3

His handheld rang, and he stopped to pick it up in a hurried, unconscious

shudder. Neric grinned at him from the screen.

    “Well. Hello, Mr. Phemus,” Neric began in an unhurried, professional

manner.

    The man in the junkyard rolled his eyes.

    “Hello. It's very old-fashioned to call people by their last names, don't

you know that?”

    Neric shrugged.

    “I've often had the feeling you like old-fashioned things,” he

commented, with his ever-present, cheshire-cat-like grin. Phemus resisted

the urge to hang up.

    “I don't mind them,” was the cool answer. “Why are you calling?”

    “I need a favor,” Neric said simply.

    “A favor? Neric, I'm hiring you. I pay you. If there's a problem, take care

of it. There's no reason you should be asking me for a favor.”

    “There could be complications with your new identity.  I’m only human.

 I could slip up.”

    “You wouldn't get the rest of the money then,” Phemus said shortly, as if

that settled it. Neric shrugged, opening his arms.

    “I'm a wealthy man, you know? Several thousand more or less... what

does it matter to me? I'm a wealthy man, quite wealthy, quite as wealthy as

you. I'm not going to cry over one lost paycheck.”

    Phemus half-shrugged back, lifting one shoulder.

    “What's the favor?” he asked, weary of the politics. Neric grinned in

earnest now. It irritated Phemus, it really did. He'd forgotten how much it

irritated him.

    “There is a man,” Neric began, instead of answering the question,

“named Emmett Payne. One of the most successful hackers in the world.

You've heard of him?”

    Phemus shook his head numbly.

    “Not many have,” Neric continued, as though he didn't notice how

disconcerted Phemus was. He paused.

    “Odd, isn't it,” he said, in an almost-convincing tone of growing

realization, “that his name is the same as yours. Emmett Payne-- Emmet

Phemus. And he goes by his last name, too, an old-fashioned man.

Interesting, isn't it?”

    This man scares people, Emmet thought. That is his real profession. He

frightens them to death, and gives their lives to murderers like me.

    “Would you like to see him?” Neric asked, very casually. He flashed a

picture onto the screen. The man, Emmett Payne, was maybe forty-five

and aging rather well. His white-blond hair fell around his angular face in

well-kept bangs, and a small, even beard gave him an almost careless look.

The resemblance was obvious. The full truth hit Emmet and knocked the

air out of him.

    “Whatever,” he said, careful to keep his voice steady and his face calm.

He was keenly aware of Neric watching him from the other side of the

handheld, judging his reaction. “What is this all about? What do you want

from me?”

    “No, no,” Neric said, in mocking sympathy. “It's what I want from the

other Emmett. He has protected files, and I need access.”

    “Why don't you just blackmail him?” Emmet asked tensely. Neric tutted.

    “I can't blackmail him. I have nothing on him yet.” He took the picture

off and Emmet could see him, with his cheshire-grin and clever eyes

looking a bit wistful.

    Emmet hid his surprise at the frank admission. It was most unlike Neric.

Then again, he revised, it was unpredictable- and that was exactly like

Neric. He shrugged and rephrased his original question.

    “But what does that have to do with me?”

    “You must convince him,” Neric commanded. “Convince him to give

me access. I think you can do it.”

    “If you can’t, no one can,” Emmet flattered lazily, icily.

    “You can,” Neric said. “He's your father.”

    Emmet stared for a few minutes at the blatant breach of protocol before

the nonsense of the statement really hit him.

    “So?” he asked bluntly.

    Neric cocked his head to the side, looking satisfied, and explained.

    “I told you he's old-fashioned, and so he is. He has his oddities, and one

of them is the importance of his children to him. He has a daughter- your

half-sister- who lives under his care instead of her mother's.”

    So he had a sister. He registered the information, his eyes never leaving

Neric's face.

    “Rumors say incest, but I don't think it's true. I think he really holds her

dear, as his daughter. And holds you dear, as his son. You know he sent

checks to your mother- and you- for years?”

    Neric had broken protocol in a big way, now.

    Neric hesitated.

    “Would you like a picture of your sister?” There was nearly genuine

gentleness in his tone. Emmet hated him.

    The picture on the screen was of a young girl, maybe nineteen. Her hair

was curly, and a light red-brown. She was smiling.  She had her father’s

vividly green eyes, and the darkness beneath them showed she shared

Emmet’s insomnia.  He wondered what she had to worry about late at

night, when the shadows were powerful and polluted and the traffic

murmured outside, to fidget so restlessly awake.

    “Her name is Sofya,” Neric began brightly. “Sofya Bethamy Miller.”

    “I'll do it,” Emmet said. Anything to end this torment.

    Neric faded into view, beaming.

    “Excellent. I'll supply a car and a girl. Your name is now Albeck

Painter.” He grinned still wider. “Mr. Phemus, you're going home.”

    “Great,” Emmet managed. He hung up and smashed his handheld with

one foot, listening to the screen splinter with a charming crunch.

Reviews

[Flarare Weet]

I felt the bitterness for Neric, and I like how the narrative is progressing.