Disruption (2 page)

I
lunged at the elevator button, relieved when the doors opened immediately. Every second was precious. Inside, I hit a few buttons, smiling briefly when nothing happened. Gus had the elevator under his control, so I climbed up onto the mahogany railing and pushed open the hatch in the roof.

I levered myself through the ceiling of the elevator cabin and stood on the roof. The door was exactly where our intel promised – between floors, blended seamlessly into the wall, making it all but impossible to see. Unless you knew it was there.

I slipped the M-Corp card that Gus had programmed into the door’s unmarked scanner. Of course, if I were actually authorised to be there the elevator would’ve delivered me to the door directly. After exactly twenty seconds, the lock clicked and the door slid open. Calmly, I slipped into the dark transit tunnel, letting the door slide shut behind me. The air was stale and moved against my skin, reminding me of two things: it was recycled, and it was limited.

The intel we’d paid for assured me that there would be no guards in this area, but I still took the time to palm my tranq gun and listen out for any nearby sounds. Nothing.

Before long the passageway led to a larger underground system, and I couldn’t help but be in awe of the elaborate network. It was all but out in the open. I quickly scanned in each direction as far as the low lighting allowed. There were no security guards manning the discreet entry / exit points nearby.
That
alone was a big part of why the doorways remained so well hidden.

It had taken over a year, a great deal of underhanded dealings, and my lucky new ‘partnership’ with Gus to finally discover the key to getting access to these transit tunnels.

Parking garages.

Who would have suspected that within parking garages, all the way from Washington DC to Fairfax and beyond, were doorways into an underground transit system?

The system connected hundreds of small hubs, each of which could house up to a thousand people. Originally built for FEMA as part of their emergency strategy in the case of Armageddon or nuclear warfare, the design revolved around a complex layout of self-contained ‘hubs’ which were rumoured to link to a ‘core’ hub built beneath Mount Weather in Bluemont, Virginia. If you believed the whispers, the core alone could house up to twenty thousand people.

I hadn’t seen that far.

Too many guns in that direction.

The hubs were where M-Corp locked up the negs. Those rehabilitation farm ads were a complete lie. And tonight was my best chance to find what I was looking for.

I closed my eyes briefly, slowed my breathing, and lined up alongside the metal tracks – not dissimilar to railway lines – to wait for a passing pod.

Transit pods were bubble-shaped vehicles made of bulletproof glass, wicked fast and near impossible to hitch a ride on. On my first attempt, almost nine months ago, I’d nearly snapped my neck. I
did
break my arm. Fun times.

Squinting, I recognised the glow that was beginning to warm the far east of the tunnel. My pulse started to race and my M-Band let off a warning beep. I ignored it, my eyes fixed on the fast-approaching pod.

‘Don’t die today, Maggie,’ I ordered myself, as I moved closer to the tracks.

Even when it was close enough that I could see it was unoccupied, there was no time for relief. I was already running. My arms and legs pumped harder and harder, knowing that my leap would need to count. When the front of the pod lined up with my shoulder, I sprung into the air, stretching my arms in front of me.

My hands and feet scrabbled for something,
anything
. My left hand made contact with the pod’s barely there grip point at the back, but my right hand missed, flying across the silken surface.

My entire weight hung from the tips of four fingers. I couldn’t stop the small cry that fell from my lips as I dug deep to hoist my right arm up and into place before I lost my ride. Panting, I manoeuvred myself into a better position and prepared for the fast-approaching drop.

Getting off is unquestionably easier. It just hurts like hell.

A large 74, painted on the tunnel wall in white, loomed ahead. My junction. I jumped. My ankle twisted as I hit the ground and rolled. Denim ripped and pain shot into my butt and knees. I sat up, attempting to dust myself off and refocus. I managed to tug my ponytail tight and double-check my M-Band hadn’t been damaged before I dropped my trembling hands into my lap and let go of a shaky breath.

Would anyone ever find me if I died down here?

Would Gus even tell my mother what happened to me?

Would I
want
him to?

God, I didn’t have time for wallowing. I jumped to my feet and rotated my ankle a few times before setting off again. The clock was ticking. I had to move.

I dashed through the intricate tunnels, heading west, following the map I’d memorised. It didn’t take long to reach the opening I was looking for.

I stared, still amazed – still angry – each time I discovered another neg hub.

The area below was hard granite, but a huge crater had been carved out of it like many of the other hubs I’d seen, reminding me of a black salad bowl. In the centre of the bowl was a series of interconnecting buildings. And only two direct entry / exit points: the large open tunnel down at their level, which allowed for truck access, and the open stairway accessed from my elevated position. Both had steel doors closing them off.

The community wasn’t the largest I’d found, but close. At first glance, I would guess the hub was big enough for around eight or nine hundred people. Too many to search every face, but I didn’t need to. Down here, everyone knew everyone – a survival strategy rather than a need for companionship.

I hovered around the upper edge of the settlement. The trick to not getting caught was getting in and out fast. Even if the steel doors weren’t enough, there were heavily armed guards posted at the access points, making entry via the staircase impossible. No problem. My way was faster anyway.

Ignoring my ankle, I jogged towards the darkest corner, yanking my rope free from my pack and quickly spying a large boulder to tie it to. I hooked it to my belt and launched myself off the edge. I barely utilised the support of the abseil until just before the rooftop of one of the smaller side buildings. I landed sharply, grimacing as I hobbled towards one of the air vents that had become my preferred way in and out of these hubs. Pulling another length of rope out of my pack, I prepared for my final descent.

I landed inside a cold concrete corridor. I hid in the shadows for a moment before inching my way towards a T-junction ahead. On the way I passed an open door – the room inside was no larger than a college dorm and nothing at all like the quaint ‘farming estates’ the government advertised. I shivered. The hubs had an on-edge feeling that I’d never gotten used to. The people in here knew. Just like I did. They would never be truly free again.

Negs had what scientists called a ‘pivotal flaw’ – a chemical imbalance that left them unable to rate positively with others. While it wasn’t uncommon for people’s Phera-tech to show occasional negative ratings with other individuals, negs only
ever
rated that way. When the flaw was first discovered, scientists found that a concentration of negs were already in prisons across the country, often for violent crimes. During the period of their research, many who hadn’t at first appeared dangerous showed a developing tendency towards wrongdoing. It wasn’t long before the scientific community branded negs ‘the pollution to society’. And when they proved that a neg’s continued interaction with non-negs would ultimately result in volatile and often aggressive outcomes, people agreed that they were the worst of mankind.

The government had turned a blind eye to what they couldn’t fix, handing over the reigns to the increasingly powerful firm that had first invented M-Chips and M-Bands. Now, beneath the ground, too many lives were in the hands of M-Corp.

My father’s life was one of them.

I froze a few metres from the top of the corridor. A man had just turned the corner and was walking towards me. I knew he was a neg by his grey uniform and bare feet. He caught sight of me, his pale green eyes assessing yet unafraid. Cold.

He tilted his head a fraction, his overgrown dark hair falling back, exposing a streak of dirt on the side of his neck. He didn’t look much older than me, but I knew not to underestimate him. I stood still, feet apart, hands loose but ready by my sides.

‘New?’ he rasped, stopping a couple of metres away from me.

I shook my head, risking a quick look over my shoulder to ensure we were alone.

‘What city are you from?’ I asked, my voice even.

The line between his eyebrows creased. ‘Chicago, why?’ He was studying my clothes, no doubt wondering where my uniform was. If I wasn’t dressed like a neg, I should’ve been wearing M-Corp credentials at the very least.

‘White Sox won last week,’ I said, grateful that I always took the time to stay up to date on sports results.

His eyes lit up, just for a second. He looked around. ‘You’re not M-Corp?’

I kept my voice low. ‘No.’

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to decide if he would ask. They always did.

‘How?’

‘The Yankees are asking the same question,’ I said, causing his eyes to narrow and his hand to twitch. I should have known better than to antagonise him. Negs were prisoners. Being trapped underground with no light, no escape, no hope, did things to a person whether they were good or not.

‘You know what I mean,’ he said, his voice dropping to a growl.

I did. Even if I was a new inmate, I should’ve been held for at least a few months before being delivered to a hub. And, since the first thing that happens to negs is to be shut off from the real world, I should most definitely
not
know last week’s baseball results.

I shrugged, and pulled a picture out of my pocket – the only one of Dad that I’d managed to save. All the digital images had been erased for his ‘future well-being’.

‘How long have you been underground?’ I asked.

He took a step closer to me, his suspicion morphing into curiosity. ‘Coming up to a year and a half,’ he answered. ‘You?’

I pushed up my sleeve and checked the time on my M-Band. ‘About eighteen minutes.’

Before his jaw dropped all the way, I held the picture up for him. ‘Listen, I don’t have long. I’ll tell you the final score and give you a zip with today’s news if you tell me whether you’ve ever seen this person.’ When he stared back at me and crossed his arms, I added, ‘The zip’s black-market.’ In other words untraceable.

The guy glanced around nervously and licked his lips. He wanted that news zip bad. I felt a pang of guilt that it had to be this way. Even worse that I couldn’t just grab his hand and take him with me. I could save him right now. But if I did … my way in and out would be blown. I couldn’t take that chance.

I was out of time, but I waited.

When his eyes lowered to the photo again, I knew I had him.

‘Who is he?’ he asked, probably trying to work out if this was some kind of trick. For the zip, he’d probably tell me whatever I wanted to hear.

I shrugged. ‘Someone I need to find. Dead or alive.’ I added the last bit to give him permission to tell me bad news and still get his prize. ‘He was taken in a little over two years ago.’

He raised an eyebrow and I knew what he was thinking. I wasn’t a fool. I’d seen enough to know there was a chance I was already too late. But that wasn’t going to stop me. I was going to find Dad, or find out what had happened to him, no matter who I had to bribe, blackmail or destroy along the way.

The neg cleared his throat. ‘I know the face of every animal in this shithole. Never seen him.’

I fixed him with a challenging gaze. ‘Then why did the girl I just spoke to say he was here?’

Confusion touched his features, his nose crinkling. ‘Seriously, I don’t know what she told you, but this guy is
not
in this hub.’ His cold eyes locked on mine. They sent a shiver down my spine, reminding me that while the system was terribly flawed, some negs really were very frightening. But he wasn’t lying.

I put away the photo and pulled the coin-sized zip from my pack. I flipped it in the air and he quickly snatched it. ‘Scores are in the sports section,’ I said, turning.

‘Wait! You’re leaving here, aren’t you?’ His breathing picked up and he moved towards me, causing me to step back cautiously. ‘I … I’m Ben,’ he said.

I looked at his chest, avoiding his eyes, and winced. I hated it when they told me their names. It made the nightmares so much worse.

He reached out and grabbed my left wrist in a fierce grip, making it clear he had no intention of letting me go anywhere. I could see the thoughts flitter across his face – fear, anger, mostly desperation – as he tried to work out what approach to take. I’d seen them all.

His grip tightened, but I didn’t try to pull away. ‘Take me with you. Please. Take me with you!’ he pleaded, settling on begging.

I turned my right arm slightly and glanced at my M-Band. I had less than twelve minutes to get out.

My fingers curled into a tight fist and I closed my eyes briefly. When I opened them, I knew they were emotionless. Much colder than his had been. The way they had to be.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Can’t.’

‘S
o you just knocked him out and left him there?’ Gus said after I gave him a brief rundown of the night on my walk home.

I put my hand over the receiver as I blew out a tired breath. ‘Yes.’

The door to my attic room above the garage was stuck and I had to kick it to get inside. It wasn’t big and barely had any ventilation – forget about insulation – but it beat sharing a room with my mom or brother in our tiny excuse for a house. And there was the added bonus that no one could monitor my comings and goings.

‘You’re a callous piece of work,’ Gus murmured.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, my voice flat. I’d learned to shut down and justify my actions a long time ago. I was just glad the neg hadn’t been fast enough to put up a fight and cost me precious seconds. As it was, I only made it back into the elevator at the thirty-minute mark, which also turned out to be exactly three minutes before the blonde driver of the cherry convertible barged through the stairwell door with building maintenance, complaining that the elevator wasn’t working.

‘Someday one of them is going to catch you, or tell the right person about you.’ He meant one of the negs.

I kicked off my boots and sat down on my mattress, only to jump up again and yank down my jeans. ‘Damn it!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got gravel in my ass.’

There was a pause on the other end as I inspected the damage, then, ‘Oh. Well … that made my day a little better.’ Gus sounded genuinely pleased.

‘Just get me the map for the next quadrant.’

I could hear him jamming something into his mouth. ‘I can try, but I lost my contact. I’m asking around, but if I ask the wrong person, we’re both toast. It could take a while.’

When Gus said he’d lost his contact, it meant the contact was probably dead. I couldn’t wait to be done with all this.

I wriggled out of my jeans and kicked them into the open garbage bag in the corner. Another pair totalled. ‘How long, Gus? And don’t mess with me.’

‘Even once I find a new contact, you know we’ll have to set up a dummy trade to build the trust. It could take a couple of months before we find the right source.’

Silence.

‘Maggie, you there?’

I’d been watching
him
for so long. I was ready. But still, there was a part of me that had always hoped I wouldn’t need to do it.

‘Are you in place for the M-Band distribution next week?’ I asked, a stillness coming over me. A resolve.

I could hear Gus’s sharp intake of breath. He understood what this meant. ‘Maggie … Jesus.’ He took another moment. When he finally spoke again, his voice was tight. ‘Even for you, this idea is insane.’

‘Gus.’

He sighed. ‘I’m scheduled for tomorrow. But when we get caught for this, which we will … a neg camp will seem like a holiday in the Bahamas.’

I turned on the shower and cast a quick glance at myself in the mirror. The person staring back at me was a stranger. Someone who’d taken the girl I was two years ago and stripped her down only to rebuild a different person. Now I was strong, I was capable and smart. They were the good qualities. But I was also calculated, manipulative and selfish. They were the things I promised myself I wouldn’t be. After I found him. After we put this right.

‘Quentin Mercer is a spoilt little rich kid. I’ve been watching him for the past three months, Gus.’ Actually, I’d been watching him for the past two years. ‘He won’t be a problem once I hook him. This is my best chance.’ I swallowed back the truth. This was my
only
chance.

Gus snorted. ‘It’s times like this I miss the old days when a girl could just shove her tits in a guy’s face to get what she wanted.’

That
would
be much easier. But in a world dictated by pheromone ratings, the magical power of tits and ass had slid down the scale.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ I said, finishing the conversation.

‘Hope that gravel burns like hell when you’re pulling it out.’

With a half-smile, I hung up and hopped in my minuscule shower with a pair of tweezers.

Gus got his wish.

It wasn’t the familiar surroundings of our old home, or the smell of one of Mom’s cakes burning in the oven that made me realise I was dreaming of the days before Dad turned neg – it was seeing myself from a distance. It was the only way I had these dreams now, as if I’d become so different that I could only view myself from afar.

Mom always baked on Thursdays. It was her one night shift of the week, and she liked to leave something out for us to have as a treat. We used to toss a coin to see who would do the taste test after she’d gone to work.

Samuel had skipped out with his friends again, leaving Dad and me alone. It was surreal to see him, and I recognised the ache in my chest. He looked like he always did; his hair was long and he was wearing a shirt tucked neatly into his pants. I couldn’t look away from his eyes. They had the kind of warmth that comes with time, family and hard work. I found myself studying him with a familiar awe.

Dad sliced off a bite-sized piece of Mom’s cake, casting a dubious glance towards my sixteen-year-old self. ‘Do you think it’s chocolate?’ he asked, a glimmer in his eye.

My younger self laughed heartily. ‘That or she’s burned it evenly all over.’

Dad chuckled. I could see the joy reflected in my younger eyes that I’d delivered a good comeback. He popped the piece of cake into his mouth. Chewed. Glanced briefly towards me with a grim smile. Then grabbed his keys and wallet off the counter. ‘Wanna eat out?’

I was out of my chair in a flash.

In the blink of an eye we were sitting in a small booth in the diner two towns over. Dad and I talked about my school, friends and how annoying Samuel had become – though Dad didn’t exactly participate in that part – and then we both turned as one of the customers started to give a young waitress a hard time.

‘Max, surely you can get some help in here that doesn’t put us all on edge,’ he said to the manager. ‘She never rates well. Barely friendly.’

I observed my dream version, watching how my forehead crinkled and I turned back to Dad, whispering, ‘She seemed really nice to me.’

Dad smiled softly. ‘It’s all because of the M-Chip, Margaret. We’re a lost cause now,’ he said, ignoring my brief scowl at the mention of my name.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

He rubbed his eyes, watching the waitress closely even as he responded. ‘People have left their fates in the hands of corporations. The individual desire to be in the know, connected, included, to possess the latest technologies … It’s a disease.’

The alarm on my M-Band sounded and the dream slipped away from me. I swung my legs over the edge of my bed and dropped my face into my trembling hands. I missed him so much. That was the first night Dad had taken me to Mitchell’s Diner.

Securing a place in America’s most selective private school, Kingly Academy, had not been easy, especially given that I couldn’t afford to buy my way in. But I had viewed it as a test of my dedication. I knew if I wasn’t willing to put in the time and effort to ace the entry exam, then I wasn’t going to be strong enough to do any of the things that would follow.

I jumped off the bus – wishing I’d managed more than a couple hours of sleep – and headed towards the front doors, lingering on the entrance steps.

It was game day.

It had taken eighteen months of studying and six months of my savings – savings Mom believed were going into a college fund – for credible cheat sheets. But it was worth it when I received the full scholarship. I might’ve made the cut anyway; my GPA was now well over the 3.0 required. But I’ll never know. Didn’t matter anyway. I hadn’t busted my ass for the academic satisfaction. I was there for one reason.

Quentin Mercer.

He probably never had to sit an entrance exam in his life. His name alone opened every door he’d ever need. His older brothers, Sebastian and Zachery, had both been head boy and valedictorian of Kingly. Judging from what I’d seen of them, their cheat sheets had been the best money could buy.

Quentin, on the other hand, coasted. He did well at everything, but didn’t particularly excel. Yet even his cruising level was in the top fifteen per cent of some of the most promising minds and sporting potential in the country. I figured he just couldn’t be bothered to read his cheat sheets all the way through, which made him even lazier than his amoral brothers.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw his black SUV, equipped with the latest bulletproofing, pull up at the corner. I never understood why he didn’t have his driver drop him right at the front doors. Possibly it was an attempt to fit in with his peers. Clearly he hadn’t noticed that most of them were delivered to the front doors in chauffeur-driven cars themselves.

I watched him walk up the entrance steps. He was the picture of ease; with himself, his surroundings, with what he projected to others. Quentin Mercer knew who he was and felt no need to fit anyone’s expectations. His shirt hung half untucked. His tie was perfectly knotted, but hanging on an angle. His shoes were polished to a high-gloss shine, with one lace untied. He was a walking contradiction and that seemed to be exactly what made him comfortable.

I studied his face. Soft features with hard eyes that he wasn’t afraid to unleash on others. He was handsome, sure, but the addition of a scar down the edge of his hairline tilted everything from just right to not quite. He could’ve easily grown his hair long enough to cover the mark. He’d certainly look prettier for it. But instead he kept his hair buzz-short, as if refusing to hide it. It was the one thing I liked about him. The one thing I hoped meant he would have enough backbone to get through this day.

I stood in his path on the steps. One of us was going to have to move, and I knew full well that Quentin expected the world to move for him. I mean, why wouldn’t he? He was an heir to M-Corp after all.

Just the thought strengthened my determination and my jaw clenched.

Head down, earphones in, he didn’t even raise his eyes to look at me. He just stopped when he saw my feet blocking his path.

I almost laughed. Did he really think he didn’t even have to look at me to get me to scamper out of his way? I leaned back against the wall and crossed one ankle over the other, settling in.

I could just about feel the shock bounce off him. Slowly, he lifted a hand to take out an earpiece while simultaneously lifting hard blue eyes to mine. More steel than ocean.

Oh, I felt it – the sting of his stare – but I didn’t flinch. He raised an eyebrow.

I stared right back at him, bored.

His brow furrowed. He gestured to my booted feet. ‘Those aren’t regulation,’ he said. They were the first words Quentin had ever deemed me worthy of.

I glanced at my black army boots – laces untied, my grey skinny jeans jammed into them – then back at him, still bored, still not moving.

His eyes narrowed, but I thought for a second the corner of his mouth might have twitched.

He leaned towards me. I think it was supposed to unnerve me, but the more this dance went on, the more comfortable I became. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, but if this is some attempt to …’ His lips definitely twitched. ‘I have a girlfriend.’

My own amusement came to an abrupt halt. Did he really think I was
hitting
on him? Today of all days?
Seriously?
And did he really think I cared that he didn’t know my name? I’d made it my business to never be noticed by him before today.

Holding back a snort, I kept his gaze, lowering my voice to mirror his. ‘And I have a spot that I’m happy standing in. There are three other entry doors that no one’s using.’

‘I’m sorry?’ He actually didn’t know what to do.

‘Apology accepted.’

He blinked, anger now starting to show. ‘I wasn’t …
apologising
. Do you mind? I need to pass.’

‘Well then, I suggest you walk down the stairs and take the next door. That, or you could try to move me yourself.’

I was sure in that moment that no student
or
teacher at Kingly had ever spoken to Mr Mercer that way. And the fact that it was over such a small thing made it even better.

I kept my breathing even and maintained the same expression, even when I heard the satisfying sound of his M-Band beeping twice, registering his increased blood pressure levels. Yep, I was pissing him off.

Finally, Quentin Mercer turned tail and moved to the other side of the railing before re-climbing the steps to access a door I wasn’t blocking. His steely eyes stayed on me the entire time.

‘That went well,’ I whispered to myself as I watched him walk down the school hall. His girlfriend, Ivy Knight, wrapped her tall, annoyingly busty body around him as soon as she saw him.

I hitched my bag onto my shoulder and made my way to the day’s first class, my hand unconsciously caressing the small vial in my jacket pocket.

By the end of today, Quentin would never need to ask my name again.