Over Exposed

by Allyson Lindt

  Being transient didn’t lend itself to long-term employment. On top of that, registering with the Job Administration wasn’t a great way to stay off the radar. Even if she could take that out of the equation, it was difficult to list Digital Corporate Espionage and Major Corporation Takedowns as marketable skills.

  Because Psys were a critical component of corporate structures, digital storage was the only surefire way for most companies to keep their data safe. Electronic security was tight, and getting better every year. It didn’t matter, because she had a gift for bypassing all of it.

  Computers liked her.

  She found work by scanning corporate networks, monitoring exchanges between top executives, and looking for any indication they needed someone with her skill set. Correction—their skill set. Taylor and she had a reputation. Their occasional employers thought he was a Normal, and that she was the Psy, the unregistered, hiding in the shadows and snagging people’s thoughts.

  The reality was that Taylor used his skill to sweet talk his way into their prospects’ offices and into the job. Sending him in there always terrified her, since most of these companies had Psy guards, but he was amazing and never got pegged for what he was. They’d hire him and give him information he refused to look at. He’d hand it over to her, and she’d get their employers what was requested.

  When she and Taylor started out, they aimed for the ethical jobs—only helping companies who helped the world, and shit like that. It turned out nobody hired a hacker to expose their competition for strictly good and altruistic reasons; they were all lying, cheating assholes. After she and Taylor admitted that to themselves, guaranteeing a consistent paycheck became easier.

  A FAMILIAR PAIR OF hands rested on Max’s shoulders, and Taylor pressed his thumbs into her neck, massaging the tight muscles.

  Out of instinct, she hid what she was working on—not only from his view but also from anyone else’s. She closed her dry eyes and leaned into his touch. “Welcome back. How’d it go?”

  “Eh.” He hit a cord so tight, she felt it in her toes when he focused on it, and she moaned involuntarily. He moved his attention to that spot. “It was what it was supposed to be. You?”

  “It was what it always is.”

  “Bummer.”

  “But I think I found us work.”

  He dropped onto the mattress next to her and crossed his legs, resting his hands on his ankles. “When do we leave?”

  His sudden enthusiasm struck her as odd. “I have to vet it first. Make sure we’re safe,” she said.

  “Of course. How long will that take?”

  These were things he knew, and the questions set her on edge. “As long as always. Aren’t you nervous about binding ourselves to an employer so soon?”

  He didn’t meet her gaze. “We have to do it sometime, and I trust you.”

  That didn’t reassure her, but she couldn’t find the words to vocalize her reservations. “Tomorrow. We’ll know tomorrow.”

  Taylor grinned, but something tense lay underneath. Probably the same things making her antsy. He lay down on the cot behind her, his hip against the small of her back. “Make sure you get some sleep.” His voice was soft.

  She nodded, diving into the split tasks of trying to find out about the other Null, and investigating the job opportunity. “I promise.”

  She didn’t watch the clock while she worked. As long as nobody was on their heels, it didn’t matter if she paid attention to the outside world now or an hour from now. The handful of other refugees in the room drifted off one by one, until Max’s corner was lit by the last pair of twin glows, coming from her and Taylor’s handhelds.

  Taylor sat, and the movement dragged her into the real world. “Do you still have those pills the doctor gave you for nausea?” His whisper was low in the quiet room.

  Her gut churned at the reminder. How appropriate. She didn’t know if the pills were actually for that. She grabbed them from her bag and used the brand name to pull up pharmaceutical information. “Why?”

  “Heather needs them.”

  Max might have been engrossed for the last several hours, but she would have noticed him leaving. “How do you know?”

  “I’m psychic.”

  Max rolled her eyes. “Last time I checked, nausea wasn’t an emotion.”

  “No, but there are some that go along with it.”

  It wasn’t his concern for Heather that ate at Max. Was it still paranoia about the last few days? It couldn’t be jealousy. “What happened to her being emotional suicide?”

  “That doesn’t mean I want to listen to her suffer. She’s still a good person.” He settled his chin on Max’s shoulder.

  The contact chased away the shadows at the edges of her mind. He had a good point. According to the images and description on her handheld, the pills were what the doctor claimed. She handed him the bottle. “You’re right. Tell her I hope she feels better soon.”

  “You tell her. Emotional suicide, remember?”

  A laugh slipped out, and Max’s mood increased another notch. She nudged him away playfully and stood. “Only because I like you.”

  Max found Heather in the same place in the foyer she’d been the night before, but now her face was drawn and pale. She shifted on the bench, as if she couldn’t get comfortable. Her nausea would pass eventually, but if Max had a way to alleviate the discomfort and help her concentrate on her job, there was no reason not to.

  Max handed her a pill. “Take this.”

  Heather held out her hand. “How did you...?” She shook her head, and then swallowed the medication dry. “Never mind. Thank you. Both of you.”

  A soft warmth spread through Max, as she returned to Taylor. Her actions didn’t make up for her guilt over letting that girl be taken away the night before, but seeing Heather’s grateful smile eased some of the muscles in Max’s neck and shoulders.

  Taylor patted the mattress next to him and lay down, as she perched on the edge of the bed. His steady breathing behind her and the evaporated tension made it easier for her to slide into her work for the next couple of hours.

  And then the screaming started. Horrible, blood curdling howls from the foyer.

  Heather.

  As their roommates woke up, lights snapped on and a chorus of, What the hell? filled the room.

  Max’s heart sank. The mattress shifted, but Taylor didn’t get up. She turned to see him curled into a ball, eyes wide and unblinking, and gaze locked on the door.

  Shit. What was going on? She knelt in front of him and put her face in the line of his haunted stare. “Hey. Up here.”

  The screams echoed in the background. Instinct begged her to investigate, but Taylor was her priority.

  He managed to focus on her. “P-72. She’s got it.” His voice was strained.

  Fuck. “No. How do you know? She can’t.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” His reply barely carried over the commotion. In the other room, chairs clattered and voices coaxed and cajoled. The screaming didn’t stop. “We have to help,” he said.

  No. Nonononononono. She tugged him upright. He couldn’t be this close to the disease. Fuck. He’d been sitting right next to Heather earlier. P-72 had a forty-eight-hour incubation period, so she’d been carrying it this morning.

  “We have to get out of here, before you get infected. Before the quarantines hit,” Max said.

  He jerked away. “We have to do something for her. You wanted to help that little girl.”

  “And you didn’t let me. Besides, what are you going to do?” It gnawed at her insides to be so callous, but they were powerless. Again. Damn it, she hated this. “We need to go now.” They couldn’t be here when the place was quarantined.

  Taylor furrowed his brow, and his face twisted in pain. She didn’t know if it was from the weight of the decision, or Heather’s and everyone else’s emotions assaulting him at full volume. He wobbled on his feet before finding his balance. “You’re right.”

  Amid the ch
aos, no one noticed the two leaving through the back door. The screams faded in the background as Max pointed Taylor toward the car, but her guilt and tension stayed firmly rooted. She wanted to help. So very much. But their only option was to cover their own asses. Story of their lives.

  Chapter Four

  Max drummed her fingers on her leg. Every time she noticed the action, she forced herself to stop. Moments later, she was doing it again. The car hummed beneath them, a reminder she and Taylor hadn’t been in any one place for more than twenty-four hours in the five days since they met the odd doctor and bolted after the raid. They were taking a roundabout route, which was taking a toll on both of them.

  The end point was Chicago, one of the few isolated cities that wasn’t quarantined. Before they could enter a place that wasn’t infected, and where she hoped work waited, she and Taylor had to know neither of them carried P-72. That what happened in the hostel didn’t get them as well. Authorities would test them at the border, and they’d rather know before they were surrounded by National Guard.

  They sat in the car outside a remote clinic. The low network security would let her snag the results before the authorities were contacted, on the horrid off chance she or Taylor were diagnosed.

  “We need to go now, while we can melt into the crowd.” Taylor squeezed her fingers.

  “I know.” She tried to calm her nerves. “Working on it.” This wouldn’t be a big deal. They’d go in, get tested, and be out again. If Taylor had P-72, they’d have known the moment they drove through a major city and the emotional noise assaulted him. Hell—he would have heard the onslaught and been unable to block it out even from the freeway. It wasn’t as if the traffic ever died.

  She fell into step beside him. When he reached for her hand, she held tight. The walk from the car to the clinic seemed to take ages. They’d parked as far from the entrance as possible. If they needed to get out quickly, it was faster to walk a couple more feet, than try to force a car through other vehicles.

  A couple of things made a clinic stop different from a raid. In a raid, The Church wasn’t looking for infected people. Their purpose was locating Psys.

  But people visited a P-72 clinic because they thought they had the disease. Visitors were sorted into individual rooms the moment they walked in the front door, to keep the contagion from spreading. The problem with that process was there was always a line outside. Fortunately, from what she saw online, no clinic had reported a P-72 case yet. That didn’t reassure her about the odds, regardless of how Game Theory worked.

  They fell into the queue. Taylor didn’t hide his nervousness. She wanted to believe it was an intentional display of why he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

  The clinics were government facilities, to encourage people to be tested. There was one in every metropolitan area with a population larger than five-hundred thousand. So most US cities. They reached the front of the line, and a woman behind the glass glanced up to get their names and sort them into a room. Four more people did the same job as her, processing the line as quickly as was possible, given its size. Space was limited, and time was tight, so the clinic let Max and Taylor stay together. If anyone was infected, the entire place would be locked down, so it wasn’t like it mattered.

  There was only one chair in the isolated room, but the air filtration system provided the perfect white noise to muffle their conversation. At the far end of the cramped box sat a metal door with a red light next to it. The moment the light flashed green, Taylor opened the in-wall box.

  The two self-test kits were straightforward. Max and Taylor unsealed one each and stuck the pre-printed labels with their names to the backs. Max pressed her thumb into the imprint in the center of the molded plastic, triggering a lancet on a spring to prick her. Psys and Ees were the only people who felt the impact of P-72, but anyone could be a carrier.

  Her heart beat harder when Taylor mimicked her movements with his kit and dropped his sample into the double-sealed box.

  After the incident in the hostel—after seeing P-72 in person, for the first time—her recurring dreams had become splintered with the terror of that same scene happening to Taylor.

  His hand on her arm nudged aside some of her fear. He nodded to the single seat. “Sit. Work.”

  She’d been sitting all week, while they drove. He had been too, but his mind worked harder on the road, and he hadn’t been sleeping when they stopped. Dark bags decorated the hollows under his eyes, and he occasionally wobbled on his feet.

  “I can do this standing up,” she said.

  “You need to sit to type quickly. We both know it.” He gestured to the chair and gave her a deep bow. “My lady, I will not argue with you on this.”

  Despite the tension coursing through her, or maybe because of it, a laugh slipped out at the exaggerated gesture and horrible accent. He had a point; she couldn’t stand and hack at the same time. “All right,” she said.

  He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and met her gaze, and her breath hitched. She couldn’t identify the look in his eyes, but for one moment, everything vanished except the intense blue staring at her.

  “We’ll make it to Chicago.” The confidence in his voice was false, but it calmed her chaotic thoughts.

  “Sure. I know that.” It was easier to pretend she believed him, with him so close.

  He shook his head, and whatever connected them for that brief moment snapped. He leaned against the far wall—a whole four feet away—slid to the ground, and pulled his knees to his chest.

  The familiar mental image of blue sparks spilled through her mind as she poured her attention into accessing the clinic’s network. Taking out the cameras in this room, and erasing any footage of Max and Taylor being in here, was top priority. The devices would flip back on when they left. She hit the clinic databases second.

  The Church had standardized all testing, which required all clinics to use the same tracking software. This meant she could set her program on autopilot and let it unobtrusively follow her tests and Taylor’s through the system.

  Each second seemed to drag on for hours. She and Taylor had a standing agreement that if either of them was infected, they’d run together and isolate themselves. She wouldn’t be able to do that to him, though. If she was infected and he’d avoided it, she’d force him to leave without her. To run far and fast, before she cost him his sanity.

  Over the next five minutes, time moved more slowly than if they were waiting out a raid. She watched her screen. Taylor watched her. Every muscle in her body turned to jelly when their results came back clean.

  No one was paying attention to them, or a staff member would have noticed when she turned camera off. There were too many voices for any Psy—Synth or otherwise—to single out Taylor’s thoughts.

  She caught his attention, unable to keep the smile from her face, and asked the question she knew would clue him in. “Are you ready to work?”

  The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Definitely.”

  MAX PACED THEIR HOTEL room. Having an individual suite was nice. There was space, walls between them and other guests, and their own bathroom. It also meant more distance to be covered, which tended to inspire pacing. She’d rather blame her restlessness on too much space, than admit it had to do with where Taylor was.

  She used to monitor his moves when he went on job hunts. She would tie into the building security cameras and watched him schmooze his way into employment. He’d flirt with the receptionist. Whoever was in charge would be called to the front desk, and then drag Taylor into a secret room, where only their Synths could hear the conversation.

  She’d stopped when the stress became too much. He was competent, and she repeated that mantra every time they started a new contract.

  On the other hand, one of the upsides to working was the real room. A physical address made an employer feel more secure, which was odd to Max, since they were hired partly for their ability to stay anonymous. But if the arrangement put
their employer less on edge, meant sleeping on a real bed, and got Max a shower with no water restrictions, she was great with it.

  The first time she and Taylor were out on their own, over ten years ago, she was a brat about giving up the luxuries of modern life.

  The reminder dragged her into the past and the events that ensured she and Taylor would spend their adult lives running. Not the day they left home, but the day she met Taylor. They were both six, and he and his grandmother had just moved in down the street. That made him the new kid in school, and since he cried in class at least three times his first day, it meant he got picked on even more than the typical new kid.

  She found him hiding behind a convenience store after school, muttering about how it was too much. Too many colors. Too much mud. Words she didn’t understand at the time. He looked at her and smiled, and told her that she was pretty and quiet, and he was in love.

  The dive into the past dredged up a bittersweet ache in her chest. She’d replied that he was a stupid, icky boy, and the two of them had gone to her foster house to play videogames.

  Psys and Ees were a new discovery then. No one knew to test people or pay attention to Taylor’s ramblings about noise and colors. Over the next few years, more and more people like him made themselves known. Videos hit the internet, and rumors flew on social media. And his grandmother became more family than any temporary home Max was placed in.

  By the time Max and Taylor were ten, the world knew Psys and Ees were real, and people were terrified of them. Fear of the NSA reading personal emails was a thing of the past. Now everyone knew their neighbor might yank their thoughts right out of their skulls.

  Psy skills didn’t work that way, but try telling the average person that. A Psy could really only pluck the thoughts closest to the surface—it was why Taylor could get away with the tricks he’d learned—and Ees only felt the stronger emotions.

  Taylor’s grandmother made him promise never to register, and made Max swear to never tell a soul what she was or why she anchored Taylor when the mental noise was too much. She also told them they had to run if anything ever happened to her. When Max and Taylor were eight, they laughed at the idea. When they were fifteen, and news reports about what happened to Ees—registered or not—became too rampant for the media to suppress, they started to take her seriously. When they were eighteen and found her dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head because her house was raided, they ran.