Unstrung

by Kendra C. Highley

  My breakfast threatens to come up. “Do they decide how tall we’ll be? How much we’ll weigh?”

  “For the most part. If we binge-eat we gain weight, but the scientists made that very difficult.” He snorts. “I tried it once when I was feeling particularly rebellious. Overeating made me miserable. We’re designed to feel full at precisely the right moment for our size and activity level.”

  I shake my head; I don’t want to hear this. I’m nothing but a painted doll, a marionette. I came into life as a raw puppet, to be decorated as my makers saw fit. Nothing about me is unique—every piece, right down to my toenails, has been planned out to some purpose I don’t know about. I’m not my own person. I never have been.

  This is too much for me to grasp, that the girl in my dreams is me, afraid, alone and thinking she’s being punished for unknown sins. Add this to the fact that I’m still vaguely hopped up on Exeprin and stims, and you have the makings for one hell of a fit.

  My plate sails across the kitchen before I register I’ve thrown it. It’s plastic, so it doesn’t shatter, but toast crumbs spill onto the floor. I knock my chair over, then Quinn’s, before tearing the cushions off the couch. I set to punching them until I see stuffing.

  Once my arms get tired, I sink onto the pile of cushions, shaking all over. Quinn drops down next to me and pulls me close. “Shh. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

  I collapse against him, embarrassed for throwing such a tantrum. “I get a little wound up sometimes,” I say, hiding my face behind my hair. “I’ll clean up my mess.”

  “You have every right to get wound up,” Quinn says, pushing my hair back to smile at me. “I did some very risky, stupid things when I figured it out. That’s when Maren had the pain switch installed. To remind me of my place.”

  I touch the back of my neck. “I don’t think I have one. The black box didn’t work on me, remember?”

  “You were already gone when I got mine. You may be the only artificial without security programming, and that makes you powerful. In one small way, you’re unique.”

  It isn’t much, but I’ll hold on to it. “In those dreams in the white room, I saw you. Was that a memory too?”

  Quinn helps me stand. “Probably. I was the first person you met when you came online. The design team thought you’d find me nonthreatening.”

  “You felt…safe,” I say. “You still do.”

  “You’re still a handful.” He ducks his head. “But I missed you so much.”

  Our faces are close together, and I brush the hair off his forehead. It’s soft against my fingers and I slide my hand down his neck to rest on his shoulder. When I don’t let go, he looks up at me, his eyes asking some question I don’t know how to answer. We stand there a moment, staring at each other, then he leans in and kisses my cheek.

  There’s this full silence.

  Then he smiles and starts picking up cushions. Not sure what to say, and definitely feeling off-kilter, I go find the broom to sweep up my table scraps. Quinn puts my dishes in the sink.

  The moment passes.

  When he’s not looking, though, I catch myself touching the spot on my cheek where he kissed me. And hoping he’ll do it again.

  Quinn eventually falls asleep sitting up on the couch. It’s not hard to see how tired he is; I don’t know how many hours of sleep he lost trying to find me while I was missing. I take off his shoes and roll him onto his side. He stirs, mumbling something about a turkey sandwich, but doesn’t wake.

  I reach for the blanket on the back of the couch to cover him up and catch a glimpse of something weird. Between the hem of his T-shirt and the waistband of his jeans is a dark spot on the small of his back. I look closer; the skin is puckered. Moving slowly, I lift his T-shirt and find two more circles just like it. They’re low enough on his back that the towel hid them earlier. I cover him up, feeling like someone punched me in the kidneys—sympathetic pain.

  He was burned.

  It’s not just the scars that bother me, though…it’s the fact that they’re perfectly symmetrical. There’s only one way that could have happened, and it wasn’t anything natural.

  Another reason for me to hate Maren DeGaul.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Skin Job

  “You’ll get out of here soon,” young Quinn says, sweeping his arm to indicate the white room. “A few more days, that’s all.”

  The little girl smiles. Her hair is light brown with darker streaks, and her eyes are the color of chocolate. “Will we be together?”

  “Always,” he says.

  She reaches up on tiptoe to give him a hug. Young Quinn flinches away from her and she asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “Tools,” is all he says. “I ran into some tools.”

  I wake up late the next morning with a damp pillow; I’ve been crying in my sleep. Not knowing what happened to Quinn, how he got his scars, has me troubled. What did they do to him? Is this why he hates Maren and Piers so much? Eventually I’ll have to ask him what happened, but not yet. I don’t think I could bear to hear the story.

  Despite the dream, I feel better than I did yesterday. The stims have worked their way out of my system, leaving me calm rather than jittery and paranoid. I still feel the itch for another hit; it’s muted, though, and I’m intent on keeping my promise to Quinn about staying clean. That’s the easy part, honestly. Wrapping my brain around my very existence will take more time, but I bet humans get caught up in the same kind of questions. Theirs just involve God rather than scientists in a high-tech lab.

  After a big stretch, I go into the living room to see if Quinn’s up yet. He’s gone.

  The couch is empty, the blanket left rumpled on the floor. I check the kitchen—no sign of him. The bathroom’s empty as well, and there aren’t any new dirty clothes on the floor. The clown T-shirt hangs from the shower rod, dry and stiff from yesterday’s washing. That’s the only sign Quinn’s been here in the last twenty-four hours.

  Stars, where is he? I throw on jeans and a sweater, wondering if I should go looking for him. Wait…he took my key, and I can’t call him—we ditched our coms so they wouldn’t be traced. He didn’t leave a message on my data pad, either. At this point, I would settle for “help me!” scrawled in jam across the refrigerator door, but no such luck.

  It has to be something innocent. He’s gone to the grocery store, or for a walk, or to buy another ugly T-shirt. Or maybe Maren’s security team figured out where we are and abducted Quinn while he was out. But they wouldn’t take him and not me, right?

  I go to the living room window. Not much to see in the vacant lot. Yet another problem. Yes, we’re hidden from the street, but the street is hidden from us, too.

  I force myself to calm down. There’s no sign of struggle. Quinn’s key isn’t on the kitchen table where he left it yesterday afternoon. Those things tell me that he left of his own accord. I also said I wouldn’t leave the apartment without him. If he’s going to trust me, I have to keep my word, so the only thing left to do is wait until he comes back.

  And maybe kick him in the processors for not telling me he where he was going.

  * * *

  I’m pacing the floor when Quinn breezes through the door like his disappearance was no big deal. “Hey, you’re up!”

  “Where have you been?” I ask. “It’s been hours!”

  “I went shopping.” He holds up two white shopping bags. “I bought you a little present.”

  “A bribe’s not going to get you out of trouble,” I say.

  “I didn’t think I was in trouble,” he says, taking a seat on the couch. “But since you asked so nicely, I went for a walk to think about who might be able—and willing—to tell us where the primer is. It’s not going to be one of the artificials. Maren’s security is excellent and she’d never allow one of us to have access.”

  “I got past her security…twice. Getting out was the problem.”

  He laughs. “Yes, you did and Maren was pissed about it. She ha
d the window sensors in all her labs tested the morning after you stole the first chip and made Piers’s team do a complete sweep of all systems. Given the tightened security, the mole has to be a human with access to the labs.”

  “So someone high up in the company, who’s close to Maren,” I say. “It couldn’t be Piers, could it? He could disable whatever he wanted and no one would even bother to ask what he was doing.”

  “Gears, no,” Quinn says. “Piers is Maren’s man, through and through. But there is one person who might fit.”

  “Who?”

  “Maren’s boyfriend, Caldwell Martine. He’s the lead researcher at the genetics lab. Caldwell helped make us, and he’s been with Maren for several years now, but they never got married.”

  “Some people don’t,” I say, not convinced that’s a good reason to suspect the boyfriend.

  “True, but every time I saw them together, it seemed like he was tolerating her. He was always respectful, but…well, he acted bored. Maren, on the other hand, is totally in love with him.”

  “Are you sure? Because if we’re wrong, the Quad will be all over us.”

  “It has to be Caldwell,” Quinn says firmly. “Think about it…he has access to all of her labs, and Maren has no reason not to trust him. Who isn’t a little blind when they’re in love?”

  “Yes, but we can’t get close to him without getting close to Maren or one of her people. Caldwell’s untouchable.” I flop down on the sofa, which lets out a long sigh like I’ve offended it with my additional weight.

  “On that topic…do you want to see your present?” He sits next to me and leans close, a mischievous look in his eye.

  “No, I want to figure out how to get to Caldwell.” I roll my eyes. “Why’d you get me a present?”

  He leans even closer, so that his lips brush my ear. “It’s Hearts’ Day, or did you forget? I believe it’s customary for a guy to get a girl he likes a present on Hearts’ Day.”

  My pulse gives an uneven lurch, but I play it off by shoving him. “If that was a come on, try harder.”

  “If I ever come on to you, you’ll know it. Trust me,” Quinn says, pulling away just enough to make sure his mouth is a mere inch from mine, and grinning when my face flushes.

  I put my hand on his chest and push him back a little more. “Uh huh. Right.”

  He scoots away from me, chuckling. “I do have an ulterior motive, though. I was watching the feed early this morning and the entertainment people were saying Maren’s having a fancy dance downtown tonight. The city’s elite and guests from out of town are showing up for it. That’s why I left without waking you up.”

  “So Caldwell will be there,” I say slowly. Oh, Quinn isn’t thinking that—

  “And we’ll sneak in during the dance.”

  I groan. Sometimes Quinn is so impractical, I can’t believe he’s lived this long. “Just how are we going to get past security?”

  “She usually has a staff of artificials working at her parties. We’ll blend in with them.” He lounges against the back of the couch and puts his hands behind his head, looking way too pleased with himself.

  “As waiters or something?” I ask. “Do you know how to get uniforms?”

  Quinn rolls his eyes. “Gears, for a thief you sure are naïve sometimes.”

  I prod him in the leg with my foot. Okay, so maybe I give him a little kick in the shin. “Stop with the know-it-all routine and tell me what you’re up to.”

  “The wait staff is made up of lower end models, but Maren has a team of high-end artificials at these parties to provide, um, special entertainment,” he says, his eyes boring into mine. “For a small fee.”

  Skies, he isn’t serious, is he? “Prostitutes? Are you crazy?”

  “It’s the easiest way to get through security. The guards will scan us at the entry; they’ll know we’re artificials, but I can mark us so we’ll appear to be staff.” Quinn reaches for the shopping bag. “I bought a couple of hair coloring kits and some clothes that will help us fit in.”

  He pulls a scrap of black material from the bag and tosses it to me. I hold it against my body. “Is this supposed to be a dress?”

  The offending garment has one sheer strap that goes over my shoulder and winds around the bodice to a hem that’s barely long enough to reach my upper thighs. My fingertips glide across the thin synthetic fabric—it’s going to cling like a second skin. “I may as well go naked!”

  Quinn chuckles. I glare at him and he raises his hands. “Hey, if it makes you feel better, I’ll be wearing tight pants made out of that same black material and a see-through white dress shirt. We have to look like sex-toys, Lexa. That includes four-inch stilettos for you, and make-up and a hair color change for both of us.”

  I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. “How do we avoid being forced into, uh, service.”

  “We keep moving,” Quinn says, serious now. “Look, I know this is risky, but it’s the only plan I’ve got to reach Caldwell. If he’s not the mole, he won’t notice us. If he is…he’ll see right through our disguises. If you’ve come up with anything better, let’s hear it.”

  I haven’t and that’s the thing, isn’t it? “We’ll go to the party.”

  He nods. “We only have six hours to prepare, so we need to get started. Here, this is the hair coloring kit I bought for you.”

  He hands me the box. A smiling woman with golden hair proclaims, “Beauty, in an instant! New Color Sensation takes only one application and five minutes to complete. Be beautiful today!”

  The ad lady’s voice sounds tinny by the end of the recording, and I can’t help wondering why anyone would fall for her spiel. I flip the box over to check out the sample color and drop the kit on the floor like it’s burned me.

  It’s platinum.

  “What?” Quinn asks.

  “That color,” I squeak. “I can’t…I won’t wear it.”

  Quinn looks stunned. “You have to be disguised.”

  “What color do you have?” I ask. “I want to trade.”

  “Okay, first off, I’d look awful with that silvery color. My skin tone’s all wrong.” Quinn squeezes my arm. “It’ll be beautiful on you.”

  I stare at the box, horrified. “How do you know? What makes you an expert on cosmetics?”

  “My enhanced vision—Maren designed me to be a creative thinker and made me practice. At one point my tutors had me train in makeup artistry. Painting and fashion design came next. It amused Maren to put me through those classes. Honestly, I hated those lessons more than anything, but it does have its uses. I was trained to be a chameleon—to find ways to blend in.” He squeezes my arm. “Look, I know why this bothers you, but it’s not the same color your blank’s hair was, even if you see it that way. Besides, this time it’s your decision, not theirs.”

  I square my shoulders. Being afraid of a little box isn’t going to find the mole. Quinn’s right; platinum would be an exotic color on me. I pick up the kit and head into the bathroom. One new Lexa, coming right up.

  * * *

  “Keep your eyes closed,” Quinn orders.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, wondering how much longer it will take to transform me. We’ve been at it for an hour already. A cool mist whispers across my skin. “What are you doing?”

  “Finishing touch,” he says. “There, that should do it.”

  Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes and face the mirror. A girl I don’t recognize stares back. She’s wearing a bath towel around her middle, and every bit of bare skin is dusted in silver glitter. Her brown eyes are large, lined in black and shaded with pewter eye-shadow. Soft, full pink lips give an incredulous smile as she flips long silver hair over her shoulder. She shows me her wrist in the mirror, revealing an intricate tattoo marking her as property of one Maren DeGaul.

  “Holy shast,” is all I can come up with.

  Quinn leans over my shoulder. “When we get to the party, keep moving so you don’t get snagged, okay? You’re bound to at
tract a lot of attention.”

  I turn to him. The blue hair flopping across his forehead will take some getting used to, but it sets off his long eyelashes and clean-shaven face well, as does the eyeliner. The gold glitter shining on his skin is a nice touch, too. He wasn’t lying about the pants, though—they’re so tight I’m embarrassed to look. I doubt he’s able to wear undershorts. The shirt’s a little better, showing off his strong shoulders and defined arms.

  In spite of myself, I blush. “You better move fast, too. Those older ladies will probably find you quite a treat.”

  He grimaces. “Go get dressed.”

  That turns to be more of a feat than I expect. Even with the carefully constructed undergarments that lift and smooth everything, I still feel nude once I slip the dress over my head. It clings no matter how I wriggle or slump my shoulders, showing off every curve I have. Or don’t have for that matter. After several poses, I realize the only way to wear this ridiculous outfit is to own it: back straight, lazy eyes, flirty twitch to my lips, hip cocked. I check out the result in the bathroom mirror.

  I look like an expensive whore.

  Quinn knocks. “You about ready? We need to get going if we’re going to sneak in with the main crowd.”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, and open the door.

  Quinn takes three steps back, his eyes glued to the dress. Encouraged that I’m doing this right, I sashay his direction, concentrating on keeping my legs steady in my high-heeled sandals.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “Um, uh…yeah.”

  “That good, huh?”

  He clears his throat. “Make sure you keep moving at the party.”

  I pat his cheek as I glide to the door. “Whatever you ask, sweet thing.”

  The last thing he says as he locks up the apartment is, “Gears, this is going to be trouble.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  How May I Be of Service?