The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(92)

“Actually, speaking of Parisa.” Another abrupt change, just as Tristan thought he’d managed a grasp on the conversation. “Do you suppose she’s changed her mind?”

Rather than continue asking the same question, Tristan folded his arms over his chest, waiting.

“About the whole… elimination thing,” Libby clarified, intuiting correctly that he hadn’t the faintest idea where she was going with any of this. “Seems like she might have changed her mind after the whole Callum thing. You know, the trolley problem?”

“Oh.” Right. The small issue of Parisa’s death by Callum. “Yes.” Tristan fought a sudden chill. “In fairness, I think she always knew that about him.”

“Well.” Libby cleared her throat. “I suppose there might be some merit to the whole thing.”

Tristan arched a brow. “Some merit to… killing Callum?”

“You saw him, Tristan.” Libby’s mouth was a new, grim form of determination he’d never seen from her before. “He didn’t know it wasn’t real, did he? He had no idea he was in some sort of… augmented reality in Varona’s head,” she said with a frown, “so Callum’s reality is that he could be rid of Parisa at any time, and easily. So maybe that’s something to consider in the experiment.”

“That some people should die?”

“That some specialties shouldn’t exist,” she said conclusively.

That, Tristan thought, was certainly a jarring realization to come to.

“It’s a moral dilemma for a reason, Rhodes.” His mouth was dry again, though for what reason, he wasn’t entirely sure. Perhaps because she’d just unintentionally decided which of them she’d murder, which she might one day actually do.

Precognition. Terrible. He spared no envy for Cassandra.

“There isn’t a correct answer,” Tristan said slowly.

Libby’s smile twisted slightly, eyes drawn up to his.

“I suppose not,” she observed, mostly to herself, and then, astoundingly, began walking away.

Suddenly, Tristan felt a bit mad with disbelief at the concept that Libby could wander over, suggest to him that he was capable of doing something utterly impossible, and then wander off again without addressing the thoughts that had been plaguing him for weeks. Could he kill someone? Could she? Had they signed over their souls the very moment they set foot in this building? Had they become something they would not have been otherwise, now contorted beyond recognition from what they’d been? Were they not yet the deformities they would ultimately be? What the fuck was he supposed to do with electrons—how could he possibly use time?—and had she broken it off with her boyfriend or not?

Tristan’s hand shot out before he could stop himself.

“Rhodes, listen—”

“Ah,” came Callum’s voice, cutting in just as Libby whirled around, eyes wide. “I thought I felt some lingering distress. Is Tristan pestering you again, Rhodes?”

“No, of course not.” She cleared her throat, glancing at Tristan’s hand, which he removed from her arm. “Just think about it,” she said quietly, “would you?”

Then she gave Callum’s shoes a wordless glance and ducked her head, leaving the room.

“So skittish, that one,” said Callum, glancing after her and turning back to Tristan. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

“No.” He still couldn’t bring himself to tell her. “And anyway, suppose it isn’t true?”

“Suppose it isn’t,” Callum agreed, falling into the chair beside Tristan’s. “How do you imagine they make that announcement, I wonder?”

“It could be a trick,” Tristan said. “Or a trap. Like—”

“The installation? And the Forum?”

Tristan sighed. “Suppose they just want to see what we’re capable of.”

“Suppose it’s real,” Callum mused alternatively. “I don’t suppose you have a lead, do you?”

“A lead?”

“A target would be the less sensitive term,” Callum said. “Or a mark.”

Tristan bristled a little, and Callum’s perpetual smile thinned.

“Do you find me callous now, too, Tristan?”

“A cactus would find you callous,” mumbled Tristan, and Callum chuckled.

“And yet here we are,” he said, summoning a pair of glasses, “two peas in a pod.”

He set one glass in front of Tristan, pouring a bit of brandy he procured from the flask in his jacket pocket.

“You know, I don’t remember the first time I realized I could feel things other people couldn’t,” Callum commented anecdotally, not looking up from the liquid in the glass. “It’s just… always been there. I knew, of course, right from the start that my mother didn’t love me. She said it, ‘I love you,’ just as often to me as she did to my sisters,” he continued, shifting to pour himself a glass, “but I could feel the way it lacked warmth when she said it to me.”

Callum paused. “She hated my father. Still does,” he mused in an afterthought, picking up his glass and giving it a testing sniff. “I have a guess that I was conceived under less than admirable circumstances.”