Stars, he’s really going to kiss me.
His face gets closer and closer until his nose bumps mine. We both jump. I stare at him and he stares at me.
Then we laugh. I fall back on my bed laughing until my sides hurt. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just too weird. You’re like my brother.”
“And you’re a girl,” he says. “No offense, but I’m pretty sure you have cooties.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I sit up and smack him on the chest. “Cooties? What are you, five?”
“Probably.” He sighs. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to learn to kiss with someone else.”
“Given my house arrest, I don’t think I’ll ever have a chance.”
Jole pushes himself slowly to his feet. I try to squash my guilt when he winces. “Well, Lex, there’s always frogs. Who knows, maybe you’ll luck out and find a prince that way.”
“Or maybe I’ll just end up with warts.”
“Won’t know unless you try.” With a smile, he leaves my room and I sink back down on my bed wondering if I’ll ever get my shot at a normal life.
Or if I’m too weird and broken inside to ever have one.
Chapter Seven
A Kink in the Plan
I spend the rest of the night awake; my mind’s too full for rest. I finally give up trying to sleep at dawn. Once I’m dressed, I watch the sun rise through the windows in the rec room. They’re the only decent sized windows we have on this side of the warehouse and we’ve pushed our sofa against the wall so we can kneel on the cushions and look out. This morning the lake, a dull, greenish-gray up close, glitters along the outskirts of the city. A silver monorail winds its way down the track around the lake and hover cars are little floating dots at this distance, gliding over the bridge like ants in a column. All of it shines as if lit by magic. It doesn’t matter what tech we develop; the sun still outclasses us.
Soon, though, the lake loses its sparkle and the city becomes swathed in haze. That view isn’t worth anything, so I wander into the hall. The kitchen door swings open and Turpin appears. He’s wearing a plain white apron over a pair of corduroy pants and gray sweater—his “suburban dad” look. The smell of onions cooking in real butter wafts through the air. I realize I didn’t eat yesterday, and my mouth waters.
I start his way. “What’cha cooking, boss?”
“Breakfast,” he says.
“How descriptive.”
Turpin rolls his eyes. “We need to talk.”
I follow him into the kitchen, a stainless-steel monstrosity I’ve never gotten used to, which explains my diet of sandwiches and heat-and-eat soup. Jole can put together basic meals, like omelets and stuff, but Turpin…he’s a chef. When he bothers to cook, that is. So naturally, the ominous sounding “we need to talk” goes right over my head—I’m hungry.
I take a seat on one of the bar stools lined up around the large island in the center of the room. Little flecks of pewter in the island’s synthetic granite countertop shine under the harsh lights. Turpin may swear by old-fashioned incandescent bulbs for his office, but his kitchen requires surgical level brightness. Cooking is a serious and delicate business.
Turpin gives the onions a stir, then brings over his cutting board. While I watch, he grates a huge pile of potatoes—by hand.
“You know, they make machines that’ll do that for you. There’s one sitting on the counter,” I say. “It’ll even cook and season the potatoes.”
“Machines,” Turpin mutters. “No love left for the old things.”
I grin. “Skies, how did you ever get into stealing tech?”
He wags a finger at me. “It tastes better when a human actually bothers to do the work.”
Turpin’s right; I can tell the difference between something he cooks and food that comes out of the processor. I just like yanking his chain. “So you’ve gone to all the trouble to bribe me with my favorite breakfast. What’s up?”
He shoots me a sharp look. “I’ve been thinking. If we’re being set up, why do we have the schematics for the K800 model? We were expecting the K400. It makes no sense that anyone in Maren’s organization would leave us the K800 data as bait.”
The K800 model? “Wait, the K600s are the newest-gen versions in service. What happened to K700s? Did Maren skip them or something?”
“No idea,” Turpin says. “Maybe they’re in post-production, or maybe there was a problem with the line and they were retired before launch. Not sure I care at this point.”
I do, though. This chip is becoming more dangerous with each new wrinkle. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
“So—why would they leave the data for their newest model in an under-secured lab?” Turpin asks.
He’s leading me, waiting for me to catch on to what’s bothering him. I hate this game, but I play along. “Better bait?”
He shakes his head. “If Maren or her people are trying to catch us in the act of stealing from Precipice, you’d want good bait, but not something critical, right?” I nod and he says, “Well, the K400 schematics are good enough. People would pay big for that. Why risk the beta plans for the new model?”
I ponder that. “Someone made a mistake?”
Turpin gives me a pointed look. “A mistake? Remember, we’re talking about Precipice.”
He’s right; Maren’s people aren’t that careless. That means it was intentional. “Someone in Maren’s organization wanted us to have the K800 schematics.”
“Yes,” he says. “That’s the only explanation I have at this point.”
Uneasy, I watch Turpin mix the cooked potatoes and onions into a bowl with milk, eggs, cheese and sausage, then transfer it to a baking dish. At least he’s willing to use a modern oven. Worried or not, I’m still hungry. I’d hate to wait an hour for my casserole to finish cooking in some old-school appliance.
Five minutes later, the casserole is done, right about the time Jole shuffles in. He’s still in his pajama pants and T-shirt, and his hair looks shaggier than ever. I really need to cut it for him. He accepts a plate from Turpin and gives me a sleepy smile. I’m glad he got some rest, but he needs to hear what the boss is cooking up besides breakfast.
I swallow a bite of too-hot casserole, scalding the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat. Eyes watering, I say, “Turpin’s convinced there’s a mole at Precipice, helping us out.”
Jole yawns and stretches his arms over his head. “It’s too early for any of that to make sense. What are you talking about?”
By the time I explain everything, he’s wide awake. “We need to get rid of the chip.” He looks back and forth between me and Turpin. “Maren doesn’t play games. Ask my parents. Oh wait, you can’t—they’re dead!”
His voice rises on that last bit and I pat his arm. “It’s okay. We’re not going to do anything stupid.”
“What makes you say that?” Turpin puts his utensils down and laces his fingers together, elbows resting on the edge of the island. “We don’t have access to all the data yet—the chip requires a primer. Without the data on the chip, we don’t know enough to be really dangerous to Precipice—we’re just hacks who stole something important. They can eliminate us without worry.”
“Then why don’t we destroy the chip?”
Turpin sighs. “Because even if we do that, we’re expendable and still a threat to Maren. She can’t ever assume we didn’t copy the data to our own storage. The only way to buy ourselves some protection is get the primer, crack the entire chip and sell it to someone outside of Triarch.”
“This is asking for trouble we don’t need,” I say, alarmed he’d even suggest something that crazy. “Why can’t I just take a hammer to the chip and drop the pieces in the lake?”
“There are plenty of people, far away from here, who’d kill to get their hands on what we have, especially once we have the primer.” Turpin flashes me his best evil-scientist grin. His eyes are bloodshot, and it gives the smile an extra edge. “Our p
rice could be protection from Precipice and enough cash to keep us whole for years.”
Jole’s eyebrows go up, but I get what Turpin’s saying. “So run back into the lion’s den to steal the rest of its steak? This plan is so insane that it almost makes sense. Almost. But, boss, do we even know where the primer is?”
“I think I know where they’d have a back-up copy. When I worked security for Precipice, they kept the most sensitive data back-ups for active projects in one secure location, somewhere out of the way and not accessible by the public.” He pauses to clear his throat; stalling is a bad sign. “Maren’s lakeside residence.”
“The Fortress of Doom?” I jump to my feet and the barstool wobbles behind me. “We’re not talking about a low-level lab. We’re not even talking about a bank. Do you have any idea how many Bolts guard that place? This is a serious target, and we’re not one-hundred percent sure the primer’s even there!”
Turpin holds out his hands. “Calm down. It’s only under heavy guard when she’s home. I have it on good authority that she’s staying in the city tomorrow night—the solar-opera is in town this weekend.”
“How can you be sure?” Jole asks, sounding skeptical. Hell, I’m skeptical, too.
“What can I say…I like my morning gossip shows.” He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Anyway, when Maren’s not in residence there’s only routine security and you can beat that.”
He says this like I’m gate-crashing a party, not breaking into one of the most secure places in the city. “Wait…you want me to break in tomorrow? Did your brain turn to mush overnight?” I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know anything about the lake house. How am I going to get in?”
“Finding an access point won’t be an issue. I still have my copy of the blueprints,” Turpin says. He winks. “Never underestimate a disgruntled former employee.”
I can tell he’s putting on a show of confidence to encourage me to take the job, but I’m not sold, not yet. “Blueprints are only part of what I need. Unless we stake out her place for the next thirty-six hours, we won’t know her security guards’ patterns or anything about her systems. There just isn’t enough time to get ready by tomorrow night.”
“Figuring out her security can be my job,” Jole says. “I’ll set up some video surveillance systems today and Lexa can place them near Maren’s property.”
“Thanks.” Turpin gives me an expectant look. “So?”
I stir my hash brown casserole, not too excited about eating anymore. After thinking through several arguments as to why we shouldn’t do it, I realize it’s futile. Jole and Turpin have decided. We’re going after the primer and getting the hell out of Triarch.
Well, it beats being grounded.
“We’re already on Maren’s hit list however we look at it, so why not break into her house, too?” I say. “I’m in.”
Chapter Eight
Not Hitting the Fan
I spend the better part of the afternoon setting up surveillance cameras on sat-com towers not far from Maren’s house. We have a selection of utility company uniforms that Turpin buys off of former employees looking to make some fast hard currency. No one pays any attention as I breeze into restricted areas wearing a set a coveralls with my tool belt slung around my hips. The operation doesn’t take long, and when Jole confirms we’re up and running, I leave without notice.
I duck into an out-of-service concession stand by the lakefront to change out of the uniform and into a plain T-shirt, brown pants, and a denim jacket. I have to ride the outbound monorail to the station by the bridge where my bike is parked and I want to blend in. Taking mass transit is a risk, but after being chased across the city on my hover bike a few nights ago, it seemed smarter to leave it behind. Cramming a cap over my hair, I slip outside, look both ways to make sure no one’s watching, and start my trek.
Walking through the city used to feel like an adventure, but knowing Precipice is looking for me makes every street corner dangerous. The sidewalks teem with crisply dressed people going about their sanctioned business. My casual outfit sticks out—so much for incognito. A dress might’ve been better but I have a story ready if an authority asks what I’m up to: I’m a student on my way home from an art exhibit. Assuming my shoulder twitch doesn’t give me away, an officer might believe that.
I arrive at the station at the height of mid-afternoon rush, and the platform is crowded with commuters, school kids, and shoppers. I hunch down inside my denim jacket, hoping to remain unnoticed. A group of businessmen get into an disagreement right next to me, though, and people stare our direction. I edge closer to the wall, but the men take the attention as interest and start talking even louder.
“Free trade is being hindered,” one man with a bushy mustache and an air of self-importance bellows. “What could they possibly hope to accomplish by hampering our ability to ship goods to other cities?”
Another man, this one with tired eyes and an expression that clearly shows he’s tolerating mustache-guy, asks, “But does that excuse the use of force?”
“They lost their rights when they didn’t join the city,” Mustache says. “So, yes, it does.”
We’re saved from further argument by a muffled shout down the platform. Three guys about my age have cornered a young woman against the wall, away from the rest of the crowd. The girl is so small, I can only see the top of her head. Shiny blond hair, too bright for the drab monorail station, pulls free from her ponytail as she squirms.
“Help!”
The guys just laugh. One of them reaches for her, saying, “Wonder if they feel like the real thing or not.”
I should lay low. Stay unnoticed. But I’ve seen one too many shast-heads act like an animal where girls are concerned, and the fact they’re doing it in a crowded station just feeds my fury. I walk purposefully over, not pausing or acting cowed when first one, then all three, turn to glare my direction.
“Wonder what feels real?” I purr, lacing every syllable with restrained violence.
“This is none of your business, skank,” the biggest boy says. “Stay out of it.”
“Really? You actually think I’ll let you molest a girl in public?” I shake my head at the sheer stupidity. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, Slick.”
He jerks his chin at one of his buddies, who lunges at me. I hear a gasp from the crowd behind us. They must expect that I’m about to incur brain damage.
Instead, I kick off from the wall, spin in the air, and kick that idiot right in the jaw. He drops like a sack full of hard drives and crashes to the ground.
“Who’s next?” I growl.
The other two guys back away, hands up. The first one says, “Don’t know why you’re so riled up. She’s just a Bolt.”
Stunned, I glance at the girl. She’s trembling from head to toe. But more than that, she’s flawlessly beautiful, in the way only a factory show model can be. Her violet eyes flick up to meet mine. Instead of the slightly vacuous blank stare I’m accustomed to getting from a Bolt, there’s real fear in her gaze.
And gratitude.
What the frak?
I blink fast, thinking it was a trick of the light. “Then she shouldn’t be here.” I nod to the artificial girl. “Go back to your dormer where you belong.”
She doesn’t argue—she’s programmed to obey direct commands it seems—and she scurries up the stairs and out of sight, her lovely blond hair streaming behind her.
I turn back to the assholes who started this mess. “Maybe she was a Bolt, but I figure if you’re willing to do that to her—”
“It,” the big guy snaps. “Not her. It.”
“Don’t interrupt me.” I take a step closer, narrowing my eyes at him. “This makes sense now, though. You can’t hack it with a warm-blooded female, so you gang up on the closest substitute you can find? Pathetic.”
He clenches his fist, but I’m prevented from kicking his ass because the bell announces the arrival of the monorail. It improves my mood t
o see them tuck tail and run for the exit as the transit police come trotting down the stairs. My work here is done.
The silver train comes to a quiet stop and the doors open. The porter—a high-functioning female Bolt—waves people into the car. She smiles at every passenger as we board, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re blank, but not because her brain is empty. She has an air of real intelligence about her. Instead, it’s like her thoughts are a carefully guarded secret.
A Bolt girl who understands fear. A Bolt woman who hides what she thinks. What exactly is going on here? As I look around at the other passengers, they don’t seem to even notice. They’re giving me a wide berth, sure—I’m a volatile, scary teenager—but she’s like wallpaper to them. A non-entity.
Somehow, that seems like a dangerous assumption to make.
* * *
The city is quiet after midnight. The sidewalks are clean under the streetlights, but there’s an air of sterility about the order. These late night runs leave me feeling exposed, especially with the new curfew in force. Even in glide-mode, my bike’s engine sounds loud as Turpin and I race through downtown. Maybe it’s due to the heightened senses from the Exeprin, but in the quiet, I’m convinced thousands of eyes are watching from windows in every high-rise, wondering who could possibly have any business being out this late.
And that’s not even accounting for the Night People. Triarch’s government likes us to believe they don’t exist, but as a former stim-junkie, I can say they do. Any one of them would inform on us for enough money for a good hit. I search for any shadows moving between buildings in case Turpin needs to buy them off first. I don’t see anyone.
Eventually, the skyscrapers give way to the richer part of the city, and I relax some. We flit down streets lined with brownstone homes and large trees. Except for porch lights, the houses are dark—no lamps in the windows to say someone’s having a bout of insomnia. It’s Thursday, a school night, and all the good little boys and girls are in bed, dreaming about the weekend. But not me. No, I’m perched on the back of my hover bike, wincing every time Turpin banks too hard.
Unstrung Page 5
