Fox Forever (4 page)

Locke.
The sound of my name on their lips.
Good-bye.

“Locke?”

“Coming,” I call and step into the bathroom and turn on the water.

I splash water on my face and when I come out of the room, Carver is standing at the door ready to leave. “Xavier will wrap up a few more things with you. Stay put. We’ll see you in—” He stops, spotting my coat lying on the back of a chair. He shakes his head. “Almost missed that.” He snatches it up in his hand and leaves.

I don’t say anything. I know. It might peg me as a Non-pact, but the coat is almost the hardest thing to give up. I remember Allys frowning the first time she saw me in it.
Some people wear them for protection, others with purpose.… You wear yours like you own the planet.
That’s how it made me feel. It felt like armor, like I was through apologizing for being different from everyone else. Like I was claiming my rightful place in this world.

“Over here, kid.”

Xavier shows me the code to lock the door if I leave. “But don’t leave. Not yet. You can use your iScroll to enter the code too.”

“From how far away?”

“The moon. Forget to feed the cat, you can let someone in wherever you are. But don’t. Carver, Livvy, and I have the code. That’s it. Not even your Assistant can save it. You have to keep it up here.” He taps his finger on his temple. “If anyone else other than us tries to come through that door, you toast ’em.”

Does he think I have special frying abilities? That I’m more Bot than I am human? I could argue the point with him, but I don’t.

“What do you need in Manchester?” he asks.

His question catches me off guard. “Need?”

“Carver gave you his word. There are plenty of people who will do whatever you ask, just so you get this job done. We need all of your concentration
here
. So what do you need there?”

Assurance. And I’m not sure I want that task left to some Non-pacts who can barely read. A flash of guilt hits me. I remember the line of land pirates armed with rifles who showed up to drive off Gatsbro and his goons. They saved my neck. “There are labs in Manchester. I need to know what’s stored there.” I tell him about Gatsbro Technologies. “Kara and I sat on a storage shelf for 260 years because no one knew there were copies of us there. I need to know with certainty that there aren’t more copies of us waiting for someone to come.”

“And if there are?”

If there are
. I haven’t devised a plan beyond knowing. “If there are—”

What? What do I do then? I stare at his scar where it intersects the corner of his lip, the dip, the crease, where whole meets wreckage, staring at skin, pores, division. I feel myself slipping for the first time in weeks.
If there are.
Would that Kara be different? Would that Locke be different? Would I be a better or worse version of myself? I pull myself out of those dark endless hallways before I have gone too far, snapping my gaze from his scar to his eyes. “If there are … bring them to me.”

“Done. Now get some rest. You do rest, don’t you? We’ll be back early. The pantry’s stocked.” He grabs his coat and heads for the door.

“Wait.”

He turns to look at me, heaving his body so it’s one big sigh like I’m keeping him from brain surgery.

“Yeah,” I say. “I
rest
. I rest just like anyone else.”

He shakes his head. The corner of his mouth pulls into a grin. “You’re an easy mark, kid.”

“My name’s Locke.”

“And my name’s
Xavier
. You gotta problem with that?”

Touché. I could almost like this guy if he wasn’t such a jerk.

“That it?” he asks.

“No. Carver said you’d explain how all this would get me into the Secretary’s house.”

“Oh, yeah. That.” He smiles. “File Fifty-two.” He points to the desk. “You better start crankin’ up that charm. You’ve got a long ways to go.”

He leaves without further explanation and I go straight to the desk and bring up File Fifty-two and read it. No wonder they both left before I could look at it.

The In

File 52

Raine Branson (pronounced: rayn)

Age: 17

I stare at the girl I’m supposed to abduct. When I agreed to a favor, I never agreed to this, but there’s no turning back now. Of course kidnapping is Plan B. Only if the first plan fails. I guess I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t. I quickly flip through the holograms. One image is pretty much like the next. Her expression doesn’t change. Grim. Bored. It’s hard to tell what’s going on in her head, but smiling isn’t part of her repertoire. Every hair is smoothed into place and pulled back into a long ponytail tied at the base of her neck. Utilitarian. Jet black and severe. The Secretary’s daughter.

There are ten images but nearly all are the same. Same hair, same range of expression. Zero. I go through them again, this time slower, examining her features more closely. I’m looking at the fourth image, a full frontal view, her lips slightly parted like she’s about to speak, when I stop and turn my attention to my arms, a prickling sensation shooting through them. I watch one arm as the hairs on it literally rise before my eyes. This has never happened to me before. It’s like the BioPerfect has suddenly found this long dormant animal response and is testing it. I’m almost fascinated by this beastly reaction but in the next second my stomach clenches and a flash of heat hits me. My heart pounds. I look back at her image. Sweat beads on my forehead. This is insane. Something isn’t right.

Something isn’t right about her.

I stand up and walk away from the desk, pacing the room, trying to shake off the alarms I don’t understand. Is my body telling me something before my mind has put it together? The alarms subside. Was it just a random hiccup in my BioPerfect? I return to the desk and increase the image size. I look into her blank eyes, just inches from mine. Her irises are large and dark, such a deep dark brown I can barely see her pupils. But I do. They’re pinpoints, tight and guarded, on alert, belying her bored expression. What’s she hiding? But her face reveals nothing else. She’s had practice at this. Is that what disturbed me?

I look back through the file. The information is sparse.

Mother: deceased

At least we have something in common.

Schooling: The Virtual Collective

Not a clue. I swipe my iScroll and the Assistant appears. “What’s a virtual collective?”

“To activate, please give Assistant a user name.”

A name? But then I remember having to give my boxing instructor a name with my last iScroll. “Percel,” I say.

“Welcome to the Assistant, sir.”

“Locke. My name is Locke.”

“How can I be of service, Locke?”

I repeat my question for him.

“The Virtual Collective is a state-approved educational program.”

“What does the program do?”

“It provides guidelines and requirements for students who are in independent study programs.”

“So they don’t go to an actual school?”

“An actual school, sir?”

“You know, walls, bells, lockers, detention, that sort of thing? Real people seeing one another face-to-face?”

“Anchored Educational Systems exist within walled units for students who prefer that structure. No matches for the bells, lockers, and detention portion of your inquiry.”

“Thank you, Percel. That’s all.” He blinks and disappears back into my palm.

So, she doesn’t go to school. She’s isolated. Is that why she’s bored? I read more of the file.

Interests: Fencing. Chess. Bonsai.

Bonsai? Seriously? Having an odd interest is one thing, but something doesn’t ring true about having three. She’s seventeen years old. Girls couldn’t have changed that much in 260 years. Those all sound like old man hobbies.

Objective: Ingratiate yourself with Raine and her friends

They really have a way with words. And she has friends? That’s a surprise. Or are they all virtual? What kind of life does she lead?

First Meeting: 09/19/21

I push away from the desk and walk to the window. So this is my in with Secretary Branson? Get in good with his daughter and her friends so I’m invited over? Carver and Xavier couldn’t do better than that? And our first meeting is two weeks away? How’s that going to happen if she doesn’t even go to school?

I turn and look back at her image. I zoom in on her mouth, poised to speak, and I try to imagine what she’s about to say. I follow the lines of her lips, the curves, looking for a clue, and my pulse begins to race again. There’s something disturbingly familiar about her, but that’s impossible. I’m certain I’ve never laid eyes on her before. Yeah, something isn’t right.

Especially around her, I’ll need to watch my back.

Training

The next day goes by in a regimented blur. Xavier, Carver, and Livvy arrive early. They take turns with my training. Carver tests me on my background, asking me detailed questions about my “father” and the places he’s been assigned. Next, Xavier brings up Vgrams of each city where I’ve supposedly lived: Paris, Hamburg, Milan, Sydney, and half a dozen more. I’m apparently well-traveled. I walk virtual streets, climb stairs to apartments, memorize addresses, learn transportation routes, visit local bistros, and shop in the marketplaces. Every city is different, but by the eighth one, they all begin to look alike and we start over.

“Didn’t I do anything for fun?”

“No.”

After a second review of my newly created past life, Livvy takes over. She drills me on the staff who work for Secretary Branson, both at his office and at his residence. His right-hand man is a fellow named LeGru. She tells me to watch out for him. He’s often seen at Branson’s house. The home staff is minimal according to Livvy. Three full-time employees for one apartment hardly sound minimal to me. Dorian is the household manager and cook. Jory is the all-around maintenance person, and Hap is the personal assistant to Raine Branson. Her own full-time personal assistant? I roll my eyes at this piece of information. Even Jenna and Kara weren’t that spoiled. Livvy reviews the layout of the house again, at least as they currently know it, and which rooms they suspect might be Secretary Branson’s office. The apartment occupies the whole of the eighth and ninth floors. Most of the living quarters are on the ninth floor. Above that is a rooftop garden.

“Raine dabbles in bonsai and is sometimes seen up there.”

They’re watching her. Watching everything. I find it unsettling that this girl has become a target just by virtue of being the Secretary’s daughter. As Livvy finishes up with a few last details about the guard who works the front desk of the Tudor Apartments, I hear Xavier and Carver speaking in strained hushed tones in the next room. I try to listen but Livvy speaks louder, like she’s trying to mask their voices.

“Any questions, Locke?” she asks, demanding that I become engaged in our conversation.

“They’re arguing,” I say.

She shrugs and whisks some V-files back into their folders. “What else is new? It’s nothing for you to be concerned with.”

But I am. “Not a good sign for two guys on the same team.”

“Their differences are smaller than their mutual goal. That’s all that matters.” She stands. “Come on. It’s time for Mother and Son to go for a walk in the city. You need to be up to date on that too. We can’t have you gawking at changes like you’re an alien who’s just landed.”

As far as I know, no real alien life has landed, so I’ll assume she means that figuratively, but I can’t help but feel there’s some hint of implication in her remark too. “What about your health? According to the files, you aren’t well.”

“According to the files, I’m also rich. I guess for now, we’ll have to ignore the files because I guarantee neither one of us will be spending any money.”

As we leave, Carver and Xavier are hunched over large sheets of yellowed paper, running their fingers along faint lines I can barely see from across the room. It looks like they’re viewing maps or very old architectural drawings. They both shoot us dark glances while they bring their voices down to barely mumbled whispers. But I can still see their lips.

wait till he leaves

can’t trust

not time

And then they both lean forward, their hands casually tucked just beneath their noses, guarding their mouths.

Livvy pushes me through the door and shuts it behind her. Who can’t they trust? Me? Each other? Livvy?

She leads me down Charles Street toward the Boston Public Garden. “How did you get around town when you lived here?” she asks.

“I walked or took the T.”

“You were familiar with the T, then?”

“Sure. I had to take it to school. Pretty much everywhere. I lived off the green line. My school was on the red line, my grandparents the blue. Other family on the orange. I had a pass so I used them all. Are we taking the T where we need to go?”

“There is no T anymore. At least not usable trains. It was abandoned long ago. But the tunnels still run under the city.”

“No T?” I shake my head. I can’t imagine Boston without the T.

“It’s been replaced by Personal Automated Transportation. You do have your new ID on you, right?”

I nod.

“Then let’s take PAT for a spin.”

We walk down steps at the corner of Charles and Beacon to a brightly lit cavern with a revolving platform. Like the T, the PAT is only steps beneath the city, but unlike the T, it doesn’t go down several stories. It’s a sleek network just below the surface, sometimes even passing through basements of buildings, not much more intrusive than a ventilation duct. The pod cars are small and streamlined, only meant to hold one to two passengers. I’m dubious when I see their size and don’t see how Livvy and I will both fit into one pod. They circulate slowly on an oval track by the platform until a passenger steps in.

We approach a pod with its hatch open waiting for a passenger. “That one,” Livvy says, and pushes me toward it. “Just get in and lie back. The pod does the rest.” Livvy jumps in and I follow. The hatch closes and the seat molds around me, holding me securely around my head and hips. A voice asks us for our destination. “Quincy Market,” Livvy says. We’re spit out of the revolving track and into the PAT Network. I feel the thrill of speed, like I’m in a race car, lights flashing past me, a high-pitched hum peaking as the pod accelerates. My body is pressed back in the seat, my stomach fluttering with the velocity. It’s like a ride at an amusement park, and the closest thing I’ve had to fun since I left California. I don’t want the trip to end.