Quentin.

After last night, after this morning, there was no way Quentin had sent that message because he was voluntarily leaving Ian. Someone had gotten to him. Ian never should have left him alone in that room without a weapon to defend himself.

The moment he stepped outside the house, he knew that wasn't the only thing wrong. He was being watched. Followed. Tracked.

Panic wouldn't do. Ian knew the procedure. He had to lose his tail before going back to the room, or he'd lead them straight to Quentin if he happened to still be back there. If there was an alternative explanation for that message. And he had to go back to the room if he was to have any hope of piecing together what had happened and where Quentin might have been taken to.

Populated areas, first and foremost, and he couldn't walk close to the street; he had to be on the inside of the sidewalk. If they were working with a van, it'd be less than a minute before Ian was hit and pulled into it, if he didn't hug the buildings.

He was calm, his strides quick and purposeful, never looking back. Looking like a man with a destination, his steps hurried just enough that onlookers would think he was trying to get away from the rain. Not as though he were fleeing.

Odds were, his tail was good at their job, experienced, and had already figured out he was onto them, but Ian wouldn't give them any hints in case they didn't.

Normally he'd have hailed a cab, but there was no way he'd be locked inside one when he had no access to the steering wheel. A self-driving cab would be a death trap if his tail was SynSec. If they could hack the vehicle and get him hand-delivered wherever they needed him to be.

He took some comfort in not having been shot in the back of the head so far; either whoever was after him had a modicum of respect for innocent bystanders or his death wasn't the goal. Either way, it played in his favour.

There was a bus near the stop about twenty metres ahead. Ian ran as if he meant to catch it, fumbling his step on purpose so he wouldn't actually reach it. He'd just added a little distance between him and his pursuer without having to jump in another self-driving-vehicle-turned-death-trap to do it. The path split in front of him. Right would take him towards the ferry, close to where he'd captured Ulla. Too risky by far — he knew from experience how easy it was to intercept someone headed that way.

He turned left, further into the city, and made sure he was well in the middle of a crowd when he crossed the street, even though it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. This would be the perfect moment for an assassination, and what he'd chosen as cover might just as well be what doomed him in the end. A smaller crowd gathered to his left, watching a demonstration of the next gen nexus model — one that interfaced with implants, if the owner had any.

He'd remember to shudder at the implications later, once Quentin was safe and sound.

The backpack was too bulky, hampering his movement; this was not the time to get sentimental. He'd either get rid of it or find somewhere to stash it, but, even with his wedding photos in it, he couldn't keep lugging it around. The library ahead. Seven exits onto three different streets on two levels. If he could lose his tail there, he could go straight to the motel from here.

Crowded was good, but also a liability. And a different plan was taking shape in his mind. Ian slowed down a fraction, just enough for the library camera to get a good look at him going inside one of the smaller bathrooms. Three stalls, all blessedly empty. He might have had enough time to hack the library cameras to see who was coming in after him, if he'd had his work nexus, but this one wouldn't manage without an amplifier. He dropped his backpack on the floor inside the stall closest to the door, put his boots on the floor of the third one and, locking it from the inside, climbed over to the middle one, waiting with his feet on the closed toilet.

The door opened, a massive kick to the stall with the backpack confirming his suspicions. The moment the assailant took two steps to the right, Ian dropped over the divide without a sound, waiting in the one place his pursuer had already checked. He hugged the wall, staying in the mirror's blind spot, barely breathing.

As expected, the next kick was to the middle stall; SynSec wasn't dumb enough to employ people who'd overlook a locked door with no corresponding feet on the other side. Ian risked a glance at the mirror. An unfamiliar man, not much taller than himself, mid thirties, with short black hair. Holding a gun in one hand, a syringe in the other one. Now was his chance.

As the man gained momentum to kick the third door in, Ian leapt behind him, catching his neck in a blood choke. The man was strong, but so was Ian, and he'd trained for this recreationally. It took less than ten seconds for the man to go down. Unfortunately, once Ian released his hold, his recovery would be just as swift.

Hoping whatever was in that syringe wasn't deadly — he doubted it would be, or the gun would have been enough — he injected the man on his neck.

His breathing evened out. A sedative. Far better than the shot on the head Ian would have had to deliver, if the man hadn't brought the syringe.

Security in this place was laughable. Despite the racket, no one had come to investigate; no one would, until it was time to close. Ian went through the man's wallet. Not ostensibly SynSec, but a private company subcontracted by the department often enough. The government never directly employed people in this line of work, but it put little effort in hiding the connection. It was widely known, widely accepted that if these people were onto someone, that someone was a villain.

Just like BioSynths being hunted by Trackers.

Ian put on his boots and removed the man's, stripping him down to his underwear. He took everything with him — his backpack, his pursuer's nexus, wallet, gun, clothes and boots — and shrugged on the man's jacket over his own, pulling the hood up to obscure his face. His would-be assailant stayed behind, unconscious, handcuffed to the toilet in the third stall.

There was, regrettably, no convenient Out-of-Order sign nearby to place on the door.

Six minutes later Ian was on a bus, having shattered the man's nexus and dropped it in in a public trash can, his headache having returned with a vengeance.

It took him another two-and-a-half hours and three different transports to reach the motel, cursing himself for not having given Quentin his new nexus contact or having asked how Ian could contact him now that Quentin no longer wore one. All in all, he'd been away for seven hours. He reached the door, holding his gun, hoping it would all be a misunderstanding.

The room was empty.

Ian had expected it, but it didn't make the gut-wrenching feeling of helplessness lose any power. How would he find Quentin now?

The smaller backpack with the tracking chips sat in the same spot where he'd left it, undisturbed.

Quentin couldn't have been taken from here, or they'd have grabbed the bag; it was too valuable to leave behind.

His hackles rose and he pivoted, gun in hand, aiming at the figure standing in the open door.

"I thought we were past you pointing guns at me."

He lowered his weapon as Ulla lowered her arms. "What are you doing back here?"

"Is your husband alright? I've heard of a 69 that was captured today."

It was a good thing, Ian told himself. Knowing where Quentin was turned the odds of rescuing him in their favour. His heart clenched when he thought of Quentin's message, of what must have been going through his mind as he sent it, but he choked the feeling back. He'd fall apart later, after his husband was back with him, safe and sound.

Now he had a rescue mission to plan.

☵☲☵

"You don't have to go in with me," he repeated for the third time, eating something vaguely resembling a sandwich half an hour later. "One man can do the job."

"Don't be stubborn, child. Chip deliveries are always a two-person job — weren't you listening?"

"You've done more than enough. Your children—"

"—won't be raised to leave their people behind," she finished for him. "Won't be raised as cowards. How could I face them if I'd left you to do this after you switched my chip?"

He let out a breath. "I took you away from them first."

"And then you regretted your actions and worked to fix them. I'm not teaching them that's not important either."

Ian didn't have it in him to continue arguing. How could he, when she had the contact, had the skills, and Quentin's life was on the line? "Thank you. I— He's everything to me."

"I know." Her eyes were soft. "And it means something to me, that a Tracker can feel that way about a damaged BioSynth." She smiled at the way his jaw clenched. "That, right there. That anger you just felt when I called him a damaged BioSynth, as if that's all he is. That's how I know you're worth helping."

☵☲☵

Ulla's contact was a marvel. They worked at the private corp that managed the factories that made the chips — typical, that they'd be publicly funded and privately managed, Ian thought, just before realising he was analysing government financial blunders to keep himself from worrying about how Quentin was. At which point, it stopped working.

Right. Ulla's contact. High enough in the food chain that they had access to the offices of more important players, low enough that no one noticed they were there. Ulla hadn't given him any specifics, and he hadn't asked. Her secrets were her own; he was beyond grateful she was willing to part with enough intel to make this possible.

The real chip delivery wouldn't occur until morning, but that information never left the corp. Instead there was a message telling them it would be delivered at midnight, by one armed courier and one installation expert matching Ulla and Ian's description, respectively. One of the two remaining 69 chips was in his pocket. The second most dangerous part of his plan was installing it in Quentin right under their noses. The last time he'd done that, it'd taken him an hour; he hoped he could cut that time in half, or they'd know he was no experienced installer.

The most dangerous part would be walking out with Quentin.

With the prep time they'd had, coming up with an alternative that didn't involve the use of force had been a theoretical exercise. They'd hit a spot of luck in that Quentin wasn't actually being held in central processing, according to Ulla's contact; if they'd been trying to rescue a BioSynth headed for the pleasure houses, they wouldn't have had a chance with just two people; those destined for the mines were kept in black ops sites overnight before being shipped, only nominal security guarding them.

Worthless, in the eyes of their makers, once their aesthetic was damaged. Once they'd been replaced by newer, better models.

That was how these people saw Quentin.

Ian would have expected a facility outside the city, something large, imposing, with security guards and attack dogs. What he found instead was a small second-story flat above an all-night restaurant, overlooking the river; across the hall from a flat with a young couple and their baby. The normality of it was staggering.

They posed as a couple going for dinner at a friend's flat, a bottle of wine in Ulla's hand, a container purporting to have dessert in Ian's, masking the chip and tools. It was lucky their rings weren't dissimilar enough to raise attention. All these details were sorted out by nexus message; interactions like these happened all over the city, with other residents being none the wiser, ever single day.

Ian rang the bell.

"Who is it?" A sing song voice. The agent on the other side of the door answered with a sing song voice, bringing the surreal feeling of the entire exchange up to an eleven.

"Mike and Jo," Ian replied in the same cheerful tone. The door opened to reveal an attractive woman in her early thirties, wearing a pretty white dress and a holo necklace that projected different colourful patterns on it. Just a friendly neighbour with a poor sense of fashion, to anyone who might see her.

"Louis is back there," she said as she waved them in. "And you brought the wine! Honey! Mike and Jo are here, and they brought wine!"

"I'll be out in a minute!"

The moment the door closed behind them, her demeanour changed. "We have the Syn in the bedroom," she said, smile giving way to a no nonsense expression. "How soon can you have it installed? I don't want to babysit throughout the night."

"Half an hour if all goes well," Ian replied, praying he'd pull it off.

"Let me guess: you were a courier with big dreams and now you waste everyone's time doing in half an hour what people who know their business do in ten minutes. You must be good in bed, to have gotten the gig."

Ian didn't know what the correct attitude was, so he took a gamble. "Look, lady, I just do what I'm told. Tell me to go and central can ask for a different team tomorrow." He shrugged. "I'm getting paid no matter what." Next to him, Ulla's features closed up, hardening. "Do you have anything against couriers?"

"I hit the john for five minutes and there's a pissing contest going on in the living room?" So this was 'Louis.' Tall, broad, physically intimidating, and looking far less shrewd than his partner. Ian had no doubt he was the muscle in this endeavour. Focusing on the woman, whom he'd just dubbed Brains in his mind, he asked "Well? Do you want us to do the job or not?"

She jerked her head in the direction 'Louis' had just come from. "Back there. Tracker hit the thing with a miscalibrated Nuller or we wouldn't even need you. Be quick."

Ian's gut twisted. He'd imagined they wanted a chip replacement because they'd figured out Quentin had had his replaced, but he should have known that made no sense — they could have just coded the new one if that was the case. He'd let Quentin get hurt. Again.

They followed her into the bedroom, Ian praying she wouldn't hover. Thankfully for them, Brains was only there to unlock the biomaglock case.

"'Kay, now that these guys are here," Muscles' voice floated into the room on his way out, "I'm going to go downstairs for some food. Do you want anything?"

That would be a stroke of luck. It would be easier to subdue just one of them, even if it was the smart one.

"I want you not to think with your stomach," Brains spat. "We're having 'friends' over for dinner and you think it makes sense for you go down to the restaurant and stuff your face? There are protein bars in the kitchen."

So much for luck. Ian nodded to Ulla, who stood by the bedroom door keeping an ear on what was happening in the living room, and turned his attention to the case, eager to lay eyes on Quentin.

But the man in the case wasn't Quentin.

And Ian had been his Tracker, years before.

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. If this wasn't Quentin, where was his husband? What had happened to him, that he'd sent that message and had gone missing? How would Ian find him ever again?

The safest thing would be to replace the chip and get out, leaving the poor BioSynth behind so he couldn't expose Ian for who he was, but he couldn't do that either. Never again.

The BioSynth had been reasonably attractive, with sandy blond hair that flopped to the side and an irreverent smile, back when Ian had Tracked him. Nine or so years ago. Now? One of his eyes was a simple orb, one of his ears was missing, his nose was indescribable, and half his neck showed the mechanism underneath. Ian couldn't imagine what this man had gone through. What Ian had sentenced him to.

The same model as Quentin. It shouldn't have made it feel worse, but it did.

Ian had to make it right and pray the BioSynth would be more interested in freedom that revenge.

He worked quickly, the inside of this model familiar. Unlike Ulla's, everything in this BioSynth was in the exact same spot as it had been in Quentin's. The Tracking chip was burnt, short-circuited. Damned trigger happy kids and their licences paid for by mummy's credits. Ian hoped the chip had absorbed the brunt of the charge; there would be no telling whether memory and emotion had been affected until he turned the man back on.

Ulla scuffed her shoe on the floor, making Ian notice the upcoming swirl of neon patterns. Brains was coming.

"Is it done yet?"

Ian paused, his work tools set on the bed. "If you want it faster, do it yourself."

She clucked her tongue. "This was meant to be a daytime gig. What was central thinking, to schedule it this late?"

He'd started with hostility; he had to commit to it. "They were probably thinking they didn't want to inconvenience you and are bending over backwards now so you'll never have to work late again, lady. That's how central works, didn't you know?"

"What's your team's number?" She looked taller, drawing on her anger, but Ian knew people like her. For all their intelligence, they failed to realise others could be just as smart, if not more.

"I'm not doing your work for you." He affected an insolent pose. "If you want to file a complaint, team number's on the form. Go figure it out or tell me to leave the job half-arsed. Up to you." She was gone with a disgusted sound, leaving Ian to finish in peace.

And then it was done.

Ian exchanged a look with Ulla and she nodded, leaning on the door so no one could get in the bedroom without getting past her.

He placed himself to the side, positioned the BioSynth so Ian would be the first thing he saw, and pressed the button, pointing his weapon with one hand, putting a finger against his own lips with the other.

After ten of the slowest seconds of his life, the BioSynth opened one eye, the other lighting up with a yellow glare. His features twisted the instant he saw Ian, but it wasn't hatred; it was fear.

In the flat next to them, the baby cried.

Ian switched positions with Ulla just as the BioSynth made to open his mouth, her hand clamping over it and keeping it closed. He quietened down as they seemed to exchange some form of non-verbal communication, then nodded.

"Protein bars this, protein bars that, there's a restaurant downstairs, Anne," Muscle was whining in the living room. "Whenever they pair me up with you, I always end up hungry!"

Ulla was fast and silent. She opened the window and gestured for the man to climb out. Ian closed the hovercase just as she shut the window, so the sounds would synchronise.

Then he gathered his tools and walked in the living room, tossing the burnt chip to Brains as he went. "There. All chipped up and put to bed in the case, and you didn't even have to pay me extra."

"You put it away in the case?" She narrowed her eyes. "And I'm supposed to take you at your word that you did the job right?"

"If you want to turn the Syn," he despised the taste of the word on his lips; Brains was likely to mistake that as dislike for her, which suited his purpose, "back on to make sure, that's your business, lady, but I'm not sticking around to find out. See you never!"

They made it down the stairs at a leisurely pace, Ulla and him, and walked to the end of the block as if they didn't have a care in the world. The rain had let up. It was only when they turned the corner that they broke off into a run, trying to make it to the back of the building in time to catch up to the BioSynth they'd just rescued. Ulla was faster; by the time Ian got to her, she was shielding the man with her body, making it look as though they were kissing so anyone passing through wouldn't look twice. The way she placed her hands on his eye and neck left Ian with little doubt it was nothing but a cover.

He'd brought a hoodie underneath his jacket with the express purpose of giving it to Quentin. It wouldn't work so well on this man — nothing short of goggles would hide the yellow orb entirely — but it would have to do.

The BioSynth adjusted the strings with a quizzical look in his one eye, incredulity and defiance hiding the fear underneath. "So what's this? She says it's a rescue mission? What do you want with me?"

Not a conversation Ian was prepared to have in the back of a building where two trained operatives might find out at any minute their target had been rescued. Ulla seemed to have the same thought, pulling the man along by the arm. "We'll explain once we're safe."

"The motel's been compromised," Ian reminded her, "and I don't have a house anymore."

"I know. There's another one fifteen minutes out we can use."

The three of them were silent during the ride, or maybe Ulla and the man were communicating; Ian didn't know and couldn't bring himself to care. He'd been so sure that morning the most important parts of his life were still intact; that he'd never let anything bad happen to Quentin again, that they'd fight together from now on. Instead, here he was, and he was worse off than when he'd imagined there was a human Quentin being held prisoner by a cabal of BioSynths. At least then he hadn't pictured the man he loved being tortured over and over.

He'd failed.

His only lead was gone, and he had no idea where to start looking for his husband. Again.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

Thank you for reading!

The cat's out of the bag -- SynSec's definitely on to Ian. But where's Quentin? And why was a BioSynth Ian Tracked years ago locked inside a hovercase? Answers in the next update.

As usual, please remember to vote if you if feel it's deserved. Comments make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Want to know what really happened to Quentin? Tune in to BioSynth, SynTracker's companion novella (link on my profile) to find out!