by Sarah Fine
“Are they mad at me?” he asks quietly.
“I’m sure all will be forgiven once you’re reunited.”
“You remind me of someone,” he says. “I can’t think of who.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about it.” I pull him to a stop in front of a metal door marked “Exit.” I place the remaining strips on his body, making sure he’ll be concealed from any cam chips on the outside of the building.
“These will really hide me?”
“From everything except actual people.”
“But what about you?”
“I’m going to be right by your side. All the cams will see is an extremely good-looking man out for a jog.”
He eyes my black shoes, black pants, black shirt. “A jog? But you look like—”
“Hammond,” I say, snapping him to attention. “Just get in the car when I tell you to.”
Before he can say what car, I’m tapping the signal into my comband. It’s set to the secure channel owned by the French diplomatic corps and will be sent to all the cars, but it’s just a nonsensical pattern of taps, and only Jacques will know it means to follow the signal to my location.
“Three minutes, sir,” says a soft voice emanating from my screen.
“How come you don’t have a Cerepin?” Hammond asks.
“Just keep yours off until you’re in Toronto, all right? They can use any signal to track you, no matter what setting it’s on.” I push open the door. Flashing blue lights warn me of cops on the street out front, but we’re shielded by the building. Only problem: if any of them have a Cerepin and are hooked into the DC infrastructure network, they can access the surveillance—
“Freeze!” shouts a cop, who has come around the corner about one block up and is now sprinting along the narrow lane between fences.
Hammond does—until I poke him in the ass to get him moving. He runs in the direction I steer, climbing clumsily over a chain-link fence that I hurdle a moment later. “Whoa,” he says, panting as we sprint up the lane.
Jacques drops out of the sky and lands at the end of the block. His rear passenger door slides open. I give Hammond a little shove in front of me as I feel the charge of the cop’s neural disruptor crackle several yards behind me. Fear lights up my brain.
“I said freeze,” the cop yells as Hammond dives into Jacques—and as the neural disruptor balls scream past me, each trying to snag skin and bone with its singeing barbs. My ears fill with a sizzling hiss. I can feel the electricity—it makes my limbs vibrate. I stumble.
“Go,” I shout to Jacques.
He rises into the sky, and I spin around in time to narrowly dodge another neural disruptor strike. Before the cop can aim again, I knock the weapon from his hands, throwing it into a puddle of muddy water on the other side of the fence, then go over the chain-link fence myself, stumbling again on the other side.
“I’ll shoot!” the cop yells, but he’s not fast enough. Even trembling and with my vision alight with white sparks, I’m as fast as my parents made me to be. I sprint two blocks before remembering that every surveillance chip in the area is recording my every move. But they can’t hear what I say or detect the secure diplomatic channel, so as I run, I page Yves.
“Yes, sir?”
“Pick me up at the edge of the old navy yard. You can follow the signal.”
“Your aunt would like to know when you’ll be home.”
I wince at the crackling pain along my ribs, and that’s when I realize one of those blasted barbed balls from the neural disruptor has snagged me. I rip it out and sag with relief as the tingling stops, but as I try to run again, I can barely get two steps in before I stagger. The burst of electricity has probably fried one or two of my augmentation chips.
Without the chips that connect in a network, carrying signals from my brain to my muscles better than any nerve could, I would be paralyzed from the neck down. I can’t get hit again.
But my hearing is fine, and I know the cops are only a few blocks away. I pull a cap from my pocket—one with a lovely blond ponytail attached—and cram it over my head. Then I shed my black shirt and toss it into the overgrown, weedy yard of the nearest seemingly abandoned building. Shivering in my undershirt, I tap my cheekbones, temples, and forehead to cause the implants to shift once more, changing my appearance, and I alter my gait, an act that is much harder than it usually is. The urge to limp is rather strong.
My heart is hammering at 190 beats per minute. Near the maximum.
I reach a populated intersection before the cruisers roll past, though, and I quickly switch my direction so it looks like I’m walking toward them instead of away. I squint as their scanner beams slide over my face, but I don’t turn my head. That would be suspicious. I already know they won’t find a match, no matter how many angles they captured back near Game.
As soon as they continue on without stopping, I let myself limp. The pain radiates out from the little neural disruptor spine wound and crackles across my ribs, and it’s unpleasant to draw breath. I haven’t been in pain like this for a long, long time.
Pain is good, Percy. It means you’re alive. It means you can feel things again. It means you’re getting better. My mother’s voice is soft and sad.
“P!” says a voice emanating from my comband. “You there?” It’s Chen, still sounding a little slurred.
“Yes—where are you?”
“Arlington, with your new ride. Ukaiah’s loading up the kid for the next transport. But Jacques said you ordered him to leave you behind. I expected to see you.”
“Had a brush with the police.”
“You okay? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“Voice modification.”
“You hurt?”
I grit my teeth. “No.” As quickly as I can, I make my way to the edge of the old navy yard.
“Okay. Okay. You did good, P. But I think things are about to get dire, man. Ukaiah and I ordered two more transports for Friday. Can you supply the persecuted souls?”
“I’ll do my best.” I press my hand over my ribs. “But now we’re going to talk about my birthday present.”
He lets out a heavy sigh, but pain has stripped me of my patience. “I want it,” I snap. “I have to know everything. Tonight I lifted a boy who weighs nearly as much as I do off his feet with one hand. I ran as fast as a canny. I am driving this vehicle without a license, Chen. Do you want to be responsible when I get into a wreck?”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” he mutters.
“I need every tool in this body at my disposal if you want me to take these kinds of risks and actually survive them.”
“Funny you say that . . .” He’s quiet for a few long seconds. “But I guess that’s fair,” he finally adds. “I just have to think about how we’re gonna do this.”
“Figure it out. Now. Because I’m heading your way.”
Chapter Eighteen
Marguerite
My mom coms just as El and I are leaving the apartment. Weirdly, she doesn’t buzz me—it’s El’s band that hums and shows her face. I’m your daughter, I want to scream. But technically, El is her boss. Her sadistic boss.
“Hey,” he says. “How’s the big guy?”
“Waiting for some good news,” she says.
“And how are you?” he asks, giving me a sidelong glance.
“I’m doing great, El. I have more energy than I have in ages. Thank you. I mean it.”
His grin loses any shred of cynicism. “Anything, Colette—you’re paying me back with that smile.”
I feel sick again.
“Marguerite and I are actually headed to Bethesda. Want to come?”
“Is this what we talked about?” Mom asks.
“You know,” El says. “I think we can trust Marguerite to handle the information maturely.”
“I’ll meet you there, then,” Mom says. “I need to deliver that one last briefing you sent me.”
“Perfect. Maybe we can get dinner afte
r?”
“Sounds good!” She hangs up.
“I’ll tell you what,” says El. “Those neurostims are a godsend.” He squeezes my upper arm as we approach the waiting car. “Maybe you should get one. You seem kind of anxious lately.”
“No thanks.” I’ve decided they totally creep me out.
“Well, look what it’s done for your mom. She’s her old self again, am I right?”
“You didn’t know her old self.”
“Go ahead and stay grumpy—even though I’m giving you something you asked for in seeing your friend.” He scoffs. Then he gestures for me to get into the car. “Kids these days. No gratitude.”
The flight to Bethesda lasts only a few minutes because there’s no traffic at the altitude reserved for official White House vehicles, but the whole time, El is barking at people on his staff about scheduling and Mainstream messaging. As always, he’s the consummate micromanager, and he still seems to think we’re running a campaign, with the way he’s so concerned about how the president is polling this week after the terror attack. Even though I used to love going back and forth with El about strategy, right now I’m too stressed.
Also, murderer. I’m sitting next to a murderer.
When we touch down and roll to a stop in front of the hospital, we’re greeted by six Secret Service agents, none of which are human. They lead us to an elevator that takes us down instead of up, and when the doors open, we’re on some kind of sublevel. “Dr. Barton is in this room down here,” my mom says. “The doctors are feeling optimistic!”
I let out a breath. Mom sounds more optimistic, too. She was so broken up about what had happened. “Is she awake?”
“No, but she’s responding to sensory input like bright light and temperature changes.”
I frown. That doesn’t really sound very promising to me, but I’m not going to say that to her. She’s smiling. “What about Kyla?”
“That’s who we’re here to see,” says El. “Just like I promised.” His eyes lock with mine. “I always keep my promises.”
I shudder. My mom puts her arm around me. “Are you cold, Marguerite?”
I lean into her. “Just a little.”
Mom chuckles and looks over at El. “She grew up in the tropics, compared to here. Especially in winter.”
“Do you miss it, Marguerite?” El asks, sounding innocent as a baby.
“Sometimes,” I say honestly.
“But not enough to want to go back, right?” asks Mom.
The look on her face makes me want to cry. “No,” I mumble. “Here is good.”
She grins and gives me a hug.
El steps around us and goes to talk to a medical canny who looks so eerily human that it isn’t until I see the overhead light reflect off his synthetic skin that I know he’s AI. El confers with the intelligent machine, then beckons to me and my mom.
“How’s she doing?” Mom asks.
“Better!” El announces. “I think she’s ready for visitors, and Mar can be her first one. See? Trust. I know I can trust you.”
Mom turns to me, her fingers rising to her nape to touch the controls on her neurostim device. It reminds me of Orianna back home, except she always seems more sleepy, almost stoned. Mom looks bright-eyed, even a little wired. “This is a big responsibility, Marguerite.”
“I don’t get it. It’s not like Kyla tried to kill herself. I don’t understand what you guys are trying to do—or hide. Why are you keeping her here, period?”
“Well,” says El. “We removed her Cerepin.”
“What?” I say it so loud that the medical canny actually shushes me, telling me I have exceeded the acceptable decibel level in this particular hallway.
El holds his hands up, gesturing for me to calm down. “It was the best thing for her.”
“To silence her, you mean?” Because if she still had one, she might find a way to communicate with the outside world—Cerepins make that easy, instant, and invisible. Without it, she’s isolated.
Mom’s eyes go wide. “How could you even suggest that?”
I clear my throat. “I just meant—did she consent to that?”
El gives my mom a quick smile. “Of course she did. She just wanted some peace and quiet in her own head.”
Another chill. “Okay, so you took her Cerepin out. But if she’s okay, then why are you keeping her in the hospital? Does she not have anywhere else to go? Where’s her little brother?”
“We found him a good caregiver while we help figure out a more permanent plan,” Mom says. “This poor family has been through so much.”
“I love your empathy, Colette,” El says to her.
I barely stop myself from making a gagging face. “Can I go in?”
“Sure thing.” El waves at the medical canny, who passes his (or its, more accurately) hand over the scanner in the door, which slides open immediately. “Go ahead. Fifteen minutes, how about?”
I walk by him into a big hospital room with a sitting area. Curled up in one of the chairs, staring at a comband streaming some anime movie, is Kyla. Her hair has been neatly styled and braided at the top, curling around her shoulders. Though from the way her hands shake, I’m guessing she didn’t do it herself. “Hi, Kyla,” I say quietly.
She turns her head and looks up at me, revealing the bandage at her temple. Her eyes fill with confusion first, then a flash of recognition, and finally, pain. Before saying a word, she reaches up to the nape of her neck. I see a small flash of blue and red within the coils of her hair, and then her eyelids flutter.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Fine,” she says, all mellowed out. She goes back to watching the movie.
I sit there and watch her. “Everyone is so worried about you. No one knew what had happened to you!”
“I’m totally fine, all things considered. No one needed to worry.”
“But Kyla, your parents . . .”
She’s staring intently at her comband. “I know. It sucks.”
It . . . sucks? “Um . . . have you been able to see your mom in the last few days?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“You don’t know?” This is not the Kyla I met on my first day of school. She cared more about me, at the time still a hostile stranger, than she seems to about her mom now. I stand up and go over to her, then place my hand over the screen.
“Hey!” she says, though there’s not much anger or annoyance there. “I was watching that.”
“Have they given you drugs or something?”
“No. Nothing.”
“What’s the neurostim for?”
“They thought it would make me feel better. I’ve been through a lot.”
“And the Cerepin?”
Her fingers twitch as she gently touches the bandage over her temple. “It had to be done. I needed quiet.”
My eyebrows rise. “You couldn’t just set it to blank?”
“No. It was still too much.”
“Okaaay. When are they going to let you out of here?”
“When they can be sure I’ll function properly.”
Sounds like canny speak. “You’re not a machine, Kyla.”
“I wish I was,” she whispers. Then she pokes at her neurostim and sighs as it zaps whatever part of her brain is making her sad. I don’t actually know what it’s doing, but that’s certainly how it looks, because she smiles at me as her hand drops to her lap. “How have you been?”
My laugh is as dry as West Texas. “I’m just doing my thing. Posting vids.”
She looks down at her comband. “You’re famous. Even the famous think you’re famous.”
“What?”
She shrugs. “Percy. He’s been fascinated by you since you joined the campaign. I was jealous. He had notifications on your vids and everything.”
“But I thought he didn’t care about politics.”
“Not sure if he does. But he certainly did seem obsessed with your vids.”
“I . . . okay.” Anothe
r hint that he might be the troll—the one who El is determined to catch. “He cares about you, too, Kyla.”
“I’m fine. I don’t know why anyone needs to worry.”
It’s eerie, the way her voice is so flat. “Are you going to come back to school?”
“When I’m ready. The doctors will decide.” She goes back to watching her comband.
This time I don’t stop her. I stand up and take a few steps backward, and she doesn’t even look up as I walk from the room. Mom and El are waiting for me when I come out. “That was quick! How is she?” Mom asks.
El sees my face and gives me a warning look. “Mar?”
“She’s . . . not quite herself.”
Mom frowns, but El just nods. “We gave her a neurostim to help her recover, but it’s going to take a little time for her to be up and running.”
Mom looks relieved. “She needs any kind of boost she can get.” She turns her smile on me. “I’m so glad you got to see her.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.” Am I?
“Great! Now, let’s go get some dinner,” says El. “I got us reservations at Kintiko, and we’ve just got time to eat before I have to go brief the president.”
He offers us each an arm. Mom takes his right. He looks down at me. “A deal’s a deal, Marguerite. Let’s go eat, then you have work to do.”
I owe him FragFlwr’s head on a plate.
I swallow back the urge to start screaming, and take his arm.
Chapter Nineteen
Percy
I badly need a medical time-out, and I’m desperate to know what my father wanted Chen to give me, but just as we end our connection, Chen drops another bomb—he tells me he’s come into possession of a vid so secret that people would kill to get it back, so sensitive that he’s scared to transport it from its chip back into the District for fear of detection. I have to go back to Arlington.
Yves, looking all muscular in his new SUV body, picks me up at the navy yard and glides across the Potomac. He touches down without incident in the parking lot of a restaurant, then drives along a narrow residential street before turning onto a dead-end road. Marguerite is right about one thing—outside the few affluent technocrat enclaves, the country is in dreadful need of a makeover. Most of these homes look abandoned. Not shabby chic, just shabby. As I start to get out of Yves, he tells me Jacques is on a suicide mission.
