"Why do you care which one's my favourite?" Tad’s eyebrows lowered.
I sighed. "It was a simple question. Which book have you reread the most?"
"Flint."
"Thanks." I scooped up the book. It must be very close to curfew by now. "See you tomorrow."
Tad followed me to the door, still scowling. "I will call in the favour, you know."
"I know," I said, as gently as possible. I felt some sympathy for him. I’d known an Augmented boy, Carl, who’d been subjected to prejudice. It had made Carl quiet and soft-spoken; similar treatment appeared to have made Tad surly.
He grunted then shut the door in my face.
I turned to my audience, the visible ones, that is.
Gerry shook his head in disbelief. “I can't believe you got a book out of Tad. Normally, he guards them like gold."
I smiled, but didn't tell him how I'd done it. "Goodnight."
Jazzy watched me from across the hall as I swiped my keycard in the lock. She frowned. “Why are you talking to them? You do know they’re not part of you-know-what?”
“Yes, I do. That’s why I’m talking to them.” Pleased that I’d mystified her, I shut the door, but didn't immediately begin reading my book.
Instead I searched my room—for cameras, not clues. A little tension seeped out of my neck when I didn’t find any. I couldn’t decide which was worse: being locked inside or being under the constant eye of the cameras all day. Both together would be hell.
I took a deep breath. What had I gotten myself in for? Mike had been right to caution me. I’d jumped in with both feet without testing the water again.
Too late. I was committed now.
Speed-reading Flint killed an hour. Then, because I still wasn’t ready to sleep, I read the Rules and Regulations Handbook from cover to cover.
Chapter Eight
MIKE
Late to the party. By the time Mike arrived at the casino, twenty-five of the sixty slots were already claimed.
While Costuming scared up a tuxedo that would both fit him and was neither peacock blue nor tomato red, he’d hung around backstage and studied the HoloTV coverage. It gave him a fair idea how the system worked. The casino games were worth a measly five points a win. They were there mostly as a way for everybody to interact. The real points were voted-in by the viewers. The celebrities milled around the casino, playing a little—usually badly—while yakking to anyone who’d stand still about whatever charity they were supporting. Booths lined the wall where contestants could do rants, check their score or make blatant appeals to the public. Once they received enough votes, lights would flash, their name would be announced, and then they would vanish through a golden doorway, blowing kisses.
It was cheesy, but adrenaline fizzed through Mike’s system as soon as he mounted the stage. Not because he felt nervous, but because, like it or not, he felt challenged. He liked to win. And the prize was sweet: not just the money, but beating Devon.
He just wished Angel were already at his side.
“Gabriel Braive,” the announcer blared over the ring-a-ding of the slot machines. “Co-winner of the Polard Prize three years running, currently ranked ninth by Virtual Gamers.”
The celebs politely applauded. Mike recognized Penny Howenstein from an action movie he and Angel had seen and a football player, Joey Tatsuigi.
Mike smiled nonchalantly, already searching the room.
The TV crew did his work for him. A spotlight appeared on Devon, where she rolled dice at the craps table. She wore a little black dress that would’ve looked hot on Angel, but only emphasized how skinny and young Devon really was. She’d slicked back her hair, and Mike had a sudden revelation: the faked up video of Angel in a flapper dress that Dr. Frank had used to convince Mike that Angel had betrayed him, had actually been a video of Devon.
That was another thing he owed Devon for.
“…his long-time partner, Devon Seawest,” the announcer blathered on. “Watch out for this pair!”
Mike pattered down the steps and into the casino proper. Conversation resumed around him, loud and shrill, but he sensed at least one camera was still following him, ready to capture Gabriel and Devon’s heart-warming reunion.
Her face froze into an expressionless mask, caught between hope and hurt. “Gabriel?”
“Devon. You look like an angel.” Just to be mean, he kissed her hand.
Her eyes widened. That’s right, kiddo, it’s not Gabriel, it’s me. She tried to jerk her hand away, but he was prepared for the move and released it more naturally.
“You’re not—“
Crap. She was going to denounce him. He’d assumed she wouldn’t reveal his true identity because Angel would consider it a private matter, but Devon wasn’t Angel. She’d proved that when she sold him to the hate-crimers.
He interrupted. “I’m not supposed to be here? I wanted to surprise you.” Bending down, he whispered, “Play along for his sake.” He assumed a wounded expression, then said in a normal tone of voice, “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Of course,” she said after a brittle pause. “But are you sure you’re well enough?” She injected worry into her voice.
Making him look like a bad bet in front of the cameras.
“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” Mike said lightly. “Besides, I couldn’t let you go off without a partner. Didn’t I promise I’d always stand behind you?” Because if you stood behind me, you’d stab me in the back.
Her turn to lean close and whisper, “If you hurt him, I’ll disembowel you.”
Mike blinked, then rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t threatening him. I meant if Nations Against thinks I’m Gabriel, they won’t be looking for him elsewhere. You ought to thank me.”
Her lips thinned in a grimace.
He lifted his voice. “So what’s our plan?”
He smiled while she snarled at this assumption of partnership. That’s right, I’m going to be stuck to you like a burr.
He dogged her for twenty minutes while she flitted from slot machine to poker game. Every time the lights flashed and another name was called, her shoulders tensed. Finally, she resorted to the direct approach. “We should scout out the competition. We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”
They were both sitting at about 50 points each, only halfway to goal. They had some time yet, so Mike nodded. He’d spotted someone earlier who he wanted to track down anyway.
He grabbed a fizzy blue drink from a passing waiter, then approached the brunette in a red-sequined dress. Though her brown hair was swept up into a twist instead of a ponytail the way it had been during that long-ago badminton tournament, it was definitely her: same fox face, pointy chin and up-tilted eyebrows. He stuck out his hand. “Hello. Not sure if we’ve been introduced before. I’m Gabriel Braive.”
Her violet eyes met his. Her startlement lasted only an eyeblink. “I don’t think we have,” she lied. “I’m Leona Weiss, and this is my brother Vincent.”
AKA Codename Leonardo da Vinci.
Mike duly shook hands with Vincent, too. Vincent squeezed a little too hard. Ungrateful sod. Mike and Angel had once saved him from drowning at the hands of Dr. Frankenstein. Unless Vincent hadn’t clued in yet that he was Mike, not Gabriel. Leona knew, but she’d always seemed the sharper of the pair to him.
“So you’re a marine biologist, right?” Mike had a vague idea that Leona had achieved celebrity status via several spectacular publicity stunts to raise awareness of the plight of some sea mammal. Not dolphins or whales. Walruses? Dugongs? Angel would have known which one. She paid attention to stuff like that.
“That’s right,” Leona confirmed. “We may seem a little fish-out-of-water at this kind of competition, but trust me, funding fights can get very cutthroat. I’ve heard of Gabriel Braive’s reputation, of course,” Leona said, eyes avaricious. “If you’re planning to team up, look no further.”
Her offer surprised him and Vincent both. “Leona, we just met the guy,�
� Vincent protested. “He doesn’t care about the plight of the manatee.”
“I have nothing against manatees, but I already have a partner,” Mike said easily. “Devon Seawest.”
“She’s welcome to join us, too.” Leona whispered in his ear, too low for the microphones to pick up, “Tell her it’s time to stop fighting for others and start fighting for ourselves.”
Mike sipped his drink—it tasted like a popsicle—and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
Leona inched closer, her voice low and breathy. “The prize money can buy more than pretty baubles. Land. Property. We can have our own island.” Raising her voice, she talked up various environmental plans, including a patent for cleaning sea-water that was pending, while Mike pondered the subtext of that ‘we’.
He imagined an island country where the citizens all had violet eyes. Just how many Homo sapiens renascentia were there wandering around? Not enough for that, even with clones.
“I can understand the desire for autonomy,” Mike said carefully, “but I’m not ready to exile myself yet.” Nor, he felt confident, was Angel. Devon could fend for herself.
“Islands are surrounded by water. They can be very remote and hard to get to. I’d think that would appeal to someone still… recuperating.”
Mike smirked. “Like an endangered species preserve?”
Leona’s eyes flashed. “You think the humans have learned their lesson from the Blight? They’ve proved their short-sightedness by what they’ve done to the oceans since then. Do you know what Kenneth Jones and his ilk want to do? Put up a resort slash aquarium with a fake coral reef since the other ones are almost all dead. As if that will ‘save’ anything.” She leaned closer. “They’ll never leave us alone. They hate us because they’re less than we are.”
Mike’s conscience twinged. He’d donned Gabriel Braive’s identity like a coat and used it to goad Devon, while avoiding thinking about the real Gabriel, who lay even now in a coma. Sixteen years old and his life was over already because of some sickos.
No, dammit. He wasn’t going to get sucked into his clone’s problems. He and Angel looked out for each other. That was enough.
“Excuse me,” he said to Leona.
He cast about for Devon, but didn’t spot her until the viewscreen over one of the corner confession booths caught his eye. The audio was muted, but he could see Devon acting teary-eyed for the cameras.
The sight set off his inner alarms. Grimly, he wove through the crowd toward the booth, but he didn’t make it in time.
Lights flashed. The golden doorway lit up. “Devon Seawest!” the announcer declared.
As she exited the booth, they came face-to-face. She feigned sadness. “I’m sorry, Gabriel.” Then, shoulders hunched, almost running, she hurried through the golden door.
Mike swallowed a swear word and unclenched his fists. She may have given him the slip, but the game wasn’t over yet. He checked the score board.
Sure enough, his numbers had dropped down to 39. Whatever Devon had said had made people vote him negative numbers. She’d left him a huge deficit to climb out of.
Worse, only nine slots remained. Underneath their makeup and dazzling smiles, the celebs were starting to look desperate.
Perhaps he could try for the bonus Most Hated/Villain slot? But, no, there were two players at 7 and 5 points respectively that had him well beat.
Nor did he have a charity to sob story about.
No hope for it; he’d have to do a direct appeal to the audience. He stood in line for the confession booth. More slots were claimed.
While the voluptuous celebrity cook ahead of him rambled on about the decadent chocolates she intended to mail ‘her loyal fans’ and incidentally plugged her newest cookbook, Mike pondered his options.
He could come clean. Tell the audience he was there to help Angel save Maryanne—but then he’d have to confess to impersonating his poor coma-clone. He could claim to be part of Leona and Vincent’s team—their numbers were in the low nineties—but if Vincent denied him, he’d be dead in the water.
His turn. Mike closed the blue curtains, perched on the little stool and faced the camera, unsmiling.
Forget airing his dirty laundry for the rest of the world to sniff. He’d keep playing the role—and spike Devon’s guns.
“I’m Gabriel Braive,” he said. “Devon Seawest is my partner. I’m guessing she told you that I’m too weak to be out of bed.” He held out his hand palm down to demonstrate its steadiness. “As you can see, I’m recovered. Let me tell you the true reason, she’s so eager to ditch me.” He leaned forward as if confiding a secret. “She’s running scared. You see, although I wasn’t injured that badly in the accident, I could’ve been. I could’ve been killed.”
He let his eyes become unfocussed and took care not to rush his lines as if unaware that another slot had just been filled. “Nearly dying changes a person. The experience frightened Devon because she almost lost the person she cares the most about. Me. She wants things to go back to the way they were before. Nearly dying had the opposite effect on me. It made me face the fact that I have feelings for her, that I want to be more than partners.”
It was working. His numbers were climbing, 64 then 72, but Mike pretended he couldn’t see them, concentrating on the camera.
“I don’t want money or fame. I want—” Angel, he almost said. Watch yourself. “I want to be there for Devon. To watch her back during the competition, to make her look at me anew and see me, really see me.” How long did he need to drag this out? His numbers settled on 87. Too low. Dammit, he hated losing.
Flash. “Leona and Vincent Weiss.”
Only three slots left now. Time for a desperation move.
“I need to ask her a question.”
He took out the jewellery box he’d been carrying around, flipped it open and displayed up the amethyst ring—Angel’s ring—to the camera.
His numbers hit the roof. 95, 99, 107, 120. He’d beat Devon and survived the Cull, but his elation quickly soured as he got to his feet. His stomach churned, and he tasted bile. What had he done? He’d all but proposed to Angel’s clone on live TV.
Chapter Nine
ANGEL
Woop. Woop. Woop.
I yanked my door open, only to find Gerry standing in the hall, hand raised to knock. Ms. Rodriguez’s ‘someone’ obviously.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
“The alarm?” he said casually. “Just ignore it. Some newbie either crossed the perimeter or tried to take off his bracelet. The fire alarm is one unbroken klaxon.” He smiled appreciatively at me, despite our matching horrible blue jumpsuits. “Ready to go?”
“Ready.” I kept my own smile set on Friendly.
Fortunately, Gerry seemed just as happy to flirt with Jazzy when we collected her. I guessed that new faces, especially pretty girls, were a novelty.
Jazzy had managed to make her jumpsuit actually look stylish by accessorizing it with a white belt, turning up the collar and unbuttoning it enough to show a white camisole underneath. Plus, blue was a great colour on her. Her expression on the other hand was decidedly grumpy.
When Sahan joined us, he yawned and bags showed under his eyes. I’d bet money the two of them spent hours separately searching their rooms for ‘clues’.
“Late night?” I asked.
Sahan nodded, his expression rueful.
Jazzy’s chin lifted. “Productive night.”
I said nothing, but was skeptical that the NextStep designers would put clues in rooms without camera coverage.
Gerry looked at the three of us, puzzled. “Really? Evenings tend to be pretty dull around here.”
“Really.” Jazzy sailed into the cafeteria two steps ahead of us.
Gerry waggled his red eyebrows, silently asking if I knew what she meant. I shrugged, feigning ignorance.
Breakfast was self-serve. The cafeteria had a large selection of muffins, but the only remaining pastries were squished and sad-loo
king. A loaf of bread and a toaster sat on one counter, along with various pre-packaged spreads. Juice and milk were available in a little fridge. No bacon and eggs or hot waffles here.
“So how’d you end up here? If it’s not too rude to ask,” I said while we shuffled down the line.
“I got into college on a basketball scholarship. We were two wins away from making the playoffs when I trashed my knee and flunked out.” His tone was philosophical. He grabbed the squished pastry, a muffin, an apple and a juice box and put them on his tray.
“Ooh, ouch.” I winced in sympathy. I selected two muffins and a chocolate milk.
Jazzy sniffed at our gluttony, settling for a banana and coffee. Sahan made toast.
I watched Gerry scan his breakfast into a little machine and recite his name. "Gerry Schliff."
A dollar amount appeared on the screen, and I almost choked. The food wasn’t free? New York was adding it to his daily debt? Were we paying room and board for living in a prison, too?
How monstrously unfair.
Indoor labour got their own segregated dining section—apparently there was some resentment in the regular prison population towards the Under Twenties special status. Gerry waved to a couple of people, but selected an empty table for us to sit at. I noticed that Jazzy picked the chair closest to the other sections, probably hoping to listen in to any clue discussions.
I unwrapped my muffin. It was fresh and moist. At least New York didn’t starve detainees.
“So how long before you earn off your debt?” I asked Gerry.
He grimaced. “Two years. How about you?”
I kept my own false history vague, describing the debt as “a mistake” and hinting that I hoped to receive an inheritance and get sprung soon.
I turned to Sahan. “What about you?”
He gamely trotted out his cover story. “My mother wanted me to be a lawyer. I wanted to be an artist. I thought if I failed law school, she would pay for me to switch faculties.” He shrugged. “Apparently, I was wrong.”
Angel Eyes Page 9
