Surrender (19 page)

And a distance taser.

It was a weapon.

I flipped it over. The same insignia as on Baldie’s teleporter ring—one swirling eight on top and one on the bottom—twisted on the back.

A thief since age twelve, I slipped the phone in my pocket.

On the next counter, small cylinders filled two white
trays. I picked one up and turned it over. Tiny bumps dotted the bottom, meant to be stabbed into the skin.

Yikes, another weapon. The same double figure eight wound around the cylinders. I recognized the symbol as two square knots, one tied over the other. Water girls know all about knots.

A handful of bio-cylinders went in my pocket. After that I didn’t stop to examine the tech items. I just took as much as the cargo pockets in my jeans would hold.

While I was pilfering through a bin on the far side of the room, a teleporter ring slipped through my fingers. “Come on.” I dug deeper, but it slid into the mishmash of tech items.

My eyes watered with the intensity of a fresh wave of techtricity. I spun and faced the terminals. Blue lights flashed along the top of one. Crouching down behind the counter, I waited.

But not alone.

Oh, no. Dad’s voice roared into my head, filling it until I couldn’t think my own thoughts.

Choose wisely. There’s more at stake here than just you. The Association needs you.
I
can protect you, V.

I bit down hard, tasting blood. I hated to admit it, but he’d said exactly what I hoped he would. Because I certainly needed his protection about now.

A man stepped out of the fifth terminal, followed by another from the second. The first kept his eyes closed as the other twitched violently.

“Odd,” Mr. Twitchy said. He wore a short-sleeved shirt with black pants and shiny shoes. The second man wore a brown sweater, tan slacks, and a pair of leather sandals. Such strange clothing.

They had their silver hair pulled back into ponytails. Their gray eyes darted around the lab.

“The walls are off,” Brown Sweater said.

“Maybe they turned off over the weekend?”

“Never before.”

Their voices rolled and floated through the air. Their skin
glowed golden in the increased tech light. I thought for sure they were rangers.

Purple lights flashed on another terminal. My chest felt like it would burst into flames at any moment. The two rangers moved out of the way, their briefcases swinging. I swallowed hard, wondering which one of them could help me.

The Hawk stepped out of terminal ten. She retched into a bag—the worst side effect of teleportation—before straightening.

The sight of them erased the line between good and bad completely. I understood now. They allowed the sun to touch their skin, they wore whatever clothes they wanted, they traveled between the Goodgrounds and the Badlands, because they were free. They didn’t break rules. They made them.

My dad was free. Again, I wondered if he could be on my side. I mean, I didn’t want to be good or bad—just free. Surely the label didn’t matter.

Of course it matters.

And those infuriating voice words were right. I clenched my fists and ordered Dad to
Get out of my head!

“Morning, Brine,” the Hawk said, nodding to Mr. Twitchy. “Hans.”

“The walls are off,” Hans said.

Nobody spoke, but the tech increased in the room. I muffled a moan as blinding pain consumed my stomach. I willed the tech to decrease so my internal organs wouldn’t spontaneously combust. My control must have superseded theirs, because it worked, and I drew a cool breath.

“Hello?” the Hawk asked, looking around. She started nodding to the walls, but I wouldn’t let them turn on. Controlling tech with my mind was easy, almost natural. And very sickening.

“Who’s here?” the Hawk asked the wall.

It didn’t answer.

She spun back to the other rangers. “Show me everything.”

Hans, with gray eyes as cold as steel, clicked a button, and projections sprang to life on the walls. One screen showed a home with a small boy, maybe five years old, playing on the floor. His skin was stained by the sun. With bright eyes, he looked directly into the surveillance tech. He waved, and his mother smiled.

“What are you looking at, Surge?” She turned toward the camera. She obviously couldn’t see it.

In another projection, a woman worked on something in the corner of the kitchen. A man, decked out in a crisp business suit, sat down at the table. The woman—complete
with her Goodie hat and long-sleeved shirt—turned and put a plate of food in front of him. He didn’t wear a hat, didn’t have a receiver behind his ear, didn’t have tanned skin. So was he good or not? He stared straight at the camera as he ate. He knew he was being watched—what was the point of that? Of course he wouldn’t break the rules if he
knew
he was being monitored.

Then it hit me. Both the boy and the man were uncontrollable. Like me.

How many times had I “forgotten” to wear my hat indoors? Lots. How many times had I gazed out the window, wondering what it would feel like to have the sun coat my skin? Too many. How many times had I noticed the increase of tech in the corner of my kitchen, the flicker of a white light in my bedroom, or the hint of a red flash on my porch?

Every freaking day.

I’d already stopped breathing by the time I saw the projection of Jag lying in bed. He had a different notebook open and was writing in it.

“Strange,” Hans said. “We’ve lost the connection to Violet’s room.” He pointed to several blank screens on the far side of the wall.

The Hawk swore. “Can you rewind?”

Brine stood there, half-turned away from the screens, a
definite curve sitting on his lips. I felt like I should know him, but he wasn’t in my memory. Of the three people in the room, I was drawn to him the most, but I wasn’t sure if I could trust him to help me.

Hans punched some keys, and my room filled the screens. He stopped the image, and I watched myself close my eyes and concentrate. After the slightest nod, two screens went blank and I fell to my knees. A moment later, all the screens were blank.

“She shut down her walls,” the Hawk said, more awed than angry. “Rewind Jag’s record.” The image of Jag’s room wavered as the time ticked backward. “Go back twelve hours,” she said. “I want to see everything.”

Oh, she’d see everything all right, including our conversation and me wearing Zenn’s ring. Closing my eyes, I focused on the tech in Hans’s e-board. I felt my way through the reader port and saw the electronic circuits and tiny pins. Willing it to freeze, I watched as the wheels and gadgets slowed and stopped. The electro-current faded away.

I opened my eyes and fell back, exhausted. A fire burned behind my eyes. But the screens where Jag had been writing had turned white. My mind raced with what I’d just done.

Hans started typing furiously, as the Hawk barked, “Status report.”

“Completely down,” Hans said. “The whole facility. The Special Forces. The wanted. Everything.”

The Hawk’s eyes sparked with an energy not entirely human. I reached in my pocket, gripping the phone as I decided that Hans and the Hawk had to go. I’d take my chances with Brine over the two of them.

I have no other choice,
I rationalized as I activated the weapon.

Yes, you do. There’s always a choice.

Shut up, Dad. I don’t need parental advice right now.

I peered around the corner to see a pair of shiny shoes loitering nearby. Brine knew where I was, but he just stood there. My mind raced with what to do next. Would Brine help me take out his team?

The Hawk and Hans remained close to the e-boards, both of them talking on a phone. Hans barked, “Get Thane Myers.”

A scrap of paper fluttered to the ground—with my name on it. I snatched it up and cowered behind the counter.
Destroy their phones. Take them out.
The handwriting was unfamiliar and written in a hurry. I made a snap decision to trust Brine, even though he’d just written me a note.

Using my mind, I jammed their phone signals.

“Dammit!” the Hawk yelled.

Letting out a roar of frustration, Hans threw something against the wall. I seized on the shattering noise and stood, aiming my phone at him. I pressed send, and he fell with a loud thump.

The Hawk turned toward me, her hands up in a gesture of peace. She glanced at her phone. “Your dad is—”

I fired again, unwilling to hear what she had to say, especially about my dad. She slumped forward, her eyes still open. Her phone smoked, that conversation over. I felt the seconds tick by, each one long and painful, full of fear and the possibility of Dad showing up. Part of me wanted him to, desperate for answers. But mostly I didn’t want him and his control tactics near me.

I faced Brine, pointing the phone at his chest. “Who are you?”

He raised both hands slowly, his eyes crinkling as his mouth curved up. “Impressive. Very nice.” The way he said “nice” sounded too familiar. I knew him but couldn’t find the memories.

“Who are you?” I asked again. The phone slipped in my sweaty hands. My gaze flickered from his hair to his face, trying to match his name with his features.

“Don’t move.” Brine stooped and dug something out of a cupboard. Then he pinned my stickered hand and pulled
a silver glove over my fingers. It latched onto my wrist with tiny teeth. I cried out as the metal melted into a second skin. The sticker on my pinky bulged out slightly.

“There,” he said. “Now that thing can’t transmit anymore.” He took a step back and regarded me with eyes like polished silver.

I looked at my hand and then back to him. “And you are . . . ?”

“Pace Barque,” he said. “Jag’s told me a lot about you.”

The room spun. The walls threatened to crush me. Now I knew why I couldn’t place him—the memories were Jag’s. I dropped the phone as I swayed on my feet.

Pace helped me move to a chair where he spoke the same way Jag did. Not really an accent, and not with control, but more like a specific way he formed his vowels and how he clipped certain words like “sit” and “drink.”

I sat.

I drank.

After a minute, I looked at Pace. He grinned, making the resemblance between him and Jag obvious. My stupid lips curved up just as they had the first time I’d met Jag.

“Look.” He turned an electro-board toward me. Jag’s face filled the screen. Then he held up his notebook. He’d written,
Hi Pace and Vi.

“How the hell does he know everything?” I asked.

Pace laughed. “He can see and hear us, but we can’t hear him,” he explained while Jag scribbled in the stupid notebook.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” I said, refusing to look at the e-board. “I need to get this sticker off. I, uh, well, someone told me a ranger would help. You’re a ranger, right?”

Pace crossed his arms, unsmiling. I looked away, but my gaze landed on the still forms of the Hawk and Hans. I swallowed hard, noting that their chests were rising and falling. But that didn’t erase the images of them falling to the floor.

Some things are necessary, aren’t they?

I hated that more and more, my dad was right. But how could he be right when what he stood for was wrong?

Maybe what I stand for isn’t wrong.

Go away!
I thought, needing the command to keep Dad at bay while I finished talking to Pace. And I needed to decide for myself if what my dad stood for was good or bad, but I didn’t know how.

So I looked back at Pace, anger meshing with the uncertainty inside. He pointed to the e-board and walked away. Jag held the stupid notebook again, his fingers gripping the sides. This time the words spelled,
Sorry Vi. I was a high-class jerk. Please don’t be mad. I love you.

Of course my stupid mouth betrayed me. I smiled and leaned forward as if he would know that of course everything was forgiven, and yeah, I loved him too.

“Now that we’ve gotten that bit of embarrassing business out of the way, we can talk.” Pace whipped the e-board around, said, “Later, brother,” and slammed it shut.

“So. You’re Vi. I can see why Jag likes you.” His words were laced with more than one meaning, none of which I liked.

“Jag said you were gone and he was all alone,” I said.

“Well, you’ve told lies before,” he said with the patented Barque-shrug as if to say,
Jag did what he had to do.

As if I didn’t know I was a liar. What, was it a genetic trait in the Barque family to call people on every little fib they tell?

“Besides, it wasn’t really a lie. Jag is alone. I left for the rangers four years ago.”

“Good for you,” I said. “Help me get this damn thing off.”

He touched the slightly bulging ring with one fingertip. He closed his eyes and stroked the ring and then over my whole hand and up my arm. His hands reminded me of Jag’s. His touch didn’t.

Suddenly he let go, and his eyes flew open. “The ranger you seek is not here,” he said, his voice strangely robotic. Then he slumped forward on the table.

“Pace? Pace! Wake up.” I placed one hand on his shoulder and tucked a stray lock of hair back in place. He opened his eyes slowly and shook his head.

“Vi,” he said as the color came back into his face. “You’re in danger here. The sticker can’t be removed in a situation of danger. Didn’t your clue tell you that?”

“Yeah . . . but I don’t . . . Wait a second,” I said. “How did you know about a clue?”

“We have spies too,” he said. “The Goodgrounds has been declining for years. Haven’t you ever wondered why?”

No, I hadn’t. They still seemed to have ultimate control over the population. I thought of my mother, still following blindly. But that farmer had a contraband book that screamed of freedom . . .

I shook my head, unsure about pretty much everything.

“The Association allows some places—like the Goodgrounds—to be on ‘low alert’ so they can find those with the gift of control.” Pace didn’t say it, but he meant people like me.

“What about the Badlands?” I thought about Lyle Schoenfeld’s book, and Jag’s parents, how they’d separated from the Goodgrounds twenty-five years ago.