by Rob Hart
“Wait,” Paxton said.
Dakota asked, “The fuck is wrong with you?”
“Wait!” Paxton said, pushing past her, waving at the open mouth of the car, at the people bowed out of it.
Everyone on the car looked at each other in confusion.
Everyone except Carson. He locked eyes with Paxton and his face scrunched up, like he was trying to sort out a calculus problem in his head. Then his eyes went wide and his jaw drifted open, and he came barreling out of the scrum, face flushed, screaming at people to get out of his way, like he was trying to get off a sinking ship.
ZINNIA
Zinnia was struck by a blast of cold. Colder than the refrigerator room. Sinus-scorching cold. Beyond the door was a massive, square room—four stories at least, the concrete walls zigzagged with staircases and walkways.
And it was completely empty. Except for a box, the size and shape of a refrigerator, centered almost perfectly in the middle of the floor.
She stepped inside and the thrum filled her head. The walls seemed to pulse. The floor underneath her was chipped and uneven. There’d been machinery in this room—big machines. The concrete was discolored from oil spills. There were grooves and bolt holes and gouges where things had been dragged away.
Whatever this was, it was important, and the room was being repurposed for it. In a corner there were piles of scaffolding, bundles of wire, metal brackets, waiting to be assembled.
The refrigerator was gunmetal gray. She moved toward it, slowly, waiting for alarm bells, or for something to fall on her, or to pass out, but nothing happened. The air temperature changed. It seemed to get colder but also, oddly, humid.
She reached the box and pressed her fingers to it and it was so cold it burned her skin. There was a window on the side, but she couldn’t see anything due to the frost that had accumulated on the inside.
Was this the thing powering Cloud?
Zinnia’s head spun. There was no way—no way. This place was a city and this entire apparatus could fit into the back of a pickup truck.
Hands shaking, she removed her phone from her pocket and began to snap pictures. Every angle, every side of the thing. The walls and the floors. The construction material in the corner. The walls and the ceiling. She shot pictures through the window of the box even though there wasn’t anything to see. A few times her shaking hands slipped and her thumb slid in front of the lens and she had to reshoot them. She clicked and clicked and clicked and hoped it was enough.
When she was done she backed out of the room and saw, at the end of the long hallway, an opening door and a flash of pink. She made sure the phone was secure in her pocket and took off down another hallway, searching for anything that looked like an exit.
Zinnia found herself in a long, curved room. Cubicles hugging the right wall, with panes of frosted glass on the left. She was along an outer wall. She considered picking up a chair and throwing it through a window, but then she’d be in wide-open space, an easy target. And that was if she was even close enough to the ground to drop safely.
No, she had to find her way back to a tram car. But they knew she was here. They would be at the cars, or would know she was headed that way. She tried to recall the map in her head, whether there was anything else that might be useful, might be utilized as an exit.
Maybe the medical tram. If this place was empty, maybe the Care tram wasn’t staffed. Except she didn’t know where that was.
So she ran. Down hallways, through doors, past an empty cafeteria, and another office, and a room that looked like the inside of an alien spaceship. She ran hard, trying to make that yellow line green.
She reached an empty hallway, gray carpet and white walls leading to a T-juncture. At the end of the hallway were six hard-looking men in black polo shirts. Men with bent noses and cauliflower ears and wild eyes. The kind of men who liked to hit and be hit.
Zinnia stopped, her guts twisting.
These guys weren’t security. They were something else—something much worse than the goobers in blue roaming the promenade.
She considered retreating, but they were close enough they would catch her. Close enough she could see the glee on their faces, the way they looked at her like something to be savored.
Only one way out now.
And to get there she dug deep into the anger and frustration and resentment that had been building since she’d sat in that theater taking her stupid interview. At first she had been sad for the people who came to work here, thought they were somehow lacking, or weaker, but being here this long had made her realize: This place was designed to take away choice. It was designed to beat you into submission.
She suddenly wished she could see Ember, to tell her she was sorry.
For all that was worth.
The men at the end of the hall were impatient and one at the front, a lean guy with his gray hair in a buzz cut and a military tattoo on his forearm, broke off from the pack, moving toward her with an easy confidence.
“Okay, darling, game’s up,” he said.
She sighed. It wouldn’t be ladylike to give up without a fight.
“Well then, motherfucker,” she said to buzz cut. “I guess you’re first.”
The men looked between each other, a few of them smiling, one of them actually snickering. Buzz cut got close enough to put his hands up and make a grab for her, so Zinnia leaned back, putting her torso out of reach, and brought up her foot, snapping it into his nuts. She felt them mash under the toe of her sneaker and he leaned forward, so she stepped back and threw a hard cross, stepping off line at the same time, knocking him to the floor.
The rest of them were surprised but still undaunted, because it was five against one, so the next one to approach her did so alone, which was a mistake. He was a beefy bald guy who looked as if he got into bar fights to pass the time, so Zinnia dove in close and dropped into a crouch, hammering her fists into his gut and liver. One-two. As he attempted to retreat, she put every ounce of her body into an uppercut that landed so hard she was pretty sure she broke something in her hand, from the shock that traveled down her arm.
As he dropped backward, the other four charged, and Zinnia ran at them, moving to the left, toward the wall, trying to keep them in a line, not letting them get behind her, arms up to protect her head, throwing jabs so she could create distance, using her fist like a whip, letting them trip over themselves and run into each other. Playing chess while they played checkers.
By the time she’d whittled them down to two, she figured she might have a chance, but then a stream of black-shirted men and women were running from the other end of the hallway.
She looked away long enough that someone caught her on the chin and she spun, then tripped, then went to a knee, and after that it was just a pile-on. It was all she could do to breathe.
PAXTON
Zinnia sat, ramrod straight, staring at the wall. Bleary-eyed, hair unkempt, in a brown polo shirt. Her eye was bruised and there was a smear of blood near her hairline. A few items were neatly arranged on the table in front of her: a CloudBand, her cell phone, a paper cup. Dobbs sat on the other side of the table, facing her, away from Paxton, so he couldn’t see anything about the man’s face. His arms were crossed and his shoulders were tense and they were rising and falling like he was talking.
Zinnia stared at a fixed point on the wall. A few times, she clenched and unclenched her fist, grimacing while she did.
“She’s in a lot of trouble,” Dakota said.
“What happened to her?” Paxton asked, fighting to keep his voice level, to keep from punching his fist through the glass.
“She put up a fight.”
Paxton turned and looked at the bullpen, which was a flurry of activity. Blues and tans everywhere. Carson and Wells and his daughter had come in, too, but had been spiri
ted away.
“We pulled the tracking data,” Dakota said, her voice low. “You were with her last night. You were with her a lot of nights.”
Paxton crossed his own arms as Zinnia mumbled something to Dobbs without moving her eyes from the spot on the wall.
“There are going to be questions,” Dakota said.
“I know,” Paxton said.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
“I have no idea what’s happening. And I swear to you…”
He trailed off. Dakota leaned into his field of vision, looked him in the eye.
“What?” she asked. “What are you possibly going to do? I’ll give you a pass on that, but I would be careful about what you say next.”
Paxton clamped his jaw shut. Dakota stared at him, like she was trying to look through his skin, for some kind of evidence of the lie underneath.
Paxton didn’t give a damn whether she believed him or not. He still didn’t know what he wanted more: for Dobbs to come out and pat him on the head and tell him to go home, or to go crashing in and pick Zinnia up in his arms and run her off to safety.
After another few moments Dobbs came out and waved at Paxton. He followed, as did Dakota. Dobbs put up his hand at her. “Not you.”
Dakota backed off. Paxton followed, head bowed, looking at the gray carpet, not wanting to look up because he assumed everyone in the place was staring at him. Dobbs led him to his office and walked inside, closed the door.
Paxton sat without being asked. Dobbs sat too, and watched him for a long time, hands folded on his lap, doing the same thing Dakota was doing. Trying to read Paxton like he had an answer for all this written on his face.
Paxton just waited.
“She says you have nothing to do with anything,” Dobbs said, giving a little tilt of his head, like he was considering the prospect. “She told me she was using you to crack our security and that’s it. Won’t say anything other than that she duped you good.”
Paxton opened his mouth to talk but the words tumbled back down his throat.
“She’s a corporate spy,” Dobbs said, the words landing like a fist on his ribs. “Gets hired to root into companies, steal their secrets. We’ve been able to piece together some of who she is, and let me tell you, you ought to count yourself lucky to be alive. That woman in there is a cold-blooded killer.”
“No, she can’t…,” Paxton started.
“Now, personally, I don’t know what to believe about what you did know and didn’t know,” Dobbs said. “Maybe you were an accomplice, maybe not. All I know is this: Someone shoved a weight plate down into the tracks in Maple, and the sensors missed it. Had we gotten on that train, it could have derailed. Lot of people might have gotten hurt. Killed probably. So you need to be honest with me when you tell me, why did you tell everyone to stay off the tram?”
“I…” He paused.
“Because if you were in on this…”
Paxton took out his phone, opened the text message app, his fingers fumbling on the screen, and handed it over. Dobbs looked down on it, holding it far away, trying to focus.
“She texted me,” Paxton said. “I figured if she didn’t want me on the tram, there was something wrong. It was a gut thing.”
Dobbs nodded, put the phone on the desk behind him, out of reach, and folded his arms. Paxton wondered if he’d be getting his phone back.
“What do you know about her?” he asked.
“What she told me,” Paxton said. “Her name is Zinnia. She was a teacher. She wanted to move away, teach English….”
Paxton stopped and realized how little he knew about her. He knew she liked ice cream, and she snored a little when she slept, but he couldn’t say whether she was actually a teacher, or her name was actually Zinnia. Just the things she had told him.
“What happens now?” Paxton asked.
“We get to the bottom of this,” Dobbs said. “And once again, we find ourselves in the position of you having done a good thing under troubling circumstances. However it goes down, you saved lives. I won’t forget that.”
There was a funereal quality to that statement, which Paxton did not like.
“I loved her,” he said.
Paxton’s face flushed. He felt embarrassed for saying it. He felt even more embarrassed for how Dobbs was looking at him now, like a child who’d messed himself. Dobbs put his hand to his chin, then said, “Listen, son, we’re going to need you to retrace your steps for the last couple of days, okay?”
Paxton wondered how bad things would get when he refused. Surely, he’d be fired. But that was the worst they could do. Fire him. There was still work out there in the world. Not a lot that wasn’t Cloud related but it didn’t matter. He’d find a way to survive.
Was it worth protecting Zinnia?
She’d used him.
He’d asked her to move in with him. Had almost told her that he loved her. Was she laughing at him? Did she even feel bad about it?
Sure, she’d saved his life, from a trap she’d laid herself. Which meant earlier in the day she had weighed the possibility of his dying and decided it was worth it.
“It’s real important that you cooperate, Paxton,” Dobbs said.
Paxton shook his head, slowly, side to side.
“Do you know who it is you’re protecting?”
Paxton shrugged.
“Look at me, son.”
Paxton didn’t want to, but he felt compelled to glance up at Dobbs, whose face was flat and impenetrable.
“How about this,” Dobbs said. “How about you go in and talk to her?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Dobbs stood, arched his back like it took some effort, and came around the side of his desk. He leaned against it, his knee touching Paxton’s knee, and Paxton shrank away from it. Dobbs loomed over him, looking down his nose.
“Help us help you, son,” he said.
ZINNIA
Finger was definitely broken. Every time she clenched her fist, it created a shock. Her insides felt like a sack of potatoes that had been beaten on with lead pipes.
The door opened and Zinnia saw the last person she expected to see, or else maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised at all. Paxton stood in the doorway, staring at her as if she were a wild animal in a flimsy cage. As if she might smash herself through the bars and swipe at him.
Those sons of bitches.
Paxton walked to the table, pulled out the chair, the legs squealing on the floor. He sat down carefully, like he still might set her off.
“I’m sorry,” Zinnia said.
“They want me to ask you how you did it. They weren’t really clear with me what ‘it’ is. But they said they want a rundown of everything you’ve done since you’ve gotten here, so they can figure out how you did it.”
He spoke mechanically, like a computer dictating text. Zinnia wondered who he was protecting by doing that. She gave a little shrug.
“They told me you used me, for access.” He looked up at her. “Is that true?”
Zinnia breathed in, thought about what to say. She couldn’t think of anything that would sound even close to right.
Paxton dropped his voice. “They think I helped you.”
Zinnia sighed. “I’m sorry for this. I really am.”
And she wasn’t even lying.
“What’s your real name?” Paxton asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“Don’t be cute.”
She sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“To me it does.”
Zinnia looked away.
“Fine,” Paxton asked. “What are you doing here?”
“I was hired.”
“For what?”
“A job.”
“Stop this, please,” Paxton said, his eyes welling. “They said you’re a killer.”
“They’ll say whatever they need to say, to get you to turn on me,” Zinnia said.
“So it’s not true.”
She was about to say no, but she hesitated. Paxton saw it, his face falling, and she realized it wasn’t even worth it. The hesitation was answer enough.
“I couldn’t let you get on the train,” she said.
“You almost did.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because…” She paused. Looked around the room. Gave a long look at the window, at the people on the other side. She looked at them as she said: “I care about you.” Then she turned and looked at him. “That’s the truth. I do. Not everything I’ve told you is the truth, but that is.”
“You care about me,” Paxton said, feeling the words out in his mouth like there was something sharp hidden inside. “You care about me.”
“I promise.”
“They want to know how you did it,” he said. “Whatever you did. Dobbs says you won’t tell them. They think I can get you to tell them.” Paxton raised his shoulders, let them drop. “I don’t even know what the hell it is you did.”
Zinnia threw a raised eyebrow at the glass. “It’s better that you don’t know.”
“What does that mean?”
“Because I think I know what’s going on.” Zinnia sighed deeply. “And if what I think is true, there is no way in this world I am leaving this place alive.”
Paxton froze. The stakes of the game changed and for a moment the anger dropped away. “No,” he said. “No. I wouldn’t…I…”
“You had nothing to do with this, and I will say that as long and as loud as I have to,” she said, looking at the window.
Paxton seemed to want to say something else but didn’t know what. His face contracted and expanded. Anger, fear, sadness, and something else that came up from the inside of him and turned his skin red and made him look like a child, every contortion twisting in Zinnia’s heart. In her lifetime she had been shot, stabbed, and tortured. Fallen from great heights and broken multiple bones in multiple places. She had come to know pain as if it were a good friend, learned to internalize it, to get inside the middle of it and accept it.