by A. L. Davroe
I step down and join him in the street. “There’s probably a reason he’s valuable. Like maybe the fact that he might not be easy to kill, for one.”
He turns and heads toward the sheriff’s office. “Well, you’re the one who insisted we get our money the legitimate way.”
I roll my eyes at his back as I trudge after him. “Killing an outlaw wasn’t what I had in mind.”
He climbs the steps. “It’s the fastest and easiest way to get a lot of cash fast. Well, next to prostitution, but you didn’t want to share,” he says with a grin. “So, here we are.”
I put my hands on my hips, stubborn. “I’m not joking, Gus. We could all get killed. We’re not bounty hunters. We can’t do this kind of stuff.”
He turns and puts his back against the door. “Sure you can. How many Damascus Knights have you killed by now? You’re great with a gun. I’ve seen you do it. Just do your spidey thing and tie him up for us, okay?”
I scowl at him, but he just gives me a kissy face and leans against the door, opening it with his weight. I follow him in. “Look, we don’t have to put our lives in danger just for money.”
“Yes, we do. We’re out of jump stones, remember?”
“But,” I reason, “I have a jump stone in my pocket.”
Guster turns on his toe, making me nearly collide with his chest. He grasps my jaw in both hands, expression angry. “Don’t you dare, Elle. Don’t even think about it.”
I slump my shoulders. “But—”
“But nothing,” he says, forcing himself to calm down by lowering his hands to my shoulders. “That stone is ours. Yours and mine and we’re not using it until the end of the journey. It means something. It’s important.”
I lower my eyes, feeling guilty that I even suggested it. The stone I carry in my pocket isn’t just a jump stone. It’s a promise, and using it would be breaking that promise. “I’m sorry.”
“Look,” he breathes, pulling me against him and pressing his mouth against my hair, “I know you’re scared, but we’ll get through this. Together. We always have, and we always will. You and I are an amazing team, right?”
Smiling, I nod, knowing he’s right. Gus and I? We’re invincible.
Gus puts the poster down on the table between Opus, Morden, and Nadine. Nadine’s eyes scan the paper and then lift to Gus’s, two deep pools of calculation. “What’s this?”
Slapping his hand against the pitted yellow parchment, Opus gets to his feet. “Foolishness is what this is.”
Gus doesn’t seem to hear either of them. “He’s been ravaging the countryside, killing cattle, burning farmhouses. He’s a menace.”
Morden doesn’t take his eyes off a pewter plate filled with mushy gray-green vegetables. “So,” he says, his voice soft and his expression hidden under his lanky blond hair. “We’re on to performing public services. Tricksters to philanthropists?”
Gus shrugs and glances at me, looking for support. For a moment, I remain stubbornly silent. He already knows I feel the same as the others do. But his pleading expression makes me drop my shoulders with a sigh. We are, after all, partners (in more than just crime) and he’s relying on me to back him up. He knows that the others value my opinion. He may be the leader, but I’ve become the brains and voice of logic. “We’re out of jump stones,” I reason, trying not to look guilty about the one in my pocket. “And if we can’t make quick money to jump out of this level, the Knights will find us.”
“So what if they do?” Morden demands. “We’ll just fight them like always.”
“You mean, Ella will fight them,” Opus says. “You practically jump behind her at the first sign of trouble. Luckily she’s a nice girl, saving your sorry rear after how badly you treated her the first time.”
Morden has the good graces to blush. “I-I do not.”
“Yes you do, you big baby,” Nadine scolds.
I look down at my feet. “I could fight,” I reason. “But this wouldn’t be like all the other times. The other times I fought and we ran. We can’t do that now. Once the Knights find us we’ll be stuck in an endless loop of fight with no flight and no advancement to our cause.” I shake my head. “That’s no way to conduct a quest. It’s bad enough that we’ve been traveling for months and we still can’t seem to find an identifiable square. Without that square we’ll never be able to orient ourselves on the freedom quilt.”
Gus sits at the table and puts his hands out before him, examining them. “It would be good to know we can do something right.” He seems to say this more to himself than to any of us.
Nadine picks up the sheet of parchment and holds it in front of her face. “Is that why you picked this, Gus? You’re trying to prove yourself?”
Opus makes a strange noise in his throat, something between a grunt and a scoff, and smiles. “Prove himself? To who? What’s to prove to any of us?”
I step closer to Gus and splay my hand over his, covering his callused palm with mine. When he looks up, I see my answer. Only himself. He needs to know he can do this, because he’s starting to lose faith. He’s starting to question what he’s doing. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “This is Nexis, Gus. You can do anything you want.”
He squeezes back. “That’s why I’m doing it.” He lifts his chin and meets the eyes of everyone in the party. “I’m fighting monsters here because I can’t fight them there…and I want to. More than anything, I want to fight the monsters.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Post-American Date: 6/21/232
Longitudinal Timestamp: 5:07 p.m.
Location: Dome 5: Evanescence
I command the door to open and urge the hover-chair out onto the landing. I haven’t left my father’s workroom in months, and it seems like I’m entering an entirely different world. Sights and sounds that should be familiar to me—the whir of the air scrubbers, the harshness of the LED lights, the low hum of Tasha working beneath the house—somehow seem foreign to me. I feel like a stranger, an interloper in my own home.
Through the big nano-window at the end of the landing I can see all of Evanescence sprawled out beneath the dome, her Aristocrats nestled in the protective bowl of her walls. It’s late afternoon; the nano-panes mounted to the dome reflect a digital sunset. Red and orange bathe the high silver-white spires of the city, washing out the holographic gardens and the communal projectors airing The Broadcast, and making every window in the city reflect the sky. Pods of all shapes and sizes zip over the hover-ways that slip over and between the buildings like glowing aerial ribbons. The hover-station looms overhead, casting a black square of shadow over the lower reaches of the city. But that’s fine; hardly anyone walks on the ground. The ground is for the service vehicles and robots. Aristocrats don’t look down, they look up and ahead. That way they don’t see who, and what, they’re trampling on their way to the top.
But I see. I’m like Dad’s spiders. I sit in my tiny nest, shoved into a corner and forgotten. I see up and out. I see down. I see beyond the wall. I see what was, and I dream about what could be. A legless creature with one foot in the past, one foot in the present, and one foot in a reality that doesn’t exist.
I turn away from the window and direct the hover-chair toward the stairwell leading down into the main living area of our residential block. My shadow descends the stairwell before me, investigating the deep ominous reaches where the glowing white orbs of the LED lights don’t cast their light. I can hear Sadie in my old room, babbling over the vis-com unit. And as I pass the doorway I can see her fussing with her newly Altered hair as she talks; apparently she can’t get the Primper to execute a program that will make her golden highlights stand up straight enough.
I descend down to the common area and take a long hard look at what once used to be my home. It isn’t my home anymore. Katrina has completely redecorated. Everything is far more opulent than it used to be, and there is
no hint of the home that used to belong to my mother and father. The holos in the frames and alcoves—once gardens and fruits and family—are gone, replaced with replicas of modern art. Odd twisting statues—like live things caught in a disposal unit—and angular, hideous pictures that seem nothing but swaths of primary color and irregular shapes rise up around me as I guide the chair through the hall.
The comfortable upholstered furniture and soft carpeting have been replaced with the hard bowl-like lines of plastic chairs, chrome end tables, synthetic stone floors. I recognize the Designer. Cassel. Expensive.
The voice on The Broadcast draws my attention, and I stop my advancement to watch. “It has been exactly one year since control and further development of Nexis was transferred over to you after the untimely deaths of your brother and niece. Can you tell me about the improvements you’ve been making?” On screen Zane is sitting forward, his expression intent. Across from him sits Uncle Simon, Bastian beside him. My heart starts beating hard, pulsing in my throat.
“Well,” Uncle Simon begins to say, “I can’t possibly fill Warren’s shoes. But I can say that Bastian, the team, and I have been working hard, and we have something special planned for all of you very soon.”
Zane grins. “I’m excited to see it.”
Uncle Simon smiles. “As am I.”
Zane’s face grows somber. “Can you share with us what you’re feeling right now? Do you feel like Warren would approve of your new developments?”
Uncle Simon sits back, exchanges a glance with Bastian—who looks uncomfortable as always. “I hope so. If he were alive, I would hope he’d be able to see and approve of my vision.”
“And what about Ellani?” I perk up, giddy that Zane is still thinking about me. “If she had survived, what would you say to her right now?”
A slow smile creeps onto Uncle Simon’s face, and he looks straight at the hovering camera. “That I am proud of her. That life hasn’t been easy for her, but I’m proud of her for fighting on.”
Tears burn at my eyes. It’s so good to see him, to hear his voice.
Zane says, “You talk as if she’s still alive.”
Bastian’s eyes cut at Zane, and he scowls. But Uncle Simon doesn’t seem phased. “I like to think that she is.”
I blink at the screen. Bastian’s glare has shifted to Uncle Simon, but Zane just looks on, expectant. Uncle Simon explains himself. “I think of both of them often, you know? So, in that way, they aren’t really dead, right? They’re right here, right now. Watching us.”
Yes. Yes, I’m watching.
Zane says, “Are you talking about ghosts, Mr. Drexel?”
Uncle Simon laughs. “Of course. Of course.”
Zane begins to say something else, but the sound of glass shattering behind me sends me spinning the hover-chair around to face a wide-eyed, more hideous than ever, Katrina.
For a moment, the only sign of life between us is the automated housecleaning unit as it whispers out of its storage niche and begins to pick up Katrina’s dropped glass of whatever she had been drinking before seeing me.
As soon as she manages to collect herself, she scowls. “What are you doing out of your room?”
I swallow at her icy tone. Part of me wants to gloat that I have bypassed her efforts to imprison and kill me, but another part of me is now terrified of her. I hardly know her, yet she has become like a storybook villain to my fractured psyche. But that just makes her even more like the monster I need to fight. I take a deep breath, think of Gus, let it out. “I-I came to talk to you.”
She scrunches up one nostril as if perhaps she suddenly smells something foul, though I know it can’t be me; Meems bathed me this morning. I try not to take offense. “It’s about Meems.”
Katrina rolls her eyes and turns away from me, heading back toward the newly remodeled kitchen. She pauses before bare, nano-glass counters and stainless steel panels and runs her hand down Tasha’s main screen. “What do you think of this, Ellani? I thought we needed more counter space.”
I flex my jaw, frustrated that she’s ignoring my reason for being here, but I try to be civil. “Dad used to say there was no point in even having counters, since Tasha prepares all our food internally. He said that in this day and age, we didn’t even need a kitchen,” I say. Invoking the memory of my father within these walls seems to make the house mine again. Then I add, “Just a dining room. A place where a family can eat…together.” I can’t help the bitterness in my voice. Bitterness at his loss, bitterness that this woman who volunteered to care for me has opted to cut me out of her life.
She sighs as she steps close to one of the stainless steel panels and admires her reflection. “Yes, but they’re so pretty,” she whines as she pokes at her face, examining. “Do you think I’m getting wrinkles?”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. None of what she has done to this house is pretty. It’s like she has sucked the soul right out of it.
“Momma.” Sadie screams. The word cuts deep. Sadie calls her Momma. She’s more than just a guardian to one girl who is not hers, but she’s evil to me. Why? Why was I rejected?
She steps forward. “What?” she squawks back.
“This forsaken Primper is just making it worse. I want a better one.”
“Fine. Order a new one.” Katrina smiles to herself and shakes her head as she glances back down at me. “She’s preparing for tomorrow’s Senior Banquet.”
Senior Banquet…a final rite of passage. If this were the life I should have, I’d be designing a dress to outdo all my previous dresses. Perhaps I’d be making it to match Zane’s suit, because that would be where our engagement was announced. And then I would graduate from Paramount, be a Programmer, maybe work beside my father and my uncle and Bastian.
But I’m not doing any of those things. Because I’m not going to Senior Banquet. I’m not moving forward with everyone else, I’m staying behind. Legless, unwanted. Useless. No, not useless. Fight, Ella.
I clear my throat, put my head back into the game. “You’re letting her get a new Primper?” With my credits, no doubt.
“Sure,” Katrina says, turning away. One of the gold-plated panels flashes, indicating that it’s responding to some internal command she has just given it. “I let her have whatever she wants.” A moment later another panel slides back, and a tray with another glass of champagne slides out. Katrina picks it up, sips it, and then with a moan closes her eyes and smiles to herself. “Mmm. Vintage Perrier-Jouët. They say only about a hundred bottles survived the war. Did you know that?”
“But Primpers are expensive,” I reason. “And I just passed the dressing room; there’s nothing wrong with the Primper we have. In fact, it’s not even the same one I remember.”
She rests one hand in the crook of her arm and nurses her glass. “It’s not. We’ve had two since that model. Have to keep up with the latest.”
I blink at her. “Two?” That’s enough for one prosthetic leg. Add in the new pod she bought Sadie and I could have skipped the prosthetics and gone right to having another pair grown for me. My frustration deepens, making me bolder. “I thought we were having credit problems.”
She lifts her hand and waves it in the air, the pot-lights making her fiber-optic inlays glitter. “That’s just something I told Meems to make her leave me alone.”
“So you’re using up all my wealth, not even bothering to feed me in the process?” I wonder, silently making a note of how Katrina doesn’t seem to have protruding cheekbones or ribs like a certain yours truly. While I’ve reprogrammed Tasha to feed me properly, I haven’t regained the weight.
Slowly, Katrina straightens and cuts her eyes down at me. When she speaks, her words are tight and clipped, like she’s searching for a reserve of patience while holding back a scream. “How dare you accuse me of cruelty and theft, Ellani Drexel. Be thankful you’re even alive.” She turns, br
aces her hand against the wall, and visibly takes a number of breaths.
“Now,” she says, turning back to me with a false smile. “What did you say you came down here for? In fact, I distinctly remember Tasha being programmed not to let you come down here.” She turns, looking intently at Tasha’s main screen.
“I came about Meems,” I remind her, trying to derail her from looking into Tasha’s protocol. The last thing I need is for Katrina to discover that I’ve hacked Tasha. Not once, but twice. The second hack is a recent thing. I had to unlock my door. Which is something that I’m going to go right back to my room and restore before Meems finds out I did it. I hate that I had to break my promise to her, that I did another illegal thing, but this is for her.
“What about her?” Katrina demands, agitated. “She’s downstairs at the docking station—recharging like she always is at this time.” She flashes a dark grin and chuckles to herself. “Don’t you even know what time it is? Did that accident fry your brain that bad?”
Self-consciously, I touch the scar on my forehead, thinking about my malfunctioning G-Chip. I take a deep breath, trying to steel myself against her words. “Katrina, where’s her chasis? I know you haven’t sold it yet because my legs aren’t here,” I reason. And then I cut my eyes at her. “Or did you conveniently forget why she gave it to you?” I don’t hide my sarcastic, bitter tone. “Did all those Mods fry your brain that bad?”
She whips around, splashing the floor with half the contents of her glass, and charges me. Clack-clack-clack go her shoes, up comes her hand. I wince and lift my hands. But she stops herself mid-swing, hovers there. I peek between my fingers, meet her eyes. She’s shaking, looks like she’s surprised by herself. She takes a few deep breaths, lowers her hands and smoothes out her dress. “Watch what you say to me, young lady,” she growls. “You have no right to speak to me like that. In fact,” she says with a breathy little exhale. “You have no rights at all, so I’d be more careful if I were you.”
