Psion Alpha (41 page)

“I’m in, too,” Emerald
said. “I know what those two are capable of from firsthand experience. If I can
help put a stop to it.… ”

Trapper slammed his
hand down on the table. “We have to put a stop to it! The idea that these guys
are playing me and Wu … it burns me. They can’t get away with what they did to
Xian.”

“Trapper, cool it,”
Byron said. “We said we want to help.”

An expression of
tremendous relief passed over Trapper’s face. “Thanks, guys. That means a lot.
What I’m thinking is that I sneak in and search the dorm—”

 “Bad idea,” Otto cut
in. “It can’t be you. You get caught in someone’s room, you’re toast, dude.
It’s gotta be one of us.”

“When should we do it?”
Emerald asked.

“Can’t do it during
classes,” Otto answered, “or we’ll be missed.”

“No, class is the
perfect time,” Byron said.

“One of us can be sick,
the other three keep an eye on Diego and Omar, make sure they stay in the
lecture.”

“Byron’s right,”
Emerald said.

“So who’s gonna be the
sick one?” Otto asked.

“I’ll do it,” Emerald
offered.

“No way,” Byron and
Trapper said at the same time.

Byron and Otto looked at
each other, both thinking the same thing. It had to be one of them. Byron took
a deep breath. “Fine. I will go.”

They decided to do it
during their leadership lecture. The class was by far the easiest on their
slate. Grades were solely based on attendance and the final exam, and everyone
was allowed to miss one lecture with no penalty. They chose the first Friday in
February as the date. Combat was first thing in the morning. The four friends
sparred as they discussed their plans while Clardonsky screamed nearby at a
couple students who struggled with their blocking.

The leadership lecture
came first after lunch. Byron had no appetite during the meal, especially since
all three of his friends kept trying to offer tips while they ate.

“Remember, if Diego or
Omar leaves the lecture, we’ll send you a message. So keep a close eye on your
tablet.”

“Be sneaky.”

“But don’t act
suspicious, dude.”

“You’re sure you can
pick the lock, right, man?”

“Keep an eye on the
tablet in case we’re trying to warn you.”

By the time lunch
ended, Byron was relieved to get away from them. He followed his fellow
students to the lecture hall, but as soon as he saw Diego and Omar enter, he
ran in the opposite direction. He didn’t stop running until he came to Diego
and Omar’s floor. He set his tablet on the carpet and took his set of lock
picks from his pocket. All Elite had to learn to pick a lock, which meant each
student had a set. He had practiced this multiple times on his own door late in
the nights with Trapper helping him. It was a skill he’d never thought he would
learn. His gloved hands were shakier than normal, but it only added a few
seconds of time to his effort. Within two minutes, he was inside the room.

He checked his tablet
for any word from his friends, but they had nothing to report. Not wanting to
check on it every minute, he turned up the volume to alert him of any chats he received.
Then he set it down on a bed and got to work. First he went through drawers. It
was easy to tell whose dresser belonged to whom. Diego’s drawers were neatly
organized, whereas Omar, though not a slob, was far less tidy. Byron slipped
his hands under the clothes and felt for anything lumpy or out of place. He
checked the sides and bases of the drawers, too, for anything that might be
jammed into a corner.

Nothing. He removed
stacks of clothing and set them on Diego’s bed.

Next Byron searched the
desk. He moved stacks of papers, opened the desk cabinet, and filed through
papers and books. His hands felt everywhere, even under the desk in case it had
been taped somewhere out of sight.

Nothing.

He targeted the beds
third. He checked under pillows, sheets, and finally he lifted the beds up so
he could see below them. When he found nothing there, he went to the closets
and put his hands through all the pockets and shoes. Nothing. No sign of a
knife. Frustrated, he looked for his tablet to tell his friends that despite
fifteen minutes of searching, he couldn’t find the knife. Perhaps they had some
suggestions. However, he didn’t see his tablet.
Where did it go?
After a
brief moment of panic, Byron remembered he’d set it on the bed. He dug through
the clothes and found it.

During his search he
had received several chats from Emerald, but the clothes had muffled the
volume.

Diego just left. Get
out of the room.

You there, Byron? GET
OUT!

BYRON YOU NEED TO GET
OUT OF THAT ROOM! ANSWER ME!

Help coming. If you
aren’t out by now…HIDE!

Byron looked at the
time stamp on the first chat. It had been sent six minutes ago. Working as
quickly as possible, he threw clothes back into drawers and straightened up the
room. Satisfied with his efforts, he put his hand on the doorknob, then paused.
He heard someone’s boots squeaking down the hall only meters away. His heart
banged in his chest as he hurried to the closet and stepped inside, squishing
himself in amongst all the clothes.
How could I have been so stupid to put
clothes on top of the tablet? And why did Diego pick this lecture to skip out
early on?

The closet door rolled
shut at the same moment the lock to Diego and Omar’s bedroom door clicked. The
door opened with a quiet whiff of air. Byron tried to inhale and exhale as
silently as possible as the door opened, but this made his breathing sound even
louder. Someone, presumably Diego, crossed the room. Byron both heard the steps
and saw the shadow pass by from under the door to the closet. He heard a drawer
open and close with muffled sounds of rummaging in between.

The footsteps returned
to the door.
Whoever it is, he is leaving!
Byron thought with a sigh. Then
he heard a little sound like the ding of a bell coming from the other side of
the door. It was the sound he heard whenever he received a chat message. His
heart boomed even harder.
The tablet!
He’d left it out on Diego’s bed.
The footsteps turned and crossed the room again, pausing near the tablet.

Byron’s body trembled.
The shadow of the mysterious person’s body blocked all the light coming in from
under the door. A heavy grinding sound told Byron the person was gently pulling
on the closet door. For a fleeting moment he had the thought to grab hold from
his side and prevent it from moving, but his rational mind told him this would
not do any good. Then the door stopped moving. Byron held his breath.

“I know why you’re in
here,” a hoarse whisper said through the door. It sounded like a specter
speaking from the grave. Each word was soft and pronounced with perfect
enunciation. He couldn’t tell if it was male or female, but the hairs on his
arms stood straight up at its effect. “The knife isn’t here. Check under his
bed.”

“H—h—whose?” Byron
croaked. “Whose bed?”

“The one who’s coming.”

“Wait—what?”

The shadow moved away
from the door and left the room. Byron still quaked as though a mild seizure
had wracked his body. After counting to a hundred, he opened the door and
stepped out of the closet. After grabbing his tablet, he left the room and
literally bumped into Otto.

“You okay?” Otto asked.
“Dude, what happened? Diego didn’t come, did he? I knew it. I told them he was
probably just hitting the can.”

“We—we—we—we—” Byron
pinched his nose with his finger and thumb to calm himself. He had never been
so terrified in his life. “We need to go to your room. Right now.”

Otto seemed confused,
but walked with Byron to his dorm room. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
he asked as he unlocked the door.

Byron shook his head
and went in. He didn’t think he was capable of talking about what he’d
experienced. He didn’t think he would get a good night sleep for a while,
either.

“So now what?” Otto
asked, his hands fidgeted with the doorknob, and his eyes shifted to the corner
of his room and back to Byron.

“Help me lift the bed.”

Otto blanched. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

“I—I—whatever, bro.” He
grabbed one end, and Byron the other. Together they lifted until Otto’s bed was
almost flat against the wall. Books, papers, and lots of balled up dirty socks
occupied most of the space under the bed.

“What—what are you
looking for, Byron?”

Byron used his boot to
kick around the clutter. One of the socks rolled and rattled across the floor.
What
the… ?
Byron reached down to grab the sock, but something else caught his
eye. It was closer to Otto, so he pointed at it with his free hand.

“There. Grab that.”

Otto let go and reached
his hand into a pile of dirty socks. “These socks aren’t even mine. I—I don’t
even know where they came from, dude. Probably Xian’s.”

From the pile of socks,
Otto pulled out a knife. It was an antique Rifleman’s blade with a wood and
copper hilt. Otto’s face turned even paler as he looked at the weapon in his
grip. He glanced at Byron with large, fearful eyes.

“You have to believe
me, Byron. I—I didn’t put that there. I didn’t even know.” He looked behind him
and slammed the door shut. Then, moaning and swearing up a storm, he grabbed
his hair and doubled over. “What do I do, dude? What do I do?”

Byron took the knife
from Otto. “Look at me, Otto!” he shouted. When Otto continued moaning, he
raised his voice even more. “LOOK AT ME!”

Otto finally met
Byron’s eyes. Byron put the knife right in front of his friend’s face.

“Tell me the truth. Did
you or did you not know about this knife?”

“No. I didn’t, Byron.”

“I mean it, Otto. If
you knew,
tell me now
!” Byron’s sharp blue eyes stayed fixed on Otto’s
refusing to release him from his gaze.

“I swear, Byron, I
didn’t know.” Byron saw the truth in Otto’s face and heard it in his voice.
“Why don’t you believe me? We’re friends.… ”

Byron put the knife on
the floor, and breathed a sigh of relief. “I do believe you. Sorry, but I had
to know. Let me take care of this. But tell no one we found it. Got it? As far
as anyone knows, the knife was not in here. And it was not in Diego’s room.”

“What about Trap and
Emerald?”

Byron shook his head.
“No one.”

“Why not?”

“Has Emerald been in
here since Xian died?”

“Yeah, once or twice.”

“And Trapper?”

“Of course.”

“Then no. Because for
all we know, one of them—or both of them—may have planted the knife in your
room.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-
TWO
- Agony

Friday, January 3, 2087

At 1600, the Queen awoke. For a full minute,
she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling as the fan spun lazy circles above
her.
Today is the day.
She had returned to her home in the mountains twelve
hours ago. Four days earlier, the fox sent her on a mission to Waco to investigate
a lead on the whereabouts of Sammy and his fellow Fourteens. She’d apprehended
the two suspects, interrogated them, and killed them. She took her time doing
it, too. It had been several weeks since her last kill, so she’d savored these
two even though her next was certain to come soon. Ultimately, however, she had
wasted her time on a bogus lead.

Her body had healed
from the bullet wound she’d received while breaking into N Corp several weeks
ago, but it had taken longer than normal. Age was catching up to her. While she
looked twenty-three, her fiftieth birthday rapidly approached. Any scarring
from the bullet had been removed by the hands of her surgeon, leaving her skin
as flawless as ever. More importantly, however, she had managed to delete all
trace of her activity from the fox’s records at the Hive.

Waking in the afternoon
had become her routine. She’d spent the last several days getting used to
staying awake through the night. Her body needed to be at its peak in the
twilight hours.

Today is the day. All
my designs will come to fruition.

She’d anticipated
carrying out her plans two days earlier; the symbolism of doing it on the first
day of the new year had excited her, but the unexpected errand from the fox had
forced her to push the date back to today. She took her time prepping herself
with a long and luxurious bath. When she got out, she examined herself in the
mirror, dried off, and sent a text to Clyde:

Clyde, I’m coming
over this evening whether you like it or not. I miss you and want to talk to
you. I hope you’ll tell me what’s been going on.

Ever since the break-in
at N Corporation, Clyde had ignored her texts and phone calls. Not wanting to
destroy the final strands of their relationship, the Queen had laid low and
stopped trying to contact him. Today was different. Today she needed to see
him. She did her hair first, carefully styling it and then putting it into a
bun held together by a special hair stick. Then she applied her makeup to
maximize her alluring features—make it more difficult for Clyde to turn her down
when she stood outside his door, pleading to enter. To wear, she chose a more
casual outfit, a pair of stylish but simple pants and a pink blouse that gave
an observer a brief glimpse of her cleavage. The ensemble produced the effect
she sought.

After an air rail to
Seattle, the Queen ordered a cab ride to Clyde’s apartment. He lived alone with
a small designer dog whose vocal chords and mouth had been altered to allow it to
speak basic words like “food” and “walk.” The Queen hated it. The lights illuminating
his bedroom window told her he was home from work. She called his apartment at the
building entrance.

“Who is it?” Clyde
asked over the intercom, though his tone told her he already knew the answer to
his question.

“It’s me.”

Four seconds passed before
he responded. “What do you want, Kellie?”

“I want to see you. Did
you get my text?”

“I don’t want to see
you. Go away.”

“Why, Clyde?” Her voice
dripped with melancholy. “I mean, what did I do? I thought I—I thought you were
pleased with me … you know, in your office. Then you never called. It made me
feel cheap.”

Again, the time between
her statement and his response stretched into an uncomfortably long pause. She
imagined his mind weighing the pros and cons of following what his instincts
told him. Knowing that he could see her, she kept her appearance sullen,
delicate, and above all, vulnerable.

“Fine, you can come up,
but I’ve called my brother and told him you’re visiting. Just in case you try
something stupid.”

“That’s fine.”

A buzz came from the
door. She let herself in and directed her sights on his second floor apartment.
She rapped her knuckles on the door once before hearing his footsteps
approaching. The moment the door opened, the Queen rammed her shoulder into it,
banging the wood into Clyde’s face and breaking his nose.
If only that nose
were yours, Sammy.

Clyde grabbed his nose
and cursed. “Get out or I’ll call the police!”

The Queen burst out
laughing as she closed it shut behind her. Then she rounded on him, slapping
him in the face repeatedly, backing him up toward his living room furniture.
Each time she struck him, he squealed. Finally he bumped into the arm of his
sitting chair and fell over it. The Queen laughed again.

Clyde’s little dog ran
into the room, barking and yelping, “Stop! Stop!” Only it sounded like “stot”
because the dog’s lips couldn’t complete the
p
sound.

“You won’t turn me in!”
the Queen crowed. “You won’t call anyone. You know why?” Without invitation,
she took a seat on his couch. His home was put together better than most
bachelor apartments she’d seen. His taste, while not refined, was at least
consistent among his choices of furniture and decorations. “Because you don’t
want to lose your job! If I’m arrested, awkward questions will follow. Questions
about why you took me back to your office, showed me around, and did what we
did in your office … on your desk! Questions about why you showed me classified
material like clones and onchameleons. Of course, all these things will lead
your superiors to the obvious conclusion … that you’re a complete idiot.”

“Stop it!” Clyde’s face
turned bright red.

“
Stot! Stot!
”
the dog continued to yelp.

 Droplets of both sweat
and blood fell down Clyde’s face. His eyes widened and twitched almost
comically. “Shut up and get out, you—”

“What, Clyde?” she
taunted. “What am I? You don’t even know!”

“Get away from me!” He
jumped from the chair and sprang for the door. “I swear, if I ever see you
again, I’ll—”

“What?” The Queen
dashed across the room and stopped him from opening it.

Stot! Stot!

Clyde gritted his teeth,
clenched his fists, and swung at her. “I’ll kill you.”

The Queen ducked his
blow and licked her lips as the smile on her face changed to a curled grin. “Is
that supposed to frighten me?”

The expression on
Clyde’s face changed from rage to confusion. He stumbled backward again as it
finally dawned on him as to what kind of situation he’d landed himself in. “I
shouldn’t have said that. I’m—I’m sorry.”

The Queen took a step
closer to him. Her unblinking eyes fixed on his. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

“Please, if you’re a
spy or whatever, I’ll forget I ever knew you. I’ll say nothing to anyone. I
promise! Please!” His last cry caught in his throat as he stepped backward and
fell over the arm of his chair. The Queen reached forward and grabbed him by
the throat. He scrambled to his feet as he tried to pull her hand off his neck
so he could scream for help.

Stot! Stot! Stot!

She shoved him across
the room, and he hit one of the dining chairs around his small square table,
the same table where two months ago he’d served her spaghetti—spaghetti that
tasted like garbage but she had pretended to love. She reached into her purse
and found her jigger, which she pointed at Clyde’s face. The little dog’s
barking was now loud enough to wake the dead.

“Scream again and I
will turn your face into oatmeal.” She lowered the gun and shot his designer
dog in the head. “And I hate dogs, Clyde.”

He stuttered a curse
and clamped his hands over his mouth. His bulging eyes and quivering limbs told
the Queen all she needed to know about his state of mind. She drew close to him
and sniffed him. Her eyes fluttered as she took in his scent. She reached out
to his skin with her tongue and tasted his sweat.

Terror.

She gestured with her
gun for Clyde to take his seat. “I’m going to ask you questions. If you don’t
answer them, your brains will make ink blots on the walls behind you.”

Clyde nodded, his hand
still clutching his mouth in horrified fervor. “Why, Kellie? Why go through all
this trouble? Are you insane? The last person who stole from us went missing!”

A feral snarl curled
her lips. “This isn’t about secrets! It’s about
Project: solution
. It’s
about my freedom and broken promises.”

Clyde slowly dropped
his hand from his lips. His chin quivered; his eyes darted back and forth
between hers. “You’re—you’re a—one of them?”

“I AM NOT ONE OF THEM!”
she roared. “I am different! I was never supposed to have that poison in my
veins. The
solution
, he calls it. Solution to what? Tracking me? Being
able to kill me at any time? I’ve seen the way it works, the steam, the sweat,
the sudden implosion. Do you think for a second I would let it end that way?”

“Why are you asking me?
I didn’t do it to you!”

The Queen pointed her
gun right between Clyde’s eyes. “You are part of the problem, Clyde. Don’t you
see it?”

“And what is killing me
going to solve?” he asked in a shrill tone.

The Queen calmed
herself and moved closer to him. Shushing him, she smoothed his hair and petted
his cheek. “Relax, Clyde. I don’t need to kill you if you cooperate. Believe it
or not, I don’t even want to. But if you don’t help me … I will.”

“What—how—help you?”

“Yes. First of all, how
did you know it was me?”

Clyde took a deep breath,
and for moment the Queen thought he was going to vomit. However, he showed more
spine than she believed him capable, and calmed himself a degree or two. “There
was a—a—a break-in at my lab the same night you and I … fooled around in my
office. I got the call from security and went in during the middle of the
night. They said it was a woman. She wore a wig.”

The Queen pointed her
gun at his head. “Go on.”

“I—I found a hair on my
lab coat—a synthetic hair.” Clyde raised his hands slowly to show the Queen he
still meant to comply that the gun wasn’t necessary. “There’s about a dozen
white lab coats hanging in the entryway. Whoever broke in could have used any
of them, instead they chose mine. Hanging in my locked office! Going through
my
window! And I—I smelled you on my lab coat.”

The Queen swallowed
hard, instantly realizing her error. “What did you smell?”

“Your—your perfume.
Atropa belladonna and lavender.”

I made mistakes that
night. Overconfidence and carelessness.
Reaching into her bag, the Queen withdrew two
memos on paper and handed them to Clyde. He accepted them with trembling hands.
Several times he glanced at his dead dog. “Tell me everything you know about
what is on those pieces of paper.”

As expected, he did
exactly what she asked. He even managed to stay moderately calm during the
process. For three hours she questioned him and he talked. And when he’d told
her everything she needed, she pulled the hair stick out of her bun to let her
hair down and reveal a wicked-looking micro-knife.

“Thank you, Clyde. The
information was extremely helpful.”

Tears, snot, and sweat
ran down Clyde’s face as he stared at the blade. The Queen found it pathetic.
“You said—”

“That I didn’t need to
kill you. I know. But I lied to you. I really,
really
want to.” She
patted his chest in a friendly way and crawled onto his lap with the gun
pressed into his skull. “Besides would you even want to live after I’ve removed
your eye?”

“N—!” Clyde started to
scream until she punched him in the throat hard enough that his efforts made
little sound.

The Queen smiled in
great satisfaction. “Yes, please, scream.”

Two hours later, the
Queen finished cleaning Clyde’s apartment, the same satisfied smile still
stamped on her face. Using Clyde’s phone and his vocal patterns from her
gadget, she called his brother and informed him that everything had gone fine
with the crazy ex-girlfriend. Then she made a second call to Clyde’s work,
letting his boss know how sorry he was for having to take a week off for a
sudden family emergency.