Angel Eyes

by Nicole Luiken

  “Of course there’s no dirt. I forgot Angel's perfect." Devon's onyx eyes flashed. "All my life I've been compared to her. I'm the copy so everyone thinks I'm not as good, but you know what? I'm better."

  "Oh, really?" Mike crossed his arms.

  "Yes," Devon hissed. "For years I beat her in school. Now she claims that she got bad marks on purpose, as if that was somehow harder. Maybe she could have done better, but she still wouldn't have beaten me, I guarantee it." Devon glared at Mike.

  Mike thought of the way Angel had outsmarted her own Loyalty chip and doubted it. "Take a look at her college marks."

  "I have." Devon tossed her hair. "She's in the top five percent of her class, but not once has she been ranked first."

  "That's called discretion." Mike rolled his eyes. "She doesn't want to attract the wrong kind of attention by showing off."

  "Or she's not smart enough. Look how she’s screwing this up.” Devon gestured to the HoloTV where two Culls were hotly arguing against the unfairness of detainees who hadn’t ‘earned’ a golden ticket being giving a chance to participate in the NextStep Immersion.

  On the bottom of the screen a Poll ran on the issue. 75% of viewers had voted to give Angel’s plan a chance. A ruling hadn’t come down yet, but Mike would bet that whoever made the decision would go with whatever sent the ratings higher.

  “Angel’s building her team,” Mike defended her.

  “Why does she need a team? I thought she had you,” Devon shot back.

  That one stung.

  “As for her ‘team’," she said, "they’re a bunch of losers, or they wouldn’t be detainees in the first place.”

  It disturbed Mike to find himself privately agreeing with Devon. If Angel were here, he would’ve made the same point. Since she wasn’t, he spoke for her. “Misfits, maybe, not losers. One of the things Angel is good at is welding people together. She inspires loyalty.”

  Mike knew that his best talent was charm. He’d become very good at it, moving from town to town every two years amongst the changing populations of the 1980s Historical Immersions. People liked him, which had let him manipulate situations to his advantage, but Angel genuinely liked people and that made a difference.

  Devon appeared to be more like him. Which bugged him.

  “I bet you, Angel and her ragtag team finish in the top five,” he said.

  “Top five?” Devon scoffed. “She’ll be lucky not to Game Over in the first hour. If NextStep is anything like VR, the scenarios will be very difficult and challenging. They take training. You can't just walk into one and expect to win."

  "Oh, I expect Angel's up to it." Mike scarfed some vegetable chips. They looked like potpourri, but they tasted okay.

  "She's going to lose," Devon fumed.

  "To who? You?" Mike scoffed.

  "Gabriel and I won five Virtuoso championships for New York," Devon bit out. “He—” She broke off.

  Just where was Gabriel? Mike suddenly wondered. A regular hospital wouldn’t have enough security. Did Catherine have him stashed away on a different level of the building? “He’s not here to help you this time,” Mike said bluntly.

  Devon blinked, black eyes brimming tears. Mike felt a small stab of guilt, but her next words cured him.

  “Angel may be able to beat out some lame-o celebrities, but the true gamers will beat the pants off her. And you.”

  Mike leaned forward. “The ‘true gamers’, not yourself?”

  She opened her mouth, caught.

  “Admit it. Whatever your reasons for participating in the NextStep, it’s not anything as simple as winning the prize.”

  She looked away, an admission.

  “So why are you doing all this?” Mike waved a hand. “If you wanted money you’d be chasing the Grand Prize. Why did you sell me out? Why did you get Angel arrested? Is it just some jealous need to be the best? Are you that immature?”

  The goad almost worked. He almost pushed her into defending herself.

  Pink stained her cheeks. She started to say something, then stopped. Her head came up, and she glared at him. “That’s right. You nailed it. I’m a jealous, immature brat.”

  With unfortunate timing, Catherine chose that moment to return with a pitcher of iced tea. Lemon slices floated inside. “Did I miss anything?” she asked, indicating the HoloTV.

  “No,” Mike said, settling back in his chair. Devon excused herself, but he forced himself to sip iced tea and watch HoloTV with Catherine. The coverage had moved on to cover five contestants who’d disqualified themselves, then showed the scoreboard. Angel’s team was now listed, making the ruling official, but were still well shy of the points needed to make the Cull.

  He just hoped Angel knew what she was doing.

  *ANGEL*

  The bounce in my step lasted until I entered the cafeteria in search of yummy iced pastries and found a new contestant instead. Someone with sun-streaked brown hair and a too-pretty face. Jordan.

  Crap.

  He sat with his bandage-wrapped ankle propped up on a chair while Jazzy and Em fluttered around him. Sahan hovered nearby with his tray, unable to hide his dismay.

  Don’t worry, I told him mentally. Jazzy’s not rich enough for Jordan’s blood.

  My mind filled in the blanks behind Jordan’s sudden reappearance. Maryanne must have arranged for Jordan to receive a golden ticket. Only at age twenty, he’d been assigned to the outdoor work crews, until his ankle injury caused him to be reassigned to data entry.

  Needing time to think, I dawdled at the buffet, finally selecting a cinnamon bun and a container of chocolate milk. How should I play this? Pretend I didn’t know him, act casual, or skip straight to the hostilities?

  I’d tolerated Jordan because of Maryanne’s crush on him, but I wasn’t being paid to put up with him anymore. On the other hand, as tempting as a snipefest was, I needed to remain aware of our hidden audience. Which meant waiting for him to be rude first.

  Shouldn’t take long.

  Jordan did a double take when I set down my tray beside Em. “Well, well, if it isn’t Frumpy Angela.”

  No, this wouldn’t take long at all. I avoided looking at Em. “Hello, Jordan.” Just a little more rope.

  “Is that for me? How thoughtful.” He stretched his hand towards my cinnamon bun.

  I moved it out of his reach. “Get your own. Oh, wait, this was the last one. Sorry.” My voice was patently insincere. Dismissing Jordan, I turned to Ron and Gerry. “Push your table over and join us.”

  Jordan drew a line through the cream cheese icing on my cinnamon bun. “Now it’s mine.” He licked off his finger and smirked.

  “Jordan, Jordan, Jordan.” I shook my head in mock sadness. “Giving people germs isn’t the best way to make girls like you.”

  He flushed. “You think I like you? Frumpy Angela? Please.”

  Except I no longer looked frumpy, and he was sitting at a table with my friends. The boys looked angry on my behalf. Even Jazzy curled her lip.

  Em’s skin washed milk-pale, her hands clenched in distress on her plastic spoon. “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it,” she said quietly.

  Did she think Jordan had been flirting with me? Was she mad at me? I silently pushed my plate over to her.

  She cut it with a knife, placed half on her empty plate, then handed the other half to Jordan with a weak smile.

  Too kind for her own good. I sighed mentally. “Hey, I said I’d share with you, not with him. Give me that back.” So I ate the cinnamon bun, after all, though I made a point of scraping off the icing first.

  Looking like he’d swallowed a lemon, Jordan excused himself and limped out of the cafeteria.

  He did have germs, I decided fifteen minutes later, in the bathroom. My stomach rolled queasily. Bad Jordan. I ignored the logical portion of my brain that told me that even if Jordan were contagious, no virus acted this quickly.

  I stared at my wan reflection, my expression hardening with determination. I refused to g
et sick until this contest was over—

  My stomach lurched again. I barely made it to the toilet on time.

  After vomiting and rinsing out my mouth, I felt much better. Well enough to work, which was good, because I had quotas to fill and a truckload of points to earn today.

  I slid into my cubicle two minutes late and furiously began to type as Mr. Pinchot left his office and headed down the aisle. “Sorry,” I called out, in an effort to fend him off.

  It didn’t work, of course. He spent the next ten minutes lecturing me.

  I nodded occasionally and typed, but most of my mind was focused on how best to score votes on such a blah morning. A speed contest, maybe? I’d just rejected the idea as too predictable, when something Mr. Pinchot said penetrated.

  “—setting a bad example. When Emily shows up, she will be fined a half day’s work.“

  I stopped typing. Glanced to the side. Em’s cubicle was empty.

  My heart jammed my throat, my instincts shrieking. “Is anyone else missing? Is Jordan here?” I stood up so I could see better.

  Mr. Pinchot frowned. “Jordan Isaacs? He’s in my office awaiting his orientation. Why?”

  “Is anyone else not on the floor?” I fought to keep from shouting.

  He pressed his lips together before deigning to answer. “No. Just Emily.”

  My mind raced, compiling data: Jordan’s appearance. The cinnamon bun. My sudden illness.

  I’d been poisoned. I knew it was true, even knew why Jordan had done it, but I knew I’d never convince Mr. Pinchot. Not in time.

  “I need to check on Emily. I think she may be ill.” Poisoned, my mind howled. I hadn’t been fatally affected, but I’d scraped off the icing and my enhanced metabolism might have helped induce enough nausea that I vomited up the poison. If Em hadn’t, if the poison had passed into her blood—

  Mr. Pinchot sniffed. “If Emily is ill, there are procedures to be followed. She must first report her illness and then visit the in-house physician. She’s shirking, and so are you, Ms. Eastland. Sit down, or I’ll put you on report.”

  I came within inches of physically shoving him aside—but if I did he’d call security. Em’s room was too far away; I wouldn’t make it before they tackled me.

  I sat down, legs trembling with adrenaline, and typed. One name, two—

  Mr. Pinchot humphed in satisfaction and turned away.

  The second he shut the door to his office, I whipped out my stapler and banged a staple into my palm. The metal prongs bit down and blood welled. I shot out of my seat, holding my bleeding palm ahead of me like an icebreaker. “Medical emergency!”

  During orientation, Ms. Rodriguez had pointed out the first aid station. I sprinted down the aisle, snatched up the kit— and continued up the stairs.

  Unfortunately, I had to pass right by Mr. Pinchot’s office. “What are you doing?” he demanded, standing in the doorway.

  I blew past him, up another flight. Seven steps to the landing…

  “Security!” Mr. Pinchot shouted behind me.

  Seven more steps. Down the blue-carpeted hall, around the corner, counting down the doors… There. That one was Em’s.

  “Halt!” a security guard bellowed from the end of the hall. I ignored him.

  I tried the knob first. Wouldn’t turn. Shouted, “Move away from the door!” and prayed Em wasn’t lying unconscious just behind it. Raised my foot. Kicked as Anaximander had trained me.

  The door crashed open, rebounding off the wall.

  Footsteps thundered down the hall as I disappeared inside Em’s room, the busted door swinging partly shut behind me.

  I found Em curled up on the bathroom floor, clutching her stomach. Her plump face was red, her blonde hair in sweaty disarray. Her breathing had a hitch, but her throat didn’t seem swollen. Her silver choker hung loose. I touched her arm. “It’s okay, Em. I’m here.”

  The security guard swore, lowering his weapon. “What’s wrong with her?” Concern showed on his beefy face.

  “Call an ambulance,” I said, opening the first aid kit. “She’s been poisoned.”

  “Food poisoning?”

  “Not exactly.” I stuck the thermo-dot to Em’s forehead. It immediately turned red, indicating fever. The sensor-dot I applied to her pulse stayed reassuringly green.

  The guard murmured into his communicator, then told me, “Ambulance is on the way.”

  I nudged Em to get her attention. “Did you throw up?”

  Em shook her head, a tiny movement. Misery etched her face, and she moaned.

  “I need an emetic,” I told the computerized first aid kit. The third tray began to flash. I opened it and pulled out a pill tab from the high-lighted compartment.

  “Dissolve under tongue,” the first aid kit instructed.

  “Maybe you should wait for the ambulance,” the security guard said uneasily.

  The sensor-dot on Em’s wrist turned orange, her pulse growing erratic.

  “No time,” I said tersely.

  Em groaned and closed her eyes, but I gripped her chin until she looked me in the eye. “You need this. You’ll feel much better afterward. I did.”

  I popped the pill in her mouth, then helped her into a kneeling position in front of the toilet bowl as it began to take effect. I supported her back. When she finished heaving, she began to shudder.

  “Can you grab a blanket?” I asked the security guard.

  He pulled one off the bed and tossed it to me. I wrapped it around her shivering shoulders. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. I blinked back my own. Stupid to cry now.

  The ambulance arrived minutes later, and trained medical personnel took over. One of them questioned me while Em was loaded onto a gurney, and I told her I suspected Emily had been poisoned.

  I followed them, but the security guard held me back from climbing into the ambulance. “Hold on, there. You’re a detainee. You can’t go.”

  Angry supernovaed inside me. Almost, I twisted his wrist and sent him for a sail over my shoulder, but common sense kicked in. “I’m her friend,” I said. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

  Inside the ambulance, Em struggled to sit up while a nurse attached a saline drip. “Please, I want Angel to come with me.”

  The security guard hesitated—he seemed a decent sort—but just then Mr. Pinchot caught up with us. “Absolutely not. I want both of them under guard. Nobody’s going to escape on my watch.”

  “Nobody’s escaping,” the security guard stated firmly. He turned to me. “Sorry, kid, rules are rules. I’ll make sure her emergency is notified, all right?”

  “No, don’t!” Em raised her head. The nurse pushed her back down. “I don’t want my parents to worry.”

  She was still protesting, when the paramedics slammed the ambulance doors closed.

  Mr. Pinchot grabbed my wrist. “I’m taking you to see Ms. Rodriguez.”

  I twisted free and bared my teeth. “Good. I have a few things I want to say to her, too—about your incompetence.”

  “I’ll escort her,” the security guard said, but his hand on my elbow was more supportive than imprisoning.

  Mr. Pinchot left us in the hall while he presented his case to Ms. Rodriguez. Exhaustion tugged at my limbs. I sagged against the wall, eyes closed. Bits of Mr. Pinchot’s slander filtered through the walls. “…troublemaker… obvious ploy… escape.”

  Finally, the door opened. “Angel, please come in,” Ms. Rodriguez called.

  “I’ll stay in the hall in case you need me to testify,” the guard murmured, giving me a pat on the back.

  I sank into an empty chair, but met Ms. Rodriguez’s gaze squarely. “Mr. Pinchot has leveled a serious accusation against you.” Her voice was clipped. “Please explain your—” she broke off suddenly. “Why is there blood on your uniform?”

  I stared at the smear of blood I’d left on my pants. I turned my palm face-up, dimly surprised that the staple was still there. I’d forgotten about it in all the chaos, but now
it throbbed.

  Ms. Rodriguez glared at Mr. Pinchot. “Why hasn’t she been treated?” She overrode his excuse. “Go fetch the first aid kit.”

  “But she did it to herself!”

  She glared him down, and he scurried out.

  Once the door closed, leaving us alone, the anger in her expression drained away. “What happened?” she asked simply.

  “Jordan Isaacs attempted to murder me and accidentally poisoned Emily instead.”

  Astonishment widened her eyes, then disbelief set in. I held up a hand, forestalling her protests. “Here’s the short version: he belongs to a hate-crime organization called Nations Against that targets genetically engineered violet-eyed people like me. I assume my origin with Project Renaissance was in my file?”

  “Yes, but that’s quite the assertion. Can you prove—”

  “Proof that Jordan belongs to Nations Against will take more time, but,” I leaned forward, “if you do some digging, I bet you’ll find out his file is fake. He wasn’t born with the first name Jordan.”

  She frowned. “I reviewed his file this morning. He was born James Isaacs and changed his name two years ago.”

  Next time I saw Kenneth Jones I was going to tell him his screening service sucked. That information definitely hadn’t been in the file I’d been given.

  “Why does it matter if he changed his name?” Ms. Rodriguez asked.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. I expected people to try to kill me as part of my job, but this hatred for who I’d been born, for something encoded in my genes that I couldn’t help or change, wearied me. “Changing his name was a declaration of loyalty. You see, before The Blight, Jordan was the name of a nation.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  MIKE

  Mike tried four doors before he located the one with the blinking hospital equipment.

  The dark green walls of the basement combined with the dimness to give the room an underwater ambiance. He ghosted inside, then shoved his hands in his pockets, not sure why he’d felt compelled to come here. He could’ve proved his suspicions that Catherine’s organization was sheltering one Gabriel Braive without stepping inside.