Divided (4 page)

It doesn’t happen often, these official reports of black contracts. Five times in the last three years, and those are just the ones the Board decided they want us to know about. The last one was a woman in her late twenties, an eye surgeon who decided she would offer her skills to Alts wanting to excise their assignment number software from their eyes. She blinded more than forty desperate Alts before Level 2 tactical Operators caught her. Story was, they were aiming for stealth—she had good, if deranged, intentions, so no reason to be insensitive about it—but she ended up jumping off the Fourth Narrows Bridge that divides Calden from Gaslight. So much for stealth.

Strikers are not known for their good intentions.

“Wait,” I blurt out to the Operator before I can stop myself. “Why do I have to go? What do you want from me?”

He stops, turns around. His eyes narrow just the slightest, and it’s next to impossible to make anything out of their depths. Whatever
could
be there. “ ‘You are hereby summoned, immediately and without further delay, to report to Board headquarters in Leyton Ward to speak with Board representatives.’ ”

A robot, sheathed in human skin and clothes. I shudder. So not just a strongly worded request, then. But if it’s not because I’m a striker …

“Is this about a tour?” Even as I’m asking the question, I don’t think that’s it, either. Barring circumstances like illness or injury, which would weaken one’s effectiveness, completes are the ones who decide when to do a tour, as long as one is done each calendar year. “I still have to be signed off. It’s legit with the Board. My counselor sent in my data.”

“This is not about a tour,” he answers, his gaze still fixed on me. I refuse to squirm, though it’s like being an insect speared to a board and trying to not flail helplessly.

“What if I say no?” I say to him.

The Operator’s eyes narrow even farther, his mouth tightening just a fraction, and for a second I’m sure I’m wrong about them not knowing about my striker past. I’ve simply taken too much from Kersh in exchange for survival, and this is where it ends.

“You are not given the option of refusal,” he says finally.

“I know where headquarters is.” Already I can see it in my head. A behemoth of a building, the brain of the filtration system is located at the heart of Leyton Ward. “I can get there myself.” I’ll have to. They’ll only find me again if I don’t. But if I can avoid getting into that soul-sucking black car, from which there’s only skin-peeling, bone-crushing concrete to catch me if I feel the need to escape—

“Immediately and without further delay, and you are not given the option of refusal,” the Operator repeats. “This way, please.” Without waiting for me to reply, he turns away, another attempt to leave.

There’s nothing left for me to counter with. So that’s it. One single demand and I’m once again at the mercy of the Board.

The flash of memories, of my time on the run, of my time on the hunt. Of days both fleeting and endless. Hunger and pain, fear and hate. The Board didn’t notice me then, so why now?

It’s this question that nips at my heels as I slowly follow him to the car. I’m vaguely aware of the package of noodles clasped against myself, and how it’s gone cold.

Most of Kersh’s general public has no reason to enter the thick glass doors of the Board’s headquarters. I always thought it would be like walking into a sniper’s field. Now, standing here in the main entryway, I still believe it, still half expecting to not make it out alive. It’s my first time here, and already I think it’s one time too many.

My initial registration for counseling meant going to one of the satellite buildings. Even people wanting babies go straight to the lab, another satellite building located directly behind this main one. So unless a person is working directly for the Board or lives here in the apartments reserved for families of Operators, headquarters isn’t a place where someone would go. There’s a sense that just by being here—standing in this lobby where the floor is pristine, the windows naked and pure—I’m marring its cold perfection.

Someone murmurs politely behind me, all cool and perfectly clipped syllables, and I quickly move aside for her to pass. A well-dressed lady, her navy suit perfectly tailored and shot through with cream pinstripes. Not an Operator but someone connected to the Board in some way, considering she’s here. As she walks away, my eyes follow her, then catch on a man dressed just as smartly heading across the lobby in a different direction. One more person making up the quietly milling crowd in front of me. I see some Board Operators now, that shade of familiar gray flitting through like ominous clouds. The elevator opens with a soft
whoosh,
and some teenagers step out into the lobby. They are just like me, but of course, not like me at all. They are Board Alts, children and relatives of Operators, and if not already completes, they most likely will be.

I look away from them and take in the rest of the room.

The lobby is a huge expanse of wide-open space, amplified by the soaring height of the ceiling, the sheen of slick ceramic floor, and the glare of cool, clean sunlight flowing in through wide, bare windows. At the far end is the building’s main tower; from here, the only part of it that can be seen is the extra-wide elevator at its base. The rest of the tower’s massive height is only visible from outside, where it shoots up from the rear of the main structure toward the sky. In front of the tower, on the roof of the main structure, is the iron sculpture of the Board’s symbol: the profiles of two Alts facing each other, their eyes given startling depth with a spiral of black iron numbers. It occurs to me that I must be standing directly beneath the symbol, here inside the lobby.

The central tower is where the Board’s Level 1, 2, and 3 Operators and their immediate families live. Each floor contains multibedroom apartments. I bet they are larger and more spacious than most houses in the poorer, crowded wards.

The wide elevator at the tower’s base anchors one end of the lobby, and the glass front doors anchor the other; the space between branches out into six separate wings—three to a side, each three levels high. Three levels of circular walkways—constructed from the same black iron as the city’s huge barrier and then reinforced with glass and steel—curve along the inner walls of the lobby, connecting one wing to another on all levels.

Looking up at those walkways, with their direct lines of sight to me down on ground level, I feel like an easy target. Impossible to miss.

This place is so … open.
Too
open.

I can’t begin to guess which floor is reserved for what, but common sense says divisions have to be organized in
some
way. Maybe it really is just the simplest, one floor for each Level and their associated duties.

One thing’s for sure—somewhere in this building are the computers that randomly select and then activate assignments, setting two Alts on a course in which only one can survive.

Seeing all this, I suddenly feel alien, a fluke who shouldn’t be alive. How can any Alt from outside the Board possibly compete with them?

“This way, please.” The Operator’s voice breaks through the low, controlled hum of the lobby.

I turn to face him. He’s taking back his cell from the guard behind the entry kiosk at the door after having it scanned and verified for entry. Tucking it into his breast pocket, he motions for me to follow as he heads toward the southwest wing, clearly expecting no argument from me. We’re on his turf now, not mine.

We cross the vast sheet of gray floor. There’s a round brass disc in the very center, engraved with a spiral of words that I don’t get quite near enough to read. But I already know what it says—the one phrase we all know by heart.

Be the one, be worthy.

Entering the wing, I feel the world shrinking, closing in. The hall is long, with both sides marked by wide closed doors made of thick etched glass lit from within—the day’s lingering sunlight streaming in from the exterior windows. Even the ceiling seems lower than it should be, rushing me along. The sound of my footsteps is flat and thin. Here, I can’t help but feel diminished. Not worthy, or even a complete, but the latest cog in whatever plan the Board is working on, a piece being readied to fall into place.

What could they want from me?

We stop in front of one of the doors, and the Operator slides it open. “You are asked to wait in here.”

I step past him, already on my way to forgetting him, concentrating on who’s going to be coming along soon enough, the one who really wants me here.

“Please take a seat,” the Operator says. There are black couches against two walls of the room. I walk over to the far couch, the one that faces the door with clear sight of anyone coming in, and sit down.

“Do feel free to eat, as we’ve disrupted your schedule without warning,” he says. I watch him as he steps back into the hall and slides the door shut behind him.

Finally alone, I pull out my cell and turn it off. I don’t want Chord calling me while I’m here. Shoving it back into my pocket, I set my cold dinner on the couch next to me, slip my shoulder bag onto the ground at my feet, and look around.

It’s just a meeting room, but it tells me a lot. A large window, as wide and tall as the room, originally made in Jethro Ward—only the best grade of bulletproof gas for Leyton, every square inch without flaw. The large table in the center of the room is a rectangular slab of metal and would have come from Jethro, too, fired smooth and carefully welded together before being trucked in. The two glasses sitting on its surface are filled with water dispensed from the tall column of a purifier located in one corner of the room, set to release fresh, bubbling water piped in from Gaslight. And the smell of leather is in the air; my hand runs along the couch I’m sitting on, feeling the rough yet perfectly serviceable hide delivered from Camden’s farms.

Nothing here comes from Leyton itself. Of Kersh’s four wards, its main good is less tangible, but far more important: power.

Too restless to stay seated, I get to my feet and sling my bag back over my shoulder. The strangeness of the situation, of actually being where I am, is like liquid adrenaline working through my veins, making my mind whir into action, making my limbs want to do
something.

I cross the room to stand at the window, looking outside. The lines of the buildings across the street are steady and unwavering, as perfect as if nothing stood between us. I lean closer, puff out a breath to fog up the glass. The misshapen blur that forms is the truth: I really am trapped in here. A bug caught in a web, just like the small husk of the fly I see, its body lying on the sill, easy to miss by even the best of cleaning bots.

With one slow swipe of my arm, the blur on the window is gone, and I turn around.

I should leave. Just walk out. I’ve done everything a Kersh Alt is expected to do, barring full-fledged war with the Surround. I fought my Alt and I won. I will be doing a tour soon enough, and now Chord is out there, waiting for me—

There are voices coming from outside the door, muffled and indecipherable. One must be the Operator, and the other … the other would be the one who matters.

It’s ingrained instinct that renews a beat of panic I haven’t experienced since seeing my Alt in my nightmare, since the last time I had to kill. My eyes scan the room in a rush, looking for something that can be used as a weapon if necessary. A drinking glass from the little collection next to the water purifier—I can shatter off the edge. The thin bamboo chopsticks the restaurant should’ve tossed in with the noodles—

Oh, stop it. This is no drugged-out criminal in a seedy back lot in the Grid with a knife to your throat. This is a high-Level Operator from the city’s most respected establishment. A different kind of danger, maybe, but the potential for witnesses is probably too much, even for the Board.

The door slides open and I stare at the Operator who enters.

He wears the same gray suit as all the ranking members of the Board. Same pants, same shoes, same shoulder epaulets. Same, same, same. Perfected to the most exacting degree, a single, unified front representing a streamlined system to keep the city safe. Except the handkerchief tucked into his chest pocket isn’t the red of poppies, the color of blood that marks Level 3 Operators, or even the black assigned to Level 2. Instead it’s the color of things that hurt, of blades and bullets. Silver, the signature color worn by Level 1 Operators.

And his eyes aren’t blank, or even angry, so much as they’re nearly … friendly. I say nearly because I know better than to be fooled so easily by the Board. I know what it’s like to have to hide a secret. Beneath that thin veneer of warmth, it’s still there, no matter how cleverly masked and disguised—infinite emptiness. It’s what all Operators need to be in order to do what they do. Otherwise they could be us, or we could be them … and I’ve already done something too close to that.

A cool sweat breaks out along my hairline as I slowly put my hands in my jacket pockets, making sure my wrapped wrists are covered. Hide the fuel from the fire and hope to walk out of here unburned.

“West, thank you so much for coming in,” he says. It’s curious, his voice, how very animated it is. Inviting, even. I expected a Level 1’s voice to sound completely flat and robotic. This is far more unnerving.

“Why did you ask me here?” I blurt out. Fear and irritation are taking turns swinging at me. I have no grip on any of this, and the longer I’m here, the worse I’m going to slip.

He gestures to one of the couches. “Would you like to—”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just stand.” He’s already much taller than me with both of us standing—I don’t need to feel even more diminished.

He lifts one eyebrow—barely visible, as it must be very blond or perhaps shaven off just like the hair on his head—and says lightly, “If you’re sure.”

I say nothing in response. Just wait. And watch.

He pulls out one of the chairs from the far side of the center table. Sits down and faces me from across the span of steel. The warmth in his gaze confuses me, has me on edge.

Whoever says there’s an advantage in standing while an opponent is seated is dead wrong.

The Operator speaks next. “West, can you assure me of your understanding that this discussion is of a … sensitive nature.” It’s not a question so much as a statement. Maybe a warning, too.

“You mean, I can’t tell anyone,” I say to him.

“Well, yes. Involving any outside parties would mean the Board having to rescind this opportunity.”

An opportunity. The word has never seemed more loaded. “And if I did tell someone, what would you do?”

“That’s not the question you should be asking, West.” Despite his smile, I don’t think I’m imagining the hint of a threat here.

“What do you mean?”

“Rather than wonder what we’d do if you slipped, perhaps you should ask yourself what you’d have turned down.”

I stare at him as I struggle to think of something to say. “Then I can leave right now and you wouldn’t stop me?”

His smile turns sad. “Actually, no, we wouldn’t. And couldn’t—even as Level One Operators, our reach only goes so far.”

“Officially, anyway.”

A bright glint in those knowing eyes that quickly disappears. “Yes. Officially, anyway.”

It reminds me whom I’m dealing with here. The Board, who buries Alts as easily as they save them. Who could all too easily do the same to a complete, if given a reason.

I start moving toward the door. Suddenly I’m more frantic than ever to leave.

“I’m sorry, but this is not for me,” I say to him, backing away all the while.

He looks perplexed, upset at the idea of my leaving. “But you don’t even know why you’re here, West.”

My hand is on the doorknob. I turn away to face the door. “I don’t want to know. I really don’t.”

“Even if it means saving someone’s life?”

Slowly I turn back to look at him. He seems relaxed now—the opposite of me.

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“Stay, and I’ll be more than happy to tell you.”

This is my last chance. I only have to say no. Open the door. Walk out and don’t look back.

Instead I utter a single word. “Who?”

His eyes are warm and luminous. “The child you’ll choose to have one day.”

My hand falls from the doorknob—clumsily, heavily, as though it’s been shocked. Which is about how I feel.

“What did you say?”

The Operator gestures again toward the couch across from him.
Now sit. And listen.

I don’t take my eyes off him as I move back to the same couch I was sitting on earlier. I let myself sink into the cushion, my bag dropping to my feet once again. The scent of the couch’s leather in my nose is a thick, warm wave, and it’s all I can do to not shut my eyes and give in to the nausea.

“Let’s start over again, shall we?” he says cheerfully, as though we were just discussing whether my ride here was pleasant. Not something that feels like a loaded bomb being dropped in my lap.

The child you’ll choose to have one day.

“First of all, though I’m here alone, I’m speaking for the rest of my colleagues at Board headquarters,” he says. “This offer comes from Level One as a whole.”