Unstrung

by Kendra C. Highley

  “She’s not like that old piece of shast sport-coupe you drive!” My helmet’s com is full of static and feedback, giving the admonishment extra bite. “You don’t have to lean into the turns so much!”

  “We’re two miles from the lakefront,” Turpin says. “Maybe you should start prepping the glider instead of backseat driving!”

  These are the times I wish Jole could still drive my bike. Tired of arguing, I check the release on my glider. It’s attached to a thick jacket I’m wearing over my descent vest. The jacket has padding under my arms and on my shoulders to keep it from cutting into my skin when I release the glider’s wings. The rest of my gear—harness, drop motor, laser cutter and new cat-line—are in the pouch strapped around my waist. Everything’s in order.

  “Don’t forget your promise,” I say. “I’ll keep bugging you until I get paid.”

  “I know, I know.”

  I smile, remembering the look on Turpin’s face when I demanded a Harley as payment for taking this job. Once he recovered, he said he’d try to find one, but that he could only afford a real junker. I don’t mind—fixing it up would be fun. Almost worth the risk of sneaking into Maren’s house.

  We pass the last of the houses, nearing the richest part of town, Lakefront Estates. Maren lives at the end of a row of mansions, right at the edge of the lake. Most of the homes out here have wrought iron fences and moderate security. Maren’s property is surrounded by a brick wall that’s likely topped with infrared scanners and video cameras.

  “Get your propulsion boosters ready. We’re almost to Suicide Hill,” Turpin says, treating me to a burst of static over the com.

  Suicide Hill, the site of many a colossal hovercraft accident. The ground drops away so sharply that the thrusters can lose contact, making the vehicle spin out and sometimes eject its occupants. To get to Maren’s property safely, you need to take the descent very slowly, giving her guards plenty of time to determine if you’re supposed to be there or not.

  I’m willing to bet she didn’t consider gliders, though.

  “You need to launch on my mark. On three!” Turpin shouts. The drop-off is a black void sixty feet ahead. “One!”

  I tense up, planting my feet on the bike’s runners.

  “Two!”

  I squeeze the launch controller tight. We’re ten yards from the hill.

  “Three!”

  I push the button and jump at the same time. Turpin jerks to a stop underneath me. The glider’s wings pop open as the propulsion boosters—little more than single-burst flares—fire. I fly over Turpin’s head, dipping a little until the wings catch an air draft, sending me into the air.

  Now I’m a monstrous black bird, hanging from the underside of the glider’s wings by its metal control handle. A shadow of a hawk, drifting under cover of a new moon and cloudy skies. My blood hums, adrenaline and Exeprin working their magic to sharpen my senses. I can see as well as any bird of prey and the wind is a roar in my ears.

  I tilt the controls slightly, adjusting my course. Maren’s compound comes closer, closer, closer, until I fly over the walls whisper quiet. The two Bolts walking the grounds don’t even look up as I sail over their heads. I’m dropping faster than I anticipated, though; the glider is barely level with the roof. I crash belly first onto the stone and get the wind knocked from my lungs. The glider adds its own insult, dragging me several feet before letting my scraped and bruised body come to rest.

  “That wasn’t fun,” I mutter before unfastening the glider jacket. I’m not sure the wings are sound enough to help me float back over the wall once I have the chip. Still, I wrap up the assembly with care and hide it between a large chimney and a gargoyle keeping watch on the corner of the roof. The gargoyle’s head is turned sideways, tongue stuck out like he’s mocking me. I give the beast a little kick for good measure, then peer around the side of the chimney to get my bearings.

  The roof is a flat expanse of cement. Why Maren’s lovely stonework home has such an ugly roof baffles me. Sure, the gargoyles and chimneys add some panache, but the metal vent covers sticking out all over the place ruin it. Complaining about the scenery doesn’t get the job done, though. I take a deep breath—time to earn that Harley.

  “Northwest corner,” I whisper, scanning the rooftop. There.

  A wide metal duct sticks up from the concrete and I move cautiously toward it. It’s not practical to cover a roof with a laser tripwire grid—every bird in town would set it off—but I’m pleased to see we were right about cameras; the only one up here is the camera trained on the roof access door. I can avoid that, easy.

  The sound of voices below sends me diving to concrete. I hold my breath as a man calls out to another. Stay calm, Lex. It’s just the Bolts on regular patrol. My landing may not have been graceful, but I wasn’t loud enough to give anyone a reason to check out the roof off schedule.

  They have a brief conversation, then it’s quiet. I wait sixty seconds before moving again, just in case.

  The duct comes up out of the rooftop by about eighteen inches and it’s two feet wide by three feet long. I take a long look at the narrow rectangle. Somehow those measurements sounded bigger when Jole told me about this access point. Now they look cramped, claustrophobic. The idea of slithering down that air shaft, head first, causes my stomach to clench tight.

  No, I won’t back out—I won’t. I slip on a pair of safety goggles and remove Jole’s laser cutter from my pack. It looks like a miniature dart gun, with a handle and a trigger and the laser coming from a tiny barrel at the end. I get started on the steel cage covering the duct. It’s intricate work, and it takes too long. I glance at my watch: one-thirty-five. If our recon was right, the Bolts will come up to do a roof check at the top of the hour. I’m running out of time.

  Five minutes later, I free the last piece of the cage, which I hide with the other pieces in a dark nook. Maybe the Bolts won’t notice the cage is gone. I hook the harness rig to my descent vest and place the anchor clamps on either side of the duct. One push of a button and a pressurized burst of air drives the anchors into the concrete.

  I look down the dark hole. “Here goes nothing.”

  I bend over the duct and shimmy inside headfirst, nearly losing it when I slide a few feet before the anchors catch. Grime and dust coat me all over. I hold in a sneeze as I let out just enough line to let my legs slip inside the duct. My shoulders touch on either side, and I have no wiggle room. Panic chokes me almost as much as the dust. Will I make it to the bottom or will I be stuck here for all eternity?

  Get a grip, girl. I will make it out of this hole. And when I do, I’ll steal the primer, take it home to Turpin, and get my Harley and one-way pass to a brand new life.

  Debating with myself about which model of bike I’d like, what color I’d paint it and how often I’d get to ride keeps me going as I start the motor to let out the cat line, inch by painful inch. I can’t move fast—there isn’t room. This has to be a slow, controlled drop.

  How much longer until the Bolts come to the roof?

  That thought relights my panic. My arms are stretched out, bracing me as I descend, and the flashlight attached to my right wrist does little to illuminate the dusty vent. On top of that, there’s a whir and a hum that suddenly rattles the walls. As if I wasn’t freaked out enough, a puff of air, then a steady breeze, then a gale buffets me.

  Shast, the cooling fan has turned on.

  Dust pelts me, grinding into my cheeks and blowing up my nose. I can’t hold in that sneeze any longer; thank Skies the fan covers up the noise. I continue my descent with my mouth firmly closed, glad I thought to wear the safety goggles. My arms ache from bracing me against the duct’s walls and the hurricane isn’t helping. Larger bits of debris scour my face. I don’t want to know what they are. Bits of dead bugs, or worse? Better not to think about it.

  After what seems like an unending game in the devil’s sandbox, I finally see the service opening; it’s only a few feet ahead. Twisting my right
wrist in all kinds of unnatural positions, I manage to shine my flashlight into the fan’s chamber. A laugh of relief bubbles up from my throat—it has a large metal cage on top of it. I don’t have to worry about staying suspended while I cut my way through the access panel. I release more line and my torso pokes through the bottom of the vent.

  Mercifully, the fan stops whirling and the vent goes quiet again. Wriggling hard, I nudge the motor to lower me faster. The rig overcompensates, letting out too much line and, with a pop and a clang, I land hard on the fan’s cage. Without the white noise, the sound reverberates up the duct. My heart thumps in my chest; the Exeprin makes it worse and I have a hard time catching my breath.

  Take it easy, Lex. Maybe nobody heard it.

  Above my head, feet pound on concrete.

  Then again, maybe they did.

  “Port! Come here and look at this!”

  A man’s voice. Bolt or human, it’s hard to tell.

  “What?” another asks.

  “We have a problem. The grate’s gone. And look—anchors.”

  There’s a squawking sound, like feedback from a broadcast com unit. “Code two alert. Suspected breech of the property. Blue team, start with environmental control room B.”

  Environmental control room B…home of the fan I’m sitting on top of.

  Chapter Nine

  Feet to the Fire

  Cursing, I pop the release on the anchors. They fall down the vent, banging the whole way. They know I’m here, so why bother being quiet? I scramble to collect as much gear as I can, but I don’t have time to coil and stow my cat line; it’ll have to stay. Shouts and more footsteps pound on the roof, echoing down the metal duct. I remove the lock from the access panel with the laser cutter and slice through its hinges for good measure. The whole door drops with a clatter.

  Environmental control room B is a ten by ten square filled with metal pipes and gauge readers. Nowhere to hide. I grit my teeth and ease the door open for a quick peek. There’s an elevator at end of the hallway. An emergency stairwell is at the other end. In between? Just this room.

  “Stars, I’m in trouble.” Okay, plan B. Chances are they’ll come down the elevator—it’s fastest.

  Almost on cue, the lights at the top of the elevator flicker. It stops on two. Probably picking up a gang of artificials schooled in mixed martial arts and carrying dart guns. I run to the stairwell and listen. It’s quiet.

  I slip inside just as the elevator dings and risk a look through the window in the door. Four Bolts, all dressed in navy Precipice uniforms, are coming down the hall. Each man has brown hair and they’re of equal height. A matching set, designed to be burly security guards. Creeped out, I jog up the stairs on quiet feet. The guards’ voices fade as I round the first landing. I’m no fool, though. They’ll be checking the stairs once they see the open access panel.

  I make it to the landing below the second floor when a loud bang echoes through the stairwell. The door to the basement, I think. Despite my ragged breathing, I put on a burst of speed and fly up the last set of stairs three at a time. The door whooshes open with a quiet click.

  The stairs let out in a hallway papered in rich red and floored with a thick cream-colored carpet. Heavy wooden doors line each side. At some point I need to make my way to the opposite corner of the house and go back to the first floor where Maren’s lab is, but with footsteps echoing on the stairs, hiding is a better idea. I take off my shoes so I won’t track dust across the carpet, run halfway down the hall and select the third door on the right.

  It’s a bedroom. Even in the darkness, I can make out a large bed, settee, desk, chair, and a few other doors. Closet and bathroom? There’s also a large window overlooking the gardens. Good—if I fall, the flower beds will cushion my landing. The only problem? The window is sealed shut. I’ll have to cut my way out.

  “Start checking rooms,” a man shouts. “Closets and bathrooms, too.”

  Out of time, I put on my shoes, pull out my laser cutter and get to work on the glass.

  “Quinn! Check that one!” The voice is too close.

  The doorknob turns. I turn off the cutter, throw the curtains closed and dive under the bed, contemplating my options. I don’t have a stunner or dart gun on me—Quick Tony once told me a good thief never needs a weapon. If you’re careful enough, they’ll never know you were there.

  But what about a thief having a run of really bad luck? I have the laser cutter, and there’s a heavy lamp on the nightstand by the bed. Guess I’ll improvise.

  I see the man’s feet from underneath the bed-skirt. He moves slowly and I try not to breathe. The closet door clicks as it’s opened and closed. The bathroom light flashes on, then off. His feet move by again.

  “Nothing here, Port.”

  “Good. We’re clear. The intruder must’ve kept going to the other wing. Stay in the hall and keep watch on these doors, just in case.”

  “But I—”

  “Quinn, you’ve been less compliant than usual the last few weeks.” More footsteps approach my room. “Do you need an adjustment?”

  “No, sir,” Quinn says quietly.

  “Then quit wasting my time.”

  Heavy shoes clomp down the hall. The man, Quinn, lets out a ragged sigh before shutting the bedroom door. I start to think he’s gone, until…

  “I know you’re in here.”

  I freeze. The curtains covered the cut glass and I haven’t made a sound. How did he know?

  “Come on out. I won’t hurt you. Promise.”

  A dizzy spell hits me out of nowhere. That voice, I’ve heard it before. And I can’t help but believe him. I have to believe him; my mind gives me no other option. Against every instinct telling me it’s a trick, I crawl out from under the bed. The man’s a dark shape in front of the door, blocking any way out. I grip the laser cutter in my right hand. “What are you going to do to me?”

  Quinn turns on the bedroom light. The boy I dreamed about—the one with latte-colored skin and dark blue eyes—smiles at me. He’s much older now, maybe nineteen or twenty, and as tall as Jole, but more muscular. His dark, curly hair even still flops across his forehead; yes, definitely the same boy.

  And he looks just as shocked to see me.

  Gripped by some crazy impulse, I reach out a hand to him. His eyes light up and he holds out his hand too, breathing, “Lexa? Is it really you?”

  That snaps me out of my momentary insanity.

  “Holy shast!” I back away from him, bumping into the wall. A tiny part of me still wants to touch him, to see if he’s real. That’s enough to make me put up my guard. I brandish the laser cutter. “Back off.”

  Quinn stares at me for a moment longer before saying, “It is you! What are you doing here?”

  I shake my head. This isn’t right. “How do you know my name?”

  He frowns. “You don’t remember me?”

  “I don’t know you,” I say, but those feelings of familiarity, that I do know this boy, resurface. I lower the laser cutter. “No. I don’t….remember you.”

  “I’m not surprised.” He sounds disappointed. “Gears, it’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you.”

  I’m still too stunned by his existence to figure out how to incapacitate him and run. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend. I thought you might be a rogue K600 that needed some help escaping. That’s why I put up a fuss with Port. I knew he’d insist that I stay behind if I argued. I just never expected…” he says, glancing at the door. “I have a lot to tell you and not much time. You need to get out of here before they catch you and take you to her. I’ll try to—”

  Someone is pounding on doors down the hall. Quinn shoots me a look of warning. “Hide.”

  I shimmy back under the bed. Now that I’m trapped here, I wonder if I should trust Quinn at all.

  The door bangs open. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the hall?” The new man’s voice is oddly flat, no inflection at all. A low-end Bolt. “Port said you were
supposed to be in the hall.”

  “Four, I was in the hall,” Quinn says, sounding very annoyed. “I need to take a whiz, so I came in here.”

  “Whiz?” Four asks. “What’s ‘whiz?’”

  “I have to urinate.” Quinn mutters something under his breath about Four being way too literal. “K700s have digestive tracts and process waste, which means I have to pee. Once I’m done, I will go back into the hall. Understand?”

  K700? I clamp my hand over my mouth. Quinn’s a Bolt? He looks so human! Skies, can this get worse?

  “Yes, I understand,” Four says. “I will tell Port you are at your station.”

  Quinn shuts the door. “It’s safe to come out now.”

  I pull myself out from under the bed, backing away from him again. “Don’t come near me, Bolt.”

  He quirks a little smile. “I prefer the term ‘engineered-human.’ Bolt is so…derogatory.”

  “I’ll call you a frog if that makes you happy enough to let me go!” I glance at the window, thinking maybe I can just break the glass and jump.

  “I wouldn’t go out that way if I were you,” Quinn drawls. “The garden has trip wires all over the place. You’d set off the lights outside. Oh, and the alarm.”

  “Why are you helping me?” I demand. “You’re one of them!”

  “Not as much as you’d think. And if you remembered anything, you’d know to trust me.” Quinn glares at me, nostrils flared. “Now, do you want a way out of here, or what?”

  “How do I know you aren’t taking me to your Bolt leader? I heard you talking to Port.”

  He laughs. “Port? Port’s human, slow reflexes, average IQ and all. The rest of the team are low-level security models. I’m the fastest, smartest creature in this building.” He gives me a wry grin. “Well, until you showed up.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, but he shushes me with a wave of his hand.

  Quinn goes to the door and peeks outside. “No one there. Four must’ve gone off to report that I’m alive and well and doing my job. We need to go.”