Fox Forever (Jenna Fox Chronicles #3)

by Mary E. Pearson

  wait till he leaves

  can’t trust

  not time

  And then they both lean forward, their hands casually tucked just beneath their noses, guarding their mouths.

  Livvy pushes me through the door and shuts it behind her. Who can’t they trust? Me? Each other? Livvy?

  She leads me down Charles Street toward the Boston Public Garden. “How did you get around town when you lived here?” she asks.

  “I walked or took the T.”

  “You were familiar with the T, then?”

  “Sure. I had to take it to school. Pretty much everywhere. I lived off the green line. My school was on the red line, my grandparents the blue. Other family on the orange. I had a pass so I used them all. Are we taking the T where we need to go?”

  “There is no T anymore. At least not usable trains. It was abandoned long ago. But the tunnels still run under the city.”

  “No T?” I shake my head. I can’t imagine Boston without the T.

  “It’s been replaced by Personal Automated Transportation. You do have your new ID on you, right?”

  I nod.

  “Then let’s take PAT for a spin.”

  We walk down steps at the corner of Charles and Beacon to a brightly lit cavern with a revolving platform. Like the T, the PAT is only steps beneath the city, but unlike the T, it doesn’t go down several stories. It’s a sleek network just below the surface, sometimes even passing through basements of buildings, not much more intrusive than a ventilation duct. The pod cars are small and streamlined, only meant to hold one to two passengers. I’m dubious when I see their size and don’t see how Livvy and I will both fit into one pod. They circulate slowly on an oval track by the platform until a passenger steps in.

  We approach a pod with its hatch open waiting for a passenger. “That one,” Livvy says, and pushes me toward it. “Just get in and lie back. The pod does the rest.” Livvy jumps in and I follow. The hatch closes and the seat molds around me, holding me securely around my head and hips. A voice asks us for our destination. “Quincy Market,” Livvy says. We’re spit out of the revolving track and into the PAT Network. I feel the thrill of speed, like I’m in a race car, lights flashing past me, a high-pitched hum peaking as the pod accelerates. My body is pressed back in the seat, my stomach fluttering with the velocity. It’s like a ride at an amusement park, and the closest thing I’ve had to fun since I left California. I don’t want the trip to end.

  The pod voice begins a countdown. “Destination, forty seconds, thirty seconds…”

  “Can we keep going?” I ask.

  “New Destination PAT: Fenway,” Livvy says.

  The pod makes a series of turns and we are speeding in the opposite direction. When we are almost there, Livvy lets me try redirecting the pod. “New Destination PAT: Faneuil Hall.” The pod spins and we head back in the other direction.

  When we’re almost there I try to make another request, but Livvy stops me. “Third strike and you’re out. You can only redirect three times without exiting. They don’t want kids tying up pods for joyrides.” I forgot, kids aren’t supposed to have fun here.

  We exit and walk up the stairs to Congress Street and then over to Quincy Market, just behind Faneuil Hall. I’m excited when I first see it, feeling a familiar rush, remembering all the times Jenna, Kara, and I ate ourselves from one end to the other and then I sat in the food court with packages and my cell phone while Kara and Jenna continued to shop, but as soon as we near the front steps, I stop.

  It’s almost as though I’ve run into an invisible force field. I stare at the crowds, the carts, the kiosks, the entire world that has shifted from the one I knew. It’s all slightly off, like I’m watching a slow-motion movie of a sister city, one that’s trying to imitate the place where I used to live, like every person walking past is an actor on a set. Everything is a degree off, even the smell of the salty air. A chill crawls up my spine.

  It’s not that things have changed—I expected that—but even what I thought would be familiar is foreign now. The people walking in front of me aren’t the ones who are actors. It’s me. I’m the actor. A visitor. Worse, an alien. Is there anyplace left in this world now where I truly belong?

  “Locke?”

  I look at Livvy. She’s turned, waiting for me to follow her. I do. I need to get this Favor over with. The sooner the better. We spend the next two hours walking through the market. She’s friendly with shopkeepers, even those who are Bots, dropping our names, making sure they know I’m her “son.” We walk from one end to the other, and then back down the other side again. We take the free offerings of samples, roasted squab on a stick, candied carrots, spiced curly protein strips, but we don’t buy anything. I have a money card in my pocket that Miesha gave me, but it’s clear that money is in short supply so I don’t waste it on market trinkets or snacks.

  After Quincy Market we walk back to the PAT. Livvy is quiet, occupied with other thoughts, perhaps wondering how she got stuck with the job of being my mother. She’s a small, thin woman, her dark brown hair clipped short, a razor-straight line of bangs cutting across the top of her forehead. She’s articulate, driven, and focused, and seems like she should be carrying a briefcase into a courtroom instead of hanging out in basements with the likes of Xavier.

  “I know the answer’s probably obvious, but I have to ask, are you a Non-pact?”

  She stops walking and looks at me. It’s apparent from her expression that she’s insulted. “Obvious? There’s no good way to take that question, Locke. It’s obvious because I clearly look and act like a Non-pact? Or obvious that I’m not because I don’t look or act like one? Just how do Non-pacts act and look to you?”

  I sigh. “I was led by a Non-pact to a dark basement, where I met you, Livvy. You appear to be working for the Resistance. That’s what I meant by obvious. Why are you all so knee-jerk defensive?” I shake my head and continue walking.

  She keeps step with my long stride, like a frothing Jack Russell trying to sink its teeth into me. “Knee-jerk?” she says. “You’ve lived life as a citizen, Locke. Maybe it was another era, but you know what that freedom feels like. I’m a fifth-generation Non-pact. It’s been 125 years since the Civil Division. My great-great-grandfather was an engineer. He built bridges and buildings that touched the sky. He had ancestors that reached back to the Mayflower. He chose not to become part of the Division. He didn’t believe in it.” She grabs at my arm. “Stop walking, dammit! I’m talking to you!”

  I stop. Defensive doesn’t even begin to describe what I’ve unleashed.

  “You’ve been back for what, a year? Most of that time you were coddled on a luxurious estate. Wait until you taste thirty-eight years of being a Non-pact like I have. Wait until you have to tell your children that they can’t play in a public park because you might all be arrested. Wait until you’ve known someone who has violated public space and they’re sent off to the desert and you never see them again. Wait another thirty-eight years and then you can lecture me on being defensive.”

  I stare at her, her nostrils flared, her chest rising in heated breaths. Is she going to bite my leg?

  “Why don’t you tell me what you really think, Livvy?”

  She looks at me, her brows pulling together like she’s confused.

  “It’s a joke, Livvy. Trust me, you don’t need to say another word. I get it. You do joke, don’t you?”

  She reluctantly pulls the corners of her mouth back in an embarrassed smile. “Okay, maybe I overreacted a bit.” She tucks her chin to her chest.

  I roll my eyes. “A bit.”

  “Knee-jerk. Is that a curse word from your time?”

  I look sideways at her to see if she’s playing with me. She isn’t. “Yeah. One of the really bad ones. Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”

  Her reluctant smile and my stab at levity don’t erase the tension between us. Words have been said that can’t be taken back, and I learned a long time ago that words have longe
r lives than people.

  We walk the rest of the way to the PAT station in silence. Thirty-eight years of being held back. Yeah, tough. But I had 260 years without a voice at all. You can’t even compare the two. We’re not even in the same stratosphere. Coddled? I’d trade places with her anytime. At least she still has family. I can never get mine back no matter how many laws are swept away. But what I’m mostly thinking is I’m not waiting around another thirty-eight years for the world to change. I’ve already done too much waiting.

  When we finally return to the apartment, Carver is gone and Xavier is just leaving.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Home.”

  It seems an odd thing to say. Like he’s clocking out from a typical day of work. It didn’t occur to me that he even had a home, unless he calls that abandoned basement where we met home.

  “Me too,” Livvy chimes in. “I’m late.” She grabs her coat and heads for the door.

  Where do Non-pacts live in the middle of Boston? They’re both in a hurry to get there. They leave, Xavier telling me the same thing as the night before. “Pantry’s stocked. Don’t leave.”

  Good night to you too.

  I look around. An apartment all my own. It’s something I would have bragged about in another lifetime. With everyone gone, the extravagant space that came at high cost to others is cold. It’s only an in, just like me.

  One more lesson: Don’t be fooled by the fancy apartment, the expensive clothes, or even the promise of Favors. You’re only a pawn to help them achieve their goal. Nothing more than you were for Gatsbro. First and foremost, watch your own back. Their backs come second.

  Secrets

  For the first time since I’ve been here, Boston is the Boston I want it to be. Almost the Boston I remember, and ironically enough, it’s darkness that has brought me this gift.

  This darkness is nothing. Barely dark at all. Only middle of the night darkness. Three A.M. darkness. Wind still on my face darkness. Sliver of moon darkness. I listen to the rustle of life. Probably rats in the bushes. Maybe a family of ducks. The sounds that darkness should hold.

  I sit perched on the enormous gnarled root of a tree in the Commons. My fingers run along its knots and veins like I’m touching an old knobby knee. I’ve been here for two hours, almost forgetting why I came, taking it all in. The rest of the world is drugged. I watch while it sleeps. Calm. It gives me a sense of power.

  I came to Boston, feeling tough, ready to take on a simple Favor. A loaf of bread for a Non-pact. Justice. Show off some of my newfound strength. Prove something. Be a man. Tough like my uncles who never let anyone walk all over them. But it’s already getting complicated. It’s grown from a simple ten-piece puzzle to a towering Jenga. Nothing is ever simple, or quick.

  The wind picks up, blowing hair across my eyes. The bushes rustle. The nightlife is nervous with my presence. I stand, reluctant to leave, and look back at the Tudor Apartments directly across the street from me. It looks almost exactly the same as when I lived here, except that the building that it used to butt up to is gone, maybe a casualty of the Civil Division. Now a five-story office building built in Old Boston style replaces it. I came to watch the apartments, perhaps spot Secretary Branson coming or going, ready to lead me right to Karden, but not a single person has gone in or out of the building since I arrived. A few scattered windows glow dimly with golden light in the lower apartments, but the top two floors are completely black.

  I turn to leave but then a flash of white on the roof catches my eye. It’s gone again just as quickly. A bird? It reappears farther away. Someone is at the edge of the roof looking out over the Commons. I duck back in the shadows of the tree so I can’t be seen. It’s a person. A woman, or a girl, I think. Nine floors up and in the dark it’s hard to see details. Raine? Maybe Dorian or Jory who work there? Someone else? I can see only the shoulders of her white nightgown and loose black hair tossing in the wind, and then she does the unexpected—she climbs up on the ledge and sits, her feet dangling over the edge, her gown whipping in the wind. Nine floors up.

  Is she crazy? Is she going to jump? My mind races as I wonder what I should do. I take a step forward, but she just sits there, and then I notice she’s doing something with her hands. A bright color flashes in the moonlight. An orange. She’s peeling an orange and throwing the peels one by one to the sidewalk below. I stay in the shadows but slip closer, hiding behind a pillar at the entrance to the Commons so I can get a better look. I strain and my vision zooms closer. She pulls the hair from her face, preparing to eat the orange and I see.

  It’s Raine.

  Not the Raine from the files, the one whose face was all but dead to the world. I see an exhilarated Raine. She’s enjoying this. Her face is turned upward toward the moon. Not quite a smile on her face, but a happy defiance, like she’s on top of the world and commands it. I watch as she eats the orange, breaking the sections apart, savoring each one as she bites it in half. Her bare feet swing below her. Her gown ripples in the wind.

  She’s beautiful. The thought comes to me whole and at once, like a surprise. She’s beautiful.

  Why didn’t I see that when I looked at her file? Why did I only see a face that made the hair on my arms rise? Even now, I find that discrepancy disturbing. She’s a girl with secrets. And hobbies too. Hobbies that are much more dangerous than chess. And secrets that I need to know.

  Showtime

  “What the—!”

  I open my eyes. The knees of Xavier’s rumpled pants are inches from my face.

  “The code didn’t work,” I tell him. I spent what was left of the night in the nook at the top of the stairs leaning up against the apartment door, trying to sleep.

  He opens the door and I fall backward. He steps over me, banging his way into the apartment, a string of rumbling curses trailing behind him.

  I pull myself up and follow him inside.

  “Morning to you too.”

  He turns around and angrily pokes his head with his finger. “Here! Here! I told you that you had to keep it up here! How hard is that? Alpha. Ampersand. Seven. Zero. One. One.”

  “You never said Alpha.”

  “There’s always an Alpha at the beginning of an access code. Everyone knows that—”

  He stops, noting his error.

  “I’m getting coffee.” I walk past him to the kitchen. I never used to like coffee, but Jenna did. Now the smell of it brewing reminds me of her and California and our mornings together. The taste is growing on me.

  “What were you doing outside in the first place? You were told to stay in.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. Whatever,” I answer, waving away his words. I tap on the brewer and the cup begins filling with hot coffee. Xavier follows me to the kitchen and stands there waiting for an answer. Technically I could be his grandfather ten times over, and he’s pulling curfew on me?

  “I was bored and wanted some fresh air. That’s all.”

  “Bored?” He exhales a slow disgusted breath. “Did anyone see you?”

  I remember the flash of white on the rooftop. Did she see me before I saw her? Before I ducked back into the cover of the tree? “No,” I tell him. “It was the middle of the night. No one was out.”

  He seems relieved and then chuckles. “Stuck outside, huh? I guess I’ve had worse pillows than a door.”

  I take my coffee from the brewer. His sympathy is overwhelming. “Glad you find it amusing. Where’s everyone else?”

  “It’s just you and me today, kid. We’re going exploring—down in the T.”

  * * *

  I learn that even though the T has been abandoned, its underground guts still exist—at least some of it near the old city center. He takes me to the red line first. The entrances were walled up long ago, but the Non-pacts have whittled their way back in, creating discreet new entrances that are nearly invisible. Virtual cities exist belowground but they’re only clustered in the open areas of the underground stations. The Non-pac
ts don’t venture down the dark tunnels that lie beyond. The ventilation is bad and there are many dead ends, blocked off by rubble, and those that aren’t blocked are rumored to have half-dogs at the end of them.

  “Half-dogs?”

  “Wild things that resemble dogs. Lab creations gone wrong. A few got loose, bred, and now rumor is they live in the tunnels. I wouldn’t worry though. I’ve never seen one. But then, I’m smart enough not to go down into the tunnels.”

  Their version of the bogeyman? We can hope so.

  We visit parts of the blue and orange lines too. The underground stations are where Non-pacts shop for food, meet in the abandoned restrooms for medical care with doctors of questionable abilities and credentials, sell scavenged items like clothing for whatever they can get, and sometimes just mill around searching for conversation and company. It’s a darker, drearier version of the Non-pact Bazaar I went to in California, this one reeking of sour air and the smoke of grilled meats.

  I remember the days these stations were packed with people in a hurry to get somewhere. There was music, bright lights, vending machines, the whistle of trains. It was full and busy—so busy I never thought it could be any other way. There’s no rush here anymore. These people have nowhere to go.

  Why didn’t they just choose one side or another long ago? The Democratic States of America or the American United Republic? They had the choice to be citizens once. Maybe they would have chosen if they’d known they would end up like this, but then again, I guess a lot of us would take a different path if we could see into the future.

  Xavier acknowledges various acquaintances as we pass. They eye me suspiciously. I stick out like a cop in a pool hall. Xavier notices but doesn’t say anything. “I don’t think I’m going to bump into Raine and her friends down here. Or the Secretary. What’s the point of the tour?”

  “Let’s go outside and talk.” He motions to the Non-pact–created entrance and we climb the uneven steps, squinting at the sun as we emerge. He leads and we walk through overgrown bushes that hide the entrance from view and step out onto a path that leads to the street.