Lux and Lies (Whitebird Chronicles Book 1)

by Meg Collett

  “Of course,” Hazen said, straightening away from her, “uncovering useful leads could go a long way in increasing your quality of life after the show. Pacem is a lifetime drug, and city taxes are steep.”

  That sounded exactly like blackmail, but they knew there was nothing she could do. The ink was dry on the contract; her body wasn’t hers anymore, and the time for turning back had passed.

  “Do you have any idea who they might be?” she asked, her thoughts shifting to encompass this new task.

  “They’re a relatively new group,” Bode said. “Security heard rumors of them only a few months ago. It wasn’t until Sloane died that we suspected they were playing us. The timing of this attack, on the night you arrived, confirms they know we’re replacing her.”

  Wren’s mouth fell open. “You think they murdered Sloane?”

  “We think they were involved,” Bode said.

  “Wait,” Wren said. “If the Whitebirds hate VidaCorp so much that they’d infiltrate the show to bring you down, why not just out Sloane’s death to the public? If they were involved, they probably have proof, right?”

  “We thought that was their plan until this.” Hazen gestured to the hologram around him. “But they want to play the game. They know we’re against the ropes with replacing Sloane, and they know how important this show is to VidaCorp’s future. They want the grand stage the show will provide, and they want to burn VidaCorp to the ground on national television.”

  The sign was right—it really was a game—and Wren was caught right in the center of it. The election year had been going well for VidaCorp until an anarchist group got smart enough to play into VidaCorp’s game, forcing Hazen to play along to avoid checkmate.

  VidaCorp had given the Whitebirds the knife to cut their own throats.

  Hazen started pacing again. Behind him on the holo feed, the police and emergency responders were flocking around the burning car. “A lot is riding on this show. It’s not a good time for VidaCorp to go head to head with extremists.”

  “Not with the election on the line.” The words had left Wren’s mouth before she could stop them. Not that they were surprising, but she should have kept them to herself. Hazen didn’t like contradictions.

  “It’s not easy running a company like VidaCorp—a company that saves lives every single day—without someone’s help in office.”

  “She understands that,” Bode said to Hazen. “Calm down.”

  Hazen ignored him. “Your primary concern is identifying possible suspects who might be involved in the group and report any suspicious behavior. Bode will do the rest. That’s all.”

  That’s all, Hazen had said, but Wren knew it could never be as simple as that. “What about the guard?” she asked.

  “Who?” Hazen asked at the same time Bode said, “What?”

  Wren glanced between them, brows raised. “Sloane’s guard. The one who made a mistake the night she died. Could he have been the insider?”

  Hazen barked out a laugh and ran a hand over his face. “My God, she already has a suspect, Bode.” He beamed at her. “You’re pure gold, you know that?”

  Wren crossed her arms over her chest. “Who is he? Have you looked into him? If he had access to Sloane, he’s the perfect suspect, especially since he was right there the night Sloane died. He could have orchestrated her death without anyone knowing better.”

  “That guard has since found employment elsewhere. Correct, Bode? He was your man, not mine.”

  “Yes. He’s gone.”

  “But if he—”

  “He can’t be involved with the show,” Bode said over Wren. “Trust me.”

  Wren trusted no one. “But he might know something. Did anyone question him about the Whitebirds?”

  “Wren, drop it.”

  Bode’s eyes begged her to leave it alone. She realized then how he must feel. It was his guard who’d screwed up and played a part—either directly or indirectly—in Sloane’s death. In a way, it meant Bode had played a role as well. The guilt and shame percolated in his heavy frown and the glance he darted toward his brother. At least, that explained the tension between them.

  “Okay, sure,” she said, but she wouldn’t drop it, not if finding the Whitebird insider was a condition of her cure.

  “Let’s get you back upstairs before Hutton finds out you’re gone,” Bode said, the relief obvious in his voice.

  “I’m going to the office.” Hazen switched off the holo feed, dousing the corner back into its semi-lit dimness. “Great work, Wren. Keep it up.”

  “Have a good day,” Bode offered his brother as he walked toward another gas car. Hazen didn’t respond. “He’s had a rough few days,” Bode murmured as he turned her wheelchair and rolled her back toward the elevator.

  “I’m sure.”

  Wren didn’t hear herself speak. In her mind, she was calculating all the information she’d gathered that morning. She could never go back to just being Wren, yet she could never be just Sloane. A girl existed in between, someone who’d been forged in the Tube, someone who needed to rise up and take control. Bode and Hazen needed that girl—and so did Wren.

  Glass House would be a death trap unless Wren became that girl.

  10:

  Later that morning, Bode wheeled Wren into the exercise room. At least that was what Hutton called it. Someone had removed the equipment and drawn the curtains closed over the panel of windows lining the main wall. Wren longed to look outside at the bright blue, smog-free sky, the gigantic buildings, and the reflective glass. She wanted to feel that sensation of clean again.

  Wren pulled the cashmere blanket around her legs. Her mind felt wrapped in cotton after the morning’s revelations.

  Bode bent over and set the brakes on the chair, locking her in place in front of Hutton and the television screens taking up the entire room’s side wall. Hutton pointedly checked her watch. “Where’s Roman?”

  “Keep your pants on,” Roman growled from the door behind Wren. When Roman entered a room, everything got a little tenser, a little quieter. “I’m here.”

  He settled against the back wall on the floor. Wren didn’t glance back, mostly because she physically couldn’t, but also because just hearing him speak sent a chill through her limbs.

  Right now, a member of the Whitebirds could be in this room. She tugged the blanket higher up her chest.

  “Do you need another blanket?” Bode asked, hovering beside her.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  He gave her a look that said he understood what she was thinking and moved back to stand by the door. “Nice of you to show,” he murmured to Roman.

  The room was quiet enough that Wren heard Roman respond, “So many parties, so little time.”

  “Good to know Sloane’s death hasn’t slowed down your social life.”

  Wren couldn’t see it, but she imagined the slow-spreading smile Roman had practically trademarked. The one that stretched his scar and squinted his eyes until they were lost beneath the shadows of his dark brows. His canines were sharp enough to make the expression purely lethal.

  “Time to get to work,” Hutton said, ignoring the men in the back of the room. “We have a lot of ground to make up for since you’ve been out of it these last few days.”

  With all her bitterness and attention to detail, Hutton would make a great anarchist. But then, Roman might hate Bode enough to want to bring down his brother’s company. What had happened between these people? Wren was getting the feeling that uncovering their pasts might uncover a suspect.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Sorry,” Wren said, pulling herself from thoughts of Whitebirds and burning cars, spies and anarchists.

  “You have to focus. It’s time to be more than just a sick girl, Wren.” Hutton snapped her fingers. “We have two and a half weeks left before the red carpet live premiere. That’s all. It’s not enough time. A decade wouldn’t be enough. There will be a million cameras flashing in your face, thousands of q
uestions hurled at you, and hundreds of reporters shouting for your attention. The entire city will be there in force to scream your name. You only have days to prepare for that. Do you understand how grave the situation is?”

  “You don’t need to scare her,” Roman said. “She gets it.”

  “She’s right. I’m sorry.” Wren adjusted her aching body in the chair to sit up straighter. She needed to push thoughts of the Whitebirds from her mind. It was time to become Sloane. “I’m ready. Where are we starting?”

  Hutton’s eyes traveled over her body like she needed to see Wren’s willingness in her body language. Wren waited and forced herself to hold Hutton’s hard stare. Finally, Hutton gave a brisk nod. “Fine. Roman will stay for most of your training. He and I knew Sloane best, and we won’t hesitate to tell you when you’re doing something wrong. Right, Roman?”

  “Sure thing, Hutton.”

  Hutton’s lips pinched tight. “Sarcasm is not helpful.”

  “You got it.”

  She hissed something beneath her breath and turned back to Wren. “Okay. What are you good at?”

  Wren had assumed Hutton would tell her what she needed to be good at and what to do. Her palms were slick with sweat. “Um …”

  “Surely there’s something.”

  “Well …”

  Hutton pinched the bridge of her nose. “Give me something to work with. Anything.”

  Wren thought long and hard, and for once, Hutton let her. The silence stretched as she racked her brain. What was she good at? She had no hobbies. No talents. Back in Sunshine Heights, she woke up, went to work, tried not to cough to death, watched too much reality television with Mak, and eventually slunk back home. Since her mom’s death, she’d become good at dodging fists, but she doubted Hutton meant that kind of talent. Being invisible had come in handy throughout her life. She didn’t speak much and mostly observed. No one noticed her.

  How could it work to her advantage? Everyone noticed Sloane Lux.

  “I, um …” she floundered. She’d started speaking to fill the silence, but she had no clue where her half-formed thought was leading. “I’m good at reading people. Does that count?”

  Hutton’s eyes narrowed. “In what way?”

  “Never mind. That’s not good. I—”

  “No,” she pressed. “Tell me what you mean.”

  “I’m good at telling what mood someone’s in. And, uh, playing up to that mood?”

  “That’s actually useful. How did you become good at this?”

  Wren shifted in her chair. This time, she couldn’t hold Hutton’s stare. Her gaze went to the curtains, and she again longed to see outside.

  “My father. I never knew what mood he’d be in when I woke up or came home from work. Sometimes, reading his expression and saying whatever he wanted to hear was the only thing between me and a concussion.”

  She never talked about what happened at home, not even with Mak, though she knew. Everyone knew. But Wren never offered the truth. She always shut down the questions about her bruises, because who could help her? She was her father’s ward. Sunshine Heights didn’t exactly have a social services unit, and the USPD were too busy to care. Links didn’t scan for bruises; they scanned for criminals or Sloane Lux look-alikes. Not once in the countless times she’d been stopped and mistaken for Sloane did anyone ask about her split lip or the cut on her cheek.

  Behind her, the wooden floor squeaked beneath Bode’s weight. Hutton recovered first; she’d seen Wren’s file. She knew what had happened to her, but perhaps she hadn’t expected Wren’s flat answer. “Like I said, that will be handy. People are—”

  “I have your address, Wren.” Bode came up beside her and lightly touched her arm until she looked up at him. “I can send a Link to your apartment and have your father arrested.”

  “No, you don’t have to do that.”

  “He should pay for what he did to you.”

  “He’ll never do it again, so it doesn’t matter.” She focused on Hutton. “I’m quiet, observant, and I’ve watched a lot of reality shows with my friend Mak.” Saying her name sent a pang of regret through Wren’s heart.

  Hutton smiled. The tension in Wren’s shoulders eased; she’d done something right. Hutton was pleased. Bode stepped back and retook his spot by the door.

  Hutton plucked her tablet from her back pocket and flicked her fingers across the interface. The micro-flat televisions came to life. Hutton swiped her finger and sent six different interviews to each screen, all playing at the same time.

  Sloane’s rich voice filled the room, her telltale rasp sparking at times. Her words spiraled against each other like waves against the beach, unending and crashing together as she spoke in different interviews. With her raw throat and scratchy voice, Wren couldn’t imagine ever sounding like Sloane. Maybe the voice alterations hadn’t worked. Maybe none of them had. It might explain the sudden and complete lack of mirrors throughout the penthouse. Hutton muted all the interviews at once.

  In the middle screen, Sloane stood on a holographic red carpet, wearing a mostly sheer white gown with only a few solid pieces of material covering the important bits. The male interviewer could hardly keep his eyes off her cleavage long enough to utter a question. Sloane played into his attraction by inching closer until their arms touched. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the material along her neck and she laughed. The interviewer blushed.

  “What’s happening here?” Hutton asked.

  Wren had seen how the Sunshine Heights girls acted around Mak to know. “She’s flirting with him.”

  “Obviously, but why?” Hutton scrolled across her tablet and sent another interview to the middle screen. Here, Sloane kept her distance, her shoulders stiff. The interviewer was aloof, cold, and something in his eyes said he didn’t like Sloane. “She’s not flirting here.”

  Sloane stroked her thumb across the top of her other hand between questions, needing to reassure herself. She wasn’t smiling or laughing. She focused on the interviewer’s lips as he asked the next question.

  “This guy doesn’t like her,” Wren said. “He’s asking questions she has to think about, and she’s making sure everything she says is right so he has nothing to use against her.”

  “So why flirt with the first guy?”

  “Because he’s not as smart. He’s asking questions she’s comfortable with because he likes her. She doesn’t have to think, so she flirts with him. She’s probably bored with him.”

  “Good,” Hutton said briskly. “I’m going to play a question from each interview, but I’ll mute Sloane’s answer. You won’t know what she’s saying, or even the correct answer, but make something up. Respond in the style Sloane would. Say what you think she would say based on the situation. Then I’ll play her answer. Got it?”

  Wren nodded and took a deep breath.

  Hutton played the first question. “How do you think this movie portrays the third world war? Many critics have said …” The interview droned on for a minute, but panic deafened Wren. She had no clue what movie he was talking about.

  Then it was time to respond. “I think, uh—”

  “Wrong,” Hutton snapped. “Remember, it’s not what Sloane says, but how she says it.”

  She played Sloane’s response.

  “The movie is symbolic of not just the third world war, but every war. We wanted to show the emotion of a soldier as he sends his Link into battle. These men’s minds are linked to their bots. They experience what the Link feels and sees. Even though some units still fight without Links, it’s a stark contrast from earlier wars. This movie attempts to show that the brutality of recent wars is the same as older ones, and maybe even more so because technology adds a level of detachment to the killing, forming a type of psychosis.”

  The interviewer fired off the next question like he’d caught Sloane in a trap. “You’re calling our brave soldiers fighting overseas psychotic because they use Links?”

  Hutton paused the interview, but n
ot before Wren saw the sly smile hook the corner of Sloane’s mouth. She’d set the interviewer up. She’d wanted this question, but Wren had no clue how she would answer.

  “No?” Wren ventured, knowing she was wrong.

  Hutton snorted at her weak attempt and pushed play.

  “I’m saying,” Sloane said, voice slicker than oil, “that for the first time in recent history, we don’t have enough soldiers to man the bots. The U.S. government almost had to draft operators. By the way,” she purred, her rasp thickening, “how old are you? Operating age?”

  “Women operate war Links alongside men.” He flushed at Sloane’s insinuation. “How old are you?”

  “Funny you should ask.” Hutton hadn’t even bothered pausing the interview to give Wren a shot at answering. “This movie filmed along China’s disputed borders with a local front-line unit. We were on location with the soldiers, who played extras between battles. We even guided our own Links into battle when the unit needed help. This movie is an homage to the fighters who won’t see their families for years and to the career soldiers who will fight their entire lives just for their families to be exempt from city taxes.”

  Hutton paused the feed. “You were right. He didn’t like Sloane. He was setting her up to make the war look bad because an alternative energy company owns his news feed. They wanted a particular sound bite from Sloane, but she knew this going in. She didn’t fumble. She was ready. She used his obvious bias to make him and his feed look bad, all while making her movie look great. This interview got a lot of press, and the interviewer was forced to quit after a slew of backlash. Do you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “No hesitation. It’s not enough to know how to act. You need to know how to act around people who’ll only set you up to fail. Your response has to become so Sloane and ingrained in you that you don’t have to think about how you’re answering.”

  Hutton flipped a new image onto the center screen. The woman was wispy and tall. Where Sloane was sensual and had lush curves, this woman was all sharp angles. In the picture, her mouth was slashed grimly across her heart-shaped face, her chin dramatically dimpled. Her cheekbones cut like knives, and her dark eyes snapped to the camera like she hadn’t wanted her picture taken. Even the harsh tension in her shoulders said she was constantly angry.