Title: Commerce

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Author: Rez

Summary: Syd’s got a new (Sark) gig.

Disclaimer: Alias and its characters are the property of J.J. Abrams/Bad Robot Productions.

Archive: Cover Me, Dark Enigma; others please ask.

Feedback: Cherished and always acknowledged: lo_rez @ adelphia.net

 

 

 

 

I set the helmet down by the retaining wall and undo my jacket, expecting to wait. It’s cloudy, the directionless light throwing soft shadows. The gulls dip and cry in the April breeze and I lean out over the wall. Traffic sounds rise over the sigh of the wind.

 

I hear footsteps behind me, casual stride, soft-soled; he’s early. I don’t even turn when he touches my shoulder. Beside me, his well-shod foot gently rocks the helmet to examine its interior. I’m still, sweating a little in my leathers.

 

His free hand moves down my left arm, then the right— “Forgive me, Agent Bristow. Due diligence.” That fucking British accent. “I trust you, but you know what they say …”

 

I do know: this close, you’re already dead. But I’m a puppet; he’s pulling the strings. Besides, I know he doesn’t want me dead, or anyway not this week, unless it’s absolutely necessary.

 

So he’s way too close, but he always is. He checks the waistband of the leathers and brushes a hand across my back, and lately this is how it’s been. We used to knock each other around but it’s not that kind of contest any more. Now it’s his hand against the damp of my skin, with the shirt between, and there’s still a tiny margin of caution there, so it’s not—quite—humiliating. I’m an itch he can’t scratch. He’s a book I’ll never read. It makes us edgy when we have to be around each other.

 

That’s how we play it, anyway. I still haven’t moved. I say: “I’m not carrying a weapon.”

 

He slips around to face me, the hand still resting just above my hipbone; the man never met a limit that didn’t tempt him. “But don’t they all say that,” he remarks.

 

“Sark, if you think I’m going to brace while you—”

 

He actually kisses me. Briefly. Capably. Damnably.

 

Twice.

 

A clear winner in Round 1. Way stupid, Sydney. If he lit it up in neon he couldn’t be plainer: Careful, Agent Bristow.

 

Because, you know, I’m a problem that way. My handler and I, we really crossed the line a few years back. Now that I’m—how funny—the control, aren’t they all just waiting for the day when it looks like I’m going for a little role reversal?

 

Just a reminder: I’m not in charge here.

 

I wonder where they’ve got the cameras mounted.

 

He smells of … verbena, maybe. I could hurt him, and I’d like to, but I’ve learned the hard way not to overreact. If he wants my personal space, he can borrow it.

 

The cameras—? It doesn’t matter.

 

“Don’t tell me I’ve been demoted,” I say, and I’ve never noticed before that the color of his eyes changes. Okay, I’m lying. In this light they’re pewter, slightly tarnished.

 

“No.”

 

I tighten, but he’s only reaching up to brush the hair out of my face. Not threatening, just satanically annoying; he’s gifted that way. He wants a reaction. I’d rather die. Stalemate.

 

He moves back a step, finally, leans against the wall next to me. “But I suppose we really should get on with business.” And yeah, there’s the smile—something about the way his mouth curves…

 

“Sark,” I say—unnecessarily, because he hasn’t stopped looking at me. “That was business.” The smile curls up a little more, and I guess it is a reaction, at that. Another point to him.

 

“Manners, Agent Bristow,” he says, and I know the game’s over for today. I let the birds scream at him instead of doing it myself. I say:

 

“I’m sure everyone will enjoy the playback. Can we do this, please?” He lifts his head to follow a gull’s swoop, his face like a boy’s in the soft light. Then he looks back at me and I get the jolt that always goes with that meltwater stare. The smile again.

 

“Two nights ago,” he says softly, “an antisubmarine aircraft overflew the offshore grid where a classified field test was being conducted by several US government agencies. The test director reported the intrusion but the Navy failed to intercept.” He moves; something small and dark drops between us.

 

“Most unfortunately, the CIA was a cosponsor and is thus directly responsible for a massive security breach. It would certainly change things strategically if data from that test were to reach the open market. The sample on that RAM-stick is a good-faith gesture. Your people will have to handle decryption, sorry.”

 

“Fine.” But I’m on autopilot; gulls gone, traffic gone, wind blowing over a silent rooftop, just the two of us alone. I’m trying to understand how this might have happened. I’m trying to focus on contingencies. He never telegraphs his approach. We never know in advance. But the pitch is true, this time, and the intel might be.

 

I know it’s true because I was at the test site, two nights ago, when the shit hit the fan. I keep my eyes on the landscape that’s faded to nothing beyond the wall.

 

Don’t stop talking.

 

“And the payoff?” I ask.

 

He knows I was there.

 

Does he? I could just, for once, get lucky. Couldn’t I? I’m inside on this one, and nailing him or his source, in flagrante—proving something—could be the only break I’ve had in all the months we’ve been doing this dance. If he doesn’t know. But I’ve never seen him surprised.

 

And if he does know, he’s got, among other things, the raw material to build a neat, tight little frame, just for me. Because it cuts both ways, right? I was there.

 

He’s looking at me and I turn to face him. Give me a hint: I-know-you-know-I-know. But there’s nothing. Of course not.

 

“I beg your pardon?” he says. He puts his hands in his trouser pockets. The wind’s got my hair and he wants to tidy it again. He’s smart enough not to but it irritates him that he can’t.

 

I wonder what choice I’ll make when he produces that frame, nicely painted, and explains what’s required to prevent him from hanging it around my neck. We had a moment awhile back, he and I, sort of sealed-off and shelved up high. It’s what got this whole thing started, in a way, and yeah, I’m guilty. Maybe I’ll find out how it feels just to give in. That would be … restful, maybe.

 

“I’ve got nothing for you,” I say. “How are we paying you for this?” Now he’s looking away, but I get the impression that he doesn’t see the landscape, either.

 

It’s been a real education, watching him build influence inside the Agency, move and countermove, slow, immaculately plotted. He’s got access, these days—even at arm’s length—that’s the stuff of nightmares. But I don’t have the energy to care, much. Arvin Sloane was a fucking amateur by comparison, and it all has a sort of sick inevitability that just makes me tired.

 

He turns his head away, and I’m interested, because it shouldn’t take him this long. The line of his jaw seems strained from this angle. His shoulders are tense under the beautiful suit jacket. Don’t worry, I think, whatever it is, you’ll figure it out. Finally:

 

“That’s a discussion for another day. Perhaps with someone more—senior.” My father, he means. And I get the pack-ice stare again. The errand girl is dismissed.

 

But the private wavelength still operates, like it or not; I can feel him calculating. I think he knows exactly where I was, two nights ago. I try to salvage something, make it personal, divert him a little. There’s always a first time.

 

“Sark.” I stare down and now the traffic comes into focus, turning into the complex below us, the guards stopping each car for a four-second mirror check under the chassis. Like that’ll help. He turns his head and now he’s curious because I don’t usually do this, prolong the contact. Don’t look at him, Sydney.

 

“Look, I get the message.” I keep my voice reasonable. “I’m down to running your errands and everyone knows it, okay? But if—big if, right?—you want any more use out of me, you really shouldn’t take the humiliation too far.” He faces me now and I tighten because it feels like he’s going to do something. He’s watching my hair blow around again. If he moves I’m probably going to hit him.

 

He doesn’t move. He says, “Sydney, how—cruel.” The mockery’s barely noticeable. The accent seduces; he knows that’s how it sounds to us—provincials, he said once. I press the palms of my hands into the cement coping of the wall, and I’m flashing on another wall, another time we were together, because he’s just taken care to remind me. There were gulls then, too. My hands hurt. Don’t do that, he’ll notice.

 

“Oh, drop the routine, just this once, can you?” I let a little weariness color my voice. “Haven’t you had your fun for the day? I’ve got a great reputation for relationship-building at the Agency, thanks to you and Sloane, remember? Sydney does Michael? Christ, you can probably download a copy off the web by now, it’s been duped so many times since then. Not,” I add, “that you’d need to.” Detachment, maybe just a hint of boredom. Excellent, Syd, very convincing. Touché.

 

He hears Michael and moves back to look out over the wall. He hears duped and actually turns his head away. I lower my voice, wondering how I sound to him. Don’t overplay it, Sydney.

 

“My father might know the difference between a lover making love and a—freelance jackal keeping his bitch in line, but the DD’s going to put me in the deep freeze when she gets a look at today’s take from the cameras, and the guys in Imaging will probably plan a party hoping for your next move. My credibility’s pretty low. I doubt I’ll be useful if it’s zero.”

 

There’s a big pickup occupying all four guards down below. The line of cars on the ramp’s gotten longer. A local news helicopter buzzes by and we both automatically turn away from it. I add, because what the hell, it’s true—

 

“I never thanked you for that, did I? It really changed my perspective on things, helped me see my way to a lot of—“

 

“There’ll be no take from this or any other meeting between us.” he says, ice for real now.

 

I shut up. The whole speech was pointless anyway. He plans everything and forgets nothing and he’s systematically destroyed my ability to checkmate him, as thoroughly as if he’d actually killed me. And I’m about to become a liability; his relationship with the Agency can’t get much more privileged.

 

Not that this is about me, you understand. I got him where he is today, that’s all. A fucking travesty, every step of the way.

 

“Sydney. There’s no camera here, no surveillance whatsoever. You can’t think I’d allow that, for any reason.”

 

I can’t help it: I laugh. It’s so funny that I even bothered to try. But hey, at least I got to call him a jackal to his face, almost. And he really didn’t like me bringing up that video. I trot out a few more empty threats.

 

“Just don’t push me too far, Sark,” I say, and I give myself one more look at his face. “You don’t know when I might start taking it personally.” It’s getting late; the western light gilds his hair. He’s frowning, brows together over those incredible eyes.

 

“Sydney—“

 

“We’re done, right?” I pick up my helmet and walk away, thinking: I could keep going. Just keep walking, hear the crunch of gravel under my boot-heels forever.

 

“Sydney.” He hasn’t moved and I won’t look back. Fuck it. I make it to the stairwell. I’m gone.

 

I dupe the data sample and leave it at the drop nearest my apartment. I meet my father and tell him everything else. He’ll try again to take it up the line, get a counter-operation moving; he doesn’t expect to succeed. Our gifted freelance asset, the intrepid Mr. Sark, is a fucking goldmine. You need asbestos gloves, his product’s so hot. And me—talk about career moves. I’m his handler.

 

Some things are simple. He told me that once, not very long ago.

 

I might have to kill him myself, and I don’t know whether I can.

 

 

[End]