just today?”
“During the night.”
“Should you even be out of bed?” Harris peered at Doc’s hands, but they were back to normal. Doc obligingly turned them over so he could see both sides.
Alastair paused with a silver container filled with milk poised over Harris’ chocolate. “He should not. He’s still dragging his feet out of his grave.”
“That’s what I thought. I’ll take it black, thanks.”
Alastair blinked. “But you asked for milk.”
“I did?”
Gaby looked amused. “I’ve already been through this once today. The nasty chocolate stuff is called ‘xioc.’ So when you put milk in it, it’s ‘xioc au lait.’ Get it?”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Harris took up the mug and sipped, winced once more at the drink’s harshness. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take the milk.” He turned back to Doc. “Does this mean that Duncan Blackletter’s people can’t find me now?”
“I think so . . . at least, not by using a device like this. Now I need to make another one for Gabriela. Unlike you, she registers on both settings. Her Tallysin Aura has elements like yours, an outsider’s, and elements like one of the Gifted.”
“Meaning they get to track me down on both worlds,” Gaby mock-grumbled. “Between that and the fact that they tell me they don’t have any blue jeans on the fair world, I’m getting pretty annoyed.”
Harris smiled. “You loved this place yesterday. You fall out of love fast.”
The words were out of him before he realized what he was saying. He saw her expression of hurt surprise. He suppressed a wince and waited for the moment to pass. “So, what’s on the schedule for today?”
“Tests,” Doc said. “We know Gaby is Gifted. We know she must be tied up with Gabrielle somehow. But she says she’s never manifested any sign of the Gift. We have to find out what that means.”
“You going to put her in the big glass tube and fire lightning into her brain?”
Gaby’s eyes got big.
Doc nodded, oblivious. “Yes, the Firbolg Valence is first on the itinerary. And you? What would you like to do?”
“I don’t know. Do you know where I can find a weight room?”
“A what?”
“A gymnasium, maybe?”
“Ah. Down three, next to the gun practice range. Private, for the use of Foundation associates; use the Foundation elevator.”
“Doc, is there anything this building doesn’t have?”
“I don’t think so. Suggest something. I’ll have it put in.”
The gymnasium had a wooden parquet floor that hadn’t seen a lot of use. Only one of the banks of lights against the high ceiling was on; this gave the place an air of emptiness and gloom, like the sports arena of a losing team after the crowds had gone.
Most of the way through his warm-up stretches, Harris lowered himself into a front split, right leg forward, left leg back as straight as he could manage—which wasn’t as straight as he’d like. He used to be a little more limber. He held the pose, then bent to touch his forehead to his knee in spite of the protest from offended muscle groups. He reversed his pose, bringing the left leg forward.
The chamber’s dim atmosphere was fine with Harris. He’d always liked prowling around where he wasn’t supposed to be, and being here felt like that. It was a habit that had gotten him in trouble with school officials and police a couple of times when he was younger.
And the gloom reflected his mood. Much as he wanted to be with Gaby, help keep her spirits up during the tests, he knew he’d probably say something stupid, hurtful. Knew that her eyes no longer lit up when he appeared. Most of the time, when she saw him she looked guilty, unhappy.
Finished with the front splits, he turned sideways, his legs straight out to either side, and bent forward, trying to touch his forehead to the floor. He never could quite manage to split his legs out to a 180° angle, but he could get close. His muscles protested as he pressed his forehead to the cool floor; he held the pose.
He relaxed and rose. Enough stretching. He lowered himself into horse stance to begin the first of his forms exercises . . . and spotted someone in his peripheral vision. He turned his head slightly to get a better look. It was Noriko, lingering in the shadows near the door.
Come to study him, as she studied everything, with her solemn expression and unblinking gaze? He smiled to himself. Well, as long as he had an audience, he might as well put on a show.
He decided against one of his traditional forms sets and instead conjured up the mental image of Sonny Walters, positioning him in the far corner of an imaginary boxing ring. It was time to replay that fight, see where it had gone wrong. Do it right this time.
Hands high, body in motion, Harris advanced on the Smile.
He still had to advance. Sonny had the reach on him; there was no other way to fight it. No mistake there.
In the real fight, after the first couple of rounds, Sonny had begun nailing him just as Harris moved in close enough to strike and just before Harris drew back out of Sonny’s range. Transitions, just as Zeb had said. But why not before—why not in the first two rounds?
Sonny must just have been studying Harris. Soaking up a little punishment while he catalogued Harris’ inventory of moves and approaches. Okay, then. Harris moved into range of the phantom Sonny’s attacks, and his sparring partner didn’t attack. A few inches closer, still bouncing and weaving, and Sonny was in range of Harris’ kicks, but still didn’t strike. That was the way Harris remembered it.
Harris moved into arm range and threw a left-hand feint. The phantom Sonny blocked, came back with a right hook. This time Harris knew not to try to stop it with his knifehand block; strong enough for most opponents, that move wasn’t strong enough for Sonny Walters. Instead, he threw a middle block, bringing his left forearm in on Sonny’s extended arm, battering it out of line.
A good pose from which to launch his spinning backfist. He started a clockwise spin but only turned a few degrees, then disengaged his left hand and snapped it into Sonny’s exposed face, right into his nose. The phantom looked surprised, moved back an involuntary step, and took Harris’ follow-through right front kick right in the guts.