It doesn’t mean they’re dead, Laura. As I’m about to shut down my bioware, a new ping from the Noh Mask hacker pops up in the corner of the screen:
That was quite the performance, the ping reads. I watched via the ship’s old security cameras. You were the picture of grace, leaping out of that train car.
I sit up straight, sucking in a breath as pain echoes through my body. You turned my bioware back on when Tuck and I restored the ship’s power, didn’t you?
Of course I did, the Noh Mask hacker responds. Who else would be cunning enough to find a way to link the Conquistador’s systems with the John Muir’s?
“Laura?” Tuck asks. “What’s wrong?”
“The other hacker’s alive,” I say. Hitting a couple of keys, I remove my ioScreen’s opacity so he can read the hacker’s messages.
“Other hacker?” Tuck asks, suspicion creeping into his tone. His gaze shifts from the screen to me, brows drawing close across his forehead.
I wince. Oops. “So the night of the crash … I broke the law. I hacked my parents’ ship to escape, well, you know.” Tuck taps the hollow of his throat, and I nod. “Apparently, I wasn’t the only hacker who decided to attack the ship that evening, and—”
Ping!
“I should have told you before,” I say breathlessly. “I’m sorry.”
“We were strangers.”
“We are still strangers.”
“Are we?” he asks, and suddenly, I realize how uncomfortably close we are. I scoot a centimeter or two away, under the pretense of getting comfortable. “How many strangers have picked glass out of your feet? I think I at least qualify as a friend, yeah?”
That makes me smile. I bob my head. “Friends, then.”
“Friends.”
I open up the Noh Mask hacker’s next message.
Listen, the ship’s AI was getting in my way, so I deleted her—
Tuck sucks in a breath. “Ah, crap. So that’s where Dejah went.”
“Who?”
“The ship’s AI, Dejah,” he says. “She stopped responding to the curators a few minutes ago.”
It’s a pity, really. She was an elegantly programmed artificial being, much smarter than the throttled AIs the Panamerican government allows these days.
“Screw you, asshole,” Tuck mutters under his breath.
I type back, You had no right to do anything to her—
The hacker’s next reply appears before I finish typing: I know you have a hard time functioning outside your strict moral code, Laura. But unless you learn how to play dirty, this is a game you’re going to lose.
That sounds like a challenge, I say.
We’re hackers, Laura, the Noh Mask hacker replies. Challenges are what we live for.
Before I can reply, the tram jerks to a halt.
“We’re here,” Tuck says.
* * *
With Tuck’s assistance—as well as help from strangers—I manage to climb out of the tram. Once I’m topside, Tuck sweeps me into his arms, bow and all, and my face feels like it might catch fire. We’re back in the tunnels, exposed and in danger, so I don’t dare protest. Tuck knows I can’t.
At least not till we’re safe behind a big, sound-proofed door.
When the pain grows to be too overwhelming, I lean my head against Tuck’s chest. It’s odd to feel the heartbeat of an almost stranger, quasi-friend. More friend than stranger now, I suppose. Still, there’s something comforting about knowing that despite the four hundred years between us, our hearts still beat the same. Our species evolves in terms of technology, philosophy, and culture, but the human heartbeat hasn’t changed for a hundred thousand years.
Cloaked figures stand on the platform, motionless, silent, their faces hidden by their hoods. Their presence fills me with a thick sense of foreboding. Tuck carries me across a gangway and past the other curators, who turn to follow us through the large bulkhead. The door panels stand thicker than Tuck’s shoulders are wide. Once the door’s hydraulics engage, the panels slide closed, hissing as they go. A loud boom! echoes up the tunnel when the panels meet.
Despite the dimness, I take in the tunnel’s smooth, rounded walls and the procrete bolsters placed at regular intervals. The air smells filtered, mostly odorless with a twinge of chemical disinfectant. I expected it to be warmer inside, but the cold still nibbles on my bare skin. The path ahead slopes upward, toward a well-lit tunnel.
Once we’re inside, something prickles in my gut. I feel as though these shadowy strangers are looking at me. Discussing me. In their heads. I sink my fingers into Tuck’s shirt, curling closer to him.
It’s not the welcome I expected.
“It’s okay, Laura,” he whispers. The other curators slide their hoods off their heads, most of them as pale as eggshells. They look like ghosts, I think.
But it’s not till Tuck reaches the top of the ramp that I see the specters from my own world:
Dr. Smithson and Sebastian stand at the top, beside a tall, broad-shouldered man in a stiflecloth cape. His thick, dark hair is frosted silver at the temples. He looks past me and straight at Tuck. A gurney waits beside them, one with thick nylon straps, plus armed Smithson bodyguards to spare.
I recoil, a gasp lodging itself in my throat. There isn’t any need to ask who the gurney is intended for, or what those straps are meant to do. Tuck senses the shift in my body language and halts, eyeing the gurney.
Tuck asks the question anyway: “Who’s the gurney for, Aren?” He looks pointedly at the tall man in the cape.
Aren lifts his chin. He clears his throat, stalling for the right thing to say. “You said the girl was injured—”
“I think I’ll just carry her to the medbay,” Tuck says. “It’s not too far from here.”
Aren sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Kid, let’s not do this now, okay?”
“Do what?” Tuck says, his barely suppressed growl roiling in his chest. “The right thing? That’s not a gurney for an injured person, that’s a gurney for a criminal.”
Dr. Smithson shakes her head. “We need to stop pussyfooting around the issue, Aren.” She looks straight at me. “Laura Cruz is to be arrested on charges of conspiracy, terrorism, and destruction of a national monument.”
Tuck’s laughter booms up the tunnel, so loud and derisive, it masks the rage I feel trembling through his entire frame.
“Where’s my mother?” I ask, my voice so hoarse it scrapes against the back of my throat. “I demand to speak with Capitana Cruz, now.”
“You can speak to her from a holding cell,” Dr. Smithson says.
“She needs a doctor!” Tuck snaps, looking at Aren. “And maybe I should remind you, that while you assholes were safe here at the park, Laura and I were risking our lives to get the power back on in the deepdowns.”
His voice rings through the hall, drawing silence down in its wake.
Aren presses his lips together till they’re bloodless. “Do you trust this girl?” he asks Tuck.
“With my life,” Tuck says through his teeth. He and Aren stare each other down for a few seconds, and I know, I know they’re talking about me. It’s strange, watching two people discuss one’s fate without words, and not being given the right to defend oneself in the argument.
“Fine, carry her, then,” Aren says gruffly. “But I will hold you responsible for her behavior.”
“Oh yeah, there’s a threat that will keep me up at night,” Tuck says, rolling his eyes. Aren turns with a dramatic swirl of his cape and starts down the tunnel; Dr. Smithson follows him. The Smithson mercenaries take hold of the gurney, pushing it uptunnel. Sebastian remains behind, lip curling as he watches Tuck and me, his eyes growing sharp at the corners.
“Come here, Laura, cariño,” he says, grinning when my muscles jerk so hard, I tumble out of Tuck’s arms. Pain shoots up my legs. I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out, steading myself on Tuck’s shoulder.
“Haven’t you missed me?” Sebastian asks.
“Laura, don’t!” Tuck cries. My next step squelches as if I’ve stepped on a wet sponge, fresh scabs breaking, blood bubbling between my toes. My bandages stick to the ground as I lift my foot.
Greed makes monsters of all men. I had such high hopes for Sebastian once; now, it seems as though he’s no more capable of human empathy than the monsters in the deepdowns. And just like the mourners, Sebastian can tear me down with nothing more than his voice.
I hold Sebastian’s gaze, letting him see all my fury, all my pain, and all my rebellion. “I. Am. Not. Your. Cariño,” I say.
My words echo off the tunnel walls.
The grin falls off Sebastian’s face when Tuck scoops me back into his arms. As we pass Sebastian on our way up the tunnel, Tuck inclines his head in Sebastian’s direction and asks, “That them?”
I blink twice before the subjugator can recognize my betrayal.
Tuck swears hard. “So much for a hero’s welcome.”
USS JOHN MUIR NPS-3500
MEDBAY
TUCK
I escort Laura to the medbay from the Ingress bulkhead, shocked by the number of people waiting in the foyer.
Laura’s family engulfs her, exchanging kisses. Hugs. Tears. Happy squeals of delight and relief. Spanish and English twine together. The room feels warm, but not in temperature. I don’t have the words to describe this atmosphere—I don’t understand family on this scale.
To me, family always meant a mother sequestered in her study. An endless parade of boyfriends, nannies, and Mom’s work friends. Loved ones on loan.
I hang at the door, a pit in my gut.
I’m no good with people. Especially a crowd of them.
Ducking back into the hallway, I pull my hood over my head. My palms sweat. Even though I’m moving forward, it feels like the ground’s crumbling under my feet. I need to get back into the deepdowns.
I need to run.
So I do.
USS JOHN MUIR NPS-3500
LOCATION UNKNOWN
LAURA
When the anesthesia curls into my brain, I dream.
Of a mountain with only half a face.
And a path that dives into a hole in a rock.
I dream of a round, bronze door in a dark place.
And a woman sitting behind a huge wooden desk.
She looks a little like Tuck, only older. Or maybe Tuck looks like her.
Tanned, and not pale as flour, like the others. Her forehead’s lined like ancient paper. A single shock of gray hair falls on the left side of her face. There’s white dust on the sleeves of her blouse.
“Hello, Laura Cruz,” she says, looking me straight in the eye.
She pronounces my name correctly.
“Who are you?” I ask, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.
“I can get you to the John Muir’s bridge,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the only one who can save her now.”
* * *
“She’s waking.…”
I stir. Let me sleep. I want the comfort of oblivion, and to hold on to the vestiges of my dreams.
Another voice intrudes: “When she wakes, press this button on the pod.…”
Cállate … don’t you bogus people realize we need to be quiet? I think, trying to block the voice out. The comfort of this bed draws me down into a dark, silent space. The sheets rustle over my bare legs. I settle deeper into a warm comforter, tugging it up around my face. But the harder I try to hold on to sleep, the more I scramble to catch ahold of the fraying end of the dream, the quicker it slips away.
Gone.
“Laura? It’s Sofía, can you hear me?” one of the voices asks. The tone has a plasticky, odd quality. Other sounds burble in the space outside, inorganic beeps and the shuffle of feet. Voices.
“Get back, everyone,” someone says. It sounds like Faye. “Give Sofí some room.”
My eyes drift open, shadows blurring the soft blue lights overhead. They seem to stab small needles through my corneas and into my brain. I groan and throw my forearm over my eyes to block out the light. The sound has substance and weight, but it travels the space of centimeters.
Smashing my eyes closed against the light, I reach up and touch a concave surface overhead. I slide my palms along the inside until something clicks and there’s a whoosh of escaping air. I try to open my eyes again, but the lights are brighter now, more insistent.
Cold air creeps over my skin, tearing the last wisps of sleep away.
I’m surrounded by blurry faces. I sit up. The blood rushes to my head, and I fold forward, cradling my forehead in my hands. Someone puts a hand on my bare shoulder, bracing me. My long hair falls forward, curtaining off the room’s light. My throat’s dry. The drugs in my system tug on my eyelids, trying to drag me back to sleep. Pain still needles the soles of my feet.
“Laura?” a small voice asks. I lift my head and see my little sister, Sofía, standing next to my bed. She reaches up and tucks my hair behind one ear, like Mami would do. Her smile’s tentative, unsure. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” I say, croaking the words. Her eyes fill with tears, and she throws her arms around me. I hadn’t gotten a chance to see my sister before they rushed me into surgery for the cuts on my feet.
That’s right, I’m in a medpod.
I outran a griefer.
I met a boy who was born on Earth.
The room comes into focus around me. I’m sitting inside an open surgical pod. A smattering of vials filled with blue, green, and clear liquids stand on my right side, pumping medication into my veins. The walls are eggshell white, and checkered with panels and screens. My vitals are displayed nearby: my blood pressure, heart rate, and organ function all look normal. The pain lessens with each breath I take. The world sharpens, too.
Evidence of my family’s presence abounds in the room: Mami’s leather jacket is draped over one chair; Dad’s favorite water bottle stands on a tray by my bed. Most of my personal belongings are here, too: the stiflecloth cloak from Tuck and my bow and quiver stand forgotten in a corner. I blow out a breath, relieved to see someone brought my quiver along from the tram.
Alex is sitting in a chair beside my bed, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. Though he looks at ease, he exhibits a preternatural sense of awareness, the muscles standing out in his shoulders and jaw, his locs spilling over one shoulder. A few cousins hold vigil here, too. The whites of Isha’s eyes have turned pink from her tears, and her eyelids have swollen. Lena’s sporting a black eye and a split lip. Everyone’s injured. Sofía’s right arm is cradled in a sling. Bandages hatch both Faye’s and Alex’s limbs.
I pull back from my sister, smiling as I wipe her tears away. “It’s going to be okay, gordita,” I tell her. “We’re together now.”
“I told Mami it wasn’t true,” Sofía sobs. “I told her you weren’t a terrorist, but Dr. Smithson says I’m just a stupid little girl and don’t know any better—”
“Shush,” I say, pressing my sister’s head to my chest. It’s only then I realize two of the Conquistador’s armed mercenaries stand guard at my room’s frosted glass doors. No, four. I frown. I hug my sister as I look to Faye, jerking my head in the mercenaries’ direction. She presses her lips together and flips them off with both hands.
I take two seconds to calm the rage rising in me.
“It’s not true, right?” Sofía asks.
“Don’t listen to that gringa,” I say fiercely. “You’re an intelligent girl with a loyal heart.”
“Laura, you shouldn’t say something so terrible,” Sofía says.
“I know, cari.” I frame my sister’s small, innocent face between my hands, then press a kiss into her forehead. My wrists are stiff with needles and tubes. The way the metal
shifts under my skin makes me want to vomit. “None of their story is true, at least not in the way they tell it. The Smithsons”—my subjugator shifts in my throat, ready to catch any words I might say that its masters wouldn’t like—“have misinterpreted a few things.”
“If the Smithsons don’t know the whole story, how come they just make it up?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, wishing I could tell her the whole truth, wishing it all wasn’t locked away in my head and heart, sealed behind a piece of tech in my throat. “But sometimes, people take one or two details from a story and let their biases fill in the rest.”
“But that’s not fair,” Sofía insists, her tears peaking again.
“I know, I know, cari.” I turn to our cousins, saying, “Lena, Isha, will you take her and find one of the tías? I need a minute.”
I think they understand what I mean: This is frightening Sofía. Will you take her and feed her? With a family as large as ours, the aunts and uncles who enjoy cooking always have something on the back burner. Food is love, no matter what part of the universe we’re in.
“Come on, Sofí.” Lena pushes off the wall, a bright smile on her face, extending a hand to Sofía. “Let’s go.”
My little sister gives me another fierce hug.
“Te quiero, cariño,” I say.
“Te quiero,” Sofía whispers back.
“Be brave.”
“You too,” Sofía says, before leaving arm in arm with Lena and Isha. Two of the mercenaries outside shift their big plasma rifles off their hips, pointing the muzzles at the ground. I gather my blankets up around my chest, uncomfortable with the men looking into the room. After all, I’m wearing a flimsy hospital gown.
They close the door behind my sister and cousins. The old-school lock hammers into the doorjamb, startling me.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Faye asks, putting her hands on her hips. Alex rises off his chair. They’re both dressed in EVA flight suits from the Conquistador—the Cruz lion rears across their chests in red, white, and green—which means they must’ve changed before exiting the ship.
“Can I have some context for this conversation?” I ask, looking back and forth between Alex and Faye.
Pitch Dark Page 17
