The Fox Inheritance (14 page)

Kara and Jenna. Our thoughts. My thoughts.

At least I still have those.

Chapter 34

I squeezed her neck. At least a thousand times. I put her out of her misery. In the long dark hallways, I found a myriad of ways to do the deed because she begged me to and because I had nothing but time. And then later, in my dreams, after Gatsbro had given me a body, when I had real hands, blood, and anger, the face I saw changed. It was no longer Kara. It was Jenna. I killed her over and over, my hands around her throat, squeezing, feeling the life ebb from her. Slowly. And with each weakened heartbeat, I became stronger, until I finally snapped her neck and ended it. I did it because she was silent. I thought she was punishing me, and I wanted to punish her back. Or maybe I just wanted to punish someone. Anyone. Someone had to pay.

I would wake in a sweat and see Kara sitting at the side of my bed. Smiling.

"It's all right, Locke. I'm here."

I reached out and held her, ashamed. Did she know?

"It was only a dream," she would coo in my ear.

Only a nightmare.

I showered, trying to wash away my thoughts, the blood on my hands, and the memory of satisfaction.
This is not me.
And when I was finished, Kara would be waiting for me, still smiling.

Chapter 35

"We're never going to pull this off."

"We have so far," I tell Miesha. "Just keep walking. We look like everyone else."

We stopped at a booth just outside the station, and Miesha purchased a white shawl to cover the back of Dot's cart and a blue blanket to replace the dirty canvas tarp that covered her stump and missing legs. The rusty cart can almost pass for an assistance chair if no one looks too closely. "I've never been inside a train station," Dot says. "Only as far as the drop-off. It's
beautiful
." She points out every detail, from the moving walkways, to the souvenir kiosks, to the glass ceilings, to the holographic entertainment for bored travelers. Miesha keeps shushing her and shoving Dot's pointing finger back into her lap. If I weren't so focused on trying to fit in, I would be pointing and marveling too.

I watch other travelers who wave away V-ads that hover in front of their faces and I try to do the same with an annoyed look rather than an amazed one. Bots are in abundance--Bots with legs--and Dot's head turns to look at each one, but she doesn't point. Some seem to be owned by wealthy individual travelers. Even the wealthy do not fly anymore. Air travel must be applied for months in advance and is often denied. Sweepers, Bot-manned cargo transports, and military get priority airspace.

A few Bots in the station are designated as Stress Bots. Their only purpose is to provide a place for stressed travelers to relieve frustration. Several children surround one, kicking it and cheering as it howls. Dot looks away. I assume the Bot feels no real pain--the harder the kick, the louder the howl--but is it possible for a Bot to be tired? My gaze meets the battered Bot's for a few brief seconds before I look away, but his weary expression lingers in my mind.

Other Bots serve as guides and information centers. They are the most beautiful Bots, statuesque and adorned with jeweled eyelashes and skin that glows like they are luminous Greek gods. Their clothing is thin and sparse, showing off perfect bodies and long, graceful legs. Dot does point those out. I don't blame her. It is hard not to be in awe of their beauty.

The one thing I notice right away is that the Security Officers are human and plentiful--and they are heavily armed. Apparently a major transportation interchange is not a place to leave Bots in charge.

The schedule shows that the train from Albany has already arrived, but the direct train to San Diego doesn't leave for another thirty-five minutes. Kara is here somewhere. We have time to find her. Three pairs of eyes are better than one in these crowds, or I would have made Dot and Miesha wait outside for me, but I still wonder how hard Miesha will even try to spot Kara. She doesn't care about her the way I do. Or maybe she just cares about her in a different way, a way that translates into money. Is that possible? My gut says no, but I was 100 percent wrong about Gatsbro.

Miesha tucks her chin to her chest and whispers, "Security ahead."

I had already seen the armed guard at the entrance to the moving walkway. I smile, pretending I am pointing out a display of floppy hats to Dot. "Just keep walking. And talking. We have IDs," I say through gritted teeth. My lab heart pounds like I have just run an eight-minute mile. Will my BioPerfect set off alarms on the walkway? Did Gatsbro really know what he was doing? I'm a guinea pig. That's all I am. An experimental first.

I lean down and whisper to Dot, "Don't talk. Just smile as we pass. Got it?"

"Got it, Customer Locke. Zipped lip."

As cool as I try to remain, sweat beads on my forehead.
Don't wipe it, Locke. Stay cool
. Miesha walks ahead and steps onto the walkway. I follow a few steps behind, pushing Dot and turning my face away as we get close so the guard won't notice my split lip or bruised cheekbone.

"Hello, Officer! Lovely day for a stroll, isn't it?" I am caught off guard by Dot's chirpy comment and turn to look. The Security Officer surveys us.

I shrug like Dot is my eccentric aunt, hoping he won't think too much of my face. He nods, and we continue onto the walkway, a push of people behind us not giving him much time to think about two odd travelers.

When we are a fair distance away, I lean down and whisper in Dot's ear. "Zipped means silence, Dot. Nothing."

"I'm so sorry, Customer Locke. I couldn't help myself. It is my Star Cab training. I have to be especially solicitous to those in uniform. Company policy."

Training? Or is it programming? What's inside of Dot that is beyond her control? Everything? She's a Bot. I have to remember that. But there is still something different about her. Is that possible? Can a Bot be more than just circuits and programming? I think back to the hissing cashier at the diner--a Bot too, but as different from Dot as I was from my brother. Where did their Bot paths diverge on the assembly line? Or was it somewhere after that? "Never mind, Dot. Just look for Kara. We have to find her. But if you do see her,
don't
yell out. Just tell me. And don't call me Customer Locke. It's just Locke. We're both Escapees now, right?"

She nods in a curious rapid way like she is unable to speak, or maybe she is just trying to be silent like I asked. Miesha turns to me, and I motion for her to watch the crowds on the right side while I scan the faces on the left. Kara is tall, but so many people here seem to be tall too--and so many with black hair. But her hair is unique--thick and straight and shiny, bluntly cut just above her shoulders, always shimmering in waves as she walks. I search for those familiar waves.

If there was ever a time I wanted to reach back into her mind, it is now, and I would freely let her walk the dark corridors of my mind again. She knows what is there. She knows every hidden corner. Maybe that's what makes me fear her as much as I love her.

"There! Is that her? Two walkways over."

I follow the direction of Miesha's eyes. Two moving walkways over, about thirty feet in front of us, the back of a head with shiny black hair comes in and out of view among the crowd of other travelers. Yes. I would know that hair anywhere. I can't see her shoulders or what she is wearing, but that's her. She is weaving through the crowd, pushing in front of others just the way Kara would do if she was in a hurry. And she is.

"Take Dot," I say, and I jump up on the first divider between the walkways and down again, trying to catch up. I hear disgruntled rumblings from surprised passengers. One lady shrieks. Miesha calls after me, but I can't take a chance on losing Kara. I push past several people, and some push back. One man grabs me by my shirt, but I pull away. I jump up on the next divider and then down again. Now I'm on her walkway.

"Kara!" I call. Heads turn, but not hers. I squeeze past more people, apologizing, hoping I won't be reported, but I am so close, I can't slow down and risk losing her now. The walkway ends just ahead, and I watch her get off and hurry away, the back of her head disappearing in the crowds. I push harder, stepping on feet, jarring one passenger who falls. "I'm sorry! Sorry!" I yell over my shoulder, hoping they hear me.

I step off the walkway and spin. Where is she? I run in one direction and then stop, scanning the crowds. I spot three Security Officers walking toward me. I tuck my chin down and head for a thick tangle of crowd in the opposite direction, blending into their mass. At the first corner, I turn and scoot behind a kiosk, surveying the souvenirs. My back is wet. My breath comes in gulps, but I try to smile at the Bot eager to sell her wares. As soon as the officers walk past, I leave her mid-sentence and go back into the main hallway, walking in the opposite direction--back toward the train platforms that head to San Diego. Miesha and Dot will look for me there. Kara will head that way too. She may be waiting for me already. She wanted her freedom so badly, and Gatsbro is still a threat. His goons hit her face, for God's sake. Why shouldn't she be afraid? She didn't want to identify herself in an unknown crowd where capture could be imminent. That must be why she didn't turn.

I look down and walk faster, careful not to bump into anyone this time and draw attention.

Chapter 36

We sit at the front of the car on the train to San Diego. Miesha and I are seated next to each other, and Dot faces us in a spot that accommodates assistance chairs. Her face is pressed to the window as she views the world through a passenger's eyes instead of a driver's. She has stern orders from Miesha not to call out and draw attention to us, just to enjoy the view. And she is. The sun is setting, striping the window with pink and orange, and I listen to her hum now and then, almost like a purr, like the world passing by is filling her up with sweet, warm milk. I wonder who programmed her. Someone with a cat? Who filled her head so she would be the way she is?

We are minus Kara. She wasn't waiting at the platform, so we had to board the train just before it departed, hoping she was already on it. I've walked down the whole train from one end to the other. There's no sign of her. Where is she? Did she get lost? Dot and Miesha both assured me there were other trains she could have taken, routes that would take longer to get to San Diego but perhaps provided a faster escape from Gatsbro.

He was there. Miesha saw him. He and his goons were searching the station. She and Dot both wear floppy hats now, quick disguises that helped them slip past Gatsbro's animals. How did he know to go to Topeka? We didn't know that we were coming here ourselves until long after we had escaped them in the alley. Who could have tipped him off?

I open my hand and look at the remnants of the iScroll, wondering, but only a few specks of the blue and green tattoo remain. It couldn't transmit anything. In just a few short hours, my hand has already begun to heal. Is that what Miesha meant? That I could make things change within my own body? Do I have that much control? I cup my cheek. The bruise is still tender, but the swelling is gone. I touch my ribs and press. They hurt, but not like this morning when I could barely move. Have I adjusted my sensitivity levels without knowing it? How? When did it happen? What kind of freakish body do I have that it can be adjusted like I am pushing buttons on a machine?

I stare at the spot where the stump of Dot's torso is hidden beneath the blanket. I was repulsed when I first saw her hooked into the console. I had thought she was one of us, but she wasn't. She is something else.

I tell you, Greta, I sleep with one eye open. Monsters, both of them, if you ask me. But Gatsbro pays me a bloody fortune so I take my chances....

Can't say I blame you, Cole. I'm just glad I work in the kitchen and don't have to sleep here. They both make my skin crawl.

Is that how everyone at the estate felt when they looked at me and Kara? Repulsed? I had tried to slough off Greta's and Cole's comments. I told myself they were just blowing off steam, and I didn't tell Kara what I overheard. But she had to know--she had to see it in their eyes the same way I did. We made their skin crawl.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Locke. Don't look ...

My parents sobbed in the hospital room when they thought I was dying. Their voices were watery echoes trying to reach me. I couldn't put all their words together, but I didn't have to. I knew what they were saying.
Don't leave. Don't leave
. What would they have thought if they'd found out I never did? I got a second chance.
A gift horse, Dad. I got a gift horse
. Are they listening? Do they know? Is there any kind of afterworld like my mom believed? A place where minds and thoughts never cease to exist? How could that be their heaven but my hell?

I close my eyes, leaning my seat back as far as it will go. I wonder if I can adjust the pain inside my head so it disappears too. Push a few buttons? Can I make every painful memory cease to matter? I rub my temples. I already know the answer. Gatsbro may have given me a new body with a few surprises, but I still have my old mind.

"Why us, Miesha?"

"What?"

I open my eyes and stare at the dimpled plastic ceiling of our train car. "Why didn't Gatsbro just scan his own brain and make a body for it? Or one of his willing goons? If all he wanted was floor samples, wouldn't that have been easier?"

"Most definitely easier, but not nearly as valuable. You and Kara have something to offer that no one else on the entire planet has."

Us? I almost want to laugh. I roll my head to the side to look at her. "What's that?"

"Two hundred sixty years. No one else has had a test run like that. The biggest concern of potential clients is what will happen to their minds after years of storage. These people don't plan on utilizing Gatsbro's services right away. Unless there's a sudden accident, it might be years before they need a new body. With you, Gatsbro had time-tested proof that their minds would be intact decades later."