by Driza, Debra
“Mila,” I said, taking his hand. He shook it gently before releasing, and that gesture seemed to act like a balm to any of my remaining nerves.
I could like this guy, I thought. And maybe that meant—I could like it here.
A tall blond girl, who’d been silent the entire time, scooted her chair to make room for the one Samuel had pulled up for me.
“I’ll just watch,” I said, relaxing into the seat. It was so difficult to fathom how their acceptance could be real, but I didn’t believe they were pretending.
Even though no one so far had accepted me for what I was. Ever. Not even Hunter.
Fresh pain lashed at me, and I wrapped my arms around my waist.
My admission that I didn’t know how to play degenerated into a chorus of surprise, and conflicting instructions on how to win at poker.
“Always go for the better hand.”
“Don’t listen to him—do you see how small his stash of matches is? If the electricity goes out, he’s totally fu—”
“Poker’s a sport for wee girly men anyway—no offense to the ladies,” Samuel interjected.
Someone groaned. “Oh, here we go again. Talking about how real men throw trees for fun.”
Leo scowled, clearly not wanting to hear that. He leaned closer to the blond girl and grabbed a piece of her hair. “Hey, Abby, maybe you’ll finally change your mind tonight and let me—argh!”
As quick as a snake, she’d grabbed his free hand, while her other hand shoved the matchstick under his fingernail. Hard.
He jumped to his feet and shook his hand, cursing. “Jesus, Abby, what the hell is wrong with you? I was only messing around.”
Abby caught my eye and flashed me a quick grin, an action which softened the bony planes of her face. I returned her smile. I was pretty sure I could like this girl. Dixon cracked his knuckles. “As you can see, most of us can take care of ourselves. Side effect of living on the streets. Before Quinn found us, of course.”
“How did she find you?”
He shrugged, “Some of us, through state testing. She hacks the system, finds the high scorers who lack the economic means to do the college thing. Or sometimes, just through the hacking community. Sooner or later, we tend to get in a bit of trouble. Samuel, over there, she rescued from jail time. She cleans us up—well, all except for Russo,” he said. The stringy-haired guy flipped a card at him in response. “And then, gives us access to technology and sets us loose. A hacker’s dream life.”
“So, you basically . . . do what?”
He shrugged. “Steal shit.”
Abby, who hadn’t said a word until then, popped her head up. “Not just to steal it, though. To share it. We steal technology from the rich so the poor can benefit, too.”
I had a billion more questions, but just then, Quinn strolled back into the room. She spotted me and waved me over. I rose reluctantly, a little annoyed at being separated from the others so soon, while she clapped her hands. “Everyone, make sure you continue following through on uploading that last feed. And remember—keep watching Holland’s movements. Don’t screw anything up—I want monitors going twenty-four-seven, email accounts scrutinized. Samuel, Teek—the video equipment—you’ve got that under way?”
“On it,” Samuel said, saluting. Teek simply grunted from his post at the computer.
She gave a satisfied nod. “Perfect.”
The space filled with the sounds of chairs being pushed back, people rising to their feet.
“Dixon, I need you and Abby to take Mila to the equipment room and get her prepared.”
Equipment room.
Prepared.
Visions of Holland’s lab, his reprogramming machine, assaulted me. Never, ever again.
I backed away, assessing the room for the nearest weapon. “I’m not prepping for anything,” I said, backing away.
Samuel guffawed and patted my arm. “Down, tiger. Quinn just wants to make sure your stealth mode is on, so we can keep the military out of your pretty little head. Though it’s not so pretty right now, with the way you’re glaring at me like you’d just as soon gnaw on my skull.”
Abby snorted. “It’s those pretty ones you’ve got to watch out for, Samuel. They’re always the skull gnawers.”
Their easy camaraderie soothed some of my tension away. “That’s all you’re doing?” I said, looking directly at Quinn.
“I’ll walk you through every step, if you like,” she said, holding my gaze steadily. Not even a hint of rancor at my suspicions showed. Either she was good—very good—or she really did want me to feel comfortable.
Both thoughts were equally disconcerting, in entirely different ways.
I couldn’t detect even the slightest hint of a lie, not from any of them. And according to Quinn, I did need to have my stealth reenabled. Otherwise, the second I left here, Holland would track me down.
If I ever left here. With a pang, I realized—I didn’t really have any pressing places to go at the moment. At one time, I’d thought maybe Hunter . . .
My gaze flickered toward the hall, to where Hunter had disappeared through a door. I wondered where he’d gone. If that one last look, across a noisy hallway, was the last time I’d ever see his face.
Claws dug into my heart and tore it into raw, aching strips. No. I couldn’t think about that now. Not when I had to focus. “This way,” Dixon said, jiggling his hands in his pockets. He flashed his charming, crooked-toothed smile, whirling and practically jogging from the room. Abby and I trailed him.
We followed the narrow hall down a semicircle before Dixon led us through a set of doors. We passed three other people, scampering the other way. In so much of a hurry, they barely spared us a glance.
“So, you ready?” Dixon said.
I shrugged, then stopped short when we entered the room. It wasn’t small, but it felt cramped—maybe because it was overstuffed with things. And for some reason, the scent of stale sweat lingered. Like maybe at one time, it’d been used as an additional locker room.
The synthetic carpet frayed in spots, showing a faint trail leading to the door. When I stepped inside, my feet crunched the stiff fibers, feeling the uneven wear. A dozen monitors sprawled along the wall. Video surveillance, I realized, of all different locations. Each monitor switched to a new area every five seconds.
I couldn’t suppress the feeling that I was on display.
“They’re mainly programmed with pictures of the individuals we’re hunting down,” Dixon said, his voice animated again. “They alert us in the main computer room when there’s a match. It’s basically all human-free.”
I started to turn away, but an image on one of the screens caught my eye.
Riggs.
Dixon followed my gaze, blanched, then fumbled for a remote on the table. That monitor powered off.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “You just . . . Quinn’s great and all, but you don’t want to cross her.”
I frowned. It was just a picture of him, nothing more. And I couldn’t blame Quinn for being mad. Riggs had broken orders and tried to Taser Hunter.
I returned to inspecting the room, taking in the oversized tables spread out across the floor. Machines in different stages of dismantlement sat on top of them—everything from hard drives to a huge satellite disc to some monstrosity I couldn’t even identify. Every shade of silver and gray under the sun, but with an unexpected burst of color here and there, from a wire or a plastic casing. It looked more like a junk heap than a laboratory, but even so, I felt a chill.
Machines. Any one of those could just as easily be me.
I pictured Three’s melting head and flinched at an unexpected stab of loss. I averted my eyes, hoping to force the feeling away.
“All high-tech stuff we’ve snaked from some bigwig who thinks his security is badass,” Dixon said, pride evident in his voice as he trailed his fingers here and there, touching everything. “Quinn and a few of the engineers work on those as time permits. They figure out the technology, copy and improve
it, then share it with the world at a fraction of the original cost. Or often, we release it for free. Anything we can get from the military is an added bonus. Believe it or not, we’ve got a wide range of beliefs here, but we’re pretty much all united on the antiwar front. And if there’s one thing that history’s proven, time and time again, it’s that military research, if left in the government’s hands, always ends in lost lives.”
“So, you really do just sit around all day and steal?”
Abby, a silent companion up to this point, finally spoke. “It’s not stealing if it’s information that everyone can benefit from,” she said, in husky-soft voice. “Everyone deserves access to technology—not just the rich.”
Dixon grinned. “Abby there is an idealist, god help us all.”
Abby stuck her tongue out while I asked, “And what are you?”
Dixon rubbed his chin, as if debating. “Me? I’m a whatever-it-takes-to-get-my-hands-on-the-good-stuffologist.”
“Bullshit,” Abby fake coughed. Then she grinned. “He just doesn’t like exposing his softer side, that’s all.”
“Whatever,” he said, but I could tell from the way he looked away and smiled that he was secretly pleased.
A small but growing patch of warmth opened up, somewhere deep inside me, followed by a wave of longing. I’d never had this before, what they had. Even being included on the periphery felt nice.
I thought about what Dixon had said, about the military. About antiwar ideals and saving lives. Maybe I could help these people. Maybe I could find a place here, helping prevent future Hollands.
The warm patch in my chest grew and grew until it blossomed into something more tangible: hope.
“Over here,” he said, pointing at a nook tucked into the far corner of the room. As I looked, my android functions kicked in, and I scanned the room at record pace.
Off-white curtains, plastic, attached to a metal bar by 38 thin rings.
Computer monitor, 18 in. diameter.
Square table, 10 in. across, stacked with five rectangular cases, all stainless steel.
And in the middle of it all, a reclining cot, adorned with a black and rose cushion. Hovering above that was a strange metal helmet—only with holes and wires everywhere. I edged forward, uncertainty giving way to stony resolve. I sat down, then twisted until I was lying on my back, legs propped up, head on the built-in headrest.
The click-click of Quinn’s heels preceded her into the doorway. She smoothed an errant strand of auburn hair off her face. “So are we almost ready to start?”
Jensen poked his head into the doorway. Quinn waved him in. “You going to watch?” she asked.
He gave me a cursory glance and grimaced. “No, thanks. Let me know when you’re done.”
Another pinch, sharper than the last, at his rejection.
Stupid, I berated. I didn’t need him.
As I glanced around, once again marveling at how different things were here than I’d expected, I realized something had been niggling at the back of my head. In Holland’s compound, they’d given me some files, before my second test. One included reports on a man named Trenton Blaine, who, according to the file, was the founder of the V.O. The other contained a photo of a younger man thought to be a mole for the group. Granted, the photo had been blurry, but still. None of the people I’d seen so far were even close to matching, and I’d had yet to hear anyone refer to another member as Trenton. Besides, every bit of information pointed to Quinn running the group.
“Who’s Trenton Blaine?” I asked.
Her head jerked to the side and her blue eyes widened. “Where did you hear that name?” she demanded.
“Holland. He gave me some files when he captured me.”
She waited, shoulders tense, as if for me to tell her more. When I didn’t offer up further information—there wasn’t much to tell—she relaxed her guard. “That’s a pseudonym for a man who works for us sometimes, but he rarely stays at the compound. He has a family. We mainly just recruit him for special jobs.” She flicked an imaginary piece of lint from her suit. “You never saw a photo?”
“They didn’t have one. So, he’s not the founding member?”
Quinn laughed then—a full-bodied, rich laugh that filled the room. “No. That’s just what I want Holland to believe. It’s pretty much cake, given that he thinks women aren’t smart enough to run things.”
“All the stuff I read at Holland’s compound? Even the Agent Orange? That’s all bogus?”
She shrugged. “Having your father die of military inflicted chemicals sounds like a legitimate reason for a gripe, right?”
“What about the mole?”
Quinn busied herself with the monitor, shook her head. “Fictional. A wild goose chase, to keep Holland distracted.”
That struck me as odd, but ingenious. If Holland knew the group existed, why not give him a false lead to chase down? Then, all his resources would be sent that way, while Quinn could continue operating without disruption.
She hit a button on my recliner, and it rose, slowly and smoothly, until I was almost upright. Then, she grabbed the dangling helmet and pulled it down. “Okay, let’s begin.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
TWENTY
The helmet swallowed my head, flooded me with the scent of copper and steel Encasing my skull in a sleek, chilly prison. Slow, deep breaths helped relax my ready-to-bolt muscles. “What are you doing now?”
She adjusted the fit of the helmet. Then, she pulled down the mass of wires that dangled beside it. After reaching into a silver box and extracting a pack of long, thin needles, she began attaching a wire to one, and then pushing it into my scalp.
I braced for pain, but of course, felt none. The very limited pain sensation I’d been programmed with rarely surfaced. All I felt was a foreign presence invading my skull.
“First, we need to locate your tracking mechanism. Once we find it, I can fry it—permanently.”
See? Nothing to fear, and everything to gain. Still, my pulse pounded. This was too reminiscent of another lab.
The sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted us. Quinn craned her head over her shoulder. “Oh, good, you’re here.”
I couldn’t see who was approaching, but I heard the heavy scrape of footsteps ripple across the carpet.
A face appeared in front of me, topped with red curls. Samuel.
I relaxed a little. For some reason, the oversized Scotsman put me at ease.
“Samuel is an expert in all things AV and GPS, so he’s going to help me make some adjustments here. I bet . . .” She broke off, fiddling with the helmet until it was adjusted just so, then backed away to the keyboard on the tiny table. “Samuel, take a peek?”
The redhead gave me a jaunty salute, before peering at the monitor, whistling an off-key tune under his breath.
“Nope, not there. There,” he said, pointing.
“Got it! Hang on—” Quinn hit a few keys. The helmet started to warm up, smothering my scalp with a dry heat. A thin vibration, like that of a tuning fork, buzzed through my ears.
“Ah, ah—keep facing straight ahead,” she warned, when I made a motion to turn toward the monitor she watched like a hawk. I caught a glimpse of pink-tipped fingers flying over the keys, and the tip of her tongue protruding between her teeth, before Samuel’s snap got my attention.
“Look this way. I’m sure you’ve never seen such a fine hunk o’ a Scottish specimen before, have ya, lass?” he said, executing a slow turn while his voice dipped into an exaggerated brogue. When he faced me again, he winked. “There you go. You’re doing perfect.”
Quinn swore under her breath, but a moment later, she clapped her hands. “Aha, just what I thought—no, they didn’t make your video feed live, but I think it can still be done. Samuel?”
“I know it’ll be hard to keep your eyes off my s
tunning physique, but you keep looking straight ahead!” Another wink, and he ambled his considerable girth over to Quinn.
I lay there, waiting, listening to them mutter to each other, occasionally argue. And always, the constant tapping of fingers.
Finally, Quinn’s voice rang out, triumphant. “I think we’ve got it. In three . . .” Her fingers flew faster. “Two . . . one.”
“And you’re offline,” she said, but continued to poke around.
“Hmmm . . . okay. No, no . . . damn,” she muttered, humming in between words.
“What is it?”
A pause. “Oh, nothing, really. Just some parameters that we can alter later, if need be. But we’ll discuss that another time,” she said, when I stiffened.
“Well, that’s it for now. Hang tight while I disconnect everything . . .” A minute or so passed, filled with her on-and-off humming. Suddenly, I was free. “You can sit up now.”
That was it? She’d done exactly what she’d said, and that was all? No attempts to tap further into my head? To copy my data? To reprogram me or terminate me, or cut me up and sell me for scrap?
“You don’t have to look so surprised,” she teased, watching my expression. On a more serious note, she added, “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me yet, but we’ll get there. I think it’s time to finish our talk now.”
I waved good-bye to Dixon and Abby, then followed Quinn back into the hallway. She led me to a room I’d yet to visit, a little way down on the left.
From what I could gather, we were in her office; only it was less office, more mini-lounge. The walls were adorned with monitors, four tall by four wide, and she had an Ikea-style desk. Four computers hummed on top. In the corner was a freestanding shelving unit, holding snacks and a fancy espresso maker. A mini-fridge squatted next to it. Besides the monitors, the walls were bare, except for a single framed photo.
Her and Holland, what must have been years ago. Sitting at an outdoor table on a patio somewhere. They weren’t embracing, but the way their heads tilted toward each other suggested intimacy. His face, still unwrinkled then, swam before me, and rage churned, reaching out with inky black hands and holding my body hostage to its grip.
