control

by Lydia Kang

  “So, Wilbert.”

  “Mmm?” The mini pork rind is nestled between Wilbert’s two heads in what can only be described as true pet devotion.

  “Can you trace transmissions? Like where they come from?” I wiggle my holo stud up in the air.

  “Sure. Should be easy enough.” He ambles over to me. “Turn it on.”

  I slide it back into my earlobe and pinch it. Again, the static.

  “Tell it to list transmissions.”

  “Okay.” After my command, a list of calls shows up on a blue background. The list proves that I rarely get calls. It’s so pathetic. Dyl’s would probably have at least fifty calls a day. I have like, ten in the last two weeks. At the top of the list is one from Dyl, the day before we moved. There are scattered ones from my last lab, when they asked me to work overtime hours. There’s a rare transmission from Dad, when he’s bothered to tell me the obvious—that he’ll miss dinner again. But no calls resemble any permutation of a Q-sounding name. I turn to Wilbert, whose patient face appears on the other side of the transparent blue holo screen.

  “Hold on. I know I got two transmissions in the last week, and they aren’t on here.”

  “A challenge! Well.” He cracks his knuckles, and Callie wakes up, irritated. She snuffles his left ear and falls asleep again. He proceeds in a whisper. “Try looking at your sent transmissions.”

  I request those, and a few show up. Similar to my received list. Still no Q, which makes sense, since I didn’t send any.

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Trust me. Now search deleted sent transmissions.”

  I order this command, not understanding, but surprisingly two show up from the days since I arrived at Carus House. Ones I’ve sent. Except I haven’t.

  “Ask for the destination.”

  Now two lines show up on my screen. They say the same thing.

  Error@hub5001S36

  “What is that?” I squint at the numbers.

  “It’s a scrambling hub. One of the towers masked a transmission. See, someone contacts you via a scrambling hub, and instead of leaving an imprint of its history, it turns around and pings backward, as if you sent the message, back to the origin. Kind of to erase its steps.”

  “So can I find out who sent it?”

  “No. The scrambling hub is all the data you’ll get. But most of the time, the hub is close to the origin of the call.”

  “Do you know where that hub is?”

  “Sure. 5001S36 is an address. 5001 South Thirty-sixth Street. That’s by the river at the edge of the southern district. You know, where all the old slaughterhouses used to be? It’s pretty run-down now.”

  “Oh.” I’m bursting with unanswered questions. I’m happy I didn’t just imagine those calls, but still. Why would someone hanging around old slaughterhouses know about Dyl? Then again, the idea of Dyl and slaughterhouses living in the same thought nauseates me.

  “You all right?” Wilbert asks.

  I must have some sort of awful expression on my face. I try to hide it with a gigantic, fake yawn. “Yeah, just tired. I’d better go. Thanks, Wilbert.”

  “No problem.” Callie is now snoring between his two heads, and Wilbert picks up the pig’s foreleg and waves it at me.

  That pig officially creeps me out.

  Exhaustion creeps up on me, limb by limb. Somewhere in this place is my room. I’ve been here just long enough to assume I know my way back from Wilbert’s room, so I take a set of winding stairs down into a dark, twisting corridor.

  Crap. This can’t be right. I can hardly see my feet and none of the doors have the familiar glowing oval of the other Carus doors.

  “How do I get to my room?” I say.

  Two voices answer me. Simultaneously, I hear “This way, come here” and “Left turn in ten feet.” I’m confused. What’s wrong with the direction voice lady?

  Then I hear it again.

  “Come here.” The voice is low in pitch, beckoning innocently. My fingers feel along the wall, toward the end of the hallway. Weird voice or no, I’m getting out of here. I decide to trust the voice that said to turn left.

  My finger touches the seam of a door. In a blink, it opens to reveal a large room lit with a low, violet-colored glow emanating from the edges of the floor. I don’t want to go in, but something makes me catch my breath.

  It’s a painting of a dismembered hand, fingers stretching to extremes, but cut off at the wrist, leaning against the wall. The one next to it shows a long bone, still smeared with blood, floating in the same pale blue void the hand is in.

  Another painting lying on the floor is huge, the size of a king-size bed. Thumb-size naked babies are painted in row after row, crammed into every corner. Each infant face has innocent, cherry-red cheeks and vacant eyes messily dabbed on in smudged colors. I think of the doll heads in my room, and my heart begins to pound behind my eardrums.

  Next to the painting, a chair sits disemboweled, the stuffing scattered over a large area. The walls have smears of suspicious dark streaks. I’m praying that it’s not blood.

  On the wall, a small screen is shut off, covered by an inch-thick transparent shield. I listen carefully, but there isn’t a sound. No voice, no nothing. I inch forward to the screen.

  “On,” I say. It comes alive, in green. Soon it’s replaced by a dark image, a head with mussed-up hair that groans.

  “I’m so tired, Ana. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” the head speaks. Then it looks up and stares me in the face.

  It’s Cy. His face is pristine and beautiful, untouched by ink or piercings. He gives me the coldest look of fury.

  “Get out. Now.” His words are cutting and meant to bite.

  I back away from the screen, and Cy’s entire face fills the rectangle. Off to my left, a muffled laugh sounds. It’s not a good, happy laugh, but one of malice and discontent.

  At that moment, I feel a cool hand clasp my wrist. I jerk back, but there’s no hand around my arm, no person nearby. But I can still feel fingers pressing against my skin. It starts to squeeze harder, hurting me. My hands start to shake. What have I walked into?

  “Get OUT, Zelia!” Cy roars.

  I spin around to run, crashing against the walls when I slip on loose paper on the floor. I veer toward the door and take that left turn I’d missed before I’d found the Chamber of Horrors. Behind me, something solid thuds against the wall and there’s a tinkle of glass breaking. A quiet noise of rhythmic, padded taps follow me, like bare feet on the hard floor.

  I glance back but can’t see anything in the darkness of the hallway. The padding feet come faster, closer. That same non-corporeal hand slips through the hair on my forehead. I bat it away, frantic.

  Unstable laughter echoes against the curving walls. My stupid short legs can’t go any faster. They windmill under me as I run straight into the transport’s open door with so much momentum that my body thuds against the corner.

  “Up! Out! Anywhere! My room!” I screech. The transport door shuts before me. I hear a small thwack, like a palm hitting the outer door, as it begins to zoom upward. Finally, there is no laughter anymore. Just one sound—me, hyperventilating in my own little capsule of confusion.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE NEXT MORNING, I’M EXHAUSTED and zombified. I woke up multiple times to check that my door was locked.

  “Where’s Marka?” I ask the walls.

  “Marka is in the kitchen, along with Cyrad.”

  Well. This will be fun. At least he can’t go totally ballistic with Marka there. When I finally make it to the kitchen, it’s empty. I push the doors to the common room to find Cy alone at the big dining table drinking coffee and eating a bagel.

  I scan the table for sharp objects. Phew. No butter knives either. It wouldn’t be pleasant being butter-knifed to death. As soon as he sees it’s me, he moves to leave. Hex opens the door from the kitchen, holding three bowls of cereal and two spoons.

  “Wait,” I say. I decide to blast the elephant comp
letely out of the room, maybe to the moon. I have no idea where my courage comes from. Oh yes. From not wanting to be murdered in my sleep, that’s where. “So who’s Ana?”

  Hex stiffens at the mention of her name.

  “Don’t talk about Ana.” Cy squeezes his fist.

  “Why?”

  “Hey, Zel,” Hex butts in. “I think you have a trait too. You’re a hermaphrodite. Because girl, you’ve got balls.” Cy glares at him, but Hex doesn’t budge from the doorjamb. I get the distinct feeling he’s making sure nothing happens to me. It’s such a brotherly gesture. I think I owe him two hugs for that.

  “Ana is none of your concern,” Cy warns. “Stay out of her room. Stay out of my room. And keep your damn research inside the lab.”

  I don’t respond. I’m too angry. I have a right to know why baby heads are showing up in my room and deranged people are living in my new home. I march toward the kitchen door, where Hex wears a bemused grin.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Cy yells.

  I spin around at the door. “I’m short, not deaf, asshole.”

  • • •

  HEX REFUSES TO TELL ME ABOUT ANA, citing the safety of his balls, and Marka promises to talk more at dinner about the whole Ana situation. The answers will have to wait, but at least I’ll be getting some soon.

  It takes every gram of brain matter to concentrate when I get to the lab. Digging into Dyl’s purse, I pull out the last strand of hair from her brush. This one has to count. If only I’d had three chances for so many other things. But there’s only one of me, and I can’t undo my mistakes. From here on out, I have to be better than . . . me.

  All day, I quadruple-check every step. By early evening, I know I’ve done it right. I can feel it in my neurons.

  Marka calls me to dinner, so I take a break and head for the common room. It’s empty except for Vera, who’s drinking a bowl of weedy-looking soup. Marka enters a minute after me, smiling.

  “Zelia, perfect timing.” She looks over at Vera. “Where’s everyone else? I told them to come.”

  The door opens and Hex and Wilbert enter. They pick chairs far apart from each other. Just when Marka’s about to call out to the wall-com, Cy enters. Repelled by the unusually full room, he stays close to the door.

  “I wanted to tell you all that I’m going to Kansas City tonight,” Marka says. “There’s a child we may need to take in. The magpod is picking me up in ten minutes.”

  I can feel Cy’s eyes on me, but I ignore him. “But Marka . . . I thought we were going to talk.”

  “This trip trumps our conversation. But it will happen,” she says. Cy looks away, as if she’s utterly let him down. “I’ll be back in a day or so. Don’t worry, Zelia. I’ve had a chat with Wilbert and Cy about our nighttime door access. You’re in good hands.” As if to reinforce her dubious assertion, she glares at everyone in the flavor of Behave or I’ll kill you.

  Everyone murmurs a good-bye, and Marka walks to the door. I head for the kitchen, grabbing a synthetic chicken salad sandwich out of the efferent. Hex’s and Vera’s voice start rising in the next room. I wonder if they’re arguing over Ana, so I pop my head back in.

  Hex is standing up, hollering. “Marka? Maaaaaaarka!” he chants, musically. When there’s still no answer, he pushes away from the table and whistles. “Okay, troops. We’re outta here.”

  “What?” I gape.

  “C’mon. It’s been ages since we snuck out.”

  “No.” Cy gives Hex a hard stare. “Don’t be stupid. It’s not safe.”

  “Of course it’s not safe. Life isn’t safe. And what we do here isn’t living. Let’s live a little, eh?”

  “I’m in,” Vera hoots. “Anything to get away from you freaks for a while.”

  “Wilbert?” Hex asks.

  “Well . . .” He scratches his faceless head.

  “Ha. You’d rather hang out with your girlfriend, Callie, wouldn’t you?” Vera taunts.

  “No! Okay, I’m in. I’ll go get my buttons.” He shuffles out the door.

  Vera practically sings, “I’m gonna get my makeup on.” She skips out of the room in a flash of green. I’ve never seen her so happy.

  “I thought Marka said I was in good hands.” I squint at Hex.

  “She did. These hands.” He waves his lower pair of hands. “But these”—he waves his upper pair—“are all naughty, all the time.”

  I put my sandwich down on the table, my appetite gone. I’m no rule breaker. Dad was sure to pound that one into my brain. If Marka were here, she’d say I stink of fear.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I thought we could be killed if we leave.”

  “There’s a bunch of clubs in the southern district,” Hex reasons. “No fingertip IDs or anything. Dark as can be. We’ll hide ourselves well. It’ll be perfect.” He picks up my discarded sandwich and mashes it into his mouth in one bite. Gross.

  “It’s dangerous, and you know it.” Cy crosses his arms, moving to stand closer to me. Cy’s like a shadow of support for my worry. I’m no good to Dyl if I get caught.

  I’m on the verge of refusing, when I find myself asking, “So, where is it exactly?”

  “South Thirty-sixth Street. You know, near the old—”

  “Slaughterhouses?” I chime in. The scrambler hub. It’ll be near there. Which means it’ll be near Q. I know Dad made me promise to take care of myself, but I have to take care of Dyl too. I can’t do one without the other. I have to take this chance.

  I raise my hand to high-five one of Hex’s chicken-salad-smeared, misbehaving hands.

  “I’m in.”

  “We’ll meet back here in ten minutes,” Hex hollers at everyone.

  I head to my room so I can put Dyl’s purse safely away. At the transport door, I glance at my outfit. I’m wearing my usual shapeless Cy shirt and amorphous dark skirt. Should I change for the occasion? It takes me a millisecond to decide. Nah.

  “Stop.”

  I turn around to see Cy, surprised that the word was more a request than a command. He catches up to me, walking two inches too far into my personal space, but I don’t fall back. Maybe I’m standing my ground or simply being weak for enjoying his faint warmth. Cy shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “You’re not really going, are you?”

  “I am.” It’s hard to look him in the eye, the way he towers above me.

  “You get caught, and you’re no better than dead. It’s not worth it. I thought you wanted to try to get your sister back.”

  “I am trying.”

  “Dancing in an illegal club isn’t exactly constructive.” Cy’s fists are hard knots. Seems like he needs to relax even more than I do.

  “Hey, why don’t you come with us?” I offer. “We could dance, and—”

  “I don’t dance,” he blurts. The words are heavy in the air, hiding more than he lets on. As if he meant to say “I don’t dance with girls like you.”

  “Fine. To each his own.” I try to sound as if I don’t care, even if the rejection bites like a paper cut. I head for the stairs, leaving Cy and his refusal behind. Just as I hit the next level, I hear him call one last time. It’s so faint, it might as well be my imagination. It sounded like “Please don’t go.”

  That’s when I know it’s my imagination. Because Cy would never say “please” when it comes to me.

  • • •

  I RUN THE REST OF THE WAY TO MY ROOM, tuck Dylia’s purse beneath the mattress of my bed, and then jog back to the hallway, where I violently collide with Vera. She may resemble a vegetable in yoga wear, but she’s hard as a rock. Ow.

  “Man, I knew it. Look at you. Tell me you aren’t going like that,” she says, pointing rudely with her index finger.

  “I am. It’s fine, really. I don’t mind.”

  “Oh, hell no. We won’t get into the club with you looking like some sort of she-goblin on a bad hair day.”

  “Ouch, Vera! Even goblins have feelings.”

  “C’mon.” She drag
s me all the way to her grow-light room and pushes me into her closet. Soon, a tight, scoop-necked midnight-blue top is exchanged for Cy’s T-shirt. Vera hands me an unevenly hemmed, bruise-colored skirt that occasionally dips high on the thigh. It’s got random soft points sticking out like some exotic prickly fruit. She tosses me a pair of black boots.

  “How the heck do you get clothes when you’re off the grid?” I ask, tugging the boots on. “Does Marka get them?”

  “She used to, but I like buying my own stuff. I’ve a little black-market business with the junkyard guys,” she says, rummaging through a drawer filled with makeup. On her bathroom countertop is a laser spray-painting machine. I’m praying she’s not going to use it on me.

  I raise my left eyebrow. “What kind of business?”

  “Organic libido serum, detoxifying supplements, and plant-grown testosterone from my recombinant herbs. It’s all natural.”

  “You mean illegal?”

  She shrugs. “I say tomato, you say tomahto.”

  After wrestling my hair into a sleek knot atop my head, I discover that I do, in fact, have a neck underneath all the frizz. Vera swipes some wine-colored gloss on my lips and draws a thick black line straight from one temple to another, tracking over my eyelids and the bridge of my nose. It’s trendy and totally not me, but it’s the nicest thing Vera has voluntarily done since I got here, so I don’t say a word.

  “Huh. You actually look decent when you aren’t sporting the unkempt, suicidal teenager look.” She sticks out her bottom lip. “Wait a sec.” Without so much as a warning, Vera shoves her hand into my bra and rearranges what chest mass I have.

  “What are you doing?” I shriek.

  “Working on your produce display,” Vera grunts. It’s like she’s looking for spare change, and there ain’t none.

  “I don’t have produce!”

  Vera stops rearranging and steps back. I look down. Somehow she’s managed to conjure cleavage out of thin air.

  “Oh, you’ve got it. But you can’t sell what you can’t see.”