Parched (24 page)

“Spike?” Benji says softly. “We're ready.”

“Great. I'm about to loop the security stream. Remember, you've got a fifteen-minute window before the real stream kicks back in. Ready?”

“Ready.” Gone are the goofy, grinning blondes I'd met in Kudzu's backyard. In their place are athletes ready for their star turn.

“Okay. Cut.
Go
.”

Lana takes her hand away, and the little sub whizzes up the glass wall. I watch as it zips all the way to the window ledge, carrying the rope. When it reaches the ledge, it stops. I hear a very faint high buzz. The rope shivers a little, and a fine powder falls around us. Lana tugs on the rope. It's secure. She grins. “I'm going up.”

She's up that rope as quick as can be. Before I've even finished pulling on the roping gloves Benji hands me, Lana is at the darkened window, hooking her leg to slip silently inside. A few seconds later, she gives the okay sign.

Ling follows, then Naz. Now it's my turn.

Benji smiles reassuringly. “Just like we practiced.”

I nod. Just like hunting for prairie chickens, but with a rope instead of rocks. I just wasn't expecting it to be so
high
. Six stories seem like
sixty when you have to physically pull yourself up them, alone, on the
outside
of a building. I grit my teeth and start to climb. One hand over the other. Just like in the backyard.

Don't look down
, I warn myself grimly.

We assemble in the entrance to the kitchen. I inch the door open to reveal a wide, empty hallway lit in low, overhead light. Opposite us is a water cooler, a potted palm tree, and a cart filled with what looks like pieces of human skin. Speckled blue floors, sedate gray walls.
I remember this
. . . . I can picture my mom here so clearly it hurts—rushing over to clutch my arm, breathless over the day's new discovery. Her scent: spicy orange soap. I can
smell
it.

“I am
famished
.”

“Should we order noodles?”

Two men. They round the corner, coming toward us. I just have time to see their faces before I pull the kitchen door shut. I recognize the first one instantly. Frog. The bald man with the turned-down mouth who designed the Quicks. He looks stronger than I remember but maybe I'm just scared of him seeing us. I don't recognize the other guy, Noodles: a tall, skinny man with scraggly pale hair.

“If we keep working like this,” I hear Frog say clearly, “we'll turn
into
noodles.”

We wait in the kitchen, still as statues, as they walk by. I really didn't think anyone would be here this late on a Sunday.

“Ah, you're finally coming around to the possibility of transmogrification.” Noodles' voice starts to fade. “You're really an open-minded guy.”

“I'm working on a project that's a theoretical impossibility.” Frog's voice is faint now, muffled by distance. “I have to be.”

And then they're gone. We wait for a good ten seconds, then crack the door open again. Nothing.

I've already told everyone exactly where to go. Exit and go right, then at the end of the hallway, we go left down a long corridor, all the way to Innovation Lab C on the other end of the building.

Ling points to the end of the hallway and mouths, “Naz.”

A look of irritation flashes in Naz's eyes, but nevertheless, she obeys. Her rubber-soled boots make no noise as she runs lightly to the end of the hallway. At the corner, she glances down the left-hand corridor. She turns back to us and nods.

Our shoes make only the slightest scuffles as we hightail it down the
empty corridor, past a series of departments and offices:
Exoskeleton, Sensors & Actuators, Motion & Manipulation, Biorobotics & Cybernetics
. By day, this building is busy with jargon-filled chatter, furrowed brows on brainy scientists, and overwhelmed assistants balancing coffees and reports. By night, it is unnervingly quiet. But I know this already. I've been here at this hour before.

A year ago. Before I left for the Badlands. Before everything changed. . . .

“Tess!”

I spun around, a mess of blond hair and nerves. “Howie!”

The young engineer smiled at me eagerly. “Are you looking for your mom? I think she left for the day.”

“Oh—yes.” I stumbled, toying with the chunky rings on my fingers. “She's usually still here now.”

Howie nodded, fingering the collar of his lab coat a little nervously. “You must hardly ever see her.”

No. I never see her. And when I do it's just a monologue about Magnus. Like last night—three hours on how poor, poor Magnus was having trouble creating feelings. Three hours on how Magnus should be as emotional as a teenager now
.

Why do you need to make a teenager, Mom? I'm right here.

“It must be hard,” Howie added. His tone was concerned and kind. I'd always liked Howie. And I could tell he liked me
.

“Well, I guess . . . I guess I better go.”

“Okay, Tess. You look very nice, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, smoothing down the short silk ruffles of Izzy's favorite skirt. “Oh—I left my comm in my mom's office. Would you mind?”

He glanced at the locked office door. “I can't, Tess.”

“But it's just her office.”

“No, really, I can't.”

I pout and flutter my eyelashes at him. “Oh, c'mon,” I wheedle, mimicking Izzy as best I can
.

An amusing level of conflict twisted up his face, but still he shook his head. “I want to. I do. But it's against company policy.”

“But I have to comm my mom and let her know where I am. She worries. And if she finds out you didn't help me . . .” I close the distance between us. “She trusts you, Howie. I trust you, too.”

I put my hand on his arm and smiled up at him hopefully. He stared at my hand, then at me, somewhere between turned on and terrified. “All right. Just this once.” He hurried over to Mom's door. “Our security system—the Liamond system—can be confusing.” He was babbling, not noticing that I watched him punch in the code: 624687. Later I would work out this spelled
Magnus,
making it even easier to remember
.

“Thanks, Howie.” I let my voice take on just the slightest edge of huskiness. “You're really a sweet guy.”

A hint of pale pink blush filled his smooth cheeks. His voice faltered. “Good night, Tess.”

I waited until he had rounded the corner, shoes squeaking on the speckled blue floor, before I opened the door to Mom's expansive, messy office. Closing it, locking it. Leaning against it
.

My eyes narrowed as they sported what I was here for. What Howie was too junior to know was in here, or else he would never, ever have allowed me inside
.

“Tess.”

“Hello
, Magnus.”

The memory throws me. I falter. Lana, Benji and Naz crash into me like life-sized dominoes.

Naz curses me under her breath.

We have to keep moving.

We race down the corridor. The windows on our right allow us to see straight into the large, industrial room next door that we'd already seen back at Milkwood. Innovation Lab C.
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, BY ORDER OF THE TRUST
floats over the reinforced double doors. A swab reader blinks next to them

Just to be sure we're alone, Naz runs to the end of the corridor and peeks down the hallway that doglegs off to the left, past some more potted palms nestled in the corner. Coast must be clear, for she doubles back.

Ling glances from the swab reader to me. I knew I'd have to do this. But standing here before it, about to incriminate both Abel and myself, I hesitate, just for moment. Then I pass the swab over the reader.

A smoothly modulated female voice says, “Welcome, Dr. Rockwood,” and the doors disappear.

The air inside the Innovation Lab is cooler than the rest of building. A low hum of invisible filters underscores everything.

“Monkey, Angel, guard the entrance,” Ling instructs quietly. “Pitbull, Storm, and I will get the mirror matter.”

Benji and Lana nod in unison, quickly squeezing each other's hands before taking up positions that offer views of the corridor outside, through the long windows.

“Where is it?” Naz asks, dark eyes darting every which way.

“Over here.” I motion for them to follow.

We hurry past the cylinders, dwarfed by their size. Each has a small screen set into it at waist height, which whirs, beeps, and whistles endlessly, like old ladies gossiping to each other.

“Guys.” It's Achilles, voice echoing through the comm. “Five minutes down, ten to go. Talk to me.”

“We're in the lab.” Ling presses the comm into her ear. “En route to the mirror—there it is!”

Just like in the streams, the mirror matter sparkles and shimmers from inside the clear cylinder, suspended in the case-within-a-case.

“Storm, keep an eye out.” Ling eyes the case. “Let's get to work.”

Using the small blowtorches strapped to their harnesses, Naz and Ling work together to start cutting a circle through the thick glass. The blue light of the torch burns as bright as the sun. It melts through the glass as if it were slicing through butter.

My heart is still pounding, but the adrenaline is making me clear and focused. My eyes sweep the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. But we're the only ones in here. I take a second to marvel at the sight of Ling and Naz, their faces hidden by the scary-looking masks, their bodies tight beneath their stretchy black outfits, working quickly and efficiently in tandem.

“Nine minutes.” Achilles' voice comes quietly through the comms.

One circle. Ling catches the glass as it loosens, and hands it to me. I place it carefully on the floor under the case. Naz starts on the second.

As soon as the tip of her blowtorch pierces the inner case, a small pop of gas escapes, like pricking a balloon. The tube of mirror matter clatters to the bottom of the case, a small sound rendered huge by the silence. We all freeze for a second. The tube rolls to a stop, sloshing the viscous liquid inside, thick as wet concrete. Then, as nothing seems to happen, Naz starts cutting again.

My eyes keep flitting around the room. I notice something.

Set into the far wall that runs parallel to the corridor and entrance we came in is a black door. A holo of a small Trust logo hovers subtly in front of it. I frown. I think that's a meeting room. Maybe there's something in there that'll help me answer the question that's been gnawing at me since Ling and I met. What does the Trust want with an artilect?

I nudge Ling and jerk my chin in the direction of the door.

She glances over, and her eyes narrow. She nods.

“Guys,” Naz murmurs, directing our attention back to the case.

The second circle of glass falls into Ling's gloved fingers. Without hesitation, Naz reaches into the case and grabs the tube.

“Eight minutes,” Achilles says.

We still have plenty of time.

“Get Monkey and Angel,” Ling whispers to Naz, then points to the door. Naz nods obediently. She hands the tube to Ling, who slips it neatly into a loop on her harness.

There's a swab reader outside the door. I almost hope Abel's pass doesn't work. That might mean he's not as involved with the Trust as I think he is.

“Welcome, Dr. Rockwood.”

With an almost imperceptible click, the door disappears. As smooth and quiet as water itself, the five of us disappear inside. The door reappears behind us, plunging us into darkness.

Slowly, our eyes begin adjusting. We are in a large windowless room, dominated by an enormous table and a dozen leather chairs. It is like the inverse of the tech room at Milkwood: coldly efficient, unflinchingly clean. The only sign of life is a long, rectangular square of plants running across the back of the room. One more step and I'd be standing in it. Looking down, I see there's a little gap between the floor and the garden, and through the gap, I can see water and plant roots growing down toward it. Ling's standing next to a large piece of scratch set into the wall like a square of sunlight.

“Where are you, what's happening?” Achilles asks calmly.

“We have the mirror matter,” Ling says softly, eyes sweeping the room carefully. “Now we're in a meeting room just off the lab.”

“There's scratch,” I add. “I want to try turning it on.”

“Is it blue scratch?” Achilles asks.

“No,” I reply. “Regular.”

“Okay,” Achilles says cautiously. “There's no security stream where you are, but I'll run a search and try to find what you're looking at.”

My fingers find the corner, pressing hard. The scratch glows gold and an intricate, crisp holo fills the table. Before any sound even begins, Ling mutes it with her eyes.

The holo is a map of Eden and the bordering Badlands, as far as the Bleached Seas circling the edges of the continent.

“Looks like some sort of presentation,” Achilles says. “I'm in. We can see it here too.”

Silently, the presentation begins. The words
Project Aevum. Highly Classified, By Order of the Trust
float out above everything, automatically matching to everyone's individual eyelines.

Ling and I trade a quick look.
Project
Aevum? My chest is rising and falling with anticipation. This must be it.

The map starts moving. Eden fills the table, all the neighborhoods presented in perfect miniature. The Hive, Charity, Liberty Gardens. Lakeside, and the Farms. The snaking streets of the South Hills, and beyond them, overlooking all of Eden, the Three Towers. I can almost see the palatial floor of Gyan's private quarters, right at the tip of the biggest of the three buildings.