Jinxed

by Amy McCulloch

  I have no money to buy a new one. You can’t buy secondhand bakus. So my only option is to fix the one that has somehow fallen into my hands.

  I stare down at the cat baku, that looks nothing like a cat baku – yet – with those lifeless eyes and the gaping hole in its side, the tangle of wires and the broken paws.

  The longer I stare, the more certain I am this is a crazy idea. I’m overwhelmed by how much work needs to be done. Finally, I blink, slumping against the back of my chair.

  And the baku’s one, unbroken eye lazily blinks back.

  It’s enough to jolt me out of my seat. But I’m sure I didn’t imagine it this time.

  If there’s a spark of life, there’s a spark of hope. It’s all I need. That, and every second of summer vacation I can spare.

  Three months to turn this scrap metal into a fully functional baku.

  If I can pull this off, it will be a tinkering miracle.

  IT DOES TAKE THE ENTIRE SUMMER, DOWN to the final hours. For the first time, I’m grateful that Zora has gone off to coding camp and that Mom works full time – it means I get away with working almost non-stop without facing too many awkward questions.

  The month of June I’d spent tackling the basics. That one blinking eye kept me motivated, even though it took me another week of dedicated tinkering before I made any more progress: a twitching paw.

  I’d been so excited about that, I took Mom out for ice cream in the park (she was getting critically worried about my levels of vitamin D at that point; I was spending so much time in the basement).

  From the first paw, it was another few weeks (and most of July) before I got him standing on his own, then a matter of days until he was walking, the progress snowballing as I fixed the fundamental issues. I smoothed out all the dents and replaced the scorched parts with new. Whoever had made him had obviously spent a lot of time perfecting, scrutinizing, analyzing every component, because there were modifications in the tech that I had never come across before. Screws that were microscopic in size, wires so intricately knotted together they were like the plaits in Zora’s hair.

  Thankfully, Paul had gifted me an old 3D printer of his a year ago, so once I’d managed (carefully, so carefully) to extract one of the screws, I was able to map and print a copy of it. Gradually, as my confidence grew, I printed other parts. They weren’t as beautiful as the rest of him, but if I wanted him to walk, run and jump again, I’d have to deal.

  That meant in August, scavenging became my new pastime.

  Outside Monchaville, not everyone treats their bakus the same. For the most part, people are careful and respectful – but others treat them roughly, pushing the limits of the machines until they burn out or break down. Some people – rich people – act as if they’re disposable. Replaceable. And when they get bored, some of the people don’t even take advantage of the recycling program Moncha offered, but put their old bakus in the trash and head to the Moncha Store to buy a new one.

  That’s where I came in. I salvaged the broken or forgotten bakus and I used them for Jinx’s parts. I was mercenary about it. Nothing was sacred.

  And, with every piece of Jinx I took apart to clean or replace, I searched for the signature of the companioneer who created him.

  ‘Who made you?’ I whispered to him.

  I hadn’t got around to fixing his speakers yet, so he couldn’t respond to me.

  But the signature had to be there somewhere, and I was desperate to find it. Using Jinx’s browser, I searched the Moncha forums for some of the new tech I had seen, in an attempt to trace it back to the original owner. All I needed was a name, a symbol, a scrawl, something.

  But Jinx was like nothing I’d ever seen before. And his creator remained an enigma. A mystery.

  But as for who was fixing him, who was bringing him back to life – that was not.

  That was all me.

  It takes me right up until the night before I’m due to start at Profectus. I’m so close to having a fully functioning level 3 baku, but I know they’re not going to allow me through the doors unless I get the final element of Jinx’s operating system working: communication.

  When I get downstairs, Jinx struts around the locker, leaping up on to the desk, the shelving, then skirting the very top of the cage, agile as a real cat. A surge of affection rushes through me as I watch his perfect movement. I’ve done well.

  ‘Jinx, to me!’ I say, alongside a crooked-arm gesture for him to return. If Jinx had been a normal baku, that would have worked. Instead, he stares at me from his perch on the highest shelf and blinks, once.

  I frown. It’s so late, it’s early – only hours before I’m supposed to be in my uniform and heading to the school gates – and my eyes are burning with the desire to sleep. But I have to fix this one last thing or else I’ll be showing up at Profectus with a baku that doesn’t follow commands and an entire summer’s worth of work wasted.

  I take a sip of highly caffeinated soda, ready for one last burst of energy. Clambering up on to the desk, I reach out with one arm towards Jinx, the other hand tightly clutching the wire mesh for support. Just as my fingers are about to grab him, he leaps down off the shelf and on to the desk, where he sits down and licks at his paw.

  I groan. ‘Seriously?’

  I get down off the desk much less gracefully than Jinx, then sit down at the desk, folding my arms across my chest. For a moment we stare at each other, girl and machine, unblinking.

  I spot that there’s a loose wire running from his front paw to the motherboard. It’s a minor fix, but fixing something small might help me feel a sense of accomplishment that will lead to a bigger breakthrough. (That’s the idea, anyway.) My mind is on how to fix his speakers so he can communicate with me, so I’m a little burly with my technique, forcing one of the metal wires back into place and holding it down with a piece of duct tape as I solder. Crude, but it works. I leash him up to my ear to give him a bit of extra charge.

  And then in my ear, I hear a voice:

  >>Jeez, could you be a bit more gentle next time? That hurt.

  He sounds . . . like an annoyed kid whose foot I’d just stepped on.

  I almost jump out of my skin. ‘What the hell?’ I say, pawing at the leashing around my ear.

  >>You can disconnect us, but that won’t change anything.

  Jinx? I say his name in my thoughts, and I hear his laughter in my ear.

  >>That’s me.

  And you . . . and you can understand me? If I tell you to jump up there, you’ll—

  He jumps up on to the shelf, exactly as I ordered.

  I dance around the locker with glee. I’m giddy with success. There’s still something not quite right. I’ve made some kind of error – the fact that I’m not reading text from a projection or hearing his voice out loud but in my head is unsettling. But at this point, it doesn’t matter.

  There’s a cough from behind me, and I spin around. Illuminated in a pool of light outside my locker is Zora. ‘Hey, stranger,’ she says.

  ‘Z!’ I run to the locker door and pull it open. ‘How was coding camp?’

  ‘Incredible. I’ve got so much to tell you. But first, I’ve come to meet the infamous Jinx!’ Her eyes scan my locker, before settling on the shelf. Her jaw drops. ‘Oh my God, Lace – is that him? He’s gorgeous.’

  >>Your friend has excellent taste, Jinx says.

  It’s still a shock hearing his voice in my head, enough to make me jump in my skin, and Zora gives me a funny look.

  ‘Sorry, might be going a bit stir crazy.’

  ‘Your mom sent me down here to tell you you have to come upstairs now and get some sleep or else she’ll get Paul to change the padlock and lock you out of your cave for ever.’

  I grin – not only because I know Mom would never do that to me, but because I actually can go upstairs now. I have an offer letter from Profectus, a school uniform and a level 3 baku that at least appears to follow orders.

  I raise my hands to Zora to show her I’
m not protesting. ‘Come on then, Jinx. Let’s go upstairs.’

  >>Finally, we’re getting outta here.

  The baku leaps down to my feet, his movement smooth as silk, and he sashays out of my locker and into the real world.

  Looks like things might be turning out all right, after all.

  JINX SLITHERS BETWEEN MY LEGS IN A figure of eight, his impatience wearing at my already plenty-frayed nerves. The dark navy woollen trousers of the uniform are itchy enough in the lingering September heat, but the pleated kilt – my other uniform option – is definitely not my style. I rub my sweaty palms against my trousers.

  >>Just go in already. I’m tired of waiting.

  Be quiet, you.

  Jinx flicks my calf with his tail, and I grimace. But he’s right. I need to just go in.

  Profectus Academy occupies an old university building, one of those huge, imposing follies – complete with fake turrets – designed to look like something more comfortable in Oxford or Cambridge or some other old, academic British town. Behind it, modern additions – steel and glass extensions – spread out like wings, designed by a disciple of the same architect who built the addition on the Royal Ontario Museum. Monica Chan had loved it so much, the explosion of crystal from old brick, that she commissioned him to transform an old building into the school of her dreams.

  I’ve walked past this building a hundred times, counted the windows and wondered which classroom would one day be mine, stared up at the huge two-storey-high doors and pictured walking through them . . . and now I get to enter as a student. Someone who belongs. I’m going to become part of its history. Or rather, I’m going to be part of the future we are all trying to create by being here. The thought swells my chest, my chin lifting high.

  I can’t explain how I got in, but I feel like I belong, like rejection was the fluke – not the acceptance.

  Streams of students pass by me with their bakus. There are dogs, cats, a few monkeys and birds. It’s funny, walking around the streets of Toronto, you almost never see bakus higher than level 3. They’re so expensive to buy and difficult to maintain. Maybe on Bloor Street, amongst the fancy designer shops and celebrity chef restaurants, you’ll see custom designed level 4 bakus and rare breeds. But most people are content with their simple cat, dog or small furry mammal baku – they don’t need anything fancier. Thankfully I don’t catch sight of Carter’s boar. Holed up in my cave fixing Jinx, I’ve managed to avoid him all summer (I’ve managed to avoid almost everyone – some, like Zora, not on purpose), and I’m not keen for a new confrontation – even if the circumstances have changed since then.

  My plan is to get through today drama-free and experience this dream to the full.

  ‘Just beat it! Beat it!’ Michael Jackson blares at top volume from my feet. Looks like Jinx’s speakers aren’t broken after all. The student closest to me leaps a mile in the air and all eyes nearby turn in my direction. Crap. So much for getting through the first day – hell, even the first minute – of school without drawing attention myself. I drop to my heels and scoop Jinx up off the floor.

  ‘Turn off, dammit!’ I say, fumbling along his back for the right place which, if I touch it should, in theory, turn off his speakers.

  But the music only seems to get louder. ‘Jinx, please, please don’t do this to me,’ I whisper.

  Maybe I finally find the right button or the desperation in my voice hits a nerve but the sound shuts off with a click. Thank God. I duck my head and race up the stairs two at a time and through the enormous doors. No hesitation now: I want to get away from the crowd of staring, questioning eyes.

  Even the entrance feels different from any other high school that I’ve been in before. There’s no ugly green and orange plastic floor (why are colour schemes in high schools so ugly?) – instead, there’s rich mahogany hardwood that must be a nightmare to keep clean during the winters, when we’ll be tracking in snow and salt from the sidewalks. But there’s no expense spared here. The wood panelling continues up the walls, giving the atrium the feel of an old country club.

  Written in gold script on a wooden beam across my head is the school’s motto: WE BUILD THE FUTURE.

  My fingertips tingle and heat rises in my cheeks. ‘We’ve done it, Jinx,’ I whisper to him. He wriggles out of my arms in response and jumps to the floor, arching his back and flicking his tail at me. ‘Fine, don’t care.’ I stick my tongue out at him. He responds by choosing a direction and shooting off at lightning speed.

  I jog to catch up with him, the orientation information from Profectus displayed on his back. When even a function this ordinary works on Jinx, a spike of pride shoots up my spine – to know that I fixed him up from next to nothing. He gives me the number and location of my locker, which is in one of the more modern wings. Now it’s starting to feel more like an ordinary school. There are clusters of students in their uniforms, some lounging on the floor or leaning casually against their lockers.

  I’m struck by how old some of students look, but then people graduate from Profectus when they’re twenty – heading straight into a proper job at Moncha. Monica’s dream – in the face of skyrocketing tuition fees and resultant student debt – was for Profectus to be a fully paid-up bridging academy for only the brightest and best who knew they wanted to work in science and technology. And there was no form of indenture – no debt to be repaid to Moncha, no obligation to work there. If another company – a rival firm like BRIGHTSPRK or Apple – wanted to offer a student a job, there was no clause that would prevent a graduate from going. But with the high starting salary, provided accommodation and excellent standard of living offered in Monchaville, hardly anyone jumps ship, so it’s a win-win for Moncha.

  And a pretty great deal for those of us lucky enough to get in, too.

  Jinx stops in front of a locker and, with a couple of bounding leaps, settles on a small shelf that is especially designed for bakus to hang out. To stop the bakus (big and small) from crowding the hallways, there are alcoves above each locker for bakus to leash up and charge between classes.

  I stop and stare at Jinx, who appears to be ‘grooming’ himself, but which is really a way for him to run through his systems and check everything is working okay by brushing up against all his sensors. Then he crawls deep into the alcove, curling himself up so that only the two tiny LEDs in his pupils are visible. I run through the plan for the day, taking deep breaths to prepare myself. Most of the morning is blocked out for a giant orientation session. I’d looked it up online to see what that might entail, if there was anything I could do to prep. But there was surprisingly little information available.

  ‘Lacey? What are you doing here?’

  The slimy voice sends drippings of ice down my spine, which turn to shivers as I hear the snuffling and snorting of the boar. My body tenses, flashing back to the memory of the forest and the ravine.

  I wait a beat, willing my voice to sound utterly normal. ‘I’m getting ready for orientation.’ I spin the combination of my locker, thankful that Jinx projects the code for the lock from his tail to a place on the locker just above my fingertips. I dump my bag, not taking out any of the postcards and pictures I brought along to stick to the inside of my locker door. There’s no way I’m decorating it in front of Carter.

  ‘Isn’t your school a bit further down the street?’

  I bite my lip and take a beat. He doesn’t have any advantage over you now, I tell myself. You belong here as much as he does. I spin around to face him. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. ‘I’ve got a locker, I’m in the uniform – I’m a Profectus student too, Carter. Just like you.’

  His jaw drops. He attempts to rearrange his expression back to normal – but I’ve glimpsed the truth. He’s worried about me being here.

  I don’t see why. It’s not as if this is a competition. It’s school.

  He folds his arms across his chest. ‘You can’t be here. You need a level 3 baku in order to come here. I saw
you buying that scarab.’ He storms over to my locker, sticking his face right up to the alcove. Jinx lunges out, hissing like a wild cat.

  Carter yelps and leaps backwards, sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. He almost falls backwards over his boar baku, but catches himself just before, then takes off down the hallway.

  I turn to Jinx, my cheeks flushed post-confrontation. ‘Come on then. Let’s go get oriented.’

  JINX LEADS ME DOWN TO WHAT IS MARKED as the school gym. I could never get lost with Jinx by my side, but I needn’t have worried about that – there’s a steady stream of students and bakus all heading in the same direction. Some of the students look a lot older than me, strutting the hallways as if they own the place. I try and hold my head high too, and act as if I belong. But being around lots of people always makes me feel nervous – I’m far more comfortable in the darkness of my cave than in the crowded hallways of school.

  I wait for Jinx to react, but he doesn’t. Strange. Bakus are designed to help soothe their owners if they’re feeling stressed or anxious. Maybe I need to look into Jinx’s empathetic sensors . . .

  But all thoughts melt away as I enter the gym.

  At first I’m a bit disappointed that it looks like an ordinary school gymnasium – with its glossy wooden floor painted with lines for different sports. Two glass-backed basketball hoops hang from metal rafters painted in pale green that criss-cross above our heads, serving as hanging posts for brightly coloured celebration banners. Not that any of them are for sports achievements (Profectus students aren’t exactly known for being jocks). Instead, they’re emblazoned with the Moncha logo, that same stylized M, and carry the names of former students. I wonder what they did to deserve having their names up there.

  Different from my old gym at St Agnes, though, is the massive stadium-style seating on either side of the gym, rows of benches that stretch up across two storeys. There’d be room for the entire school in here – and then some. I’m grateful to see Carter and his boar taking a seat on the far side – well away from me.