by Elle Casey
Sure. Sounds good, I link back. Somehow agreeing to walk with her makes heat rise up in my face. I stuff my scribepad in my backpack and scramble to follow her. It occurs to me that I’ve never actually done this before: walked with a girl between classes. I shake my head at myself when Tessa’s back is turned. What am I doing?
Do you like fairies? Tessa’s thoughts are back to that random rumble I like. I draw a lot of fairies. I like the way they’re human but not quite. Maybe that’s why you like my art?
I follow her out into the hall, careful to link an echo of my thoughts to everyone nearby. Don’t want to get caught again. Well, no, I’m not really into them, but the way you draw them is… mesh.
Mesh? She frowns at me over her shoulder, like I’ve morphed into something even stranger than she originally thought.
Yeah, mesh. How can she not know what mesh is? Nice. Cool? I like it.
She squints at me. I know what mesh means.
My pulse picks up again. Well, sure. Of course. It’s the style of your art, I think. It’s different. What do you call it?
She smiles and relaxes. It’s a pre-Change Japanese style. You’ve probably never heard of it.
The Change was almost a hundred years ago, when pharmaceuticals in the water flipped everyone into being mindreaders. I don’t know if there were mindjackers in the beginning, but somewhere along the way, we started popping up in the population, too.
See? I link to her. Pre-Change art. How mesh is that?
She gives me a small smile, and it makes my heart do this weird convulsing thing. She’s always got a serious or daydreamy look on her face—I’ve never seen her smile before.
Man, am I in trouble here.
I bite my lip as we reach her locker. I should just make up some excuse and walk away now. Before I get any more entangled in Tessa and her art and her life. She opens the door of her locker, and it’s papered with her drawings. They’re mostly bright and pretty, except for one on the door. It’s a picture of her with wings—I can tell by the reddish hair and the dark-brown oversized eyes. She’s crying in the picture, and there’s a ring of glaring faces all around her.
I recognize the scene: it’s what readers do when they want to harass someone. They circle around and beat them up with their vile, Satan-like thoughts. I cringe just looking at it—it conjures a pain that worms deep inside me. Tessa catches my expression, then gets a strange look on her face. I quickly realize I’m busted again, my expression not matching my blank-to-her thoughts.
I flick a look to the picture, trying to cover for it. Did they hurt you?
She frowns, but lets it go. No. She pulls a paper doodle pad out of her locker and closes it. I was just a changeling. They thought they could drive me demens. I keep the drawing as a reminder that it didn’t work.
The ache in my chest stabs a little deeper.
That’s messed up, I link to her. Do they still do it? Harass you, I mean? I want to scour her memories, find the pravers who hurt her, and jack them into vandalizing the school’s office, or some other crime that will get them tossed out. Only I don’t want to go digging through Tessa’s memories—I’d be no better than the guys who hurt her in the first place. The anger inside me is… unexpectedly fierce. I take a breath and let it out.
It’s always a mistake to get involved with mindreaders, Zeph.
Reminding myself of this doesn’t actually help.
Tessa hikes her satchel up higher on her shoulder. No, they don’t bother me anymore. I ignore them, mostly, and they just kind of ignore me back. Guess I’m not worth the trouble.
We start walking toward her next class.
Why can’t all mindreaders be sons and daughters of evil? Why do some of them, like Tessa, have to be cute? And brave. And different.
She’s worth the trouble, something deep inside my chest tells me. But it’s wrong. Starting something with her would be… just too hard. And dangerous. I can still feel Sarah’s body in my arms like a lead weight—and she’s a jacker. A reader like Tessa would be utterly defenseless against any jackers who decided they wanted to come after me, for any multitude of grievances. Plus, hanging with Tessa would mean lying to her constantly. I might be able to live with that—I do it all the time—but she doesn’t need a hidden underworld of criminals in her life. I shake my head. I don’t want people like Donovan, or even Marshall, anywhere near someone like Tessa.
We reach her English class. She smiles at me again. Thanks for the walk. See you in math?
Her smile twists up my insides. Yeah, I link back. But I’ve already decided: when I get to math, I’m not sitting next to her. I’m going to ignore her, just like everyone else does, and sit as far away from her as I can. And keep out of her head as much as possible.
She smiles her goodbye, and I stand there, watching her go.
Jackers and readers: we’re like lions and lambs. Forget the parable, I tell myself. They don’t lie down together without someone ending up as lunch.
I hurry away from her and toward my next class.
Chapter Three
I successfully avoid Tessa for the rest of the day. I’m a sufficiently large enough jerk to her that I don’t think she’s going to offer to show me her art again. Or let me walk her between classes. I tell myself this is for the best… about a hundred times on the long walk home.
I linger behind the crowd, so the sidewalks are empty and I don’t have to link to anyone. The skinny suburban houses are filled with mindreaders, but the building ordinances keep the identical gray-and-cream-colored homes spaced far enough apart that the readers don’t have to listen to the thoughts of their neighbors. Or the moody high school kid walking down their sidewalk. For me, it’s a chance for some clear head space. The wind ruffles the leaves, and an occasional autocab rumbles by, but it’s mostly quiet. A squirrel makes a temporary racket by hurtling through the blanket of fall leaves that have dropped with the cooling Chicago weather.
By the time I reach my house and use my passkey to get into the garage, I’ve nearly convinced myself that I’m some kind of hero for being a jerk to Tessa and keeping her out of my life. I pass through the kitchen and see a muffin massacre on the table—Olivia, my eleven-year-old sister, plowed through the snacks pretty fast in my absence. Which makes me wonder how long I dragged my feet on the way home: Olivia usually arrives the same time I do.
“Hey, Livvy!” I shout. “Where you at?”
I listen for her response as I toss my backpack on the couch. No answer.
I go scouting for her. I’m supposed to watch Liv after school, until Mom and Dad get home on the train from their corporate jobs downtown, but Marshall wants me to come in today, so we’re going to need a different plan.
“Liv!” I take it up a notch. There’s no excuse for her not to answer, other than she thinks she’s too big for babysitters. Which means she’s good for keeping it a secret when I skip out on babysitting duty. Mom and Dad are both mindreaders, but Livvy hasn’t gone through the change yet, and they won’t be able to read her thoughts. Which Liv and I work to our mutual advantage as much as possible.
“Livvy, I’m serious, where—” I round the corner to the living room and stop in my tracks. She’s working the living room holo game like mad, dancing as she fights through hordes of tentacle creatures. She must have the wireless buds in her ears, because when she sees me she nearly jumps out of her skin and lands back on the couch like she’s having a heart attack.
I can’t help cracking up.
She pulls the earbuds out. “Oh my god, Zeph! You scared me to death!”
“I scared you?” I glance at the pile of tentacled splatter-corpses on the screen. “You’re fighting hideous creatures from the deep, but you’re scared of me?”
“You’re much uglier.” She sticks her tongue out at me.
“Thanks, champ.” But I smile. She’s about as big as a midget, but she’s got all the attitude I could hope for in a little sister. And she’s one of the few people I don’t ha
ve to jack. We talk out loud. We keep secrets from everyone else. I’m seriously dreading the day she goes through the change and becomes just like the rest of them.
Livvy pauses her game with a flick of her wrist. “You gonna play? Alien Tentacles Invasion. I modded it to play pre-Change, but standard play is mindware interfaced. We can do both.”
“You know, someday Mom’s going to figure out you hacked the game console. Besides, don’t you have homework today?”
“Nah. I finished it in gym.” She shrugs.
Which is possible; Livvy’s smart. But she’s also a slacker when it comes to school. I give her a skeptical look, but I’m not going to press it.
“Listen, can you do me a favor?” I ask. “I need to go meet some guys. Can you tell Mom I was here, playing Reader City all afternoon with you? I’ll get back before she comes home.”
“What’s in it for me?”
I choke. “What? Seriously, Liv?”
“I’m thinking I deserve something for my trouble.”
I shake my head. “When did you become Uncle Harlow?” He’s the crazy uncle who’s always wheedling some favor out of our dad.
“There’s an expansion pack I was thinking about: Tentacles II.” She gives me her best fake-winning smile.
“Mom doesn’t even want you playing Tentacles I.”
“Precisely.”
I heave a sigh, like I can’t believe the hard bargain she’s driving, but I have to work to keep the grin in check. Besides, I have a pretty big stash of unos in my room. Marshall pays me every once in a while, and it’s not like I spend my money on dates or anything.
“Okay,” I say, like I’m totally giving into her. “But if Mom finds out, we’re going down together.”
“Deal.” She digs her fallen earbuds out from the couch cushion, pops them in, and goes back to fighting holographic aliens.
I shake my head, fish out my phone, and call up an autocab. When I joined Marshall’s Clan, he gave me a tally card loaded with cash so I could get to the warehouse when he wanted me. Works for me—it’s easier than taking the bus. When the autocab arrives, I program the autopath and ease back in the seat for the ride. It’s pretty short—Marshall’s territory in the Northwest Suburbs isn’t that big. His warehouse headquarters is an abandoned consignment store with storage in back. It’s not large, but then, it’s not like anyone lives there. And the fifty or so jackers he has in his Clan don’t usually all meet at the same time. For security, he says, but I think he just likes to keep us separate in case we want to conspire against him.
The jacker at the back door knows me and lets me in. There are a lot more people inside than when I left this morning. Which immediately makes me suspicious. And nervous. They’re all mid-twenties guys, muscular, a few with tattoos. There’s one girl in a heavy trench coat, also mid-twenties. They’re like a small mindjacker army, probably two dozen in all, and they’re scattered around the storage area, in clusters of twos and threes, in between the racks of clothing and stacks of furniture left behind when the store closed.
I do my best to play it cool and stride right up to Marshall. He’s talking with a guy almost as big as he is, and I vaguely recognize him as one of Marshall’s right-hand men. I think his name is Jackson. They’re not talking out loud, but they’re obviously having a conversation—which throws my alarm level up another three notches.
Jackers don’t mind-talk unless they’ve got something to hide.
“Hey,” I say, interrupting whatever they’re discussing. I’m hoping I can get in and out of whatever’s going down here as fast as possible. “Marshall, my kid sister needs me back home. How about I come back tomorrow, and we can do whatever you need then?” I throw a quick glance at the other jackers around the room. My arrival hasn’t stirred up too much interest. Then I realize they’re having wordless conversations, too. My heart’s beginning to thud audibly in my ears.
“Have you seen the news, Zeph?” Marshall asks, his face grim.
What? I blink. “Um, no. Been at school all day, then came straight here.” I glance again at the other jackers. A few have handheld screens, obviously watching some tru-cast. “What’s up?”
Marshall and Jackson exchange a glance, and probably a linked thought or two. Sweat starts to break out at the back of my neck.
Marshall folds his arms and stares down at me. He’s trying to intimidate me. Not a good sign. “What did you do to that girl this morning, Zeph?”
“Sarah?” I ask, my throat getting thick. “I told you, I don’t know. I mean, I just locked her, like you asked.” Something’s gone wrong. Really wrong. I glance at the tru-cast-watching members of the Clan. “Why? Did the operation go sideways? Is it on the news or something?”
Marshall frowns. “No, that’s something else.” He shakes his head, frowning at his feet and chewing his lip. I’ve never seen the guy nervous before, not like this. It unnerves me.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
He sighs and lifts his chin to Jackson, who’s been watching us this whole time, holding back. Now Jackson takes off for the front of the storage area, toward the defunct storefront. Marshall grabs my undivided attention by putting a beefy hand on my shoulder. I try not to cringe under his touch.
“Look, Zeph, you’re a good kid,” he says. “But you did something to that girl, and if you know what it is, you need to come clean and tell me right now.”
Holy mother, help me. “I swear, Marshall, I’ve never seen anyone pass out like that. I mean, is she okay now? Did something happen?”
“You could say that.” He sighs. “We sent her on this gig, just a simple corporate job. She was only supposed to jack the guy with the biometric ID, get into where they lock up their codes, tap it, then get out again. The only reason we needed a keeper at all was in case they had a jacker on security somewhere. Our customer didn’t want any possibility of it being tracked back to him.”
“So… did the lock not hold or something?” I’ve never had that happen either, but something was definitely off with Sarah. Maybe her mind field shifted back after a while.
“No, it held.” Marshall scrunches up his face like he’s still trying to figure it out. “Only when she went to jack the guy, she didn’t really jack him. She… did something else. The guy’s mind is scrambled now. He’s in some kind of coma. Sarah kind of lost it, on camera, in the corporate headquarters.”
“Holy crap.” Panic is reaching up and strangling me now.
Marshall nods. “Yeah. It’s a mess, Zeph, and I don’t like cleaning up messes.”
I swallow. “I swear, I don’t know what happened. Maybe if can talk to her, I can figure out what—”
“The FBI got her.”
“What?” My eyes bug out. My outburst attracts attention from the others, so I struggle to rein it in. “Couldn’t you pull her out or something?”
Marshall’s rock-hard look makes me shrink back. I shouldn’t be questioning him, not like that.
“They got to her before we could.” He lets that sink in. Being caught in the Feds’ net is bad. Really bad. Epic, one-way-ticket bad. But I’m not sure if Marshall reaching her first would have actually been better. Either way, I screwed up, and there are all kinds of people paying the price, not least Sarah. Whatever I did somehow scrambled her head on the inside, instead of just locking it up on the outside. And now the Feds have her… I close my eyes and turn half away from Marshall, rubbing my hand across my forehead. I honestly have no idea what went wrong.
And that scares the crap out of me.
“You got something to tell me, Zeph?” Marshall’s voice is hard, like a stone he’s going to break me with if I don’t come up with the right answer.
I suck in a breath and turn back to him. “I honestly wish I knew what happened, Marshall.”
He squints at me, but I think he believes me. Maybe. “Well, whatever you did to Sarah, how about you make sure it doesn’t happen again?”
I nod, a bit too vigorously. Something past my
shoulder catches Marshall’s eye. I twist to see. Jackson’s bringing a kid in from the storefront. A scrawny kid. This kid makes my little sister Olivia look big.
I throw a panicked look to Marshall. “What’s this?”
Marshall’s rock-hard look doesn’t flinch. “This is your next job, Zeph. Don’t screw it up.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. I look back to the kid as Jackson marches him over. I can hardly believe he’s old enough to be a jacker or a reader—most don’t change until at least thirteen or fourteen. It can happen younger, but this kid looks like he’s in elementary school. Twelve at the most. Or he’s really small for his age.
Either way… I’ve never locked, or unlocked, a changeling before, and now… I don’t even know if I can do it right anymore for an adult.
My stomach ties itself in a knot so tight, I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.
Chapter Four
“C’mon man.” I’m pleading Marshall to let me out of this. “He’s just a kid.”
“He’s not just a kid,” Marshall says, his voice as hard as his muscular arms, which are now flexing in agitation. The kid is seated in a chair Jackson brought for him. He’s so scared he’s not even crying, he’s just shaking like a mouse. “He’s part of that Molloy Clan.”
“I thought those guys were all taken by the Feds.”
“They were—except for this one.” Marshall juts his chin to the kid. “And that other one who’s been on every tru-cast for the last hour.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t understand. What’s on the news?”
Marshall grimaces, looks at the kid like he’s got the secrets to the universe trapped inside his head, then lets out a sigh and waves over Jackson, who brings his handheld with him. The screen is small, but it’s easy to see the stylishly dressed tru-cast reporter posing for the camera. Red lines of text scroll across the bottom, her captured mindwaves rendered into words for her mindreading audience. She’s saying something about mindjackers.
Holy… what? Mindjackers are on the news?