Dualed (18 page)

I walk down the open aisle, passing the stacks with bated breath. Each one falling behind me expands my safety zone. My steps are silent—measured and deliberate. All the juices in my mind and gut feel supercharged, and it’s like I’m moving a few seconds ahead of myself. I can see before I even turn my head all the way; I can conclude even before I take it all in.

First row, to my left: a mom with three giggling girls. She hushes them with a finger to her lips.

Third row, my right: an old man with a cane. He uses it to hook a book free from the top shelf.

Three rows farther, to my left again: a teenager, cap pulled low over his face.

I keep walking until I reach the far wall.

A quick trip to the bathroom finishes the check of this floor. Then it’s upstairs, where the computers and tablets and print collections are kept. All clear. I feel my shoulders drop, my hands relaxing just the slightest inside my pockets.

It takes me seconds to walk over to the right section. Only a couple of months have passed, but what’s happened between then and now makes it feel longer. Reference stacks, fifth row, left-hand side. My fingers run along the soft, faded spines.
Alternates: The Complete History. Alts at War
. They fill the shelves around me.

I pull a book out. It’s thin and blue and ancient, and the whiff of just how old its words are hits me with the force of a punch. I trace the faded ink of the title on the front cover with my finger.
Beyond the Board
.

What was it again?
Complete and utter garbage
. A dark smile curls my lips. I can still hear the cool disdain in Baer’s tone, the words clipped and dismissive. To Baer, to Dire, the Board no longer just holds our lives in their hands—it also fails to see the blood on its hands.

I look down at my hands and picture the marks on my wrists, beneath my pulled-down sleeves. The marks are like cuffs, chaining me to my striker status … and to the Board. Because if the Board’s guilty of so much death, aren’t I as well? Aren’t I altering things just as much as they are?

I don’t want to think that. I want to think that being a striker is simply doing what I can to win. That I’m running
because I haven’t had enough strikes yet, haven’t learned enough, gotten hard enough. And that it has nothing to do with being
afraid
.

“Such a lie,” I seethe out loud to no one. I viciously wiggle the book back into its slot.

Baer is right in this one thing, at least. This book—all of these books—offers me nothing but a blanket of false security. Nothing in them will help me get the first shot off or the first stab in when my Alt finally finds me.

A hand taps me on the shoulder and instantly I’m whirling around. But there’s too little control and too much panic. Blind on the adrenaline already coursing through me, I reach into my pocket—

I’m not ready, not ready, not ready!

—and fumble clumsily for my gun.

“Whoa! Wait! Hold on!” The terror in the man’s voice chases away everything until I can see again.

It’s the librarian. Short, gangly, harmless. His badge swings jauntily from the lanyard around his neck. His arms are raised up high in surrender. His name is Saul, and he’s as white as milk.

It wasn’t as close as it could have been. If I’d been prepared, if I hadn’t slipped away from the here and now—I’ve been so careful not to all this time … I unclench my jaw and slowly pull my hands away from my body. I need to show him I’m holding nothing. His eyes are screaming this at me.

“Sorry, you just … surprised me.” I can feel my mouth attempt a smile. It feels horrid. Saul blinks at me, blinks even more rapidly as he takes in the sight of my eyes. “We’re about
to close.” His voice is strained and thin as he speaks through the shaking. “Ten minutes.”

Of course. I forgot how late it already was when I got here.

“I’m really sorry,” I apologize again. “I lost track of time. I’m leaving now.”

A stilted nod and Saul’s gone, his discomfort spelled out in the hurried stiffness of his walk. It’d almost be humorous if I didn’t feel so bad about scaring him like that. To kill someone by accident, through carelessness, someone who’s not a strike, or my Alt—my stomach rolls with nausea at the thought of it.

Never. I could never live with myself.

The bang of a door somewhere in the building startles me. No more time. I have to get going.

In seconds, I’m back down on the main floor. But instead of keeping straight and heading for the front entrance, I make a sharp right at the bottom of the stairs and continue walking. I slow down just enough to deftly pull a random book from a nearby shelf before I slip out the side exit door.

The door is the kind that self-locks from the inside. I wedge my toe so it doesn’t shut on me. From the book I carefully rip out a single page. Not from the middle, but from the back, one of the blank ones, so I don’t take away any words. Paper books are limited as it is. I fold the page in half, then again.

With one hand I hold the folded paper over the hole along the doorjamb, right where the door bolt slides home. With my other hand, I twist the knob until the bolt recedes back into the door. Only then do I slowly pull my foot free, until the door shuts, flush with the jamb again. I let the knob gently untwist back into position.

For a second, I think the paper isn’t going to hold—that it’s too flimsy and the bolt’s going to either push it out of place or break right through it. But it doesn’t. It’s fine. It holds.

I chose this side door because the one straight out back exits to the library’s parking lot, and the door on the left side leads to an alley that opens quickly onto the main street. Either one would make sense for the library’s employees to take as a fast way out. But no one would be using my exit, the only one facing an office building, quickly emptying for the night.

I press my ear right against the cold metal of the library door and wait it out. The rise and fall of voices. Assorted shuffles, clicks, bangs. The sound of a vacuum. The unmistakable thump of doors being opened and shut. Being locked for the night.

For the next ten minutes there is nothing but thick, utter silence from inside the library. Finally I lean back from the door and ease it open, twisting the knob carefully so the bolt doesn’t suddenly spring out and catch. The folded paper falls to the ground, and I pick it up and tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans. No use returning the page—that won’t undo the damage.

Stepping back inside, I’m met with darkness that smells more strongly of aged damp than ever, the scent amplified to make up for what I can’t see. My breathing is the only sound. It’s both neat and creepy, to be alone in such a large, empty space. But whatever ghosts are here seem content enough to share it.

After waiting a minute for my eyes to adjust, I slide the book back onto the shelf from where I first grabbed it and choose a study capsule close to the fire door so I can leave easily if I have to.

After eating the contents of a dented tin of tuna and a smushed-up trek bar that I fish out from the bottom of my bag, I place my head down on the desk, crossing my arms beneath my cheek to create a makeshift pillow. One hand stays hooked through the straps of my bag sitting on the desk next to me. Slatted metal bars cut into the back of my knees, against my ribs. I don’t mind too much—the sensations remind me that I’m still alive.

Rain slaps the tiny window carved into the fire door, and the plinking sound of it eventually lulls me to sleep. How deeply I go under, I’m not sure. But I know I dream of a face that is too much like my own, of those two mothers in the train station bathroom, of Chord’s face when I left him. When the rain finally peters out around the brink of dawn, it’s the return to quiet that jars me awake.

I wait, still groggy, still tired despite having slept, as the room lightens by degrees, coming back to life. Only when I hear the sound of the back door being unlocked do I get up, toss my bag over my shoulders, and leave through the same side exit I used earlier.

It’s cold out. And the rain is already starting again, a miserable gray drizzle that has me longing for firelit rooms and food so hot it burns my tongue. Hunching my shoulders, I pull my hood farther over my head and tuck my hands into my jacket
pockets. The feel of steel in both is my only comfort as I lose myself on streets blackened with the wet of winter.

Seven days left.

By the afternoon, there is still no sign of her. I’ve watched the terminal from every vantage point, from as many angles as possible, and nothing. She’s not going in or coming out.

I chew my lip, study the people passing by. Rain bounces off their hunched bodies, and I wonder if I’m just wasting my time, even though a part of me simply believes that she should be here. Not as the kind of Alt who’s given in, who seeks refuge, but the kind of Alt who stands firm, who seeks a fight.

The only way I can find out if she’s living here is to go in myself. I take a deep breath, pushing past the curdling fear that’s settled into my gut, and approach the front entrance.

The lobby is wide and clean and well lit. A central core elevator that leads to the different floors: Alt log stations and wireless access points; food and drink dispensers; hygiene and sleeping quarters. It looks exactly the same as the last time I was here, two years ago on a school field trip during my year one. How long ago that seems now; how funny to think back and realize just how innocent we all still were then, me and my friends and the rest of our classmates. That we didn’t see that the next time we came back, it’d be under threat of death.

I squint in the light. It’s
too
well lit in here; good for seeing who’s around you, bad if you’re simply trying to stay in the dark.

The attendant behind the counter glances up at me from her computer. “Yes, can I help you?”

“Can I just have a minute with the Alt log? I’ll be fast.”

She holds up the eye-scan gun. “Please come forward for admittance procedures.”

I take an instinctive step back. “I don’t … can I just skip the eye scan this one time? All I need is one minute.”

The attendant shakes her head. “Sorry. You know I can’t do that.” She sounds bored, and I don’t blame her. How many times has she heard the same plea, from how many Alts trying to sneak through here?

“One minute, that’s all.” I’m begging, desperate and hating it. “Please.”

“No, can’t do it, sorry.” The attendant goes back to her screen.

“Would you be able to take a look for me, then?” I think of the last few bills I have in my pocket, wondering if it’s worth the risk to show them to her, but the fact that she’s employed by the Board makes me hesitate.

She cracks her gum. Stale mint wafts out at me. “Sorry.” Then she frowns. “Besides, weren’t you just here this morning?”

I shake my head. “No, I—”

“You should know how it works by now. No in and out privileges without a scan.”

It hits me then. A ripple of adrenaline cuts right through me. “Thank you,” I say on a blip of a breath, trying and most likely failing to sound remotely normal. My Alt. She’s talking about my Alt.

“The weather’s turning,” the attendant goes on. “So if you want a bed, better be on time. Eighteen hundred is when they open.” Her smile is bland. But her eyes give away a slight gleam, and I read it for what it is. She can’t help but let me know
she
knows she’s helped me.

So it wasn’t a slip of the tongue, then. Do I remind her of someone she once knew? Why would she tell me this?

As if she can read my thoughts, she waves a hand carelessly, already tired of me, just another active coming through the terminal. “Well, you need all the help you can get.” Another snap of her gum. “Your eyes, they’re nothing like hers. Good luck, you’re going to need it.”

I leave the terminal on shaky legs. The cold is wet and biting, but I’m too busy coming to grips with what just happened to really feel it. Knowing that my Alt has been staying here, I hope she’ll keep coming back again. Otherwise, she might be anywhere in the Grid, anywhere within the borders of Kersh.

When I see a girl coming down the sidewalk, the idea clicks into place. Exactly how I’m going to try to peek into my Alt’s head, know what she’s thinking, planning.

Slightly younger than me, maybe thirteen or fourteen. Her face is open, a fresh active’s, not hardened the way I know it will be in another week or two, if she makes it that long. She’s got too much expectation in her eyes and not enough fear. But I can’t be too sympathetic—it’s that very weakness I’ll have to use to my advantage.

Quickly I assess her clothing, the state of her skin and hair. Her clothes are still relatively clean, but inadequate for this point in the winter. She didn’t prepare for how cold it gets at night. She’s pale, her hair limp and unwashed. And she looks hungry.

Yes.

As she passes me, I fall into step with her. “Hey, do you have a few minutes?” I ask in a low voice so only she can hear.

She stops walking and nervously shifts her bag over her shoulders. It’s too large for her frame, and I bet anything it’s very heavy. She glances around before her eyes settle on mine. The spiraled numbers are very dark.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Are you going inside the terminal?”

“Maybe, I was still thinking about it. Why?”

“I need a favor.”

“Well, what is it?”

It’s all or nothing. “Can you check something for me on the Alt log?” From my pocket I pull out the page I ripped from the library book last night. Scrawled on it is my assignment number, a sequence of digits I see in my sleep: 574206918344. “Punch this in and see what comes up?”

The barest flicker of understanding in her eyes. “You need to know if your Alt’s been here.”

“Yeah,” I reply, even though I already know she has. Now I need to know more: when, how often, patterns and habits. Any sign of weakness.

She looks at me, obviously confused. “You’re allowed to read the Alt log whenever you want, and the terminal is open to all actives. Can’t you just do it yourself?”

“The attendant tonight, that lady in there?” I point in the general direction of the terminal lobby. Careful to keep my voice level, to not give away how much I need her to believe me. If she clues in that it’s the eye scan I’m trying to avoid, my reluctance might scare her off before I get what I need. “She’s still annoyed with me for jamming the system last night, even
though I totally didn’t mean to. So I thought it’d be a good idea to let her cool off before she sees me again.”