“I… I don’t have the tracker scanner.” Fear makes the whites of her eyes grow larger.
Shit. “It’s in your purse, right?”
She nods, a jerky motion.
“Where is it?”
“By the front door.”
“Well, get up, then. Bring your screen.” I motion her up with the gun and step aside. As soon as she’s past, I slip in tight behind her and grab her neck. She lets out a whimper. I hold her neck with one hand and shove the gun in the small of her back. “Nice and slow.”
We march down the hall, past the living room, to a small table by the front door that I didn’t notice on the way in. Her purse sits on top of it. I shift in front, keeping the gun trained on her, and dump out the bag. The tracker gleams silver on the glass tabletop.
I toss it to her. She scrambles to catch it while still clutching her screen. I hold out my arm. She tentatively reaches out, scans the tracker, then enters the information.
“Excellent,” I say. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Even in the dim light coming from her bedroom, I can see that Candy is pale and shaking.
“If you kill me, Lirium, they’re going to know it was you,” she says, obviously buying completely into the Lirium-is-crazy act. “They’ll see that I entered your information just now. They… they’ll find your prints on my purse!” She jabs the tracker scanner at the purse as if it’s going to be Exhibit A at my trial.
“I’m not going to kill you, Candy,” I say with wide crazy-eyes, just to see her reaction. She lets out a small peep. I almost laugh, but I’m afraid it would sound more amused than demented. “I got what I came for. And I sincerely hope to never see you again.”
Unless it’s in jail. I might come visit her in prison, just for a laugh.
I fling my hand out to make contact with her forehead before she can flinch away. She crumples to the ground under my life energy drain, and I have to scramble to go with her. I hover over her body, her wide fear-frozen eyes staring at me.
“You’re not going to die,” I say. “But I might take a few years off your life, if you don’t mind.” I don’t have time to do that kind of drain, and I don’t need another burn mark on my hand, so there’s no way I’m taking years from her. But she doesn’t need to know that. I drain down a couple months in no time, pulling it in as fast as I can without injury. To me, at least.
When I stop, she’s weak from the drain, but still conscious.
“I’m going to assume you’re smart enough to not call the police,” I say. “Otherwise they’ll be very interested in how you sell out your debt collectors to the mob. But just in case…” I grab her wrist and twist her palm up to show her screen. I slide the gun away from us, and it sails down the polished wood floor toward her bedroom. Then I swipe through and reset her password, locking her out of her own phone. She stares at me like she thinks I’m going to drain her again, which I’m not, but I don’t need her calling for help while I’m on my way out the door. I drag her to the side table, where her emptied purse and the rest of the room is unfortunately bare of anything to tie her up. So I reach for her red silk pajama top. She barely fights me as I rip it up over her head, but once I stuff some of the fabric in her mouth and try to tie it behind her head, she puts up a weak resistance. I stop and glare at her, and that’s enough to put an end to that. I cinch the slippery fabric tight around the back of her head, then triple knot it to the leg of the table. That should occupy her for a little while.
I leave her tied up in her apartment without a look back.
Watching Elena work is my new favorite hobby.
Not that I have any other hobbies, unless you count drinking to excess and using sex workers. Last I checked, those were actually vices, and besides, it’s been a while since I’ve done either. But watching Elena is almost as intoxicating.
She sits at Madam A’s desk, perched on the edge of an overstuffed leather chair. Her screen lies flat on the giant mahogany desk in front of her, both pieces of furniture looming large and making her thin frame seem almost child-sized by comparison. Her sneakered toes barely touch the floor, and her back is perfectly straight. The casual pants and simple t-shirt she’s wearing suit her—earnest and sweet, in a clean-scrubbed way that would normally be plenty to make my knees weak.
But that’s not what entrances me.
A computer-sensing visor wraps around her head, sleek and glittering and sexy in a technology-enhanced way that makes me shiver a bit. She stares straight ahead at whatever she sees inside the visor, presumably holographic projections of the grid she’s manipulating. Since her eyes are covered, and her attention is rapt on the data, I can watch unfettered. Her slender fingers weave a delicate dance in the air. They alternate between a slow stroking, as she teases something out of the matrix, and fast flicks that are almost angry, as she whips away offending data. Every once in a while she halts the sinuous finger motions to tap something into the screen. Programming? More data manipulation? I have no idea, but I pretend to study my palm screen until she goes back to the dance. Then I watch again, mesmerized by the silent, seductive tempo of her work. And I think dangerous thoughts about how I’d rather have those fingers dancing on my skin than on the air.
Her fingers freeze, as if stricken, and then push her holovisor up on her head. Her hair bunches behind it, and she turns to me.
“It’s hard to concentrate when you stare.”
I cough. “Stare? I wasn’t…”
She’s not buying it.
“Have you found anything interesting yet?” I ask, hoping redirection will work.
Her perfect posture slumps a little. “There’s a lot to work with. I’ve written a few algorithms for pattern matching, but I’m having a hard time pulling signal out of the data.”
“That sounds… not good.”
“No, it’s just going to take more time,” she says. “And I’m going to tap some other Department records, see if cross-referencing might bring something out of the noise.”
“Okay.” I don’t get what she’s doing, but I’m happy to listen. And would be happier if she did the finger dance again.
She stares at me.
“Can I help?” I ask, just to be nice. I know I’m useless.
She drops her gaze to her hands, which, sadly, now rest in her lap. “Maybe you can go check on your mom?”
I try not to feel the small crush of disappointment in the center of my chest. But it’s there. “I’m bothering you.”
She looks up, her gaze falling on the mostly-healed scrapes where Candy clawed my face. Elena didn’t ask what happened, and I didn’t tell—it was our silent understanding that I did what I had to in order to get the data we needed. Her gaze drags up to my eyes, and she gives me a small, apologetic smile. “It’s just hard to concentrate. You know, with the staring.”
I swallow. So busted. “Right. Sorry.” I get up from the chair I’ve been slouched in. “I’ll go check on Dr. Brodsky. See how he’s settling in.”
“I’ll let you know when I have something.”
I give her a nod and hurry out of the room, scraping my dignity off the floor as I go.
I decide to visit my mom before I seek out Dr. Brodsky, but then I find him in my mother’s room, sitting by her bedside, head bent. She’s awake, and I seem to have interrupted a serious conversation between them. I don’t know what they could possibly have to discuss, but my heart beats a little faster as I skim over the things that he knows about me that I’d just as soon my mother didn’t.
They both have guilty looks on their faces as I approach the bed.
“Dr. Brodsky? Is there something I can help you with?” I say it with a distinct undertone of, step away from my mother now and we won’t have to make this messy.
“We were just having a little talk,” my mom says. She doesn’t look much better than when I left. My annoyance with the inventor dissipates in my concern that I’ve been away too long. My mom could probably use another hit.
&nb
sp; I step to the opposite side of the bed from Dr. Brodsky and take my mom’s hand. “As long as you’re not sharing embarrassing stories from my childhood. How are you feeling? Are you ready for another transfer?” I reach past my hand to feel the reassuring presence of her small cache of life energy and check the monitor by her bed at the same time. She’s weak, and her heart is still an irregular mess on the screen, but at least it’s beating.
“I’m fine. Dr. Brodsky was keeping me company, telling me all about his very interesting research.”
I narrow my eyes at him, hoping he’s not giving my mom some kind of false hope. “I’m glad he kept you entertained while I was gone.”
My mom’s sigh pulls me back to her. Her eyelids droop. I bend close, still holding her hand. “If you’d like, I can give you a hit right now. Just a small one. It will make you feel better.” I can hear the begging in my voice, but I don’t care. I’m desperate for anything she’ll let me do for her now.
“I think, maybe, I just need a little rest,” she says. “Besides, Dr. Brodsky has something he wants to discuss with you.”
I don’t even glance at the old man. “Dr. Brodsky can wait. How about I give you a hit first, and then you rest?”
“There are others who need it more, Joey.” She pats my hand, the one holding hers. The feel of her paper-thin skin makes my jaw clench. It’s a reminder of the shortness of time I have left with her.
“There’s no one I’d rather give it to.” Then I drop my voice to a whisper. “Please, mom. Let me do this.”
She lets out another sigh. “All right. But just a little. Then let me rest and you listen to what Dr. Brodsky has to say.”
I frown but waste no time in trickling a small hit through our clasped hands. It starts a warm glow inside me, the effect of the mercy hit, but that’s nothing compared to the feeling of relief when her hands warm and a small flush of pink races across her cheeks. I stop, being careful not to give her too much. I’m not sure what her heart can take. But she looks a little better, and my own heart calms in response.
She closes her eyes to rest, and I reluctantly let go of her hand. Dr. Brodsky is already on his feet, waiting by the door to the back. I know it leads outside, because it’s the one Grace brought me through when I first arrived at Madam A’s. I don’t say anything, waiting until we’re out in the alley behind the brothel, door safely shut behind us.
“Son, I want you to know that this isn’t my idea,” he starts, and already my stomach is in knots.
“What did you say to my mother? You know she’s dying, right? So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t upset her with any crazy ideas.”
“I’m aware of your mother’s condition.” His voice is heavy, like this is a burden he would prefer to set down. “Madam Anastazja’s assistant informed me of your situation. It is a terrible thing, and I am deeply sorry. And now, I’m afraid I may have made things worse, although that was never my intent.”
“What did you say?” But I know it before he answers: he’s told my mother about his world-changing device. The one that’s not ready yet, but that she might think could save her, giving her some kind of cruel false hope.
“I regret that I shared my research with her.” His watery blue eyes are asking for a forgiveness I’m nowhere close to giving. “Please understand, it was simply idle conversation. I was filling time, explaining Tatiana’s condition and how I hoped to someday help young people like her.” He pauses, then stops the nervous wringing of his bony-fingered hands. “Your mother is a very intelligent woman.”
My face is hot, and flattering my mom is not doing much to assuage my anger. “That doesn’t mean you have to get her hopes up!”
“No, you are quite right about that.” He folds his arms and leans against the railing. The small, three-step stoop we’re standing on is close and crowded. My hands itch to reach out and wring Dr. Brodsky’s neck, but I keep them shoved in my pockets.
While I’m trying to contain my anger, he keeps talking. “What your mother suggests is completely unethical. Something I would never consider. Have never considered until today, and even so, it is a moral outrage.”
“What?” My anger sputters, then turns into overdrive. “What are you talking about?”
“Your mother…” He holds his hands out, palm up, as if he’s defenseless. “She wants me to test the device. On her.”
“What? But… you said it’s not ready!”
“Precisely what I told her. Although she was not long fooled by that. You see, I had already shared with her the extent of my experiments. How I had tested it on smaller mammals, gauging the effectiveness and making slow strides toward a human trial. So, she already knew I was mostly lacking a means for a human trial to proceed, a critical stopping point in the research given…” He shrugs his thin shoulders. “Given that most of the scientific community believes my tinkerings are those of a crazy old man desperate to save his dying granddaughter.”
Through his speech, the heat of my anger cools. I feel the same tug of false hope my mom no doubt felt listening to him. “So, what are you saying? That it actually does work? That you can use it to cure my mother?”
“Yes, it works.” His voice grows more strident. “On animals. But no, I cannot use it to cure your mother. It’s completely untested on humans. It is as likely to kill your mother as cure her. Probably more likely to result in her death. It’s unconscionable to even consider it.”
I press my hands to my temples, rubbing the headache that’s building there. “So, it’s untested on humans. But it works on animals.” My mind zings from hope to despair and back to hope again, a vortex of confusion that makes my head hurt. “How much difference is there between the effect on animals and people? I mean… is it possible it could work?”
“Possible?” he asks, like I’m being ridiculous. “Anything is possible, young debt collector. Before the vaccine mutated, before you and those like you started to express the ability to transfer life energy, who would have ever thought such a thing possible? Any reputable scientist would have called it absurd! But, once the thing was real, an indisputable event that happened before their eyes, then… then they had to broaden their imagination. Then they scrambled to find why a simple bioelectromagnetic organism, a tiny ingredient added to a vaccine, could have mutated and spread and changed the very DNA of so many people. Then they had to decide all the reasons why it was, indeed, possible… because it had already happened.”
I swallow. I can feel it: the infectious enthusiasm these damn high potentials always have, convincing you of their theories and ideas. But this is my mother’s life we’re talking about, a life that’s quickly slipping away from her. “Are you saying it could work on my mother?”
“There is no question that it could work,” he says gravely. “The only question is whether it will work. There is by no means any kind of guarantee.”
“Tell me about this… device.”
“I do not want to get your hopes up as well.”
“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?” My anger flares back. “You’ve already told my mother! So I want to know everything you’ve told her. Then I can decide whether it’s worth the risk.”
He frowns and doesn’t speak for a moment, like he’s weighing the risks of further explanations. As if they’re bombs to be treated with the highest care. Only he’s already exploded one on my mother, so he’d better not hold out on me. Or he’ll have one very angry debt collector on his hands. My steely-eyed look must have convinced him, because he takes a deep breath and begins.
“Are you familiar with the long term effects of repeated exposure to life energy?”
“Longer life?” I ask, sarcastically. Valac told me about some of the effects: a cessation to aging, immunity to disease, increased strength and stamina. I felt some of that myself, just from repeated collections during my time in the mob. But I want answers from Dr. Brodsky, not pop quizzes.
“Yes, of course,” he says. “But there is much more. Cellu
lar degeneration stops. Immune function becomes unparalleled. The consistent doses of life energy act as a kind of youth serum. All the most basic cellular functions rejuvenate, as if they are flush with the attributes of the young: resilience, strength, the ability to withstand and repair damage at all levels.” An intense look takes over his face. “The problem lies in the amount of life energy required to obtain this effect throughout the body. Years and years of life would have to be used to keep the whole body in this state of perpetual youth; and it would have to continue, an endless supply, in order for the effects to maintain themselves. As you can imagine, this is not feasible, nor in any way moral. As I told you before, young debt collector, so much of this is an abomination to even consider. Those years come from others; people whose lives we have no right to take.”
“I know a little bit about the collection process, doctor.” I don’t need to be reminded of the horror of where the life energy comes from. “But you said your device wouldn’t do that—that it would use the body’s own life energy, right?” Maybe I misunderstood him before.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “That is where the fantastic possibility of my device lies! If we can harness the life energy of one part of the body and shift it to another, the moral dimension eases. We are free to make decisions with our own bodies, are we not?”
He eyes me, like this is a critical question, but I just nod. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since I arrived at Madam A’s: slowly doling out the years of stolen life I acquired while in the mob. But I would do it with my own life as well, if it came to it. Especially if it would help my mom.
“But finding a source for the life energy only solves the moral quagmire,” he says. “The technology itself has two distinct challenges: we must have a way to initiate the transfer from one part of the body to another, and we must find a way to contain it.”
“Contain it?”
“For example, with your mother,” he says. “She has a failing heart, yes? Why do you not simply infuse her with your life energy? Am I wrong to assume that you would at least consider this?”
The Debt Collector (Season 1) Page 30
