Parched (11 page)

The voice-over continues impassively. “The outlaws made it approximately halfway across the Northern Bridge before they were detained by Tranquils.”

Detained?
Yeah, right. I wonder how many of the Badlanders were beaten to death by the Tranqs, right there on the bridge. Substitutes can't kill people. But Tranquils can.

“Gyan called today's incident a victory for all Edenites.”

The stream cuts to a meeting of Guiders. A life-sized holo of Gyan stands at the front in his bright yellow robes. He enunciates every word with perfect diction: the voice of a born leader. “Once again, the Trust has ensured that all Edenites remain safe and secure. We will not stand for attacks by criminals determined to undermine our freedom.”

I feel sick. Those people on the bridge weren't criminals or terrorists. They were scared, desperate, and dying.

Gyan continues, “I know some have already called the Badlanders in question terrorists. That's open to debate, but I can say that thanks to the swift action of the Tranquils on duty, Edenites can sleep well knowing that these criminals are kept far away from our children and our homes.”

“Is this attack a consequence of cutting off Moon Lake?” an unseen person calls out.

“Yes, it appears so,” Gyan answers gravely. “The Trust was hoping for a smooth transition as the Badlands became its own sovereign state, but the Badlanders have let us down. We are exploring ways of dealing with the situation, but please, rest assured that our top priority remains the protection of Eden.”

“I used to feel sorry for those people.” The stream cuts to a woman standing in Orange Grove Plaza, the large town square in the middle of the Hive, ringed by orange trees that perpetually bear fruit. “But it's obvious I should be afraid of them.”

The report switches back to the host. “And that's the latest on the thwarted terrorist attack. And now, the temperature. We can expect another beautiful day tomorrow—”

“Switch it off,” I growl to Kimiko.

Gyan is clever, I'll give him that. He never said outright that Badlanders were terrorists, but even claiming that others called them that is enough to plant the idea.

“They're not taking it lying down,” Abel says. I look up, refocusing. “The Badlanders,” he continues, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “From what I hear about security at the border crossing, they did well to get as far as they did.”

The words of the man who'd been hit across the face, the day I
crossed the border, come back to me:
Soon we won't be asking for your permission!
Abel's right. They're not taking this lying down. They are fighting.

But maybe Gyan planned for that. Maybe our clever and calculating leader knew that the Badlanders would have no choice but to act recklessly in the struggle to stay alive. Then the streams can recast them as criminals. But to what end? To justify retaliation? Edenites believe in peace. They'd never support a Trust declaration of war. Would they?

“Tess.” Abel breaks my reverie. “It's getting cold.”

I look down at my food. It's more than an average Badlander would eat in a week. I push my plate away. “I can't eat this,” I mumble, feeling sick with shame. The long showers. The soft bed I sleep in. The salons, the boutiques . . .

Abel eyes me carefully. “It's already made.”

“I can't eat this,” I repeat, louder, more sure.

“We don't eat like this every night, Tess,” Abel says gently. “This is a celebration—”

“Yeah, that I'm lucky enough to get back over the border,” I cry. “You don't get it, Uncle A. I was out there for a year, I lived like that! I can't go back to all this like it never happened!” I shoot the chair away from the table, the legs screeching. Hot tears fill my eyes and my voice splinters and cracks. “We have everything and they have
nothing
—”

“Hello?”

My head whips around.

“Hunter!” my uncle and I say in unison.

I'm panting. Both hands are balled into fists. I want to kick the wall or throw something across the room.

“What's wrong?” Hunter asks, sounding alarmed.

Abel clears his throat. “Nothing's wrong. Tess was just exercising her right to an ethical decision, albeit loudly.”

Hunter's face works with confusion. “Should I leave?”

“That won't be necessary,” Abel says. “Kimiko, please clear Tess's plate. I'll take it for lunch tomorrow.”

“Yes, Dr. Rockwood,” Kimiko replies smoothly. She picks up the offending meal and whizzes off in the direction of the kitchen. I fold back down into my chair, which is now a good few feet from the table. My anger is ebbing; in its place, the slow throb of mounting embarrassment. I can't believe Hunter just witnessed my meltdown.

Hunter clears his throat uncertainly. “You wanted to go over tomorrow's lecture, Professor Rockwood?”

I wipe at my nose and look up to see my uncle watching me.

“Yes,” he replies faintly. “Yes. Hmm . . . I'm sorry.” He blinks, turning back to Hunter. “What did you say?”

“The lecture,” Hunter replies patiently.

“Oh, yes. Yes, the lecture!” Abel rises to his feet. “Go ahead to the study. I'll just be a moment.”

As soon as he's gone, I lift my eyes to my uncle's. “I ruined dinner.”

“No,” Abel says, and I'm surprised that he says it kindly. “You actually made it much more interesting.”

I give him a watery smile. “You're not going to report me to the Guiders?”

“Report you? Of course not!” he exclaims. “Tess, you're my niece. And besides,” he adds, dropping his voice to a stage whisper, “I'm not completely unsympathetic to your point of view.”

I straighten, stunned. “Really?”

Abel sits back in his chair, dabbing absentmindedly at his mouth with a napkin. “How was it seeing Izzadore today? Really?”

I stare at him, wondering for a few wild seconds if he'd somehow seen me in the salon or at the Animal Gardens, in person or on-cycle. It's certainly possible, but I don't think that's what he means. I think he just knows, somehow, that things are different. “It was . . . not good, actually. Actually, it was pretty bad.” And suddenly I find myself telling him all about it—about the uneasiness with using so much water, how frivolous Izzy seems to me now, even though I still care about her. I leave out Kudzu, obviously, but I tell him everything else. “It just feels like the Trust”—I suck in a big breath, psyching myself up to say the words—“doesn't care about the Badlands at all. Like they want everyone to starve. And that's just so horrible and wrong.”

I eye my uncle. My heart is racing. He could report me for dissent. I pray I haven't just made a colossal mistake.

“It is unfair,” Abel says quietly.

I exhale, sagging with relief. “It was just so hard,” I say. “Being out there and seeing these skinny kids every single day and knowing I couldn't do anything about it.” My throat tightens. A tear slips down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away, embarrassed.

“Well, you were living there,” Abel says thoughtfully. “It's one thing to have a philosophy. It's another to have an experience.”

I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“You look tired, Tess,” Abel says. “Why don't you get some sleep?”

“Okay.” I take a few steps in the direction of the stairs before turning back to him. The light from the candles flickers around his face, causing deep pools of shadows under his eyes. “And thanks. For everything.”

Abel smiles back at me, looking wistful and distracted. His eyes shift away for just a second, and even without following his gaze, I know where he's looking. The red basement door. “No, Tess,” he says, meeting my eyes again. “Thank you.”

I can't sleep. The harder I try, the more impossible it becomes. I toss and turn for hours. Deep down I know why. After my conversation with Abel, it's absurd to think he's really working with the Trust. I believed him when he said he thought what was happening in the Badlands was wrong. I have to know. I have to see what's beyond the red door. I have to break into the basement.

A single lamp lights the otherwise darkened living room. The clock on the wall reads just after three. I cross to the basement door quickly, feeling like a thief.

“Can I assist you, Tess?”

I squeak and whirl to see Kimiko behind me, her bright eyes cutting twin paths of light in the darkness. “Be quiet!” I whisper furiously.

“Can I—”

“No, you can't assist me with anything,” I mutter irritably, gingerly moving behind her. Creepily, the top half of her body swivels around with me. “Stop moving. I'm trying to turn you off.” I just hope these new models aren't so sophisticated they don't have an off switch.

“Dr. Rockwood never turns me off.”

“I'm not Dr. Rockwood,” I reply, finally finding the switch with relief. “Bye-bye, Kimiko.”

“But why would yooouuu . . .” The lights in her eyes power down. Then a series of tiny beeps begin chorusing from around the house. The air- and smell-conditioning, the sole lamp—they all begin turning off. The time on the clock disappears. Moonlight casts the whole house in ominous shades of silent gray. Huh—that's different. Apparently substitutes now control all the electrical stuff, like a central computer. Maybe Kimiko was even linked to the lock on the red door. No, no such luck—it's still active.

My fingers hover over the keypad. I know Abel. He's sentimental and he's lax with security. My guess is he'd choose a loved one's name.

My first guess: Pascuala. My aunt who died when I was five.
“Password denied. You can make two more attempts.”

I bite my lip, heart beating fast. I enter
Tessendra
.

“Password denied. You can make one more attempt.”

I exhale in frustration. I could try Tess, But I don't think that's it.
You know who it is
.

I have to enter her name. Her nickname. The one only Abel uses. Frankie. My mother.

“Password accepted.”

The basement is pitch-black when the bright red door swings open. My heart is kicking against my ribs as I slowly descend. Then, in flickering shards of pale light, the basement laboratory is revealed to me: an unhinged, sprawling mess.

Holos of DNA, strangely beautiful twisting ladders, spiral slowly in the air, beamed from glowing gold scratch. Streams of complicated algorithms are everywhere, as are holos of dark pink neurons, like webby spiders aching to connect. I see one, two, three floating models of the human brain, all slightly different, all shot through with light and wires and whirls of movement. Confusing mathematical formulas flicker as holos in the musty air. My eyes travel the cracked spines of ancient books—actual
books
—on philosophy and consciousness and free will.

I know what all this is for. The familiar-looking tropes of science's next frontier.

Artilects.

Ling was right about Abel.

Abel, the kind old man who actually teared up when I arrived on his doorstep, the man who just agreed that what was happening in the Badlands was unfair.
No
, I tell myself.
The man who's in the pocket of the Trust. The man who lied to me. The man I have to stop
.

Amid the mess on a long, stainless steel table, I notice one of Abel's Simutech security swabs. The pliable, palm-sized silicon swab would get me into any restricted access areas in Simutech itself. I push it into my back pocket. Abel usually has two or three because he keeps misplacing them—he might not even notice this one is gone.

I pick up the model of an arm, cut through to the bone so you can see all its layers. Dermis, epidermis, muscles, bone: the strange,
otherworldly ecosystem that pulses beneath our skin. Next to it is a bone-shaped piece of dull gray metal, about as long as my arm. It is as hard and cold as death itself.

Then I see him.

In the corner. Standing upright.

Magnus.

It takes me a full ten seconds to accept that the dark gold, human-shaped artilect is just a dead, harmless shell. His eyes, once a burning silver, are now black. He stands at over six feet tall, as broad as a football player but so much stronger.

My own horrified voice rings in my ears, the distant echo of a ghost. “
Get away from my mother!
”

Perversely, I find myself moving toward him. Something deep inside me wants to feel the exact texture and temperature of this weapon. To feel beneath my own hand the brilliant death my mother made for herself. My fingers hover above the space where a human's heart would be. I realize I am holding my breath.

“You're teaching him to do the dishes?” I slouched against a stainless steel counter in the Simutech break room, brightening my obnoxious blue manicure with another coat of gloss. I was there because I was grounded. Again. I blamed Izzy. It was her idea we take a swim in a plaza fountain
.

“Handling something as fine as a plate requires the complex coordination of many joints and muscles,” Mom replied, hovering around Magnus, whose hamlike hands were plunged into a sink. “We need him to be able to mimic this level of control. It's part of his motor training. Plus, I haven't programmed him to do this. He observed me, and now he's doing it all by himself, which means—”

“He's a constructivist system—a system that learns,” I parroted, blowing on the wet gloss. “You've only mentioned it five billion times.”

“I don't understand you, Tess.” Mom sighed. “You used to have such an aptitude for this.”

“For painting my nails?”

“For scientific study.”

Magnus was awkwardly maneuvering a soapy plate out of the sink—a boy learning to keep house. Around us, streams
hovered and whirled to record the constant conversations of his synthetic synapses and neurons. Magnus was rarely undocumented, the constant center of everyone's attention
.