by A. L. Davroe
chapter seven
Post-American Date: 7/5/232
Longitudinal Timestamp: 1:32 a.m.
Location: Sub-Tunnel 6
“Make sure to keep the provisions under tight guard,” Quentin is saying to one of the Dolls. This one, with bright florescent-orange eyes and curly cocoa-brown hair, is called Karl.
Karl nods and touches the gun at his belt.
“But don’t come off like you’re bullying or throwing your weight around. There are more of them than those of you I’m leaving behind.”
Cam pauses from helping me repack my bag. “You shouldn’t be leaving any of us behind.”
Quentin shrugs. “We’ve gone over this. You know my logic.”
“Yeah, well, I think you’ve got some wires crossed up there.”
Bastian and I share a furtive glance. I’m sure we both think the same thing. This plan is insane, but I haven’t been able to come up with any alternative.
Ignoring Cam’s comment, Quentin looks back to Karl, who is standing in the doorway of our room. “Have all the Dolls filled everyone in?”
“They’re working on it. I can’t say they’re happy about it.”
As if in answer, I hear a “Move out of the way, Karl, I need to speak to my intended.” The voice is Carsai’s, she’s unmistakable.
I lift a brow at Quentin and he rolls his eyes in response. “Let her in.”
Carsai comes storming in, her dove-gray gown, torn and stained along the edges, sweeping and billowing in a way that comes with the countless hours of practice that only Elite Aristocratic girls have time for. She comes to a halt in front of Quentin and plants her fists on her hips, her perfect chest heaving against the laced bodice. “What is the meaning of this, Quentin Balthazar Cyr? I’m told you’re abandoning me.”
Calmly, Quentin finishes zipping his own pack and stands, smooth as silk. He towers over her as he stares down into her upturned face. Neither looks anything like they did just a day ago. Alterations dead, both have a network of fine scars across their Custom too-pale skin. Where Quentin’s eyes have faded to their genetic warm amber, Carsai’s have gone a washed-out blue. His hair is white, dead from the fiber-optic nano-plugs. Carsai’s is a strange salt-and-pepper gray, like Bastian’s. While he has some light and tasteful Modifications throughout his body, hers are more extreme—typical of a female Aristocrat—so her body still sports unnatural lumps, inclines, and spikes.
“Good morning to you, too, Carsai.”
She lifts her chin, petulant.
He closes his eyes. “Look, let’s be clear on something right here and now. My parents are dead. Your parents are most likely dead. Our city is in shambles and our social system is shot. I want you to understand that I’m no longer operating under the terms of the marriage our parents arranged for us. I can no longer show you special favor.”
“What?” she squawks. “But Quent—”
He holds up a hand. “I’m sorry, Carsai. It’s not what I wanted in the first place and I’m not sure it’s what’s best for you, either. You should know that I’m in love with someone else and it never would have been fair to you. So now that we’re no longer duty bound, I think it’s only right to dissolve the contract.”
Carsai’s mouth is hanging open in shock. So is mine. I try not to stare, but it’s hard. She was always so high and untouchable. Inhuman in her effort to be better than anyone else. And now? She just seems so very human. Her world just dissolved to a tiny puddle, and here Quentin is taking the last vestiges of normalcy away from her. I feel bad for her. But then, I don’t blame him, either. It’s hard to be married to someone you don’t love. Nadine taught me that while we were in Nexis. I can only imagine it would be doubly awful if the person you were forced to marry were a heartless social climber like Carsai.
She manages to sniff, drawing her jaw up as she does so. I can see tears gathering on her eyelids. A shaky, “Well, I never… This is highly irregular.”
Quentin says, “You’ll get over it, I’m sure.”
Her nostrils flare as her eyes wander around the room, taking in Cam, Bastian, Sadie, Violet, and me. Then she turns on her heel and exacts a hasty retreat, bumping into Karl as she does so.
Quentin’s shoulders fall and he lets out an audible breath. “That went well,” he mutters.
“I was pretty sure she was going to scratch out your eyes,” Cam says.
“Me, too,” Quentin admits. “I feel bad for her. She doesn’t do well without plans, and I’m sure I factored into a good number of them.”
“Don’t,” Bastian says. “She’s a scheming, spoiled brat. She needs to be cut down a few pegs. Especially if she wants to live.”
“Bastian,” Sadie says, “that’s harsh.”
“He’s only saying the truth,” Violet adds. “Saying what we’re all thinking.” She turns to Quentin. “‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ my daddy always said. If I had a bottle, I’d crack open some champagne and toast to your near miss. Though, I doubt she’ll take the rejection lying down. Girls like that rarely do.” She makes a strange hand gesture to her forehead. “I salute your bravery, sir.”
“It needed to be done. I don’t believe in arranged marriages. People should marry for love.”
I blink at him, a little proud, despite myself. “That’s a very arcane, un-Presidential sentiment.”
He shrugs. “There are a lot of people who put aside what they truly believe out of duty and obligation. Doesn’t change who they actually are. Is it so wrong to want to be who I actually am?”
“Making waves, I see.” Gus’s voice draws Quentin’s intense gaze away from mine.
I turn, too, finding Gus standing where Karl was just moments before. He’s leaning against the jamb, arms crossed.
“Only little ones,” Quentin admits.
“Carsai isn’t a little wave. She’s a tempest. She’s already in a tizzy, proclaiming you’re going to shake the very foundations of Evanescence.”
Quentin rolls his eyes. “She must not have been paying attention when Robopocalypse hit back there. Evanescence is already experiencing aftershocks.”
“It’s doesn’t have to be. We could try to get it back,” I reason.
He glances at me. “That would take a miracle.”
Shy and uneasy, I shrug and glance at Gus then back at Quentin. “Wouldn’t be the first one I’ve encountered.”
Quentin clears his throat. “We’ll keep an eye out for any convenient miracles while we’re out there. Okay?”
“Speaking of…” Gus says. “How come I wasn’t consulted on this suicide-run plan of yours?”
“You were too busy moping,” Cam mutters. “Some of us were planning bigger things.”
“Cam,” Quentin growls, voice low, his eyes roving over us. “Will you excuse us for a moment?”
Nodding, I stand and move to file past Gus with the others, but Gus catches my arm. “Not you.” He eases me back into the room where I stand trapped in with the boys and their palpable tension.
As soon as the others are far enough away, Gus turns his attention to us and hisses, “What the hell kind of plan is this?”
Quentin doesn’t speak, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to. I don’t know who Gus is talking to. Quentin, I guess, as he rounds on him, stepping into the room as his words take on heat. “Never in the entire time I have known you have I seen you make such a foolish and deadly decision. What do you think you’re going to do? March right up to the nearest Disfavored door and ask for alms for a score and a half of displaced Aristocrats? ‘Oh, pardon me ma’am, but I was just hoping you could spare some pity for the pompous, ignorant assholes who have been shitting on you and your kin since the day you were shunned and locked out of salvation?’ Yeah, that’s gonna go over really well, Quent,” he huffs.
Quent waits a moment more then says, “Are you finished?”
“No.”
“Well, hurry up and fucking finish. I have work to do.”
Gus scowls at him
. I can see hurt in his eyes. Hurt, betrayal, anger, and fear. I reach out and touch his wrist, but he doesn’t respond, just glares at Quentin, who glares at him right back. Gus says, “I’m coming with you.”
“No you aren’t.”
“Fuck you. I’m not letting you go and get yourself killed.”
“This isn’t up for discussion. It’s an order.”
Gus gets right in Quent’s face, making me step back, because I’m certain one of them is gonna throw a punch. “Screw you and your orders. The laws, the rules, don’t exist without a city to uphold them. You can’t and don’t own me anymore and I’m not following your orders—especially if they mean you walking into danger where I can’t protect you.”
“Guster,” Quentin warns, voice icy, “if I have to get every Doll to hold you at gunpoint to keep you here, I will. If I have to get them to hold guns on Delia, I will. You’re staying.”
Breathing hard, Gus takes a step back like he’s been shoved or slapped. Finally, he says, “Why?”
Quentin softens his voice. “You’re the only person I trust to act in my stead. I need you here. Be my eyes. Be my ears. Be my mind, my voice, my authority. I know you’ll take care of these people when I can’t.”
Gus pouts at the floor. “The roles should be reversed.”
“You can’t go up there. You’re too obvious, too much of a target. I’ve made you that way and I’m sorry for it. I know you want to be there, but you’ll just have to trust that we can do it on our own.”
Blinking, Gus turns back to us. He must just now realize I’ve got my bag over my shoulder because he shakes his head. “Oh no. No. No. No. You’re not going with him.”
Shrugging, I say, “It’s not your decision to make.”
Gus is still shaking his head, his shaggy hair dancing around his ravaged face. “I can’t let you. It’s suicide. What if something happens to you? I-I couldn’t—”
I reach out, grab his arm at the elbow, and jerk. “Gus, look at me.”
He goes still, stares down at me.
“You need to trust me. You need to have faith in me.”
His brows pinch in desperation. “What if something happens to you? To either of you?” He glances at Quentin. “You. Out there. In danger. And me… Here—”
“Protecting the woman you love,” I finish for him, shoving the blade where it needs to be inserted, because nothing else I say will sway him to my side and he’s ready to stop me if he has to. My words have an instantaneous effect on him and I know them to be true. Gus loves Delia. I wince at this truth, this reality I didn’t want to recognize. It has a weird, unhinging effect on my head and things no longer feel real, like I’m floating somewhere on the inside. I force myself to speak, even though there’s this sudden ache in my chest and my words come out wobbly. “Are you going to leave Delia here?” I think I’m going to cry. “Un-Unprotected?”
His mouth opens, closes. “How—”
I force a smile and somehow it makes my chest hurt even more. “It doesn’t take a Master Chemist, Gus.”
He steps back, leans against the wall. “I was gonna tell you. I just didn’t know how.”
“How,” I whisper, echoing the words.
There’s this weak little smile he throws at me, a little breath of a laugh. “We bonded over you. Actually.”
“Me?” I say, as if on some sort of autopilot. I’d been asking how he’d managed to love two girls—because I don’t doubt he loves me, too. And here he’s giving me the explanation of how that happened. And there’s some morbid sense of curiosity I have about it. A need to know, so I prompt him and keep listening.
“Yeah,” he laughs, shaking his head, and it’s so adorable, that candid weakness he has for her. I suddenly want to vomit, but he shoves the urge down with words. “She attacked me at your memorial service. Screamed something about making you unhappy before you died. I—” He pauses, meets my eyes. Something in my expression must tell how unhinged I suddenly feel because he reaches out and grasps my wrist. “I went to see her after that. I guess I needed her forgiveness for hurting you. Because”—his fingers squeeze affectionately at this—“I’d always had a thing for you.”
When I don’t respond, he drops his hand and adds, “Things just sort of developed from there. I guess we found comfort in our shared grief.”
For a long moment, I don’t know what to say or do.
“I didn’t mean for things to happen like this. You have to know that. It’s just that…this is real and that was a game, and now you’re both real.”
“I know,” I finally manage. “But I can take care of myself and she can’t, so…” I shrug, pretending it doesn’t hurt like hell to tell Gus to leave me and stay with her. But I want Delia safe. I want the other Aristocrats safe. Most of all, I want Gus safe. I know he’s capable of doing that when I can’t. Just like he knows, deep down, that Quentin is safe with me. “Promise me you’ll take care of her.” Then I add, very quietly, because I have to remind myself now that all I wanna do is fight her, “She’s my favorite…”
He nods. “She’s pretty special.”
It aches to hear the man you love say that about another woman, but I nod because I have to. Because I need him to move and let me out of the room, sooner than later, before the tears I feel burning start to fall.
“I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to you, Elle. I love you.”
“I know,” I say again. You just love her more.
Quentin steps into me, puts his hand on my trembling shoulder. “I’ll take care of her, Gus. I promise.”
Gus draws close, pulls Quentin into a hug, then stoops down and gives me a long, desperate kiss that I dread, in my very bones, is the last one. If I go and he stays here with Delia, that’s the decision made. Her over me. He turns. “Take care of each other.” He meets my eyes one last time. Then he turns and he walks away.
I stand, staring into the blackness of the empty hall beyond the doorway, listening to myself breathe hard for longer than I know. Eventually, Quentin’s fingers close over my elbow, reminding me I’m clutching myself like I’ve been shot in the stomach. Feels like I’ve been shot all over. I sway in his grasp, but he holds me up.
“That was very brave of you,” he says, voice quiet.
Blinking hard, I pull away and take a few steps. “I don’t want to talk about it. I did what had to be done.”
“But it couldn’t have been easy,” he whispers, more to himself than me, I think. His hand appears on the small of my back, warm and comforting. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before someone changes their mind.”
As Quentin and I emerge from the room, we’re confronted with most of the Aristocrats standing outside the rooms, silent and frightful looking.
“I suppose I should say something to them,” Quentin notes as he draws away from me. “Gather around, everyone, I have some things to tell you.”
I remain behind, feeling awkward and strange. Still unhinged about everything. I realize Delia is standing on her own, away from everyone, her arms crossed like she, too, just got shot, and I hope that Gus didn’t just say something stupid to her. Biting my lip, I step toward her.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
Her face changes suddenly, like she smells something sour. “Leave me alone.”
I take a deep breath. I don’t want things to be like this. “Delia, I…I’m sorry.” That’s all I can say to her.
She turns and glares at me. “Are you? Are you really, though?”
“Of course I am.”
Her eyes narrow. “And sorry is just going to fix everything? Make me forgive you for abandoning me, killing off my family, and stealing the man I love?”
I stare at my fists, balled before me. There’s no way to put into words the utter despair and loss I felt after my father’s death. After the loss of my legs and discovery that I could no longer see Delia. Yes, I managed to put her out of my mind often, but I never forgot about her. How could I? Even during my h
appiest moments, I always thought about her and her happiness as well, wished the same for her. How will she ever understand that while she was falling for Real World Gus, I was falling for the same boy wearing a different face in another world? I reach into my pack and pull out my flex bracelet. I take a second to remove the chip containing the sonnets of William Shakespeare, slip it into the pocket with the other two chips for safe keeping, and toss the bracelet to her.
She catches it, turns it over in her delicate fingers. “What’s this?”
“What’s it look like?” I say, turning away from her because there’s this awful lump in my throat and I think I might lose it. “There’s a file, Letters to Delia, maybe you can read sometime. Maybe you’ll understand then.”
She remains quiet, her fingers playing over the flex bracelet like it’s some kind of relic.
“I didn’t steal him from you, Delia. He’s not gone, he’s right here with you. And that’s where he’s going to stay.” I say these words even while some part of me hopes they’re not the truth, some part of me doesn’t want to let him go and wants to fight still, but right now I can’t do that. Right now, I need to feed these people and make my best friend believe I’m not out to destroy her.
Her eyes slide up, she stares at me for a long moment, then she lowers them again.
“Anyway,” I say, “I’m leaving. I hope maybe we can talk when I come back. If I come back.” I walk away.
“Good luck,” she says, voice so quiet I can barely hear her, and I’m not sure if I’m imaging it. Part of me wants to turn to make sure, but another part of me is afraid I did just imagine it, so I don’t. I just keep walking away.
chapter eight
Post-American Date: 7/5/232
Longitudinal Timestamp: 3:45 a.m.
Location: Sub-Tunnel 6
The Undertunnel is a cloying cement corridor, perhaps no wider than ten feet. I have no idea how thick the walls are—not enough to keep out the moisture if the puddles are any indication—or how far underground we are. It feels like we’re in the very center of the earth. I have the same prickly, nauseating feeling here as I did in the Minotaur’s labyrinth back in Nexis, and what happened earlier with Gus only makes the suffocating feeling worse.
