Control (12 page)

We take a transport that pulls us below the ground floor of the building, my ears popping all the way down. One by one, Wilbert unlocks several doors in a dark tunnel lit by an occasional yellow light on the wall. I catch up to him as he opens yet another door.

“Don’t we need Marka’s clearance to leave?”

Wilbert aims a tiny silver spray bottle at the keypad and pumps it. A slightly goopy liquid drips off the keypad, and the door clicks open. “I’ve got a dissolvable hacking code. Liquefied circuits.”

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or worried,” I say, forcing extra breaths as I jog to keep up with everyone. I’m not the last one; Vera’s heels click sharply on the hard concrete floor behind me.

Finally, we go through one more door and enter a small dark room that smells of grease. Inside, a large, irregularly shaped lump is covered by a dusty black cloth. Hex and Wilbert pull at opposite ends to slide it off.

It’s green, dull, and has four wheels and real glass windows. If a magpod had wheels and a few extra angles—oh, and appeared as if it just went through the apocalypse—this is what it would look like. The surface is pockmarked with dents and huge chips in the paint. Rust spots pepper the surface and coalesce into patches, as if the vehicle is succumbing to a terminal rash. The doors don’t even look like they slide open, if they open at all. I think I saw a prettier version of it in the Museo 2000. Wilbert waves at it with a flourish.

“Here is it! Our char.”

“Don’t they call it a . . . a car?” I look at it sideways. I’m starting to understand what Vera was saying. Maybe digging our way to the club would be a safer bet.

“No, it burns things. It’s a char.” Wilbert nods so emphatically, I’m sure he’s knocking against his invisible head.

“Car, char, chariot. Whatever. Let’s get going.” Hex lifts one of the jugs and starts to empty the sloshing liquid into a hole toward the rear of the vehicle. He follows with another.

“Are you sure ethanol is going to work? Aren’t you just making our, uh, char, into a rolling explosive device?”

“Yes.” Hex has a mischievous grin. “Feels good to walk on the wild side, doesn’t it?”

“Actually, no.” But he doesn’t hear me. They open the doors and I slide into the front passenger seat, momentarily paralyzed by the smell of the decaying leather and burnt oil. Hex and Vera cram in the back, and Wilbert takes the driver’s seat.

“You know how to drive this thing?” I try to keep the skepticism out of my voice.

“Sure. I’ve been practicing on a virtual program. I’m really good now.” Wilbert produces an honest-to-goodness key and pushes it into a slot by the steering wheel. I am astounded when the engine comes to life and the choking scent of exhaust fills the car. The front wall of the concrete box we’re in slips into the ground. In front of us is a dark road. The blackness of the evening beckons, and not in a friendly way.

“Aren’t people going to think it’s strange we’re driving this thing? We’re not going to be tracked, right?” I ask Vera, who’s trying to unstick her vinyl butt from the backseat.

“Chars aren’t registered vehicles, so no trackers. They’re considered hobby items. As long as we stay away from the main magpod avenues and don’t drive too fast, we won’t get stopped.”

“You guys have this all figured out, huh?”

All three of them nod in unison.

“And you’re okay with the possibility of getting arrested and dying . . . for this?”

“We have our reasons. What’s yours?” Hex asks, his usual grin suddenly gone. His serious face is scary, with those deltoids bulging nearby.

I bite my lips shut. Is it worth the risk, taking this trip? My thoughts go to Q, then the lab, where I’m using the last strand I have of Dyl’s hair. If I screw that one up, I’ll have nothing. I have to go.

Wilbert revs the engine, and miraculously, it moves forward a few inches. I’m waiting for the explosion, the last-minute sign that we are in fact riding a bomb on wheels. And then—

WHAM!
The boom jars my side of the char, and I scream.

“What was that?” Vera nearly shrieks. A dark silhouette leans in front of the windshield.

“Is there room?” Cy leans against the glass and does a double take when he glimpses me in my club outfit. He’s wearing a form-fitting, long-sleeved black shirt and slim pants of some sort of dun-heather color. His face is freshly tattooed over his eyes and nose in a mask of swirling black knives.

“Oh great, psycho boy is coming too,” Vera grumbles.

“Well, this is a first.” Hex waves him in.

“Did he have to hit my char?” Wilbert whimpers.

Cy opens my door and I shimmy closer to Wilbert. There’s no avoiding Cy now. His lean body squishes up against mine, leg to leg, hip to hip. In fact, there’s no room for our arms side by side, so I hunch forward to clasp my hands together. Which makes my new cleavage even cleavage-ier.

“Okay, here we go.” Wilbert’s got his holo stud in his ear, and he sets it on a course to get us to the southern district. A few mags pass us by, staring curiously as we go along at a decrepit pace.

“Where did you get this thing?”

“It’s a birthday present from Marka. An antique hobby, kind of.” He starts humming a tune as I count off the mags passing us.

What if Q is there? What if I miss him? I turn my holo on twice to check if it’s working. Thank goodness the holo carrier hasn’t yet terminated my plan.

“Expecting a call?” Cy asks.

“No. Not really.” I wriggle back into the seat, because I’m getting stiff from slouching forward. Every time we hit a bump in the road, the back of my neck bounces against his biceps and shoulder. Finally, I’m too joggled to care anymore. Let him move, if it bothers him. I sit all the way back, but Cy doesn’t move his arm. It cradles my bare neck, and the heat of him sneaks down my spine.

Cy’s eyes keep flicking downward. Maybe he’s embarrassed to look up, but then I see what keeps catching his eye. The hem of my skirt has ridden high up my thigh. I pull my skirt down, and Cy looks away. I can’t believe it. He was checking out my legs.

Vera pulls herself forward from the backseat, popping her head between me and Wilbert, frowning deeply. “This is ridiculous. Wilbert, speed up. I don’t want to get there when my eighty-year-old boobs and ass hit the ground.”

“It’s a very delicate char. I can’t just go fast like that.” He’s holding the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles blanch.

Vera grimaces and turns to me. “Can you drive this thing?”

“I don’t know. I used to drive magpods on manual.” That is, until I killed my dad. I feel a panic attack invading my innards. I secretly try to breathe faster.

Vera whacks Wilbert’s invisible head. “Idiot, get out.”

“What?”

“Let Zelia drive. She’s actually driven real vehicles before, not computer games. I’m going to die from old age here.”

“No, really, Vera, he’s fine—” I start to say, but she pinches my cheek, kinda hard.

“No, he’s not. He’s slower than crusty snot. Besides, Hex is going to puke up your chicken salad sandwich if we don’t get there soon,” Vera snaps. Hex’s poor head is lolling out the open window. His charsickness is turning him a very sallow shade, which ironically makes him the greenest-looking person in the party.

We stop on the side of the road to switch drivers. Cy refuses to share a seat with Wilbert, who’s forced to squeeze into the back. As I sit on the crackling leather seat, I’m disoriented at first.
Wow, this is really medieval
. There are actual mirrors to show what’s outside the char, behind us, and to the sides. No screens. To my relief, it feels totally different from driving mags, and no scary flashbacks threaten to undo me. Of course, the image of Wilbert practically sitting in Hex’s lap in the backseat doesn’t hurt either.

After a few jerky accelerations and stops, I start cruising through the deserted side streets. Compared to a mag, the char is clunky and a lot less fluid. But I like feeling the earth underneath the wheels. The movements vibrate right into my seat, and the car engine hums beneath my fingertips as I steer. I hit the accelerator. The surge forward pushes my body into the driver’s seat. There’s no magnetic magic here, just the realness of the road and a machine.

Damn. I think I like driving chars.

Before long, we’re in the club district. A few glowing signs issue from different buildings, and there’s music thrumming from close by. Clusters of young people gravitate toward the lights. I pause at an intersection.

“Which one?” I say.

“That one.” Hex, Vera, and Wilbert simultaneously point to three different destinations.

“We’re going to this one. It’s the only one we can pay for,” Hex says, pointing to the most decrepit-looking building. Vera pouts her disappointment and Wilbert turns white. Lovely. I park the char behind a half-demolished building with a roof blackened from fire.

We head for Hex’s choice, an old warehouse down the street with a faint green glow coming from the floor-level windows. It’s a boxy monstrosity of metal and glass that resembles a broken machine from Wilbert’s workroom.

I notice Cy is hunched over, sweeping his eyes across his left shoulder, then his right. He’s a walking advertisement for paranoia.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“This is a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Ah, but you did,” I say playfully. He answers me with a glare.

We shuffle closer. Vera ends up using me as a human cane, since the rubble on the street keeps tripping up her heels. Before long, we pass a decaying metal sign that reads
MARGE NATHAN MEATPACKERS, INC
on the fence surrounding the club. People huddle around the entrance, sporting hairstyles that resemble extinct animals. Above the rectangular arch of the doorway, only a few of the letters in the company name remain, underlit by the glow of a single white light.

arge N t

“Argent,”
Cy murmurs. “Argentum. Silver.”

“You speak Latin?” I ask, impressed.

“No, I speak the periodic table of elements,” he answers, deadpan.

“Oh! We’re going to Argent? This place is new! I’ve heard some sick stuff about it. Okay then!” Vera shuffles to the entrance and we follow her.

“How are we going to pay to get in if we can’t use F-TIDs?” I ask Hex.

“Lots of clubs take alternate forms of payment. Here, I’ve been collecting these from our scavenging expeditions.” He pulls out a fistful of glistening metal and hands everyone a portion. I touch my cold, tiny handful, consisting of a few old rings and a broken necklace. Vera’s got two spoons and Wilbert, a tarnished gravy boat with a handle barely attached. He breaks off the handle and pockets it.

“Silver? What is this, a gigantic pawn shop?” I say in wonder.

The doorman, a hulking man wearing a black mask, takes Vera’s offering of precious metal. One by one, we each pay for the hope of something inside.

For Vera—a kiss, maybe more. For Hex and Wilbert—a night to be normal. For Cy—I honestly have no idea. And me? I hope that silver just bought me a little bit of truth, and with it, a step closer to Dyl. I force a deep breath inward and let the darkness suck me forward.

I’m here, Q. Come find me.

OUR EYES GRADUALLY ADJUST TO THE DARKNESS
. The music pulsates in my head and chest, right down to my knees. I wonder if it could do the breathing for me if I let it.

Wicked six-foot meat hooks glide on a track under the corrugated metal ceiling, almost touching the heads of the dancers. Once in a while, an exuberant club-goer grabs a hook and floats through the throng of people. Live meat on display for everyone to grope.

“All right, everybody,” Hex yells over the music. “Be back here in two hours.” He switches on his holo. I’m surprised to see everyone wearing one, for once. “Set repeating alarm transmission for two hours, Wilbert, Zelia, myself, Vera, Cy. Vibe and level eleven sound.”

“Two hours?” Vera whines. She’s already scouted out a group of people nearby, eyeing her like she’s the newest appetizer on the menu.

“Yeah, two hours. Curfew is in three hours, and we need time to get back home in that piece of junk.”

“Hey!” Wilbert protests.

“Two hours.” Hex gives us all a stern look.

Before I can say “Okay,” Vera is gone, her dancing form half obscured by the crowd. Only thirty seconds go by before a tall, handsome, bare-chested guy has his hands on her hips.

“Am I going to have to babysit her?” Hex growls. Vera’s shimmying her vinyl chest at her dance partner. Geez. I can’t watch this either.

“I’m getting a drink,” Wilbert says, pulling the gravy boat handle out of his pocket and pushing his way to the bar. Cy hangs back near me, throwing suspicious glares at everyone around us.

“You think Wilbert will get twice as drunk on a glass of booze, or half as drunk?” I holler at Cy.

“Huh?” He’s peering into the dark, as if searching for someone. His inked mask makes me think he needs to be in a Venetian ball, not a slaughterhouse rave. A stunning, skimpily dressed girl approaches Cy and rubs his chest. He shoves her away, irritated.

I secretly smile. Still, I can’t spend the night watching Cy. It’s time for me to start my search, so I slither forward into the crowd, thinking the bar is a good place to start. Wilbert’s parked himself on a barstool, holding a cordial glass filled with half-green and half-silver liquid, spiraling continually. Several feet away, I squeeze into an opening and motion to the bartender, a girl with a shaved head and three pink metal rods impaling the bridge of her nose.

“Excuse me, do you know anyone here named Q?” I say.

“Drinks first, questions later,” she barks.

“Okay, I’ll take one of those.” I point at Wilbert’s glass. She ducks beneath the bar, emerges with an identical silver-green drink, and then waits.

Oh. I have no silver left. Maybe Wilbert has some more. I look over, but he’s already gone, his glass empty. The bartender’s face grows increasingly pissed off as I search my outfit for nonexistent metal.

“I’ll take care of that.” A barrel-shaped guy with a Mohawk and one-inch ear studs leans over, putting a silver coin on the bar. I spin around.

“No, really, thanks, but—”

“Come with me, and I’ll forgive the debt,” he says, pulling me by the waist onto the dance floor. He’s so huge that I’m airborne for a second before I can push him away.

“I . . . I have to drink this first.”

“Okay, but I’m coming for you later.” It sounds like a threat, though the guy smiles at me, showing dyed black teeth. Monstrous, but very underground-vogue. All my life, I haven’t garnered attention from guys, and now I’m attracting ogres. Awesome.

The bartender gives me a suspicious look for nursing my cocktail, so I hastily take a gulp. It tastes like hairspray mixed with green apple. I’m sure it’s killing the lining of my stomach on contact. Before the bartender walks away again, I wave at her. This time she lands her elbows on the bar.

“So, you know anyone here named Q?” I have to yell my question three times before she hears me over the din of the music.

“Anybody who goes by alphabet letters is either a rock star or incarcerated. But you could get lucky. Try the Alucinari Rooms,” she yells back, pointing to a door at the far end of the room.

“Thanks!” I leave my drink on the bar. Already my face is flushed from the alcohol. I dislike the feeling—anything that makes me, well, not like me. I never understood the neurodrug groupies at school, or the secret ether-injection parties I’m happily excluded from. You always have to face reality again. I don’t need another reality, because the only other one I want—with Dyl back in my life—can’t be supplied with drugs.

I check the black box pendant in my skirt pocket. If this drink is stronger than I expect, I’ll have to put it on soon. Out of the parting crowd, the black-toothed guy zeroes in on me and heads over. Cripes. I duck into a throng of dancers and run through the door.

It empties into a spiral staircase. All the way down, alcoves in the walls contain plaster-like busts of figures. They’re unisex and featureless, except for an open mouth offering a bright-colored pill on an extended tongue. A guy in front of me pauses at a bust and gives it a lascivious kiss, then tosses his head back to swallow the pill.

The plaster bust coos at him. “You’re welcome.” It smiles, then opens its mouth to reveal a new orange pill for the taking.

A girl with a shaved head grabs the guy’s hand and laughs. “You slut! That’s your third, you’re asking for it!” They both gallop downward, ahead of me. It’s hard to avoid being bumped and pushed as I squeeze past people in the narrow stairwell. They cover the steps and walls, talking, drinking, or making out, writhing to the music.

At the bottom of the stairs, a smoky hallway with several doors stretches into darkness. I trip over something. The guy who popped the three pills is lying on the floor with the girl sprawled atop him. She’s yanking his shirt down, biting his neck. The guy doesn’t seem to care one way or another. He claws at the air around her head.

“Oohhhaaaahhh. Look . . .” He’s totally out of it and she’s just having her way with him, right there in the hallway. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re naked in a few minutes.

The only sober-looking girl I can find leans against the wall between two doors. She smokes a tiny pipe, watching the dazed people pass by. I beeline toward her.

“Hey, do you know where the Alucinari Rooms are?”

She removes her pipe, the fuchsia smoke curling out of her nostrils. “Right here, sweets. Pick your poison.”

“Thanks.” I walk down the hallway, perusing the choices. Random body parts float outside each room. A pink-irised eye. An ear. There’s a quivering jellyfish that’s probably a brain. A hand with fingers, stretching and curling into a fist. Down the corridor, more doors and their holograms are hidden by clouds of fumes.

As I pass underneath the disembodied hand, it undulates toward me. A whisper of softness touches my cheek. It’s a hologram, how could it actually touch me? I shake my head. No time to think about that now. If Q is here, I need to find him. If not . . .

Well. I can’t think about that. I take a brave breath and push the door open. A pink pulsating cloud obscures the ceiling and twists frothy tendrils downward every few feet. It’s impossible to avoid the ropes of blushing mist. As I walk in, they softly fall over my shoulders, slinking down my back and arms.

A guy lies near my feet with his hands splayed out, as if beseeching the air. His eyes are shut, and he hums deep in his throat, a human purr. Another couple on the floor pets each other’s ankles over and over again, lost to the repetitive movement. The girl clenches her teeth so hard, her jaw muscles ripple.

Was it the pill buffet on the way down the stairs? Did everyone take something except me? Just then, I step under one of the rivulets of pink smoke, and the coolness dances down my face. I inhale a tiny bit, in surprise. The scent of wine and sugary syrup blossoms inside me. The sweetness hits my throat and my lungs, and, oh god, I feel like I’m sucking in the best-tasting ice cream and chocolate and everything delicious and forbidden straight into my bloodstream.

The pink fog continues to swirl coolly down my face and neck, but it’s not just there. It’s in me, in my fingertips and caressing the backs of my knees from the inside. A warm hand touches my shoulder and I grab it, hungry for the sensation. I want to dig that hand into my body, let it pierce me because the pain would be lovely. Pure and awful and beautiful.

The hand turns me around. Through the brain-fog, I see him. The Mohawk guy who bought me the drink. His eyes travel over my body, fix on my mouth while a broad hand slips from my shoulder to the nape of my neck. Part of me is terrified, but that part is docile and numb, pushed aside by the strawberry clouds mingling in my blood. His teeth glint black like polished coal and part to reveal a thrice-forked tongue.

As he comes closer, his face divides a column of pink smoke. A wisp of it disappears into his nostrils, then more. He inhales deeply, his eyes shutting tight from the rush.

Another hand encircles my left arm. And another. I feel four hands on my body, which computes as impossible in my hazy brain. Are they real? Is it Hex? But all four hands suddenly release me. I watch, fascinated, as the black-toothed guy is pried from my body and pushed to the floor, where he groans in pleasure from the impact.

Whoever pushed Mohawk Guy stands behind me. Hands move to encircle my waist, and I gasp, shutting my eyes when I feel lips meet the nape of my neck. The lips are strong, insistent, and follow the curve of my jaw to graze my cheek. I can’t stand it anymore. I spin around to grasp the face I still can’t see and I crush the stranger’s lips to mine, letting the relentless slow beat push our bodies together.

I am four arms and four legs, and two mouths and two tongues, out of control. The pink smoke rains down on our bodies, but somewhere inside, a tiny remnant of good sense is screaming. What is it saying? I don’t care.
Shut up, shut up, I’m busy. My nerves are all on fire and it’s torture and it’s heaven and I’m busy.

Reason shrieks again, so insistent amidst the sick sweetness of candy and wine.

Breathe, Zelia,
the voice screams
. Breathe!

The zillions of nerves firing pleasure all at once suddenly stop firing. Everything turns off so fast that I can’t catch myself as I fall. Two strong arms slow my descent; they drag me out to the hallway, away from the serpentine hand above the door begging for my return. People step over me, uncaring, as cool air touches my face.

Breathe.

I don’t know if the command is from me or someone else, but I obey, gasping the unadulterated air and arching my back to inhale deeply. My senses slowly become mine again. There is someone by my side, his voice emerging clearer and clearer by the second.

“Breathe! Keep going, breathe now.” I know that voice. I know the hands too. They’re warm. I remember their imprint on my body from just seconds ago. The face comes into focus, and I’m relieved to see white teeth, not black. Charcoal eyes flecked with green and gold watch me.

It’s Cy.

• • •

I’M MORTIFIED. DID I REALLY TONGUE-WRESTLE
with Cy? Or did the pink mist uncover some unconscious daydream of mine I didn’t know was so . . . racy? I still feel terrible, so I just concentrate on sucking and expelling air while he cradles my head. Cy doesn’t say a word. His black tattooed mask is the tiniest bit blurred already, the ink now looking like he smudged soot all over his face.

“What . . . what just happened in there?” I ask.

“You stopped breathing, so I pulled you into the hallway.”

“But . . . what . . .”

“They lace all the rooms with drugs, it seems.”

“Were you drugged too?”

Cy doesn’t answer me; he’s checking my pulse. I wonder if he can measure my embarrassment under his fingertips. I’m still so fuzzy. Did I imagine everything? Or was Cy in complete control, when his hands were up the back of my shirt and on my thighs and oh my god. What really happened?

“Water.” My throat is so dry that the request is croaked, rather than spoken.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says, and I return his concern with a coughing fit so violent that tears pour down my cheeks.

“I’ll get you something. Wait here.” He gently scoots me over and props me against the wall. I watch him step over the other people in the hallway, cat-like, making his way upstairs to the bar.

I just concentrate on my breathing and try not to hack up a lung again. This time, I’m taking no chances. There are too many weird vapors oozing out of the rooms here. I put on my necklace, making sure the clasp is secure.

My body responds to the tidal rhythm of the pendant. I relax a little, watching the other people walking by. The door to the room I’ve just left opens again, and a hand claws at the doorjamb. The guy with the black teeth drags himself out of the room, and as his head emerges, he sucks in the normal air, eyes squeezed shut.

I stand up, wobbling to the side. I’m not going to get pawed by this guy again. He opens his eyes and sees me.

“You!” he slurs, dribbling saliva down his chin.

“I’m not on the menu, sorry.” I trot a crooked path down the hallway. My legs feel weak, but I’ve a head start in sobriety. I can hide out somewhere else until Cy returns. As I push my way through a tangle of people by the brain room, I hear a laugh.

I know that laugh.

It’s a girl’s, one that rings like bells, high above the noise of the crowd. I twist around, searching anxiously for the source. I push people out of the way, trying to filter out the noise, wanting to scream at everyone to be silent. And then I see her, supported by two boys who smile smugly at her drug-induced mirth.

Dirty blond hair in ragged curls falls over her thin shoulders. A low-cut green dress is plastered to her frame, and eyes rimmed thickly in smudged blue eyeliner look straight at me, but don’t see me.

I scream.