by Sarah Fine
“Even if they saved his life?”
“Not if he’s carrying illegal tech.” El smiles. “Maybe we need to take a closer look at him. Lives at the embassy, with access to embassy vehicles. Had parents who pretty much hated everything our president stands for. Do you think—”
My laugh is loud and harsh. “Oh my god. You don’t know Percy at all.” I flick my finger against the corner of my screen, and the image splits. I switch on sharing so El can see what I’m doing. “The Fashionista File,” I say, and Percy’s channel comes up. I scroll to an image of Percy wearing some sort of dress and tell the vid to play.
Percy, sporting platinum hair with a sparkling crimson streak, leans toward the lens, blue eyes glittering, as he puts on a thick layer of lush red lipstick. “Feels divine,” he says. “How do I look? This shade is Red Death. Kiss me and it might be the last thing you ever do.” He grins and steps back, revealing once again the dress that’s draped over his long, lean body. I know very well that this frivolous stuff doesn’t mean he’s not a freaking dangerous super spy, but I’m fairly sure it’ll take El longer to figure that out. I let the vid keep playing. “Now, I’m wearing Johann Richter tonight, because I was feeling saucy, and no one does minx better than Johann. Boys, if you haven’t tried his line of frocks, you really must. The cut is perfect for us gents.” Percy whirls around, letting the skirt billow around his shaven legs, and then curtsies for his audience.
El laughs. “I don’t even know what to say.”
I pause the vid, relief making my limbs loose. “Percy is the most empty-headed, shallow person I’ve ever met. If he’s got some kind of illegal augmentation, it’s probably his fashion sense. You can see he’s got nearly ten million subscribers to his channel. He posts every day and spends more time on his makeup and nails than his schoolwork. The day of the bombing, he went and got his hair done. Check out the timing on the vid.”
“All right, all right. I’ll keep looking. It just seemed like too much of a coincidence.”
“Feel free to watch more of his vids if you want some tips on how to apply highlighter to bring out your cheekbones or cover up your under-eye circles.”
He’s still chuckling. “Oh, I’ve missed this, Mar. I miss you. I want things to be better between us. Your mom would like that. It’ll make it easier.”
“Make what easier?”
His face grows solemn again. “I’m just going to come out and say it: I’m in love with her. But you already knew that.”
Now my muscles are knotting in rebellion. “She’s vulnerable, El. Not ready—”
“She’s better, and you know it. And she’s realizing she has feelings for me, too.”
No. No. “Um . . . she’s never really . . .”
“You’ve been preoccupied with your own stuff, Mar. Your mom is coming alive again, and I’m going to make her very happy. I hope you’ll be a part of that.”
Truthfully, she does seem better. But the thought of her and El together makes me sick. “I’ll com tomorrow for an update on your progress,” El is saying. “So you’d better post a vid or something to lure the guy in. And this time, try to call in Hans a little earlier. He said all he needs is a full second of connection.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You’d better, Mar. Don’t break my heart, now.”
“Nah. That’s my mom’s job.”
He coughs like I’ve just hit him in the chest. “Not funny. At all. You planning on tanking my prospects just to get back at me for leaning on you?”
“Leaning on me? That’s what you’re calling this? Now I totally understand how you sleep at night.”
But El is totally somber now. “Mar, really. Don’t make me do something I’d forever regret.”
Somehow, this statement is the most terrifying of the night. I hang up. Then I bury my head in my pillow and scream.
Before I leave for school, I creep into Mom’s room to say good-bye. She rouses as I kiss her cheek. “Leaving already?”
“It’s after eight.”
Her eyelids flutter. “Oh, god, I’ve overslept.”
“Mom, does that neurostim make you sleepy?”
She sits up slowly. “It definitely helps me sleep. I never told you, but I’ve had such insomnia for the last year. I was really a zombie.”
She didn’t have to tell me. I knew. “So you think you’re just catching up?”
She nods. “El said I could come in later this week as I got used to it, but I don’t want people to think I can’t handle the job. I need to help El plan the president’s victory tour for this spring. It’ll take a lot of coordination.”
“Victory tour?”
“Yeah. When we have the concessions from private industry and increases in production for Cerepins in particular, he’s going to tour the US to present it, including introducing programs to install both Cerepins and neurostims at the same time, assuming we get approval for that. We think his numbers will go even higher.”
“But with all this terrorism stuff, how . . . ?”
“Now that Gia Fortin is a fugitive and her stock has fallen, we’ve called on Congress to bail it out. But we’ll also need industry leadership and expertise to put the company on the right track again.”
“Would NeuroGo fit the bill?”
She peers at my face. “Why do you say it like that? Are you all right?”
My comband vibrates. “Yeah—hey, the car is here for me. I’ll see you later.”
As I walk out of the room, she’s reaching up to press the stim device. To put her back to sleep, to calm her nerves, to make all the grief go away . . . I have no idea. All I know is that it bothers me in a way the sight of those things never did before. I thought they were a good thing, but these days I really wonder.
Wondering about neurostims was what Percy’s parents were doing when they were killed.
I grab a breakfast bar from Renata on my way out and force it down as I sit in Jenny’s backseat. A few crumbs land on my comband, and I don’t even bother to wipe them off. My screen has become a leash. For so long, I thought it was a private thing, an extension of my body, and now it feels like El’s fingers are wrapped around my arm in a punishing grip. I stare at it as the car glides toward school, wondering how El managed to cap it and if his hacker team is listening right now. It might be conveying every single thing I hear and say to El. It’s so easy to forget that. I did last night for a few minutes as I spoke to Orianna, as I watched her fade in and out. I did just now as I asked my mom about NeuroGo. I’m giving El every reason to come after me. I’m being stupid.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to get someone else in trouble.
As we land, my mind whirls with possible scenarios. If I do something suspicious, El will pick it up. If I’m not careful with what I say, El will hear every word. And who knows where else he has eyes. The first things I see as I get out of the car are the school’s security cannies—flanked by Secret Service cannies. These are supposedly here for my protection, but they offer El and anyone else who’s helping him a 360, all-day view of exactly what I’m doing and who I’m talking to.
Any hope I had of talking to Percy, warning him, helping him . . . all of that fades away as I realize the best thing I can do for him is to ignore him completely.
Maybe I’m imagining it, but the Secret Service cannies seem to be watching me with particular interest this morning. One of them says, in a synthetic-gentle voice, “You are safe, Marguerite.”
I laugh as tears fill my eyes. “Thanks.”
There are even fewer students here than yesterday. It looks like two-thirds of my classmates have stayed home. The ones here look like they were forced by their parents, because they all wear these sullen expressions that harden to hatred when they see me. But none of them say a word. Which is wise. I’m basically radioactive.
Percy is already at the top of the stairs, talking to a few girls. He’s holding himself differently today, less straight, one arm pressed to his ribs.
His gaze flicks over to me and away, then returns and holds as I mount the stairs. I press my comband to my side and bite my lip. I wish we could communicate by telepathy or something, because I have no idea what he’s thinking. His look is less flamboyant than usual, black pants, a gray turtleneck sweater, boots with heavy soles. His fingernails are black and so is his hair. I am struck again by how perfect his skin is. He’s wearing makeup, foundation and eyeliner, more than usual, but I can see the sweat glistening at his temples as I draw near. Is he nervous? Why is he standing like that?
I avert my gaze quickly. I have no idea whether one of the Secret Service cannies is streaming this to El or whether he’s listening and watching via my screen. I wish I could take it off and fling it over the edge of the banister, but no doubt that would result in more scrutiny. I wish I could talk to Percy, but I can’t. I just can’t. There’s no way to do it without putting him in more danger.
I head to homeroom and sit through Mr. Cordoza bravely discussing freedom of movement and association in our society. His comments are pointed, and he’s clearly trying to spur a discussion, but everybody looks like their mouths are sewn shut, including Percy. Including me—I’m terrified that if El hears this, he’s going to punish my teacher. Bring him in for questioning and disappear him forever.
Finally, Mr. Cordoza gives up with a sigh. “I get it, guys,” he says wearily. “This is a tough time. Good luck with your Aristotle sessions.”
We all shuffle to our darkened cubicles to commune with the AI that killed my dad. I’ve just put on my goggles when the booth starts to emit a strange static sound, white noise on steroids. As I start to pull my goggles up to see what’s happening, something scratchy and rough slides into the back of my collar. I go stiff as I feel a warm body behind me and someone pulls one of my earpods out. A deep, rustling voice speaks into my ear. “Destroy after reading.”
With that, the person steps through the curtains that partition the booth, and the white noise dies. My goggles are flashing, and I cram them back on again. Aristotle is waiting, and I tell him I want to start with the history lecture. I am once again pleasantly surprised by how steady my voice sounds, though if El can access my biometrics, he’ll see my heart rate is off the charts. I laugh to myself and say to Aristotle, “You were glitching there for a second.”
He ignores me and keeps up his lecture, and I set my comband to capture it. El deserves to listen to this pretend teacher droning on and on about the French Revolution.
With the screen pointed away, I reach up and pull the scratchy thing from my collar. I yawn, pretending to stretch, with the scrap of scratchy material crumpled in my fist. Then I let my hand drop beneath the table. I push my goggles up again and look down at the object sitting on my palm.
I know what this is—Dad had a whole box of it, mementos from the past.
It’s paper. I run my thumb over its surface. It’s thicker than I thought it would be. There’s a raised pattern on it, something I’m dying to examine in the light. Instead, I clutch it tightly, palm sweating, until we reach a pause in the lecture. “Aristotle, I need to go to the bathroom.”
“You may have five minutes, Marguerite.”
My legs shaky, I leave the goggles behind and head for the bathroom. There’s no one in here, and I duck into a stall. Praying El will turn off when he realizes this is the real deal, I sit down and pee. And as I do, I carefully aim the screen away from my body, and with my other hand, I pull the paper from my pocket and look down at it.
Sit on my left side at lunch.
That is all it says, written in block letters by hand. I’ve never seen handwriting in person before. The corner of the scrap has a symbol pressed into it.
A flower.
It all makes sense, the cuff links, the username, this symbol. It really is him. He’s trusting me with his life, and I think he knows that.
I let the paper drop into the toilet and flush it down.
The next hour or so passes in a haze. Aristotle is bland as always, but I swear I detect a note of disappointment in his voice when I get every single question he asks completely wrong. I walk to lunch feeling dizzy and uncertain. His left side? Why? And isn’t he afraid of being spotted? Maybe he doesn’t know my screen is capped, that every word he says can be recorded and parsed, analyzed and compared to any other data source they have. That his face, if I happen to aim the screen at it, will also be scanned and image matched. It’s not just my screen, either—the Secret Service cannies will surely be watching. There is no privacy.
For a few anxious moments after I enter the cafeteria, I consider sitting somewhere else, off in a corner by myself. But when I look around, I don’t see a single canny. Percy sits at a table near the windows. Deciding that I’d rather not be alone, determined to keep the conversation completely stupid and light, I grab a sandwich, swipe it across my screen to pay, then head over there and plop down.
As I do, he raises his left arm and lets it fall in eerily exact parallel with my right, the one with the screen. I don’t know how he does it, but by the time my arm settles on the table, his screen is pressed to mine. He reaches over and casually taps a button on his, and I feel the seal that’s created through rubber edges perfectly aligned. I stare down at it and then look up at him.
He grins. “You can talk normally.”
I shake my head. Muted by fear.
His eyes are so, so blue. “All your minders will see is a normal view of the cafeteria, and all they will hear is a silly conversation about whether the meat in my sandwich is real or genned.”
“How—?”
“Bianca wasn’t the only one who was excellent at fabbing vids. Who do you think taught her?” His smile has gone, though. The tension is right there, at the corners of his eyes.
“The cannies, though,” I whisper.
“Gone to investigate a suspicious package near the garbage incinerator at the back of the school.”
“They have ways . . .”
“They haven’t caught me yet.” The back of his left hand brushes against the back of my right. Our arms are practically glued together. The cold metal of the ring on his middle finger makes me realize there’s a flower there, too.
I direct my gaze out the window. “I couldn’t live with myself if I’m the reason you get caught.”
“What’s one more life on your conscience?”
“Please,” I say, nearly choking on my sorrow and shame. “You have to know—”
His other hand covers mine. “I’m coming around.” He lets me go. “Will you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For being the gadfly on your channel. For making things even harder.”
“Only if you forgive me for being completely blind. I feel so stupid. I believed it all.”
“What do you believe now?”
“That people deserve to know what’s happening. I’m not sure if the president actually knows, to be honest.”
Percy’s smooth brow furrows. “Are you sure? He’s a savvy man, Marguerite.”
“But it’s his chief of staff, Elwood Seidel, who’s pulling the strings now. He won’t even let me get to the president, which makes me think Uncle Wynn doesn’t know what El has done.”
Percy regards me for several long seconds. “You’re sure?”
“El’s been with him for years. He’s the filter for information, for staff, for messaging. And I don’t think the president approves of everything he’s done. El’s the one who . . . who . . .”
“Bianca.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “He used me as an excuse. I swear I didn’t want her to die.”
“Where do you stand with him?”
“On very shaky ground.”
“And why are you sitting here with me?”
“I shouldn’t be. He asked me about you this morning. He knows about your parents. He told me about your accident. He . . . thinks they did something to you.”
Percy laughs. “Why am I not in custody, then?”
<
br /> “Because I showed him a vid of you dancing around in a dress and trying on lipstick.”
“Old prejudices die hard, I suppose.” He leans closer, smelling of flowers and electrical fire.
“You need him to believe you’re harmless. If he thinks you’re a threat, it’ll be bad.”
He purses his lips. “Are you trying to save me, Marguerite?”
Anger heats my cheeks. “Are you trying to get caught?”
“Heaven forfend. I’d hate to miss the rollout of Johann Richter’s new spring line.”
“Be serious, Percy!”
“I’m deadly serious.” And suddenly, he looks it. “Will you do as I say? Will you trust me?”
“You’re the only person I trust right now,” I murmur as a Secret Service canny strides into the room. My voice drops to a whisper again. “El is planning more arrests for tonight—he’s after some hacker group led by a guy named Martin Chen. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
Percy freezes for a second, but only a second. Then his smile returns. “Enjoy your lunch, darling. For the record, I still think the meat is genned. But I have no complaints.”
He has disconnected our screens. And now he’s walking away, his steps relaxed but not quite normal. His arm is still wrapped protectively over his ribs. It reminds me that he is just a boy, just a human, and we’re up against an entire government controlled by a conniving, sadistic traitor. The fear returns, spreading through me like a bloom of poison.
But I’m not going to give up. I’m going to see this through to the end, no matter where it takes me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Percy
I don’t check until I’m in the car and on the way back to the embassy, but it has meant fighting temptation every second. Once I’m inside Charles, though, I can’t hold out any longer. I activate my comband and see what I’ve got—and what I’ve got is more temptation. I’ve cloned Marguerite’s device, so I have access to everything. I can already see that it’s been capped by someone who knows only slightly less than I do, maybe the hacker who so clumsily left his or her gummy fingerprints all over Marguerite’s message space on her channel.
