“You think I’d be happier working for you to Save the World, right?” He gave the phrase capitals.
“You wouldn’t have to work for Ultraviolet,” Catherine said quickly. “We have many connections. We can get you a job in virtually any field that interests you: medicine, biochemistry, physics, you name it.”
“Brain jobs,” Mike said dismissively. Hatcher had made virtually the same offer. “I like physical work. Sitting in an office or being hunched over a lab wouldn’t suit me.”
“Ah,” Catherine said, “I hadn’t considered that. Perhaps something with a balance of mental challenges and physical activities?”
“Like bodyguarding?” Mike growled. Angel thought she’d found the perfect mix. Outsmart the bad guys and run them into the ground.
“Bodyguarding? That seems a little … thuggish. And dangerous. A waste of your talents,” Catherine said firmly. By which she probably meant it wasn’t saving the world.
Mike disagreed. Angel was still in the saving the world business; she just wanted to do it one person at a time. He, however, had never been that altruistic.
Which was one of the reasons she was too good for him.
“I’m not interested in bodyguarding,” he said firmly. “I like baseball.”
Catherine squeezed his shoulder. “In that case, I’ll just be happy that you’ve found your passion.”
Mike grunted non-committally. Angel's voice sounded in his memory. "If you loved baseball, I would support you one hundred percent. But you don't. I've seen your face. It's a job to you, not a passion."
So what if it wasn’t his passion? He enjoyed it, and it would make him money. Once he had that, he could do whatever he wanted.
One thing he knew for sure, he wanted to be his own boss, not some poor scientist dweeb at the mercy of government funding. Angel had gotten that part right.
Desperate for an excuse to stop talking about careers, he pretended to be absorbed in the Golden Ticket Event. Maybe he’d catch a glimpse of Angel.
He ached to be with her. Tonight, he told himself, fingering the ring box in his pocket. They’d fly home, have a nice dinner, and things would return to normal. Only, hopefully, without the bickering-over-their-careers bits.
He watched in silence as a reporter in a skin-tight lime-green jumpsuit interviewed first a B-list actor, then a golfer who blathered on about the charity he would donate to if he won. Then Mike glimpsed Devon move past in the background.
The interviewer abandoned the golfer like day-old dog food and moved in on her. “Devon Seawest?”
She turned reluctantly. Her pupils and irises were all black, as were her clothes. Was she aiming for cat burglar or Tragedy Queen? Mike sneered inwardly while frantically texting Angel.
“Are you here representing New York?”
“No.” Devon tried to edge past, but Lime-green blocked her.
“No one expected you to show up today. Isn’t your partner still in hospital? What’s his condition? Rumours are he’s in a coma.” So how callous is it of you to be here, instead, ran the subtext.
Devon’s chin lifted. “Rumour has it wrong. Gabriel is much better. Excuse me.”
Angel swooped in before she could leave. “Sis!” Mike watched their performance, wincing when Devon gave Angel the slip and marched into the venue.
Catherine frowned, puzzled. “What’s wrong with the reporter?”
Mike didn’t answer, and when Angel called he moved into the next room for privacy. On the six-inch palmtop screen, her face looked tight and worried.
“What should I do?”
“We could let the police handle Devon,” Mike suggested.
Reluctant silence followed. It wasn’t in Angel to quit. Truthfully, it didn’t feel right to him either. “We can devise a trap for when she exits the contest,” he said.
“I wish I knew what she was up to,” Angel fretted.
“Maybe she just wants the money.” Five million was certainly enough to tempt him.
But Angel shook her head. “If that was all she wanted, she wouldn’t have needed the extra ticket.”
“What extra ticket?”
He listened as Angel explained the differences between Blank tickets and By Invitation tickets. “Okay, so obviously, she must’ve given the Blank ticket to somebody else. The question is who?”
“Whatever her scam is, it has nothing to do with us,” Mike pointed out. He had a bad feeling about where this was headed.
Angel made a face. “The double connection to Maryanne bothers me. What if she’s planning another kidnapping?”
“Alert Kenneth Jones’ security. You’re not responsible for Maryanne,” he reminded her. Mike resisted the urge to say something scathing about Angel’s career.
Angel shook her head. “I might not be her bodyguard right now, but I’m still her friend.”
And that was it. Angel’s famous loyalty had just kicked in. “You’re going in,” Mike said it as a statement, trying not to show how much the thought upset him.
She grimaced. “Sorry. I have to.”
Even knowing it was useless, he kept arguing with her. “You haven’t thought it through. Devon probably sold the extra ticket to the hate-crimers. Don’t go in.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Ha.” Angel didn’t know the meaning of the word. Not that he didn’t trust her to get out of scrapes—no one was more capable than Angel—it was just.…
“If you’re going, then I am, too.” The words came out unplanned, but they felt right. Sitting on the sidelines was not his style.
“But you don’t have a ticket.”
“If Devon Seawest received a By Invitation ticket, then chances are Gabriel Braive did, too. They’ll recognize my face and let me in.”
He braced himself for further argument, but Angel smiled, looking both beautiful and fierce. “We’ll double-team her. She won’t know what hit her.” Angel glanced away. “Better hurry. The lines are dwindling fast. See you soon.” Her face vanished from the display.
Buoyant with relief—Angel wanted his help; they were still a team—Mike returned to the conference/TV room and Catherine. “Change of plan. I’m going to enter the Golden Ticket Event.”
Catherine blinked. “What about tomorrow’s game? It’s almost playoff season.” She quoted his own argument back at him.
He’d forgotten about the game. But Angel had been right about baseball just being a job to him, because Mike didn’t hesitate. “Screw it. This is more important.”
*ANGEL*
“So where are the By Invitations?” I asked casually, when I at last reached the front of the line. All but the last airbus had already taken off. “Are they travelling first class?”
The flamboyant Tiger Lady had led away the By Invitations, leaving us Blanks to the mercies of a prim-looking brunette in a navy-blue skirt suit.
“Oh, no,” Skirt Suit said, scanning my identicard. “They’re staying here for tonight’s casino.”
I balked. “What casino?”
“Many of the celebrities have other commitments, so their culling process has been streamlined,” Skirt Suit said blithely. “They have one night to prove themselves. You’ll have three days,” she said encouragingly, as if more time were a selling point.
My heart sank. Three days until I saw Mike again, or had a chance to stop Devon.
Trapped, I boarded the airbus.
It got worse.
After the deafening takeoff settled down to the steady roar of flight, Skirt suit confided our destination: a New York prison.
I waited for the other Blanks to howl in protest, but only heard a speculative murmur.
“Yes, a real prison.” Skirt Suit looked smug. “The facility is for debtors who defaulted on a government loan. They are considered high-flight-risk, but non-violent. You’ll all be treated as new detainees. The Culling will take three days.”
I listened in disbelief. “So let me get this straight: while the By Invitation crowd swans off
to a casino, we Blanks are being flown to prison, where we’ll be expected to provide free labour?”
“If you want to get off this bus, just let me know,” Skirt Suit said sweetly.
Only, of course, I wasn’t willing to do that. Desire for revenge on Devon, pride, and anxiety for Maryanne left me with no choice but to stay the course. I stewed in silence.
She smirked. “Any other questions?”
Up in the front seat, Braids raised her hand. “How do we win the scenario? I mean, do we have to solve a puzzle, or find a treasure or escape?”
“That’s for you to figure out. Your actions will either win or lose your points. When you earn enough points, you’ll be pulled from the scenario. There is both a time limit and a limited number of slots.”
If determination had been a smell, the airbus would have stunk of it.
“I can’t tell you how to earn points, but I can tell you some ways to lose them. You must stay in character. You can discuss the contest with one another, but not with staff or other detainees. The staff know you’re contestants, but will not give you any special treatment. As far as the prison population is concerned, you’re all new detainees picked up after a crack-down on non-repayment of debt. I advise you to make up an appropriate cover story regarding your particular debt and circumstances.
“A word of warning: New York is allowing us to use their facility. If you damage the building or its staff, you will do more than lose points, you will be brought up on criminal charges.” She stared at them sternly like an elementary school teacher warning kids to behave on a field trip.
“One last thing: Be aware that your every move, outside of bathrooms and bedrooms, will be televised. Before you’re allowed into the scenario, you’ll need to sign a waiver.” She told us where to download the form.
I hesitated before signing mine. More and more this was reminding me—unpleasantly—of the way the scientists had observed me growing up in the 1980’s Historical Immersion. Like some kind of horrid zoo.
It’s just for a few days. I forced myself to think of Devon using Knockout on Mike, of Maryanne, so lonely and vulnerable. I signed.
None of the other Blanks showed the slightest qualm. They all signed. Crazy treasure hunters.
My seatmate, a too-thin thirtyish man, began to squirm around and search his seat cushions.
The other ticket-winners peppered the guide with more questions, all on the same variant: How do we avoid being Culled? Can you give us any clues?
She always gave the same answer. “You figure it out.” Pretty soon she lost patience and abandoned us for the cockpit.
I wished I could do the same. The bus occupants immediately began to debate the best tactic to win the scenario, rapidly evolving into two factions.
“It’s a prison,” one faction held, “Obviously our task is to escape.”
“No way. Clues will be hidden in the scenario. They’ll tell us how to win,” the other faction argued.
My seatmate straightened suddenly. He tried to hide it, but he’d obviously found something. I couldn’t resist peeking and glimpsed a toy ruby ring like the kind that I used to receive at the dentist’s office as a reward for a good checkup.
My competitive spirit bubbled up. I shifted restlessly, wondering if I shouldn’t be searching my own seat cushions. Then I saw the airbus camera, scanning back and forth.
My hands tightened into fists. The camera was overt, not hidden like the ones the scientists had used to spy on me, but I still wanted to smash it.
It made me feel dirty. Unclean.
Coldly, I decided that I wasn’t going to scrabble in the muck for the audiences’ amusement. Or backbite or snipe or cheat. I’d win the scenario my own way.
The airbus landed in front of a square brick building; it was five stories high and a sullen brown. The sign on the front said A.V. Humphrey Government Building in silver letters.
An electrified fence gave it that charming prison look.
Our group was separated into indoor and outdoor labour, with indoor being anyone with a physical disability or, for legal reasons, anyone under twenty. Like me.
After that we were processed like real prisoners. I felt a pang when my palmtop, my connection to Mike, was taken away. In return we received alarm bracelets that would flash and shriek if we left the property.
"I don't know," I said, studying mine, "does it come in purple? I'm partial to violet."
Braids, whose name turned out to be Jazzy, rolled her eyes, but the prison warden, Ms. Rodriguez, smiled. "I'm afraid not. It's already after nine, so I'll just show you to your quarters tonight. You can have the full tour tomorrow. HFR's—high flight risks—like you are restricted to your rooms after 9:30 pm." The two of us, plus a quiet brown-skinned boy named Sahan, were the only indoor labour contestants. Sahan had a handsome face with intelligent brown eyes, but a slight, almost delicate build. Jazzy had three inches of height on him.
“What kind of work will we be expected to do?” Jazzy asked.
“Data entry. Handwritten records from decades past that were never entered into computers.”
Sounded like make-work to me. "What time do we start?" I asked.
"Eight-thirty. Breakfast is served starting at six. All the information is in the Rules and Regulations handbook you’ll find in your room. I strongly suggest you read it tonight.” From her resigned expression she always offered the same advice, but had few takers. “I'll ask someone to knock on your doors tomorrow morning and show you the cafeteria."
Ms. Rodriguez trustingly led the way up two flights of steps and down a hall. Good thing neither Jazzy, Sahan nor I belonged to the ‘escape’ faction because it would have been dead easy to jump her. When she reached a black door numbered 67, she produced a keycard and unlocked it. “Angel, this is your room.”
The inside was clean but sparsely furnished with just a bed, a desk and a chair. “Your uniforms are in the closet. Here.” She handed me a second keycard.
I took it dubiously. "How many other people have keys?"
"Staff have overrides, but they are only allowed to enter your room under special circumstances."
So really, the lock was only effective against other detainees.
The place felt more and more like a prison every minute. "Super."
She herded Jazzy and Sahan away, leaving me alone.
For lack of anything better to do, I sat down on the bed. Two seconds later I bounced right back up. There was absolutely nothing to do in the room, and I would go nuts staring at the walls until bed time.
I still had a little time before curfew. I pocketed my keycard and ventured out into the hallway. I picked a door at random, number 68, and knocked.
I smiled at the tall redheaded boy who opened the door. "Hello, I'm Angel. Do you have a book I can borrow?"
"Hi, I’m Gerry." He had a large raw-boned face that made me think of a horse, with a smattering of freckles. “New detainee?”
I nodded.
"As for a book..." He shook his head. "I'm a puzzle freak myself. I just started a 2000 piece jigsaw of Times Square on New Year’s Eve."
I wasn’t going to be here long enough to do a 2000 piece puzzle. "Got anything smaller?"
"Sorry. If you want books try Tad in 63." He glanced at his watch. "Curfew’s in five minutes, better hurry."
"See you tomorrow then." I walked up to door 63—at least I assumed it was 63. The numbers had been pried off, but if they followed in sequence, this should be it. As I raised my hand to knock I became aware that Gerry was leaning on his doorjamb watching me.
This was a test. Or an initiation.
I knocked.
No answer.
"Hello?" I knocked again, hard enough to redden my knuckles.
No answer.
Was that the joke? Was the room unoccupied? Or was the test to get Tad to open the door?
I took a deep breath and began to belt out the most syrupy love ballad I could remember, at full diva volume. The door sp
rang open before I even finished the chorus.
In fact at least three other doors opened, including Jazzy’s, but I kept my eyes trained on 63.
"Stop it!" Tad turned out to be over six feet tall and husky. His brown hair hung in shaggy locks over his eyes and a thunderous scowl darkened his round face—painted green he would have made a much more convincing Frankenstein's monster than I had.
I smiled up at him. "Hi, I'm Angel. I know we haven't met, but I'd like to borrow a book." Aware of time ticking down, I ducked under his arm into his room without waiting for permission.
The basic design was the same as mine, but Tad had personalized it by stapling dark curtains to the windows. That and the smell of unwashed socks made it unpleasantly like stepping into a cave.
"Hey!"
I ignored both Tad and the laundry piles on the floor and made a beeline for the cardboard box bookshelf by the window.
"Who said I’d lend you a book?" Tad screwed up his eyes.
"You can't read them all at once, so why not lend me one?" I asked reasonably.
He crossed his arms. "Because I don't want to."
"Fair enough," I said, still reasonable. "So what do you want? Negotiate."
Tad frowned, forehead bulging. "What?"
"Negotiate. Tell me what I can do that would make you willing to lend me a book—and don't be gross," I warned. "This is a book we're talking about, not a kidney."
Tad shut his mouth on what would probably have been a very crude suggestion.
"You think about it." I crouched down to browse his collection—all Westerns by the same author, Louis L’Amour. They were actual physical books, rare these days, but it made sense in a prison where palmtops had been confiscated.
"Maybe nothing could make me want to help you," Tad said, his expression sullen.
"How about I just owe you a favour then?" I suggested.
"Like what?" Suspiciously.
Tad probably X-rayed all his Christmas presents in case they were bombs. I kept my face and voice pleasant. "I haven't been here long enough to know what. An extra dessert. A game of chess. Part of your workload. You can decide what the favour is tomorrow. Deal?"
His eyes narrowed. "Deal."
Tad's huge hand squeezed my own with carefully judged strength. Was he Augmented? Asking would be rude, so I kept my voice brisk. "Great. Now, quick, which one's your favourite?"
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