When We Wake (20 page)

“Hey,” I said. “
Hey
. You wrote my answers?”

“The army wrote them; I refined them.” She laughed, a tinkling, pretty sound. “You don’t think we’d just throw you to the sharks, Teeg? No, no, I’ll do all the work, I promise. You just have to repeat what I tell you.”

“But Hurfest—”

“It has to be Carl, Teeg. He’s famous, actually quite good at
what he does, and irritatingly incorruptible. But most important, he ambushed you and aired it, and now he’ll make public amends. That will silence any number of objections to the operation.”

“No.”

She smiled, sat down at my desk, and pointed to my bed. “Let’s go over the questions now.”

“No,” I said, louder. “I don’t want to be a prop. I don’t want to be
publicity
.”

Tatia didn’t look angry at my defiance. She looked amused, which was much, much worse. “Darling, you can hold your breath until you turn blue, but I’m not going to dodge the whippet. You’ll do it my way, or no way. I don’t care how stubborn you are. I earn a truly staggering amount regardless of your tantrums. But if you walk into that interview unprepared, Carl Hurfest will eat your risen carcass like the nasty little scavenger he is. And if you don’t turn up at all, your face will be utterly broken. Smashed beyond repair. He’s probably hoping you won’t show, in fact; he can spin news out of that for days.”

I didn’t move. I barely breathed.

Tatia leaned forward, smile just as slick but, I thought, a little warmer. “Or you can listen to me and beat him. I’d be happy to help you do that because between you and me, I have as much love for that man as I do for a malaria-ridden mosquito.” She leaned back again and looked elaborately unconcerned. “However, as I said, either way, I get paid.”

I
knew
I was being manipulated, but I still couldn’t help grasping for the carrot she offered me. “I can really beat him?”

“Teeg, my chicken, we’ll dust him dry.”

I had no idea what that meant exactly, but the context was clear. If I listened to Tatia, I could get some measure of revenge on Carl Hurfest. And another benefit had occurred to me: Cooperating with Tatia would show Dawson I was being a good girl, and certainly not someone who would sneak out of a slumber party, go hunting for the Ark Project at an address I’d hacked with Bethari’s computer, and then personally witness him up to something definitely dodgy.

I needed to fend off any suspicions he might have to buy time for Bethari and me to find out what was going on.

So I said yes.

Okay. Abdi’s telling me that we need to move. He’s pretty sure they’re close to tracing our current location, and we need to get to Place B well before they hit the streets.

I’d like to give a big hello to those of our searchers who are watching this ’cast. Enjoying the show?
I
am.

I know you’ll catch us eventually.

But I
will
finish my story first.

Okay. Hi again.

Sorry about the lighting; Abdi rigged it as well as he could, but we can’t take too much power from the grid, and we don’t want to give away too many details of our surroundings.

If I wriggle around a bit, it’s because I’m sitting in the water dripping off my clothes. It’s still storming out there, and the bike helmets did almost nothing to protect us from the rain, though they were pretty damn good at warding off the hail. Abdi got beaned by one big piece that went through an air slit. He’s okay; it’s bleeding a lot, but the cut’s shallow.

The lightning was really scary, but the big danger was not being able to see through the rain. Still, if we couldn’t see very well, then no one could see us, either.

Actually, I take it back. I just caught a glimpse of myself in my computer’s reflection, and I am not at all sorry that the lighting is so dim. I look like a drowned rat.

Where was I? Oh, right. I said yes to the interview.

And so began five days of torment.

It wasn’t enough just to memorize the answers they wanted me to give, of course. Oh no, I couldn’t be allowed to do something that simple. I had to practice the answers, over and over, until they sounded natural, which was not easy when I had to hit every pause, every glance and smile and solemn nod, right on cue.

Then I had to practice what Tatia called the “impro trees.” If Hurfest altered the wording or sneaked in extra questions, I had to be prepared. “No comment” was all right when being accosted by reporters; it was unacceptable when I was participating in an interview I’d agreed to, because it showed I had something to hide.

I’ve already said that I’m not a good liar. All the prepared answers were technically true—I think Dawson made sure of that—but the gestures and timing and expression practice made it feel uncomfortably like lying, which meant that it took me ages to get it right. And some of Tatia’s suggestions for impro trees were downright fabrication.

“But I
did
eat meat,” I told her.

“My little butterfly, you cannot—oh, all right, say that yes, you did, and now you deeply regret it, all right? You understand that you were the product of a terrible Earth-hating culture.”

“Do you know what’s going on?” I demanded. “Rich nations
have been dumping radioactive waste off the shores of Africa for decades, and they’re still doing it! Talk about Earth-hating.”

Tatia shook her head, looking like a disappointed cherub. “Teeg, my sweet, number one: Who cares? And number two: What is our first rule?”

“Don’t lose my temper,” I said.

“Don’t lose your temper,” she repeated, nodding at me. Her eyebrows were metallic blue today, and they flashed as she turned her computer to the next impro tree. “Now, if you’re asked about Abdi Taalib…”

I twitched.

“… bench him.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

She fluttered her tiny glittery hands at me impatiently. “Say that he’s your classmate, and you respect his musical accomplishments, but you’re not friends. The last thing we need is you being associated with a thirdie.”

“We’re
not
friends,” I told her.

“Less defiant, more dismissive,” she said. “As if the thought had never crossed your adorable resurrected brain.”

I rolled my eyes, and we moved on to the next possibility.

The advertising for the upcoming interview began before I’d even agreed to it, and the famers were flocking like flies to a carcass. Soren was trying to get me to go to a party. Any party. He’d sent three messages to Koko on the weekend, and on Monday
he waited in the hall, catching me before I could even get to class.

“Banger at my place next Saturday,” he announced. “You’ll come, won’t you, Teeg?” Then he did a double take. “You look great!”

After a weekend of endless criticism and nitpicking, I was not feeling my best. But Tatia had wasted no time in overhauling my style, and I did look much better. My hair had been trimmed, my clothes had been replaced, and a huge array of makeup—most of which I’d managed to ignore—had been purchased for my use.

I was wearing a retro silver jumpsuit with blue highlights, and platform wedges to disguise my shocking lack of height. Tatia had tried me in heels, but after the third time I’d deliberately fallen out of them, she’d given up and gone for thick soles instead.

“Thanks,” I said, and glanced at Zaneisha, who moved forward, forcing Soren to back into the classroom. Undeterred, he followed me to my chair, where Bethari and Joph were already waiting in the seats on either side.

“It’ll be a dazzler,” he said, hitching one hip casually onto my desk. “I always supply the best stuff, don’t I, Joph?”

“I don’t supply you anymore, Soren,” Joph said. “Last time you gave my breathers to fourteen-year-olds.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The age limits aren’t just there to make parents feel good,” she said with as much bite in her voice as I’d ever heard her manage. Bethari shot her a startled look. “There are important
differences in hormone loads and brain chemistry. Those boys could have gotten very sick.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“You should have. It’s on every label.”

“Will you supply me again?” he said hopefully. “You make the best.”

She pursed her lips, noticed Bethari staring, and gave him a vague smile. “Oooh, I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll come, won’t you, Teeg? Bethi and Joph, too, of course.”

I looked at Bethari, who shrugged. Soren was at least open about my fame being my main attraction. I was going to be in this world for the rest of my life; I’d better start learning how to work it.

“I’m a little busy right now,” I said, and tried a smile.

He looked hopeful. “But later?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I promised.

Abdi came in then, and I couldn’t help the way my eyes darted to him. Soren noticed it, too.

“And Abdi,” he assured me, and called across the room, “Hey, Abdi, come to my party on Saturday.” He dropped one hand onto my shoulder. “Teeg’s coming.”

Abdi looked up and saw Soren draped all over me. Something flashed in his face before it returned to his normal polite blankness. “No. Thank you.”

Soren rolled his eyes. “Aw, come on, you can climb out of your shell for one night. We’re okay with thirdies, aren’t we, Teeg?” His hand squeezed my shoulder.

Abdi said nothing, and Soren’s voice got louder. “We’d have
to hose you off before you walked in, though. All that thirdie pollution might stink up the place.” His gang giggled.

“Get off me,” I snapped, and tried to shrug away from Soren’s grip.

His hand followed my motion. “Just a bit of fun, Teeg. Thirdie dirt grinds in, you know?”

“It’s not funny, Soren. Let go!”

Zaneisha was clearly wondering whether it was time to take steps, but Abdi didn’t hesitate, closing the distance between us. “Tegan said let go,” he said softly.

Soren took his hand away with exaggerated care. “Like that, is it? Makes sense. Thirdie loves freezie. Why don’t you take her home to your seventeen brothers and sisters? You can show her your mud hut and—”

Abdi was fast, but Zaneisha was much faster, deflecting the punch he aimed at Soren and trapping his arm. “Take a walk,” she suggested, her voice calm. “If you fight in here, someone could get hurt.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. Zaneisha let him go, and I shot to my feet and followed him out the door.

“Hey,” I called, but he gave no sign of hesitating. I jogged after him through the thankfully empty halls. “Don’t make me chase you down,” I said. “You know I can do it.”

Abdi stopped. “Go back to your famer friend,” he said without turning around. “He can help you with your interview.”

“That asshole is not my friend! And I’m not—you can’t think I’m doing that interview because I
want
to.”

He turned. “What
do
you want, then?”

“To tell you I think Soren’s a racist jerk and I’m never going to his parties.” I looked over my shoulder. Zaneisha was right behind me, but no one else was around. Yet. “Look, if you want to hide for a while, I know a good place.”

I took his arm, and though the muscles were rigid under my hand, he didn’t resist when I tugged him into the janitor’s closet I’d fled to on my first day. Zaneisha raised an eyebrow but stayed outside when I gave her a pleading look.