Robert rolled his eyes. He didn’t believe him.
“You aren’t alone,” Robert said. “You’ll survive this because you have family.”
“What?”
“That’s what you said to me. When we met. After the scientists had brought me back to life. You came to see me in my private room. No recording devices. Full privacy.”
“And what did you do when I said that?” Abraham asked.
“I wept. And you promised never to tell anyone that I did. You never have.”
“One secret between two men doesn’t prove anything,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
“I covered for you when you went out to get Matilda on that farm,” Robert began slowly. “I warned you about that assassination plot back during the Uprising, which you ignored.”
He paused for breathing again, and tried to work moisture into his mouth. “You warned me not to date that House Green woman, Blythe, which I ignored. I told January not to date you, which she ignored, and one time you told me”—he paused again—“when you were very drunk, that you regretted signing the treaty with the Houses to end the Uprising, because while it stopped the innocent bloodshed and saved House Brown, it sentenced every galvanized—your family—to a life of slavery.”
“Rob,” Abraham breathed. He believed him, and for that Robert was grateful.
“We need to get you out of here,” Abraham said. “Now.”
“This body won’t last much longer.”
“Like hell,” Abraham pulled the coverlet away. His eyes widened at the sight of his wasted, broken, and rotting body.
“We can do something,” Abraham said. “We can save you.”
“No, Bram,” Robert said softly, “we can’t. Whatever disease it is, it’s advanced. Beyond repair.”
Abraham closed his eyes. After a moment, he nodded. He drew the covers up around Robert and sat beside him on the bed. “How did he do this? How did he take your body and brain for his own?”
“A man was there. Unfamiliar equipment. The man was a prisoner.”
“Do you know who the man was?”
“Quinten Case. Matilda’s brother.”
“Do you know where he is? He might know how to reverse this. He might know how to return you to your own body.”
“Please, Abraham Seventh,” another voice said. “There is no need for questions and plans. I have taken care of all that.”
Robert glanced across the room. His body stood in the doorway, a gun in his hand. It was beyond strange to see himself standing there, more whole than he’d ever really considered himself to be.
It was beyond strange to see that the orange stitching that crossed his face and head brought out the blue of his eyes, and somehow made him look strong.
But the strangest thing was to see the alien intelligence behind his eyes, and to hear words spoken in a cadence he had never used.
“Step away from the bed,” Slater said. “The bullets in this gun are filled with Shelley dust. One shot, and your stitches will begin to dissolve. Two shots, and you will be unconscious. If I empty the clip, you won’t wake for years.”
Abraham looked down at Robert, saying good-bye. Saying more than that, as only a brother could. Robert nodded. It had been a long and ultimately good life. He had no regrets.
“What do you want, Slater Orange?” Abraham said as he stood. “What is your play in this game?”
“Immortality, which this body provides. Power, which I will obtain after your House is brought down by your actions, Abraham Seventh.”
“Where is Quinten Case?” Abraham asked.
“Nowhere you’ll ever find him.” Slater squeezed the trigger. One shot, two, three. He unloaded the clip into Abraham, even as the bigger man threw himself to one side.
