Mike studied me warily. “I assumed you took it off before we left the house.”
“Was I wearing it at breakfast?” I got down on my hands and knees and brushed my fingers across the pavement.
“I don’t know if you were wearing it at breakfast.” Mike crouched down beside me. “So you really lost it? You weren’t trying to draw my attention to your bare neck?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
Mike frowned back at me. “You were touching your neck. Fiddling with your collar. I thought you wanted me to notice you’d taken off the pendant.”
“No.” My hand crept up there now. My neck felt naked. I had worn the angel pendant Mike had given me for Christmas night and day since coming to work for SilverDollar, never taking it off.
And what did that say about my feelings for Mike?
I avoided pursuing that thought. “Think back. When did you last see it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe yesterday at breakfast, or supper the night before. Don’t worry about it. The chain probably broke and it fell on the floor. Graciana will find it when the robots clean your room.”
I wasn’t reassured. What if I’d lost it somewhere else?
Rianne, Timothy, and Zinnia had stopped ahead of us. “What’s wrong?” Rianne called.
“I lost my angel pendant,” I called back. “Have any of you seen it?”
They all came back to help me search, even Dahlia, but none of them could remember for sure when they had last seen it. Timothy had never noticed it at all.
“Angel, please don’t worry about it.” Mike pressed my hand. “I’ll buy you another one.”
I shook my head, fighting back panic. He didn’t understand. The angel pendant was special to me, yes, but the main reason I was upset was because I was afraid the missing pendant meant another memory loss. It was bad enough that I had almost no memory of my life before my Loyalty Induction; it was intolerable to think that the memory loss was still continuing, that I would continue to forget more and more.
* * * At lunch, I stood in line with Timothy, more to avoid Mike than out of any real desire for a chili dog. I looked around restlessly—
—and my gaze collided with that of a man who stood one line over and five people farther back.
Several small things about him grated on my instinct.
He was the wrong age: ten years older than the students, but younger than most presenters. His hair was black, the curling ends long enough to brush his collar; his coloring and features were a mix of Spanish and Indian. He was very handsome. And he had silver eyes.
I remembered what Anaximander had told me, about almost all Spacers having Augments of some kind.
The man looked directly at me. Even though I’d caught him staring, he didn’t look away or smile or look embarrassed.
I broke eye contact as casually as I could and tapped Timothy on the shoulder. “Do you see that man back there? The one with the silver eyes? Do you know him?”
Timothy looked. “No. Should I?”
“I guess not.” I shrugged off my disappointment. So much for my brief fantasy of bringing down one of the Spacers that had kidnapped Timothy. Not everyone with silver eyes was a Spacer—as Anaximander himself illustrated.
We got our chili dogs, but as we were leaving, the man intercepted us. “Are you Timothy Castellan? My name is Seth Lopez. I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful job I think you’ve done here.”
Timothy shook his hand, pleased. “You really think so? Thanks!”
Seth loaded on the compliments for several more minutes, making Timothy blush, but I didn’t buy it. I watched uneasily as Seth leaned forward. He was too intense, full of repressed triumph. “Can I ask you something, Timothy?”
“Sure,” Timothy said easily. “What?”
“How did you feel when—”
My hand moved before my brain had time to analyze why, drawing back my iced tea—
“—when the Spacers abducted you?”
—and dashing it across Seth’s face and eyes.
TIMOTHY BLINKED REPEATEDLY, stunned by Seth’s unexpected question and my actions. Silence rippled through the crowd around us, as everyone turned to see what was going on.
Seth wiped a hand across his dripping silver eyes but kept staring at Timothy instead of me, the girl who’d thrown iced tea in his face. My hunch became a sure thing. Seth was a tabloid reporter, and his silver eyes hid a video camera, an illegal cosmetic Augment, a boon to his job, not a medical necessity. “Is it true—” Seth started.
My mind worked like lightning. “Food fight!” I yelled, drowning out the rest of Seth’s question.
“—that your mother refused to pay your ransom?”
I threw Timothy’s green slurpie in Seth’s eyes, but that was only a temporary solution, so I dumped my chili dog over Timothy’s head. Red meat sauce turned his blond hair orange andstreaked his face. He looked almost unrecognizable. Good.
Working swiftly, I showered my French fries on the couple at a nearby table and spilled a standing boy’s drink over his shirt and pants. That seemed to do the trick.
“Food fight!” Five different voices chorused, and the air was suddenly full of flying hamburgers.
Timothy was still standing there like a lump. I grabbed his hand and yanked him into a run. I deliberately bumped into people as we went, spreading confusion.
Not about to let his big story get away, Seth gave chase, still yelling questions—“Why were you held so long? Is it true you’ve been seeing a shrink?”—but nobody paid any attention to him in the chaos.
I snatched someone’s waffle cone and threw gobs of ice cream like snowballs over my shoulder on the run. Chocolate smeared Seth’s shirt and hair. A girl shrieked as a miss splattered on her bare arms.
A bucket of fried chicken provided me with two minutes’ worth of firepower. I thwacked Seth’s forehead and chest with wings and drumsticks. He got really mad and ran faster, but slipped on someone else’s taco spill.
Timothy was gasping, whether from shock or our breathless run, I couldn’t tell. I felt great myself and laughed as a random hot dog hit my shoulder.
A knot of people squirting each other with squeeze bottles of mustard and ketchup blocked our way. I pulled Timothy up onto a table, but forthe first time Seth got close enough to grab my leg. I rubbed a mayo-covered bun on his face, kicked him, and scrambled on.
Then we were out of the food court. I pulled Timothy inside an empty lecture hall and locked it.
One look at Timothy’s gray, stricken face killed my excitement. “Here, sit down.” Alarmed, I urged him into a red, plush seat. He collapsed into it and put his face in his hands.
I studied him anxiously. He didn’t seem to be crying, so I decided to give him a moment to recover. I pulled out my palmtop and called Anaximander. Hopefully, Timothy would be too shocked to realize that I knew whom to call.
Anaximander’s face appeared. “Angel, please call back. There’s a—”
“—food fight going on,” I finished. “I know. I started it. Some guy calling himself Seth Lopez was asking Timothy rude questions about his kidnapping. I think he was a tabloid reporter. Can you catch him?”
For an answer, Anaximander hung up. I decided that meant he was going to try so I went and sat by Timothy.
“No one’s supposed to know,” Timothy said, the first words he’d spoken since Seth asked him about being kidnapped. Seth might as well have hit him with a tire iron; his words had had the same effect.
“Know what?” I asked gently.
“About the kidnapping.” Timothy stared off blankly. “It was hushed up. Now my face will be all over the tabloids.” Timothy sounded doomed. “Everyone will see me.”
I could at least help him with that worry. “No, they won’t. All they’ll see is you smiling. Seth won’t have any video of your reaction because I threw my drink in his eyes. His tape will be blurred and splattered. And the later shots of you will be unrecognizable because of t
he chili dog I dumped in your hair.”
“Oh. Is that why you did that?” Timothy looked briefly cheered, before sinking back into depression. “But the story will still come out. And then everyone willlookat me. They’ll stare and stare . . .I can’t bear it.”
“Your mom will protect you.” I offered all the crumbs I could think of. “It will blow over.”
Timothy wasn’t listening, trapped in a nightmare. “There will be cameras everywhere, watching me, recording me in secret.” He shuddered.
“It will blow over,” I repeated. I looked toward the door. Had Anaximander caught Seth? Maybe they could work some deal with him, pay him off for not selling the story to the tabloids.
“The only way I could stand it the first time was because almost no one knew. Now everyone will. Even the people who are too polite to mention it will know. It will be there in their eyes when they look at me.”
“What will be in their eyes?” I asked.
“The curiosity. The wondering. What happened to him all those months? Did he crack?” Timothy spoke about himself in the third person, making the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “Is he crazy?”
“No one who knows you will think that.” Unfortunately, I couldn’t vouch for strangers.
“My mother looks at me funny,” Timothy muttered.
A minefield loomed in front of me. “Your mom is worried about you. That doesn’t mean she thinks you’re crazy.” I tried a smile. “My mom worries about me all the time. That’s what moms do.”
A twinge passed through me. Was my mom worried about me? I didn’t know.
“Notmymother,” Timothy said bitterly. “If Uncle Eddy hadn’t rescued me, she’d still be haggling over my ransom.”
I was still struggling with that revelation when a knock came at the door. “It’s Anaximander.”
I opened the door and let Mike and Anaximander in. Mike was with him. “Did you catch him?” I asked.
“He escaped.” Anaximander turned to Timothy. “I apologize for the security breach. It won’t happen again.”
Timothy’s face reddened with anger. “How do you know that? If he got past you once, he can get past you again!” He shoved Anaximander, and I suddenly remembered Eddy’s hints that Timothy might be violent.
No, I didn’t believe that. Timothy had a right to be upset. Being angry didn’t make him violent.
Anaximander questioned Timothy and me about what had happened, then escorted Timothy to a washroom so he could clean up. I had escaped with only minor mustard stains, and Mike wasn’t too messy either, so we stayed behind.
My brows drew together in a frown when I realized that Anaximander hadn’t congratulated me on my quick thinking in preventing Seth from getting Timothy on video. Of course, he hadn’t lectured me over the planetarium incident either. I should probably count myself ahead, but it still rankled.
“You know,” I said to Mike, “sometimes I get the feeling that Anaximander doesn’t want me to succeed.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Mike said, startling me. “He knows you’re his replacement.”
“What?”
“Out with the old, in with the new. Before the violet-eyed, the Augmented were top of the line when it came to espionage. Not anymore,” Mike said.
“Mr. Castellan likes to have the newest toys,” Anaximander had said. I had thought he’d been referring to the Black Panther aircar. Had there been a slight bite to his words, a double meaning? I couldn’t remember.
“It must really gripe him,” Mike continued, “knowing that once he’s trained you, he’ll be tossed out like an old piece of garbage.”
“You don’t know that,” I said.
Mike shrugged. “No, but it makes sense. As you said, SilverDollar is a company, not a government. How many espionage agents—sorry, I meansecurity investigators—does it need?”
I studied his face, trying to decide whether I could believe him or not.
“You don’t trust me, do you?” Mike asked softly.
“I don’t know you well enough to trust you,” I said sadly.
A tiny flinch and then his face smoothed out. “Then maybe it’s time you got to know me,” he said cryptically.
We told Rianne and the Flower Twins that there had been a problem with a reporter but didn’t mention the kidnapping. Timothy rejoined us forthe last half of the afternoon session on genetically adapting humans to Mars instead of terraforming Mars, but remained in a bad mood.
After the lecture, the presenter, Dr. Hatcher, came up to me. “Excuse me, are you Angel Eastland?”
“Yes,” I said, startled. My heart gave an extra pound. Was I supposed to know who he was? Dr. Hatcher was in his forties. He had a lean build and graying brown hair. The few lines on his face gave him a grave, intelligent air. He didn’t look familiar and sparked no drowning flashes.
Dr. Hatcher smiled at me. “I read your essay and was very impressed by it. I’d like to discuss a few of your ideas, if you have the time.”
I barely remembered what I’d written, but it would have been rude to say no. “Of course.” I waved Mike and the others on. “Are you one of the judges, then?”
“Not exactly.” He didn’t elaborate, going on to talk about several of the points I dimly remembered writing about.
I responded as best as I could. I was about to excuse myself when he suddenly changed tack.
“Tell me, Angel, do you know what you want to do with your life?”
Since my employment by SilverDollar was a secret from Timothy, I thought it best not to tell him I had an exciting career as a security investigator. “I haven’t really made up my mind yet,” I stalled.
“Any strong possibilities? Medicine? Theater? Business?”
His eyes were kind, I thought suddenly.
A stupid way to think. How could eyes be kind? But somehow his were.
I shook my head. I’d never given any of those careers the slightest thought.
“Let me rephrase the question,” Dr. Hatcher said. “What do you enjoy doing? What kind of job would you find fun?”
I thought back over the last week. I’d enjoyed racing Anaximander through the maze—and winning. I’d enjoyed flying the Black Panther. I’d enjoyed playing a prank on Mike. I’d enjoyed outwitting Seth.
“I like being . . . challenged,” I said at last.
Dr. Hatcher nodded as if he had expected my answer. “Here’s my card. When you decide on a career, give me a call. I guarantee my employer would be interested in sponsoring your education.”
“Thanks.” I pocketed his card.
“You’re a very special person, Angel. Never sell yourself short,” Dr. Hatcher said intensely.
I stared for a moment. What was going on here? I had the distinct and uneasy impression his words had a hidden meaning.
Dr. Hatcher was waiting for a reply.
“I won’t,” I mumbled.
A hint of disappointment showed on his face. He soldiered on. “If anyone treats you badly, please feel that you can come to me for help.”
Fat chance, I thought. “Of course.” A small pause. “I should go catch up with my friends now.”
“Of course,” Dr. Hatcher said, but he looked sad.
What the hell had that been about? Kind eyes or not, there was something not quite right about Dr. Hatcher.
Mike was waiting for me outside, but everyone else had already returned to the Castellan house.“So what did he want?” Mike asked. It was super windy outside so we took a motorized walkway.
“To offer me a job, apparently.” I related our conversation. “But there was something else, some undercurrent.” I frowned, trying to put my finger on what had raised my hackles and failing. “Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter since I already have a career.”
“You’re happy working for SilverDollar then?” Mike asked.
His question made me uneasy. “Of course.” I was, wasn’t I?
“The old Angel was opposed to becoming what she was gen
etically engineered to be,” Mike said.
Curiosity reared its ugly head. “What did I want to do?”
Mike hesitated.He didn’t know.“You said once that you could always be a dancer.”
A dancer. I considered it. I enjoyed dancing, and choreography sounded like fun. But. “Wouldn’t that be a waste of my talents?”
My answer made Mike angry. “The Angel I knew would rather be a waitress than be forced to do something she didn’t want to do.”
The old Angel sounded as if she would cut off her nose to spite her face. “I don’t think I’d care to wait tables my whole life,” I said lightly.
Mike didn’t smile. What I saw in his eyes was very close to despair.
GRACIANA HADN’T FOUND my angel pendant. She promised to check the robots’ dust bins, but I wasn’t hopeful.
To distract myself during supper, I asked Zinnia what she planned to take at university.
Zinnia looked surprised that I’d even asked. “Microbiology, of course.” Following in Iris Cartwright’s footsteps again.
“That’s nice,” I lied. It still seemed creepy to me: being forced into a career by a dead woman—and wasn’t that what Mike had meant when he’d said that old Angel hadn’t wanted to be a superspy because she’d been genetically designed to be one?
“What do you mean?” Dahlia asked suspiciously. “Nice?”
I had to scramble to remember what I’d last said. “Oh, just that I’m glad you’ll both have a job. I was afraid that only the winner would be allowed to join the family firm.”
Silence at the table.
“There’s no job provided for the loser in Iris Cartwright’s will,” Zinnia said finally.
I was beginning to seriously dislike Iris Cartwright, hero or not. “But whoever wins will have the power to hire whomever she wants, right?” I asked.
“Hireandfire!” Dahlia said with relish.
Zinnia paled. “You’re only up by four tenths of a percentage point. Don’t assume you’ll be the boss.”
Dahlia narrowed her eyes at her clone sister. “Maybe I’ll let you sweep out the labs. I wouldn’t want you to starve.”
Silver Eyes Page 10
