by Debra Driza
“What’s going on?”
Before I could reply, blue light erupted from my finger, startling the both of us.
Signal: Transmission in progress.
The numbness in my hand descended over the rest of me.
Transmission: Initiate.
The light burst from my finger, like water from a hose, to form a three-dimensional picture. Two figures streamed into existence, only an arm’s length away. One of them came into focus. The color and vapor version of Holland looked so real that I could almost feel his gray eyes crawling over me.
“What the hell?” Lucas choked out.
I understood his shock. I’d felt the same way when I saw this happening to Three a few weeks ago. But my feelings—both emotional and physical—were oddly suspended in this moment, and my sensors cued me in as to why.
All properties at maximum capacity.
Diverting energy resources to avoid overload.
“Hello, Mila.”
Under normal circumstances, the sound of Holland’s voice would have made me shudder. But nothing about this moment—or my life—was ever normal.
“How is this happening?” Lucas said. “Was he able to locate you through my laptop?”
I wished I knew how to answer him. Three had lied to me. She’d told me I didn’t have this capability. Yet here I was, a puppet in Holland’s hands once again.
“This won’t be quite up to the experience we had last time, I’m afraid,” Holland said in his condescending drawl. “Three was wired to transmit live video and sound. But your functionality in this area is very basic. Unfortunate, because that means I won’t know what you’re up to. I’ll just have to make up for that deficit with my message.” His smile was slick and satisfied. Triumphant.
For a split second, I felt triumph of my own. It seemed that Holland had been unable to track me, that he remained clueless about his nephew’s role in helping his prized creation plot against him. For now. But my relief vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only awareness that Holland could infiltrate my body without my permission.
Violated. Unsafe. Dirty. Those three words drifted through my head . . . ready to pounce once my feelings kicked back in.
“You were probably hoping you wouldn’t see me again. At least, not so soon,” Holland continued. “But I think you’ll be interested in who I have with me.”
With a jerk of his computer-generated hand, he grasped the chin of the other mist-and-light figure and yanked until her identity was exposed.
Quinn.
Even the misty holographic image couldn’t hide the damage Holland had inflicted on her face. Black and blue circled her eyes, and her nose bent unnaturally to the left, with blood trickling from her nostrils. Divested of her red curls, her shaved head glowed with a pale light. Livid finger marks stood out against the white skin of her throat.
The numbness prevented me from feeling more than a sliver of sympathy for her, or comfort that Holland’s hostage wasn’t Hunter or Daniel or one of the young members of Quinn’s team. But once this transmission was over, I knew my emotions would storm every inch of me.
A thin rope hung from Quinn’s neck; Holland grasped and yanked it. Her eyes flew open at the sudden tension before her lids drooped again and her chin fell to her neck.
“Wake. Up,” Holland repeated, giving the cord a vicious jerk.
Quinn’s startled scream was hoarse, her throat too damaged to muster much volume.
“I’m sure you recognize my former protégé, although I’ll admit, she’s looking a little worse for the wear.”
Holland’s drawl betrayed no hint of remorse, no reflection of any feelings he might still harbor for the woman he’d once loved. No sorrow, no anger. Nothing.
“She’s been reluctant to share pertinent information about how she was able to modify your programming, and I find I don’t have the patience I once had.”
Holland’s hand reached for something beyond the scope of the hologram, and returned with a deadly looking knife. His eyes never changed expression. He sighed, as though weary of the whole thing.
“I taped this for a reason, because I knew she’d be too stubborn to talk. I wanted to send a message, though. You belong to me, and I will hunt you down. I don’t let my property go free. See?”
With one hand, he shoved Quinn’s chin up and back. I watched, transfixed and numb, as the knife sparkled in the hologram’s lights, almost like the blade was crafted from glitter. Then he made a calm and deliberate motion across her neck. He tossed the knife in the air as the ear-to-ear slash leached a river of blood.
Carotid artery permanently damaged.
Recovery impossible.
Mortality rate: 100%.
“No!” Lucas’s gasp echoed through the supply closet while Quinn slid down and disappeared from view.
I hadn’t liked Quinn. In fact, I’d hated her for what she’d done to me, and what I did to Peyton under her influence. But that didn’t mean that I’d wanted her tortured, or dead at the hands of a madman. A madman who had no qualms harming anyone in order to get to me.
The vision of her pale throat slashed open and streaming red would be embedded in my memory forever. Permanent. Undeletable. And while I couldn’t fully experience the terror of what had happened, that respite would end any minute now.
One question pounded a repetitive warning. Who would die next?
Hologram Holland folded his arms, and stared at some vague spot between Lucas and me.
“I’m sure you know about the device by now,” he said with no expression. “If you end this little excursion and come back to me, I’d consider disarming it, you know.” He glanced down at the floor, at the lump that used to be Quinn. When he looked back up, he was smiling. “Then again, maybe I wouldn’t. I can be unpredictable like that.”
He pulled something out of his pocket while his soft laugh filled my head like a nightmare.
Then he waved the item so that we’d be sure to get a clear shot.
A small, black handheld remote.
“Maybe I should just save us all some time and start the countdown now.”
Lucas choked out “No!” as Holland’s finger hovered over the switch. One push, and two hours would be all I had left.
Transmission: Complete.
The blue light vanished, and Holland’s image disappeared. Everything around us looked dim and plain, like a gruesome murder had only happened in our overzealous imaginations.
And then the numbness released its grip.
Operating systems normalizing.
Suppressed emotions slammed through me like a swollen river released from a dam. The force buckled my knees, and I sank to the ground. I covered my mouth with both hands to stop the sobs that lodged in my throat.
Another person gone. Another death I couldn’t prevent.
Lucas stopped guarding the door and raced to my side. He knelt next to me, but didn’t speak. My sensors picked up the elevated speed of his respiration, the stuttered beat of his heart. He had to be battling his own emotions, but he waited, silently, for me to speak first.
I swallowed and parted my lips. Nothing happened. I couldn’t form any words. Not when my mind filled with red blood sprays and the crack of gunshots, the scent of sulfur and Sarah’s harsh gasps for breath. The sight of Mom’s blue eyes, closing forever.
“Mila. We should go.” Lucas’s voice was soft and coaxing, like he was talking to a wounded animal. I allowed him to lead me out of the room.
I didn’t ask him where we were going, because that didn’t seem to matter.
It rarely ever did.
I sat in the motel room that Lucas had hastily booked and stared at the white wall.
A desk supported my lower arm and hand, which Lucas had arranged palm up. He was hunched over now, playing surgeon.
The last joint of my index finger was peeled back and separated into two pieces while Lucas dug inside with the sharp blade of a pocketknife.
When I flinched, he gla
nced up from the mess. “I’m sorry, Holland’s nasty little surprise is buried deeper than I thought. I’ll try not to leave a big mark when I’m done. Deal?”
I didn’t bother responding. No mark could ever be as big as the permanent soul stain I’d have from watching Holland sever Quinn’s carotid.
He sighed, but didn’t say anything, just got back to work with steady hands.
I was thankful for their warmth.
Minutes passed before I heard him ask, “What’s this?” Seconds later, his head popped back up. “Good news. I can use this same wiring to install a stealth-mode switch. We’ll make it so Holland never tracks you again,” he said, before getting back to work.
“Maybe I should just turn myself in,” I blurted. The thought had been growing ever since we’d left the library.
One of Lucas’s tools clattered to the floor and he muffled a curse. It was so un-Lucas-like that I almost jumped. “Hold that thought,” he said, after retrieving his voltameter.
Half an hour later, he was done. My finger sported a new scar, but no hologram projector. Seemed like a fair trade.
Lucas packed his tools into a soft leather pouch and then perched on the bed near me. “Now, why did you say that? About turning yourself in?”
I fiddled with my altered finger. “I’m tired of everyone ending up hurt. Or dead. Even Quinn. I’m sick of the violence. Maybe this whole thing is futile. Running. Trying to figure out his plan.”
I shot up off the bed and started pacing. “Who am I kidding? I’m no hero. I can’t even save myself,” I said, thinking of the box he’d held. His fingertip hovering an inch or so away from the switch. “Maybe the best way I can help save lives is by turning myself over to him.”
“Mila,” Lucas started. I whirled on him.
“Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t tell me I’m being melodramatic, or that you can’t see that just maybe, I’m right. Don’t lie to me,” I warned. Knowing that my sudden flare-up was only a flimsy cover for a bottomless pit of despair.
He waited me out. When I finished, he patted the bed.
Reluctantly, I sat back down. Then he took my hand in his. “I wasn’t going to say that you’re being melodramatic. Anyone with a heart would struggle with this.”
My jaw dropped. What kind of pep talk was this, anyway? Even Lucas had given up on me, and it was too much to bear. I started to pull away.
“Wait. Please,” he said. “Because that’s my point. Anyone with a heart. Meaning you.”
I stopped edging away. “We both know my heart is fake.”
“Says who? How do you define a heart? Because I’m going to tell you how I do.” He bridged the gap between us and rested his fingertips on the top left of my rib cage. Feather soft, but solid all the same. “People use the term heart in two ways. To describe the body’s anatomical pump, but also their emotional center. Their reservoir for love, and compassion, and all the good things that make some humans amazing.”
Beneath his fingers, my android heart fluttered.
“Some people, like my uncle, they don’t have that second kind of heart. The most important kind. Even animals have the first type. There’s nothing inherently special about that. It’s the second type that distinguishes us. Our capacity to love. To feel empathy. To grieve, and to give.”
When he paused, a vein throbbed in his temple, and his eyes blazed. As serious as he often was, I’d never seen him quite so intense.
“It’s not what we’re made of that makes us human. It’s our choices and our feelings that do,” he said. Slowly and deliberately. “And in that sense, you are a thousand times more human than my uncle will ever be.”
Neither of us blinked. I wasn’t even sure I could if my life depended on it. Finally, he dropped his hands to the comforter and bowed his head. “Please don’t ever say that again.”
I continued to sit without moving. Just looking helplessly at the unruly hair on his bent head. Lucas had always made it clear that he appreciated me, but this was something more. This was unwavering faith. A precious gift.
He lifted his head, and his hazel eyes glistened. “Please,” he repeated.
I placed a tentative hand on his chest, mimicking his action a moment ago. “I won’t say it again. I promise. But only because I believe in your heart.”
His eyes burned torchlight bright. So bright that I could feel something in me simmer. Then his lashes swept down, and his gaze fell away from mine. “Then I guess that will have to be enough. For now.”
He captured my hand and gave it a final squeeze before rising. “So, are we sticking with the plan to visit Sonja tonight?”
I knew I should be relieved to be back to normal. Better than normal, in some ways, since I knew I would never be visited by another hologram from Holland. Then why did my chest ache with sudden loss? I wouldn’t have minded lingering longer with Lucas. But we couldn’t waste any more time. Every moment we were in the dark about Holland’s plan, he could be hurting people. Killing them. Just like he had killed Quinn. And probably Sarah.
I nodded.
“Good. I’m going to run out and get a few things first. We could use a burner phone, for one. Any requests?”
“I’m good.”
When the door clicked shut behind him, I stared up at the ceiling for a long while before flipping on the TV. Cooking show. News. Horrible rock video. Teen romantic drama.
I paused on the last one with a spurt of guilt. I’d been thinking of Hunter less and less. With no way to communicate, he was beginning to slip from my mind.
I looked at my finger, considering. Lucas had said my IP address was now fully cloaked. Maybe I should test it out. Lucas hadn’t been able to track Hunter’s cell signal, but it couldn’t hurt to try again.
Within a minute of trying, I had it. My breathing slowed as I located the telltale blip on the map. Hunter wasn’t in San Diego or Clearwater or even Chicago, where I’d last seen him.
Columbus. He was in Columbus, Ohio.
A scant seven hours away.
I rose and paced the room, my thoughts whir-whir-whiring in time to the ancient fan. Why was Hunter in Ohio? Was that where his mom had found a safe house? But how safe could it be if I could track him so easily?
Speaking of tracking so easily . . . if I could do it, then why hadn’t Lucas?
The sinister thought wormed its way into my head. Maybe Lucas had. Maybe he had, and lied about it.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, and my gaze settled on the upper portion of my chest. The left side. I lifted my hand, placing it where Lucas’s had been only minutes ago. I closed my eyes and inhaled, feeling my chest swell, and the rhythmic thump-thump of my android heart.
My hand fell away, and my eyes opened. I stared at my face, and saw a scared girl. A lonely girl who’d experienced more than her fair share of pain.
Lucas had stood by me through thick and thin. He’d never given me reason to doubt him. I wasn’t about to start now.
Returning to my spot on the bed, I flipped until I found a sitcom, and waited for Lucas to return.
NINE
Sonja Lopez’s neighborhood wasn’t much when compared to the serene suburbs of Sherman. Many of the lawns had been converted to gravel and hardscape, and older model cars dotted the driveways and streets. Very little charm, but the houses and duplexes were tidy for the most part. Practical.
An automatic light clicked on when Lucas and I approached the concrete walkway. My body tensed, the sudden change a reminder that any new place could trigger a death sentence for me and anyone else in a quarter-mile radius. But all was quiet as we walked toward her building. We passed a small patch of grass, where a lone tree grew amidst a clump of sodden wood chips. A cheerful wreath crafted from orange and yellow leaves hung from a scarred and peeling front door, emitting a faint fragrance of sweet mixed with decay.
Lucas stepped onto the porch and the wooden board creaked beneath his shoe. My sensors picked up something unexpected.
Security s
ystem.
Video feed.
With a casual turn of my head, I spotted the camera, disguised as part of an outdoor light that shed a sickly glow over the porch. I elbowed Lucas lightly in the ribs to get his attention. When he turned toward me, I pretended to rub my nose.
“Video camera,” I whispered.
His eyes widened, mirroring my own surprise.
A security system didn’t seem out of place. But a video camera, in this neighborhood?
Weapons scan: 5 firearms within a 50-ft. radius.
Looked like someone was prepared for a break-in. Or an old Western-style shootout.
With Lucas standing so close our shoulders almost touched, I knocked on the door. A gruff response came from behind the door.
“Who’s there?”
I slapped what I hoped was a friendly smile on my face and recited our brief story, much as Lucas had at Maggie’s. To my surprise, a series of beeps chirped—the alarm, disengaging—followed by the metallic clank of locks being unbolted.
The door eased open, revealing a medium-height, middle-aged woman. Though she had brown skin and a wide forehead like the Sonja in the photo, the similarities were hard to find after that. That Sonja had life in her eyes, and a healthy glow on her round cheeks. Her brown hair had been full and glossy.
The woman who gazed at us looked like a walking skeleton. Sunken cheeks on a face that somehow, despite her deeper skin tone, managed to look chalky. Her clothes hung on her bony frame, and her entire head was covered in a woolen beanie. A short plastic tube jutted from the loose collar of her T-shirt, and when she gestured for us to come in, she grabbed for a metal device with four legs and wheels. She pivoted the walker and shuffled behind it, her gray slippers scraping across the bare, worn floor. We followed her to a cramped seating area with a ratty couch and two chairs.
Seeing her so frail and beat down triggered memories of Quinn. Anger boiled, but I tried to keep it contained. Any whiff of awkwardness or tension could send up a red flag to someone like Sonja, who was trained as a detective. She was sure to observe minute details.