Jaguar

by C. A. Gray

  “Cut!” Francis cried, exasperated. “Hello? Liam’s success depends on secrecy, we can’t just announce to the entire world where he’s going and why! Doesn’t anybody think besides me?”

  “Cut her some slack, she’s in shock,” I snapped, surprising even myself. “We all are.”

  Francis huffed a great, put-upon sigh, and gestured to Madeline, “Take two. Start over, and leave Liam out of it this time!”

  Tears now brimmed over Val’s lower lashes, and one trickled onto her cheeks. “But—Liam’s the whole reason I’m here. He is my story. How can I leave him out of it?”

  “Fine, you can mention running into him and your undying love if you want to, but don’t go into detail about who he is, and definitely nothing about where he’s going now. Just stick with the explosions and how we’re all on the run for our lives. Can you do that?”

  She sniffled and nodded, and I smiled at her again reassuringly. Her eyes widened, and she returned a tiny, grateful curve of her lips.

  Val tried again, and it took two more takes before Francis was satisfied. By the time she was done, she was trembling. When she finished, she moved back to one of the windows, sitting on the floor and wrapping her arms around her knees. I sat down beside her as she watched the bright turquoise waters skim by the sides of the hovercraft, draping an arm around her shoulders. She nestled against me.

  We sat like that in silence for awhile. Finally she sniffled and murmured, “He loved you. Didn’t he?”

  I started. It took me a long time to answer, trying on different unnecessary questions as my reply. Who did she mean, why did she say that, etc. But after all we’d been through, stalling and pretending didn’t seem appropriate, or kind. Finally I said, “I think so. But I blew it.”

  She gave a soft little laugh. “I know that feeling.” Then she turned her watery hazel eyes on me and confessed, “I sort of… hated you. Ever since that night when you and Liam sang that duet together, and I finally saw how he looked at you. He never looked at me like that, in all the time we were together. Even though of course I can see what he saw in you. You’re perfect for him, in all the ways I never could be.”

  My heart swelled. I squeezed her shoulders and rested my head against hers. “Yeah,” I said. “I sort of hated you, too. I can see why he cared for you so much, though. It’s basically impossible not to.”

  She gave me a tiny, brave smile. “Truce? I mean, at least until Liam comes back. Then I’ll probably hate you again. But I’ll try to hide it, I promise.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. Until Liam comes back. But I nodded, and returned her smile. “I’d really like to be your friend,” I said.

  “Yeah. I’d like that too,” she whispered.

  Chapter 2: Liam

  I got a lot of weird looks. I kind of knew I would—Francis’s LED glasses aren’t exactly the most inconspicuous accessories in the world. Because I’d expected that, I made a point of not returning any of the stares. At least nobody there should recognize me. Everyone at General Specs would know who I was instantly, of course, and if the cameras caught sight of my real face, they’d invariably set off some kind of alarm. But nobody in Missouri, where I now was, would have any reason to think I was anything other than some eccentric conspiracy theorist. And that’s exactly what I wanted them to think.

  At the Quantum Track station nearest our former compound, I threaded my way through the crowds to get to the ticket kiosk. I’d pre-purchased a voucher to London, jumping through a few hoops so that the purchase wouldn’t be associated with my account. When I typed in the confirmation number, the screen blinked a green ‘ok’ button, and I climbed on board, carrying only the netscreen Francis had given me.

  It had been an hour since I’d left the compound, or maybe two. I was desperate to check in on the group, but I knew there was no way I’d get ahold of anyone now. If they were en route, they wouldn’t be connected. And if those approaching hovercrafts had arrived before they’d escaped…

  Well.

  My eyes flickered up to the elderly woman eyeing the seat beside me. She was dressed in black and white Simvi Shah clothing and face paint. The Simvi Shah were a religious group that disbelieved in the physical reality of the world, though I wasn’t sure what that had to do with the weird garb exactly. But considering I was wearing the crazy glasses Francis had created, I couldn’t really judge. I wanted to stare, but didn’t want her to catch me staring, so I erred on the side of pretending she wasn’t there. She sat down, just as I gave in to temptation and opened my netscreen. I turned it toward the window so she couldn’t see what I was doing.

  I pulled up the Commune, quickly skimming all the LP addresses belonging to the netscreens that had been at the compound. I didn’t know which ones they would have brought along with them and which they’d have left behind, but none of them were connected. I swore under my breath, even though that wasn’t a surprise. The old woman’s eyes flickered in my direction, disapproving.

  “Excuse me,” I muttered to her. I thought this would appease her, but she continued to stare, until I could no longer pretend not to notice. I raised my eyebrows, and she gestured at the glasses.

  “You don’t want the cameras to recognize you either.” It was not a question.

  I blinked at her. “Sorry?”

  “That’s why you’re wearing those, right? So the facial recognition software doesn’t get you on film?”

  I tilted my head to the side, inspecting her with new eyes. She bore thick black asymmetrical stripes on her wrinkled cheeks and forehead, and wore a white skullcap with black and white robes. The Simvi Shah religion had been around longer than the facial recognition software had, but it suddenly occurred to me that it was a pretty fantastic way to hide from it. I felt myself begin to smile.

  “You’re not actually Simvi Shah, are you?”

  “Do you always answer a question with a question?” she retorted.

  “Do you?” I shot back.

  She laughed, and stuck out her hand. “Imogen Engels,” she said, and I shook her hand.

  “Liam,” I told her.

  She raised a white eyebrow. “Just ‘Liam,’ huh? No surname? Are you some kind of rock star?”

  I grinned again. “Sure, we can go with that,” I hedged, just as the Quantum Track picked up speed.

  “Do you know Matt Engels?”

  I looked up sharply. Engels—any relation? I wondered. Matt was one of the Renegades back in San Jose, the very one whom Francis used most often to retrieve information from the labyrinth for us.

  “Yes,” I hedged, wondering how much Imogen already knew. I decided it might be best to test her. “I met him in Ireland at a beer festival.”

  Imogen narrowed her eyes. “Matt’s never been to Ireland.”

  “He also hates beer,” I agreed. “His drink of choice is always…”

  “Moscato,” Imogen finished, wrinkling her nose.

  “Chilled,” I added. “Because if it’s room temperature…”

  “He’ll spit it back in the glass.” Imogen nodded knowingly. “Not the most elegant young man in the world, I grant you. But, he is my grandson. You actually remind me of him a little bit.”

  “Is that so.” I was mildly insulted—Matt was a complete idiot.

  She smiled knowingly, and winked. “Just a little bit.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. This lady was definitely sharper than her grandson.

  “So, Liam, no surname,” Imogen went on. “I assume the Renegades have some sort of business to attend to in London. But by the time we arrive, it will be after hours, and you won’t likely be able to get to it until tomorrow anyway. Would you like to come around to my place for tea, so I can pump you for information?”

  Truthfully, I had wondered where I would stay once I got to London. I’d considered going straight to my father’s penthouse apartment, but it was too well guarded. But as I looked at Imogen, I had a better idea. If I went to
General Specs as I was, just wearing the glasses, I wouldn’t get two steps over the threshold without someone calling my name, and the jig would be up. But if I were disguised as a Simvi Shah, not only would that fool the facial recognition software, it would fool my former coworkers as well. If they really looked at me they’d probably still know who I was, but just as I’d been afraid to stare at Imogen, they’d be afraid to look too closely at me, either. General Specs didn’t hire many Simvi Shah, as technical know-how didn’t exactly go along with doubting the existence of the physical world—but even my dad would be forced to hire a certain number of them to fulfill anti-discrimination quotas. It was perfect.

  Aloud, I said, “I don’t suppose you could show me how to dress—” I gestured at her garb, and Imogen grinned at me.

  “It would be my pleasure to help any friend of Matt’s.”

  Three hours later, we arrived—but because of the time zone differences, it was dark. I could hardly believe it had only been that morning when I’d found Rebecca downstairs with Alex, the gorgeous hacker Francis had rescued who turned out to be a humanoid bot herself, unconscious under the Virtual Magnetic Imaging machine we’d built together at the underground compound. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Imogen’s flat smelled intensely of cats, and every surface was covered with a tea cozy. Once we were safely inside, I took off the glasses, and Imogen promptly grabbed both my cheeks.

  “There you are! Let me get a real look at you. What a nice looking young man you are, underneath those bright lights!” I gave her a halfhearted smile, letting her pat my face before she shuffled off to the kitchen. “You must be as hungry as I am. I think I’ve got some soup in the freezer…”

  When she released me, I headed to the bathroom to splash my face with water. Halfway there, I heard Imogen say, “Oh!”

  “What?” I demanded, instantly alert.

  “Oh nothing dear, I just got a notice on my A.E. chip of a video that’s gone viral…”

  The A.E. chips… I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have those intrusive alerts all day long. I’d been without one ever since the hovercraft ride from Geneva back to the compound.

  “Hmm,” Imogen went on, crossing back into her living room, where her sofa sat opposite a large netscreen embedded in the wall. She touched it to turn on, and I followed her. She scrolled through the channels until she found the one she wanted. My heart stopped.

  It was a logo of a phoenix, consumed by flames.

  “They did it,” I breathed, my voice catching. And that meant they’d made it out safely, after all. They must have arrived at the new compound. I felt weak with relief.

  But how did they recover the film? I thought Andy deleted it…

  Madeline, I realized suddenly. Of course! When Rebecca played the final video for the rest of us once they’d finished it, she’d brought Madeline downstairs to watch it with us. The whole thing had been saved in her memory…

  Which meant Rebecca also got my letter.

  What does she think of me now? I wondered. Her face floated back to me, wearing that devastated expression from the last time I’d seen her. I tried to shove it away, but couldn’t. Breaking Rebecca’s heart was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I didn’t want to relive it… but I could hardly help it, seeing Jake’s animation and hearing Bec’s voice-over on the screen in front of me. I could feel Imogen’s curious eyes boring into the side of my face, but I couldn’t muster the energy to care.

  “So, there’s a story behind this,” she observed knowingly. “Does it involve a girl, perhaps?”

  I cast her a tiny half-smile—all the answer I intended to give—and then reached for my netscreen again hopefully. But still, none of the LP addresses were live.

  That’s weird, I thought, frowning. Clearly they had been, or they wouldn’t have been able to release the films. I opened one of the addresses and left a message for when someone signed on the next time: “It’s Liam. Arrived safely in London. Going to General Specs in the morning. I saw the film: well done! I assume that means everyone on your end arrived in one piece?” I stared at the message, and nearly added, “How is Rebecca doing?”, assuming Francis would be the one to read it. But I deleted it. That would raise too many questions I couldn’t answer, anyway. I sent the message as it was.

  “How are you at acting?” called Imogen’s voice from the kitchen.

  I let out an involuntary laugh, glancing at the now dark netscreen embedded in the wall across from her couch. I’d only very recently learned the answer to that question. “Decent. Why?”

  “Pull up some videos on the labyrinth of the Simvi Shah,” she called back. “If you’re gonna convince anybody you’re one of them, you’ll have to act like they do, you know. They’re slow and methodical, and every movement has a purpose. Look everyone in the eye for so long that they’re forced to look away themselves…”

  As she spoke, I crossed to her netscreen, since mine wasn’t networked to the labyrinth, only to the Commune. I pulled up some of the videos, but it also occurred to me that if I was going to do this right, I needed a work order for my false identity at General Specs. The Simvi Shah chose new names for themselves upon conversion, so I almost certainly wouldn’t have to prove that the name I chose belonged to me legally. There were only minimal and specific questions that could be asked of me, for fear of religious discrimination. I logged on to the Commune again, and searched for Matt. He was on the other side of the world from me, but it was already morning where he was.

  “Matt! This is Liam. You’ll never believe it, but I’m in London staying with your grandmother.” I told him briefly how we’d met, and asked him to share his screen with me: faster than explaining what I needed him to do on the General Specs mainframe every step of the way. Once I got on, I made my Simvi Shah self, whom I called Sierron Huberdine, an independent contractor in a department with high security clearance. That way I could get as close to my dad as possible. “Thanks buddy, all done,” I typed to Matt when I’d finished.

  “No problem, good luck! Tell Meemaw hi.”

  Meemaw? I thought, my mouth twitching. The sharp-tongued lady in the kitchen definitely did not seem like a Meemaw to me. I wondered if she’d picked that title, or he had. But I wrote, “Sure, no problem.”

  When Matt signed off, I glanced at the inactive LP address from the Commune one more time. Then it occurred to me that they might have all gone straight to sleep once they arrived at their destination and pumped out the videos—they’d had a long day, too. Yes. That had to be it.

  One day, I thought again, still amazed at how much had happened, and in how many different parts of the world. I turned my attention back to Imogen’s netscreen videos of the Simvi Shah, beginning to drowse as I watched them. They moved with confidence, heads held high, and movements slow but fluid. With the robes, they looked more like they were gliding than walking, and there was little to no superfluous arm swinging. Underneath all the makeup, they had next to no facial expressions. Eyes were wide and yet almost glazed; they gave the impression they were looking through rather than at whatever they saw. I thought of what Bec had told me about character studies:

  “I like to imagine every detail of my character’s back story, even if it never enters the script. Who are they, and why? Where do they come from? That helps me understand their motives, and makes the character seem much more believable.”

  It was easier to employ this advice when playing a cartoon villain, as I’d been in the film that had just aired. In real life, there were a lot more details to get right, and a lot more at stake. But she’d certainly seemed to think I was a born actor, and Rebecca wasn’t the type to give empty praise. Even Giovanni told me I’d ‘missed my calling.’

  Well, if that was true, tomorrow would definitely be the time to prove it.

  Chapter 3: Rebecca

  Francis spent the remainder of our journey editing and queuing up the videos, so that he could just release them all i
n rapid succession once we arrived at the compound on one of the Exumas islands. Apparently the Exumas was a collection of hundreds of islands in the Bahamas, many of which were uninhabited.

  “Uninhabited means no satellite tracking either,” Larissa whispered to me, as we both watched Francis work. “So we won’t have to be underground this time.” She tucked her red hair severely behind her ears, making them stick out—it was a nervous habit of hers. Mack and Mom were in the cockpit with the pilot bot, and Giovanni and Dr. Yin were deep in conversation on the other side of the hovercraft from us, Alex still in maintenance mode nearby. Val sat alone, zoning out as the waves lapped by the windows. Larissa squeezed my hand.

  “I’m sorry about your friends,” she whispered.

  I swallowed hard, and blinked rapidly. “Thanks.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I shrugged, but didn’t say anything. No. I wasn’t okay. Of course I wasn’t okay.