by David Jones
“No,” Anya said.
“Last time?” Jake asked. What was happening here? He had a feeling that his cybrid knew, that it was desperately trying to tell him something important, but that some part of him—the human part—didn’t want to hear it.
In the distance came the foreign WHEE-WAW, WHEE-WAW of European police sirens. Several Parisians had gathered on the sidewalk, keeping their distance from Jake and the others, but standing so they could watch the struggle. Jake counted at least seven mobile phones recording everything.
“Get him inside,” Seanan said.
Moore and the other men slid Phineas into the van. Jake watched in a vacant stupor, his mind roiling.
Moore started to shut one of the van’s rear doors, but Jake caught it one-handed with a meaty slap.
“What are you doing?” Moore asked.
Jake ignored him, his eyes were on Anya and Phineas. She looked up, guilt written across her face.
“That’s my question,” Jake said. “What are you doing?”
Seanan came around the side of the van, her face tinged red with fear and excitement. “She’s doing her job. Now it’s time we do ours. Get in the van.”
“You’re erasing his memories aren’t you?” Jake asked.
Anya said nothing.
“The wreck where you found me,” Jake said. “It wasn’t an attack by some secret enemy. It was you.” He turned, taking in Moore and Seanan as he spoke. “It was all of you.”
The sirens were growing closer now, no more than two streets away from the sound.
Seanan glanced that direction, looking peevish. “Of course it was us, boy. What? We should have left your mind intact and dealt with Harris?”
“No, but—”
“We lied to you. Get over it.”
“And trust you now?” Jake asked. “You expect me to believe anything else you say to me? What are you planning to do with him?” He pointed at Phineas. “With me for that matter.”
A police car rounded the corner two blocks from where they stood, sirens blaring.
Moore cursed. “It’s the Gendarmes.”
“Get in the van, Jake,” Seanan said.
“No.” Jake backed away, hands raised. “I’m done with lies.”
“Jake, don’t,” Anya said, her eyes pleading.
Moore slammed the van’s rear doors, blocking her from Jake’s view. He continued to back away.
“You’ll never survive on your own,” Seanan said as she moved toward the front of the van. “Cymobius will have you inside a day.”
Jake didn’t answer, but spun on his heels, to sprint down the sidewalk opposite the approaching police car.
Though the sound of the wind and his own footfalls filled his ears, Jake heard Seanan’s last words, yelled just before she climbed into the van to screech away.
“You’ll be Harris by this time tomorrow!”
Chapter 15
Entrance
Jake was surprised by how fast he could run. Though he had jogged a bit down the halls of Cymobius’s underground prison and sprinted for a short burst to escape Phineas, he hadn’t pushed himself to full speed since waking up in this new body. It was exhilarating.
He surged along the sidewalk, barely able to dodge passersby at this speed. To avoid them, he swerved into the street, weaving in and out of traffic. He must have been doing better than fifty miles per hour, backtracking the way Hugo had driven into this area then turning onto surface streets to lose himself amongst the buildings. In less than a minute, he was back at the banks of the Seine where he stopped at an intersection.
Oddly, a clock stood on the center island, bisecting the street. It was only 8:25 a.m. The sign beneath the clock, shaped like an arrow, read: Notre-Dame. The sign beneath that read one: PONT DE L’ARCHEVECHE, which his cybrid couldn’t seem to translate. It must have meant something like strange bridge festooned with padlocks, because fifty feet ahead, that’s just what he found.
With the sound of sirens bleating far in the distance, Jake slowed to a walk to make himself less conspicuous. His heart beat fast, but that was as much from fear as from his run. He could have kept up that speed for much longer. Peering back the way he had come, he saw only regular traffic, light this time of morning, with a few people walking along the bridge behind him. No one paid Jake the least bit of attention.
Slowly, looking around like a tourist to conceal the fact that he was watching for pursuit, he ambled onto the bridge. The Seine’s gray surface tinged with green churned beneath him, its waters surprisingly clean from what Jake could tell. A fresh breeze blew across it to tousle his hair and cool his skin. It brought with it the scent of freshly mowed grass and baked bread. River boats chugged slowly along its length, hemmed in on both sides by high walls of gray stone. In the distance rose what looked like a palace of light tan stone with a weather-beaten gabled roof and about a million chimneys. Jake figured it was probably just an apartment high-rise or else office building. Everything in Paris looked straight out of a museum to him.
Had the Gendarmes captured Anya and the others? Jake had a feeling the answer was no. Though he had delayed their escape, he doubted Seanan was the type to get captured by regular police, and the same went for Moore.
Jake couldn’t decide if he felt relieved by that idea or if he wanted them in police custody. They had all lied to him, tricked him, even put his life in danger when they blew up his car, though he hadn’t known it at the time. They deserved prison. But considering the enemies they fought, maybe that wasn’t the case.
An old man seated on a folding chair played a jaunty tune on an accordion. He gave Jake a smile and Jake nodded in return. The man stopped playing.
“Are you okay?” he asked in French.
“I’m fine,” Jake said, intuitively matching the man’s Parisian accent.
“You look lost,” said the man. “Homesick. Are you here with someone? Your parents perhaps?”
Jake shook his head, not certain what to say. The mention of parents made his stomach twist up inside. He fought to keep his face still.
“Where do you live. I can call you a taxi. I have a phone.” The old man pulled a mobile from the inside pocket of his coat.
“I’m American,” Jake said. “I don’t think a taxi will do.”
The old man lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “You speak French very well for an American boy. Where did you learn it?”
“School,” Jake said, starting to back away. Best if he didn’t go around divulging too much to random strangers. This guy was no cybrid, just some French accordion player, but Jake wouldn’t put it past Cymobius’s people to track him through such an encounter.
“You’re certain you don’t need to call your parents?” the old man asked, waggling the phone. “You’re welcome to do so.”
“No, thank you,” Jake said, a sudden memory flashing through his skull, no doubt spurred by his cybrid.
He saw the first moments when he had awoken in his new body. Smoke had swirled about him, clogging his lungs, making his eyes tear. He had smelled his own flesh burning as he struggled to sit up, not yet realizing that he was trapped in the crushed remains of a car he couldn’t remember owning.
To his left, on the center console, he had seen a flight plan displayed above a topographical map. The endpoint, highlighted in red, showed his position in the Bronx. But in a sidebar, outlined in yellow, was an address—the flight’s starting point. It denoted a hotel here in Paris with a room number beside it.
Was that home for Harris? Or perhaps a short-term stay? Ultra-rich people sometimes lived in fancy hotels, didn’t they? What if Harris still had the place rented out? Jake might find something useful there—credit cards, cash, some form of ID. Not that an old ID would likely match his current face, but it was something to work with.
It wasn’t much to go on, and would likely turn up nothing, but what alternative did he have? He couldn’t run to the police or the U.S. embassy. From all he had learned of this new world,
they would probably turn him over to Cymobius.
Jake turned back to the old man, and forced a smile. “Actually, monsieur, I could use some help.”
“Oh?”
“Do you know how to find the hotel called Le Bristol?”
LE BRISTOL WAS NOT so ostentatious as Jake might have expected. Perhaps that was because so much of French architecture dwarfed anything in Jake’s experience both in grandeur and size. Anywhere else, the hotel’s façade would have stood out as an impressive spectacle, but here it was just another beautiful building no finer than any other. It stood on a busy, one-way street filled with expensive cars parked at the curbs or else inching along in traffic. Greenery was built into the hotel’s design, from the roses that adorned its first floor windows, to the exquisite topiary lining flower boxes on every balcony.
Two valets dressed in sable tailcoats with matching black caps stood on the sidewalk in front of Le Bristol’s gold and glass entranceway. Foot traffic, mostly well-dressed men and women in suits and fine skirts, split around them as they fetched and parked cars whose prices likely matched a small nation’s GDP.
Jake observed all this, noting especially the general flow of people going in and out, from across the street. Did Cymobius know about his room in this place? Probably so. But he saw no one watching the building, and none of the passersby looked particularly suspicious. Of course, he had been there only a few minutes. He wasn’t ready to saunter into the lobby without being sure. Exposing himself to possible capture deserved some patience.
Jake stepped into a pharmacy directly across from the hotel, and pretended to search for headache medicine. The pharmacist, a gray-haired man in a white smock, eyed him from behind the counter. Jake didn’t blame him. He probably saw a teen dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a black t-shirt as a risk.
“Are you looking for something, young man?” the pharmacist asked, his expression anything but inviting.
“No sir,” Jake said. He browsed the aisles one at a time for about ten minutes, surreptitiously checking items and replacing them while gazing out the front window.
“If you aren’t buying anything, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” The pharmacist folded his arms, his mouth compressed into a straight line.
Jake ground his teeth, but nodded. Maybe he had seen enough. Unless one of Cymobius’s agents was hiding in an apartment building above, Le Bristol looked safe. And without any money to spend, he had no good reason to remain here. The last thing he wanted was for the pharmacist to call the police.
He pushed out the door and hurried across the street, putting on an air of nonchalance. Hopefully, the doormen would take him for the son of some rich couple who had let him roam the streets of Paris. The one on the right eyed him for perhaps half a second, but didn’t move to stop him. Jake pushed through the hotel’s spinning door and into a luxurious lobby bedecked with crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and scads of burgundy carpet so thick you could probably drop a safe on it without making a sound.
“May I help you, young man?” asked the concierge at the front desk the instant Jake entered. He was a severe-looking man with slicked back dark hair, a hawkish nose, and long, minatory fingers.
Behind the man rose a wall of old-fashioned mail slots like in a black and white movie, one for each of Le Bristol’s rooms. A small envelope lay in the cubby designated for Jake’s suite.
“My name’s Alexander Harris. My father’s staying here, or at least he was.” Jake spoke in a tone of disdain. “Mother doesn’t know exactly where he’s at, but I’m home from boarding school, and it’s his turn to watch me. His name is Jacob Harris, and he was letting your penthouse suite last I heard from him. Is he still here?”
To Jake’s surprise, the man brightened. “Ah, yes, he is still with the hotel. I have not seen him in some days, but the penthouse is his for another week.”
A week? Jake’s heart did a little somersault in his chest. It wasn’t as if he planned to remain in Paris that long, but a day or two resting, perhaps searching the internet to learn what he could, that wouldn’t go amiss. If Cymobius had already cased this hotel and marked it for a dud, then he figured he could stay here for a day or two while he came up with a plan for getting back to the United States.
“I take it you have no room key?” asked the concierge who was all smiles now. Jake hoped the guy wasn’t expecting a tip.
“No, sir. May I get one from you?”
“Of course.” The guy typed a few strokes on a keyboard discreetly hidden from view behind the ornate front desk.
Five seconds passed during which Jake kept expecting the concierge to ask for his ID to prove he was Jacob Harris’s son, who had never been seen at Le Bristol. But that didn’t happen. The man simply handed Jake a small, white square of plastic emblazoned with a stylized B, and directed him to the elevators.
“Tell your father we appreciate his custom,” the concierge said.
Clear signs of tension marked the concierge’s face. There was something strange about the way his forehead tightened whenever he looked Jake in the eyes, and his hand trembled ever-so-slightly when he handed Jake the room card.
“Are you well?” Jake asked, watching the man’s ashen face.
The concierge’s expression lightened slightly, the wrinkles Jake had taken for worry, partially relaxed, though they did not disappear.
“Ah, forgive me. I’m afraid I’m feeling a bit under the weather. A touch of flu is making the rounds through the hotel staff. Half my laundry team is down with it. But work is work, eh? It’s doesn’t slow just because one falls ill. I assure you, young monsieur, I am feeling well enough to accomplish my duties at Le Bristol.”
The man was lying. That much was obvious to Jake. But what part was lie and what part truth? The guy did look ill. His face had blanched during their conversation and his skin appeared cold and clammy. Perhaps he lied about the seriousness of his illness. What hotel manager would want guests to know he might have something contagious? He was probably forcing himself to work the front desk because someone else had called out sick.
“Well, I hope you feel better soon,” Jake said.
“Thank you,” the concierge said with a slight bow of his head. “The elevators are just there.” He pointed to a set of mirrored doors behind Jake.
Without question, Le Bristol was the finest hotel—probably the finest building—Jake had ever entered. Every part of it gleamed from the polished marble floors to the burnished, natural wood accoutrements. Suddenly, Jake felt supremely underdressed.
The elevator was one of those ancient models with two sliding gates made of thin, interwoven brass. An attendant dressed in the hotel’s colors opened the doors at Jake’s approach.
“What floor, sir?” he asked.
“Penthouse suite.”
“Very good.” The man worked a lever to raise the elevator, which was slow and rattled like an old truck on a dirt road.
They passed through a dark shaft that reminded Jake forcefully of the prison beneath Cymobius’s New York facility. At least this time he wasn’t climbing an access ladder to the top. When they reached his floor, the attendant looked at Jake expectantly and Jake realized he was waiting for a tip.
“I’m sorry. I’m only sixteen, I’ve got nothing.”
The attendant shrugged good-naturedly as he moved to open the elevator gates. “Parents don’t give you a monster allowance?”
Jake shook his head.
“Good,” the man said with a grin. “Some of the brats that come through here make more money than me just for being born. Glad to see someone’s teaching their son humility.”
“Yeah, I’m definitely learning that lesson,” Jake said. He stepped off the elevator into an ornately decorated foyer where he waited until the rickety cage had rattled back down the shaft.
When it was out of sight, Jake swiped his key across a black square affixed to the doorframe and pushed the door open to reveal a sprawling living room filled with luxurious tables,
chairs, and large couches. The cream-colored walls lent the place a bright, airy feel while the red checkered carpets drew Jake’s gaze toward the center of the room—toward the burnished chair placed to face the suite’s entrance—where sat Oliver, a pistol leveled on Jake’s front teeth.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
Chapter 16
Past Progression
Running was not an option. Oliver made no pretense of hiding her expression. By the slight widening of her eyes, the tiny folds held in place by tension just above her brow, Jake knew that she was ready to squeeze that trigger. He was likewise certain she had no intention of killing him, though severe injury might be on the menu.
“I knew getting in here was too easy,” Jake said, holding up his room key.
“Money’s a powerful thing,” Oliver said.
“How did you know I’d come here?” Jake needed time to think, to let his cybrid formulate a plan. Also, he was genuinely curious. As of two hours ago he had no idea he would end up at Le Bristol.
Oliver stood, allowing the gun’s sights to lower onto his belly. “We’re going to walk out of here. You’re not going to make a move left or right. You will walk straight from the hotel to the car I have waiting downstairs. If you resist me in any way, I will put three bullets in your sternum.”
“I’m not going back to Cymobius,” Jake said.
“Do you know the worst part about being shot when you’re like us? It’s the lingering. It’s the fact that your body, your cybrid, will go on fighting when all you want to do is die.”
“But...it shuts off the pain,” Jake said, a little flush of worry racing up the back of his neck.
Oliver shook her head ever-so-slightly, a soft grin playing at her lips. “There’s only so much it can dampen. With gunshot wounds—multiple gunshot wounds—the cybrid can’t waste time on pain. It’s got to save your life—direct all those nanites to do their duty. You’ll feel pain like you’ve never experienced, and you’ll want to die. But it won’t let you. It’ll drag you through hell and back before it ends. And when it does end, I’ll put three more bullets in you.”