control

by Lydia Kang

  Before I can complain about being compared to celery, Vera shoos me out of her room so she can get dressed. Back in the common room, everyone but Cy is gathered. I’m disappointed he’s not here, even if all evidence pointed to him not coming. Hex is sporting a long, draping coat in greenish gray. His shoulders look large and my eyes open wide when I only count two arms.

  “Where . . .” I begin.

  Hex makes the back of his trench coat wiggle. “Just holding them behind me. It’s uncomfortable, but I can deal.”

  Ten minutes later, Vera walks in wearing a skin-tight bodysuit made of a black, shiny material. Black leather gloves cover her hands up to the elbows, and she minces over to me in her matching high-heeled boots. I’m not shocked by the fact she’s wearing the latest fashion from Hookers-R-Us. It’s her face. Except for her lips, which remain green, the rest of her face sports a flawless, ivory complexion straight out of a cosmetics ad.

  “Whaddya think?” She smiles.

  “You look great.” I take a step closer and examine the makeup. It’s really perfect, even down to the misty plum blush. Her full green lips are coated in a clear gloss. “Didn’t you forget lipstick?”

  “Uh-uh. No way. If I’m going to be swapping spit with someone, I don’t want my lipstick smudging, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t know, Vera. Dressed like that, I doubt any guys will be thinking about just kissing.”

  “Excellent.” She grins at me.

  “Where’s Wilbert?” I ask, looking around.

  “Here.” He comes up from behind me. When he sees me in my club outfit and makeup, his mouth drops. “Wow!” Then he sees Vera. “Holy moly. Is that outfit legal?”

  Hex scowls at her as she twirls around. Wilbert has managed to spike up his light brown hair and wears a shapeless black shirt over a pair of dark jeans.

  I point at him, forgetting it’s rude. “Wilbert! You lost your head!”

  Wilbert beams with pride, and he spins around for me to get a good view of him. His other head is gone. He’s got a normal pair of shoulders, and except for holding his head a little to the right, as he always does, I can’t see his spare, faceless skull.

  “How did you do that?” I ask, still staring.

  “It’s easy. Just an optical illusion. I have a transmitter here, and here.” He points to a tiny silver button on his shoulder tip and another on his left earlobe. “They throw reflected ambient light back and forth so people who look in that area see a void.”

  I don’t really get it, but on closer inspection, there’s a jagged fuzzy area over his shoulder. I raise my hand and tentatively enter the space where his extra skull usually sits. My fingertips blur and disappear as I feel his warm, furry scalp.

  “Wow,” I say, really impressed.

  “The illusion doesn’t hold up to bright daylight. But since it’ll be dark in the club, it’ll be pretty seamless.”

  “You’re brilliant, Wilbert. But I guess you knew that.”

  Wilbert gives me a little bow of acknowledgment, then ducks into the kitchen.

  “Okay. Well, shall we?” Hex puffs out his chest and heads for the door.

  “Uh, how are we going to get there? Dig a tunnel?” I joke.

  “No, but you’ll wish you had,” Vera warns.

  “We can’t use a magpod, can we?” I ask.

  “Nope, we’re going vintage,” Hex says. “Wilbert, did you grab the booze?”

  Wilbert returns from the kitchen lugging two huge multi-gallon jugs of ethanol from Cy’s lab. Oh cripes. Are we going to drink that?

  “Ugh, yeah. Dude, you have the muscles, why do I have to carry this?”

  “Because they don’t go with my outfit,” Hex says, flexing his visible arms.

  “Really?” Wilbert groans.

  “Naw. Just kidding.” Hex leans over, lifts the two containers easily, and glances over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  We take a transport that pulls us below the ground floor of the building, my ears popping all the way down. One by one, Wilbert unlocks several doors in a dark tunnel lit by an occasional yellow light on the wall. I catch up to him as he opens yet another door.

  “Don’t we need Marka’s clearance to leave?”

  Wilbert aims a tiny silver spray bottle at the keypad and pumps it. A slightly goopy liquid drips off the keypad, and the door clicks open. “I’ve got a dissolvable hacking code. Liquefied circuits.”

  “I don’t know whether to be impressed or worried,” I say, forcing extra breaths as I jog to keep up with everyone. I’m not the last one; Vera’s heels click sharply on the hard concrete floor behind me.

  Finally, we go through one more door and enter a small dark room that smells of grease. Inside, a large, irregularly shaped lump is covered by a dusty black cloth. Hex and Wilbert pull at opposite ends to slide it off.

  It’s green, dull, and has four wheels and real glass windows. If a magpod had wheels and a few extra angles—oh, and appeared as if it just went through the apocalypse—this is what it would look like. The surface is pockmarked with dents and huge chips in the paint. Rust spots pepper the surface and coalesce into patches, as if the vehicle is succumbing to a terminal rash. The doors don’t even look like they slide open, if they open at all. I think I saw a prettier version of it in the Museo 2000. Wilbert waves at it with a flourish.

  “Here is it! Our char.”

  “Don’t they call it a . . . a car?” I look at it sideways. I’m starting to understand what Vera was saying. Maybe digging our way to the club would be a safer bet.

  “No, it burns things. It’s a char.” Wilbert nods so emphatically, I’m sure he’s knocking against his invisible head.

  “Car, char, chariot. Whatever. Let’s get going.” Hex lifts one of the jugs and starts to empty the sloshing liquid into a hole toward the rear of the vehicle. He follows with another.

  “Are you sure ethanol is going to work? Aren’t you just making our, uh, char, into a rolling explosive device?”

  “Yes.” Hex has a mischievous grin. “Feels good to walk on the wild side, doesn’t it?”

  “Actually, no.” But he doesn’t hear me. They open the doors and I slide into the front passenger seat, momentarily paralyzed by the smell of the decaying leather and burnt oil. Hex and Vera cram in the back, and Wilbert takes the driver’s seat.

  “You know how to drive this thing?” I try to keep the skepticism out of my voice.

  “Sure. I’ve been practicing on a virtual program. I’m really good now.” Wilbert produces an honest-to-goodness key and pushes it into a slot by the steering wheel. I am astounded when the engine comes to life and the choking scent of exhaust fills the car. The front wall of the concrete box we’re in slips into the ground. In front of us is a dark road. The blackness of the evening beckons, and not in a friendly way.

  “Aren’t people going to think it’s strange we’re driving this thing? We’re not going to be tracked, right?” I ask Vera, who’s trying to unstick her vinyl butt from the backseat.

  “Chars aren’t registered vehicles, so no trackers. They’re considered hobby items. As long as we stay away from the main magpod avenues and don’t drive too fast, we won’t get stopped.”

  “You guys have this all figured out, huh?”

  All three of them nod in unison.

  “And you’re okay with the possibility of getting arrested and dying . . . for this?”

  “We have our reasons. What’s yours?” Hex asks, his usual grin suddenly gone. His serious face is scary, with those deltoids bulging nearby.

  I bite my lips shut. Is it worth the risk, taking this trip? My thoughts go to Q, then the lab, where I’m using the last strand I have of Dyl’s hair. If I screw that one up, I’ll have nothing. I have to go.

  Wilbert revs the engine, and miraculously, it moves forward a few inches. I’m waiting for the explosion, the last-minute sign that we are in fact riding a bomb on wheels. And then—

  WHAM! The boom jars my side of the char,
and I scream.

  “What was that?” Vera nearly shrieks. A dark silhouette leans in front of the windshield.

  “Is there room?” Cy leans against the glass and does a double take when he glimpses me in my club outfit. He’s wearing a form-fitting, long-sleeved black shirt and slim pants of some sort of dun-heather color. His face is freshly tattooed over his eyes and nose in a mask of swirling black knives.

  “Oh great, psycho boy is coming too,” Vera grumbles.

  “Well, this is a first.” Hex waves him in.

  “Did he have to hit my char?” Wilbert whimpers.

  Cy opens my door and I shimmy closer to Wilbert. There’s no avoiding Cy now. His lean body squishes up against mine, leg to leg, hip to hip. In fact, there’s no room for our arms side by side, so I hunch forward to clasp my hands together. Which makes my new cleavage even cleavage-ier.

  “Okay, here we go.” Wilbert’s got his holo stud in his ear, and he sets it on a course to get us to the southern district. A few mags pass us by, staring curiously as we go along at a decrepit pace.

  “Where did you get this thing?”

  “It’s a birthday present from Marka. An antique hobby, kind of.” He starts humming a tune as I count off the mags passing us.

  What if Q is there? What if I miss him? I turn my holo on twice to check if it’s working. Thank goodness the holo carrier hasn’t yet terminated my plan.

  “Expecting a call?” Cy asks.

  “No. Not really.” I wriggle back into the seat, because I’m getting stiff from slouching forward. Every time we hit a bump in the road, the back of my neck bounces against his biceps and shoulder. Finally, I’m too joggled to care anymore. Let him move, if it bothers him. I sit all the way back, but Cy doesn’t move his arm. It cradles my bare neck, and the heat of him sneaks down my spine.

  Cy’s eyes keep flicking downward. Maybe he’s embarrassed to look up, but then I see what keeps catching his eye. The hem of my skirt has ridden high up my thigh. I pull my skirt down, and Cy looks away. I can’t believe it. He was checking out my legs.

  Vera pulls herself forward from the backseat, popping her head between me and Wilbert, frowning deeply. “This is ridiculous. Wilbert, speed up. I don’t want to get there when my eighty-year-old boobs and ass hit the ground.”

  “It’s a very delicate char. I can’t just go fast like that.” He’s holding the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles blanch.

  Vera grimaces and turns to me. “Can you drive this thing?”

  “I don’t know. I used to drive magpods on manual.” That is, until I killed my dad. I feel a panic attack invading my innards. I secretly try to breathe faster.

  Vera whacks Wilbert’s invisible head. “Idiot, get out.”

  “What?”

  “Let Zelia drive. She’s actually driven real vehicles before, not computer games. I’m going to die from old age here.”

  “No, really, Vera, he’s fine—” I start to say, but she pinches my cheek, kinda hard.

  “No, he’s not. He’s slower than crusty snot. Besides, Hex is going to puke up your chicken salad sandwich if we don’t get there soon,” Vera snaps. Hex’s poor head is lolling out the open window. His charsickness is turning him a very sallow shade, which ironically makes him the greenest-looking person in the party.

  We stop on the side of the road to switch drivers. Cy refuses to share a seat with Wilbert, who’s forced to squeeze into the back. As I sit on the crackling leather seat, I’m disoriented at first. Wow, this is really medieval. There are actual mirrors to show what’s outside the char, behind us, and to the sides. No screens. To my relief, it feels totally different from driving mags, and no scary flashbacks threaten to undo me. Of course, the image of Wilbert practically sitting in Hex’s lap in the backseat doesn’t hurt either.

  After a few jerky accelerations and stops, I start cruising through the deserted side streets. Compared to a mag, the char is clunky and a lot less fluid. But I like feeling the earth underneath the wheels. The movements vibrate right into my seat, and the car engine hums beneath my fingertips as I steer. I hit the accelerator. The surge forward pushes my body into the driver’s seat. There’s no magnetic magic here, just the realness of the road and a machine.

  Damn. I think I like driving chars.

  Before long, we’re in the club district. A few glowing signs issue from different buildings, and there’s music thrumming from close by. Clusters of young people gravitate toward the lights. I pause at an intersection.

  “Which one?” I say.

  “That one.” Hex, Vera, and Wilbert simultaneously point to three different destinations.

  “We’re going to this one. It’s the only one we can pay for,” Hex says, pointing to the most decrepit-looking building. Vera pouts her disappointment and Wilbert turns white. Lovely. I park the char behind a half-demolished building with a roof blackened from fire.

  We head for Hex’s choice, an old warehouse down the street with a faint green glow coming from the floor-level windows. It’s a boxy monstrosity of metal and glass that resembles a broken machine from Wilbert’s workroom.

  I notice Cy is hunched over, sweeping his eyes across his left shoulder, then his right. He’s a walking advertisement for paranoia.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “This is a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Ah, but you did,” I say playfully. He answers me with a glare.

  We shuffle closer. Vera ends up using me as a human cane, since the rubble on the street keeps tripping up her heels. Before long, we pass a decaying metal sign that reads MARGE NATHAN MEATPACKERS, INC on the fence surrounding the club. People huddle around the entrance, sporting hairstyles that resemble extinct animals. Above the rectangular arch of the doorway, only a few of the letters in the company name remain, underlit by the glow of a single white light.

  arge N t

  “Argent,” Cy murmurs. “Argentum. Silver.”

  “You speak Latin?” I ask, impressed.

  “No, I speak the periodic table of elements,” he answers, deadpan.

  “Oh! We’re going to Argent? This place is new! I’ve heard some sick stuff about it. Okay then!” Vera shuffles to the entrance and we follow her.

  “How are we going to pay to get in if we can’t use F-TIDs?” I ask Hex.

  “Lots of clubs take alternate forms of payment. Here, I’ve been collecting these from our scavenging expeditions.” He pulls out a fistful of glistening metal and hands everyone a portion. I touch my cold, tiny handful, consisting of a few old rings and a broken necklace. Vera’s got two spoons and Wilbert, a tarnished gravy boat with a handle barely attached. He breaks off the handle and pockets it.

  “Silver? What is this, a gigantic pawn shop?” I say in wonder.

  The doorman, a hulking man wearing a black mask, takes Vera’s offering of precious metal. One by one, we each pay for the hope of something inside.

  For Vera—a kiss, maybe more. For Hex and Wilbert—a night to be normal. For Cy—I honestly have no idea. And me? I hope that silver just bought me a little bit of truth, and with it, a step closer to Dyl. I force a deep breath inward and let the darkness suck me forward.

  I’m here, Q. Come find me.

  CHAPTER 12

  OUR EYES GRADUALLY ADJUST TO THE DARKNESS. The music pulsates in my head and chest, right down to my knees. I wonder if it could do the breathing for me if I let it.

  Wicked six-foot meat hooks glide on a track under the corrugated metal ceiling, almost touching the heads of the dancers. Once in a while, an exuberant club-goer grabs a hook and floats through the throng of people. Live meat on display for everyone to grope.

  “All right, everybody,” Hex yells over the music. “Be back here in two hours.” He switches on his holo. I’m surprised to see everyone wearing one, for once. “Set repeating alarm transmission for two hours, Wilbert, Zelia, myself, Vera, Cy. Vibe and level eleven sound.”

  “Two hours?” Vera whines. She’s already
scouted out a group of people nearby, eyeing her like she’s the newest appetizer on the menu.

  “Yeah, two hours. Curfew is in three hours, and we need time to get back home in that piece of junk.”

  “Hey!” Wilbert protests.

  “Two hours.” Hex gives us all a stern look.

  Before I can say “Okay,” Vera is gone, her dancing form half obscured by the crowd. Only thirty seconds go by before a tall, handsome, bare-chested guy has his hands on her hips.

  “Am I going to have to babysit her?” Hex growls. Vera’s shimmying her vinyl chest at her dance partner. Geez. I can’t watch this either.

  “I’m getting a drink,” Wilbert says, pulling the gravy boat handle out of his pocket and pushing his way to the bar. Cy hangs back near me, throwing suspicious glares at everyone around us.

  “You think Wilbert will get twice as drunk on a glass of booze, or half as drunk?” I holler at Cy.

  “Huh?” He’s peering into the dark, as if searching for someone. His inked mask makes me think he needs to be in a Venetian ball, not a slaughterhouse rave. A stunning, skimpily dressed girl approaches Cy and rubs his chest. He shoves her away, irritated.

  I secretly smile. Still, I can’t spend the night watching Cy. It’s time for me to start my search, so I slither forward into the crowd, thinking the bar is a good place to start. Wilbert’s parked himself on a barstool, holding a cordial glass filled with half-green and half-silver liquid, spiraling continually. Several feet away, I squeeze into an opening and motion to the bartender, a girl with a shaved head and three pink metal rods impaling the bridge of her nose.

  “Excuse me, do you know anyone here named Q?” I say.

  “Drinks first, questions later,” she barks.

  “Okay, I’ll take one of those.” I point at Wilbert’s glass. She ducks beneath the bar, emerges with an identical silver-green drink, and then waits.

  Oh. I have no silver left. Maybe Wilbert has some more. I look over, but he’s already gone, his glass empty. The bartender’s face grows increasingly pissed off as I search my outfit for nonexistent metal.