Parched (41 page)

“What can you tell us about the dam?” Ling asks.

Hunter relaxes, unfocusing his gaze. His eyes start to glow, as if someone switched on a torch behind them. They're the color of cut kiwi fruit. “One hundred and eight Quicks,” he murmurs. “The dam wall is ten feet thick, and yes, one hundred feet high and fifty feet wide. The entrance to the aqueduct is also one hundred feet high and fifty feet wide, shaped like an oval. The space between where the dam ends and the entrance to the aqueduct is forty-three feet—”

Suddenly he stops. His eyes lose the inhuman glow and he makes a small sound of surprise. “What?” I ask anxiously. “What did you see?”

Hunter shakes his head. “Nothing.” His hand moves to rub his chin, distressed, eyes meeting mine. “I just lost access.”

“What does that mean?” Ling asks.

“It means the Trust just cut me loose,” he replies ruefully. “I knew it was going to happen eventually. I was hoping for later rather than sooner.”

Panic flares inside me. “Are they going to shut you down? Serf you? Wipe your memories?” Horrific scenarios of Hunter seizing control of our buzzcar and flying us back to the Trust laughing manically explode into my imagination before I see him shaking his head emphatically.

“They can't do that. I'd have to be there for them to modify my memories, and they're nowhere near powerful enough to serf me or shut me down. It's the equivalent of losing my security clearance.”

I shake my head, confused. “But what about the exit program? Surely they can shut you off remotely?”

“Actually, that's what Abel originally wanted,” Hunter says. “It was Gyan who insisted I be more independent. I guess,” he continues, tilting his head thoughtfully, “that's what you'd call irony.”

“Did they know you were looking at the dam schematics?” I ask urgently. If they did, our plan is as good as dust—we could never hit the dam if the Trust knows we're coming.

“No,” Hunter replies. “They can't have known that.”

“So, what does this mean?” Ling asks.

Hunter's face darkens. “It means I can't serf the Quicks.”

“Oh.” I sink back into my seat. “Oh.”

Could Kudzu take on all those Quicks ourselves? No. That's way too dangerous. Outside, the sun beats down relentlessly as we start to take the same loop again. “What do you need?” I ask Hunter. “What do you need to serf the Quicks?”

“Something called a root processing algorithm,” he replies. “The RPA.”

“Well, where is it that?” I ask. “How can we get it?”

He frowns, running one hand through his hair. “We could go back to the Three Towers—”

“
No
,” the backseat choruses.

“I am officially passing on that idea,” Achilles adds.

“It might be in official scratch,” Hunter thinks aloud. “I can't check now. It's actually very frustrating—”

“Wait!” I exclaim, sitting up. “Official scratch, like blue scratch?”

He nods. “Possibly. Probably. Ugh.” He makes a face, musing to himself. “This uncertainty is extremely disconcerting. I'm used to having access to everything, all information, everything in the streams. This is what it must be like to be human—”

I whack him lightly. “Hunter, shut up.” I turn to the others, grinning. “I can get blue scratch.”

Ling looks at me disbelievingly. “What?”

I quickly explain that Izzy's father is a Guider. “What day is it?” I ask Hunter.

“Monday.”

“She'll be at education now,” I say, “but if we come back later tonight, she might give it to me.”

“Might?” Lind asks warily.

“We didn't part on the best of terms,” I say. “But it's worth a shot.”

It's all Ling needs to hear. “Right. We're on. Let's get to Milkwood, we'll work out the rest on the way.” She pauses, glancing at us in an uncharacteristically mischievous way. Then, in a low, almost conspiratorial tone: “Our minds are better.”

Achilles grins, holding up his shackled hands. “Hands? Definitely faster.”

Naz and I trade a look. For the first time ever, it is a look of equals. We grin widely, then chant together, “Our hearts are stronger.”

Then, all at once, we raise our voices and shout with delirious abandon, “We are Kudzu!”

Our laughter is high and wild, and when I catch Hunter's bemused look, I laugh even harder. Tears prick my eyes, and joy fills me from the boots up. My friends, my crazy, brave, passionate friends, are going to blow up a dam. In our little stolen buzzcar, we howl and we shout and we laugh. We are Kudzu.

We land south of Milkwood, near the entrance to a hike that circles around the lake. It's uncommon, but not unusual, for Edenites to buzz up here from any of the townships. We can't take the regular path back to Milkwood because we can't risk the Trust seeing a buzzcar land so far north. We'll have to beat our own path back.

Naz busies herself trying to cut the Trust handlocks off Ling and Achilles with a stone, telling Hunter and me that if she can't do it in a few minutes, we'll just have to help them hike to Milkwood without the use of their arms. I know Hunter could break the handlocks, but he doesn't offer, which makes me assume he's saving his power. And besides, I've already asked so much of him; I don't want him feeling like some sort of garden tool. Instead, I ask quietly, “Can we talk?”

As the dull clang of rock on metal echoes out around us, Hunter and
I move into the scrub. The fallen leaves form a soft mulch that's spongy underfoot. We stop after passing a large elm tree, putting it between us and the others. Honey-colored light fills a small clearing. I find a safe spot for the mirror matter, a low, wide tree fork drenched in bright sunlight. It catches the light and sparkles like a thousand tiny diamonds.

Before I open my mouth, Hunter surprises me. “I have something for you.” He leans down and draws a bundle out of his white boot. It's about the size of the mirror matter, wrapped in tough black fabric. When I flip the fabric back, I gasp. “Mack!” My knife! My beautiful, strong hunting knife that I was sure I had lost forever. I flip it fast through my fingers, thrilling at the familiar feel. “But where was—how did you—”

“I had it when I rescued you from the Interrogation Room,” Hunter says, taking in my rapt face with clear satisfaction. “I forgot about it until now.”

I grin up at him. “I thought you never forget.”

I say this because I remember him saying it in the florist shop. The shop. Suddenly the pleasure at Mack's return wavers, and I'm reminded of what I need to speak to Hunter about. Carefully, I wrap my knife back in the black fabric and move to balance it on the tree fork, next to the mirror matter. But even after I put the knife down, I can't drag my eyes to the boy behind me.

“Something is wrong,” he says. “What's the matter?”

I frown, my hands twisting into each other anxiously.

“Are you nervous about the dam?” he tries again. I shake my head no. “Tess. Look at me. Please?” Reluctantly, I turn to face him. “I find humans hard enough to understand when they're being direct,” he says seriously. “Removing speech makes comprehension significantly more difficult.”

“I didn't want to say anything in front of the others,” I say, glancing in their direction. “I didn't want them to worry.”

“Worry about what?”

My stomach twists with nerves. “Well, what if you change your mind? About helping us? What if . . .” I exhale hard, my body tense. “What if we have a fight and you decide Project Aevum is the best way to go?”

Hunter blinks, surprised. “That won't happen, Tess.”

“But it might,” I insist, taking a step closer to him. “It could. The only thing stopping you is your feelings. How do I know you won't just change your mind again?”

Hunter runs his fingers through his hair, bewildered. “Tess, I just
saved your life. And defied the Trust, the people who made me. How can you even suggest that?”

I show him my tronic, the curled letters softly glowing in the afternoon light. “Because no feeling is final, Hunter. People change.”

He stares down at me, his lower lip parted in an expression of confused astonishment. I stare back defiantly, not giving an inch. I care about Hunter and I don't like telling him I don't trust him. Because honestly, I do trust him. Almost beyond my own will, I feel I could trust Hunter with my life. But I can't be naive.

Hunter's words are halting but sure. “Abel was right about me, Tess. As soon as I let myself admit how I feel about you, everything changed. Now the idea of killing even one person in the Badlands doesn't seem efficient. It seems barbaric. Insane.” He takes a step back, one hand rubbing his jaw with stark concern. “I can't even believe you're still speaking to me after what I said I'd do. What I've already done.” His eyes widen with horror, voice rising in panic. “That girl. The girl the Quicks killed. You knew her. She was with you. She was with Kudzu, wasn't she?”

“Hunter—”

“Wasn't she!”

“Yes.”

His eyes grow wild, hands bunching into fists at his side. “I helped kill her. I authorized the Quicks to kill your friend!”

I move to him quickly, reaching up to take his hands. “You didn't know that—”

“I killed her!”

“You did not,” I say firmly. “The Trust killed Lana, not you.” I unclench his fists to hold both hands tightly. “Listen to me. What's done is done.” I try to make my voice as soothing as possible. “Okay? We can't change the past. You just can't ever do it again.”

“I have no intention,” he mutters. “Believe me.”

I do. We stand in silence for a few moments, until his shoulders lose their tightness and he looks somewhat normal again.

Then he says, “I don't entirely agree with you.”

“About what?”

“About no feeling being final.” Hunter's hands move to rest on my shoulders. They feel solid and warm. His eyes drill into mine. “My feelings for you won't change.”

I'm in clothes that literally stink. My head is shaved, and I'm covered
in cuts and bruises and dried blood, not all of it mine. The idea of anyone, let alone Hunter, having real feelings for me seems absurd. “What feelings?”

A quizzical, happy smile sneaks onto his face. His words sound innocent and unflinchingly honest. “I'm in love with you.”

I feel as if someone just threw a bucket of water over me.

“You didn't know,” he says, studying my reaction. “You are surprised. You are . . . unhappy?”

“N-No, Hunter,” I stutter. “You're not in love with me.”

“Yes, I am.”

I cross my arms over my chest. I can feel my heart hammering through my shirt. “What you're feeling is just . . . excitement. That we made it out.”

“No,” he says.

“It's not.”

“It'll fade,” I insist. “What you think is love is just a chemical called dopamine and that doesn't last. Whatever you're feeling will be gone in a week.”

“No. It won't.” He looks like he always does: curious, calm, utterly fascinated by me. “How do you know all this?” he asks. “Have you ever been in love?”

I exhale noisily. “We should get back to the others.”

“Tess, have you ever been in love?”

I bite my lip and stare at the patchwork of leaves on the ground. “I don't know,” I confess, somewhat unwillingly. “No, I guess.”

“Then how do you know this isn't love?” Hunter closes the distance between us, and suddenly his arms are around my waist and lifting me up as if I weigh no more than sunlight.

A squeal escapes me before I can stop it. “What are you doing?” I sound strangely giggly and not at all like myself.

He deposits me easily on a tall, moss-covered tree stump. “Sweeping you off your feet?”

“That's a metaphor.” My cheeks are growing warm. He's standing between my legs, hands resting lightly on my waist. My hands lie sweaty and tense in my lap.

“Is it?” he asks. His eyes move around my face, taking in every part of it. He touches the neat scar on my forehead, a light touch so impossibly gentle. His eyes meet mine again, and he smiles. “You really are very beautiful. I think you're the most beautiful girl that I've ever met.”

“You haven't met that many girls,” I reply, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “You're a rogue science experiment.”

“Okay,” he relents. “You are the most beautiful girl that has ever entered my consciousness in any form. And I can write my own memories, so . . .”

“Emily Anderson.” I narrow my eyes.

“Let's not dwell on a fictional ten-year-old.” He continues to stare at me. I've never noticed how soft his lips look. “You know what my favorite thing about you is?”

“My many scars?”

He smiles. “Your eyes.” Then, off my look of surprise: “What?”

“That's one of the things I like best about you,” I murmur.

“I can see you thinking,” he says softly. “And I like it. I like the way you think. That's what makes you beautiful.” He presses both hands into my hips. “You're like a fascinatingly complex algorithm.”

“An algorithm?”

“Yes.” He nods. “Who also feels beautiful, and sounds—” He frowns. “Well, you do a lot of yelling.”

I giggle, feeling oozy, like my bones are made of wet clay.

“You make me malfunction, Tess,” he continues, leaning forward to murmur shivery deep into my ear. “That's how beautiful you are.”

I can no longer stop my arms from moving up to circle his neck. I twist my fingers into his dark, slightly coarse hair, scratching an itch I've had for weeks. Then my finger trails down the back of his neck and cautiously, so cautiously, down his jaw and to his lips. A smile lifts the corners of his mouth as my fingertips trace over the bow of his upper lip, the half-moon of his lower. I wonder how it is I never noticed he doesn't breathe. When my fingers finish their journey, they sneak back into his hair, twisting, playing, feeling every texture. My forehead comes to rest against his, and my skin is flushed and alive. I close my eyes, every nerve in my body singing.