Unstrung

by Kendra C. Highley

  I sink down onto the bench next to Quinn, realizing I still have Doc’s jacket. “Well, the willful part’s true, anyway.” I pause, wondering about the memory…about Quinn’s red eyes. “You were there, in that flashback I had. I was complaining to Doc about not seeing you. He said something about a stunt we pulled, and how you had to apologize to Maren. Why didn’t I go with you?”

  He winces. “You remembered that?” I nod and he says, “It was just a prank. All my idea—I didn’t want you to take the blame.”

  But young Quinn had been crying; apparently taking the blame was more than just saying sorry. And I realize something else…that incident wasn’t the first time he protected me. A warmth steals through my chest, all the way down to my fingertips. “That was nice of you.”

  Quinn shrugs, looking self-conscious, then points at the sky. “I don’t like how close the tanks are getting. The next train is going the wrong way, but we should take it.”

  It seems like everything in my life is going the wrong way. “About the primer…Doc’s not going to help us get the data?”

  “No. He’s a genetic biologist. To him, mainframes are things you type numbers into and data spits out the end.” He looks away, growing visibly tense again. “We need a hacker, preferably a very good one.”

  “We need Jole,” I say. “I don’t know anyone who’s better or less likely to turn us in.”

  At least I think that’s true. I’m banking on his hatred for Maren outweighing his hatred for Bolts in general. Who knows if the balance has shifted.

  “I guess we have no choice but Jole, then.” Quinn stares down the track at the approaching monorail. He gives himself a little shake. “Maybe this is the right train after all.”

  A little thrill of fear tickles the back of my neck. It’s the one leading to the lakefront station. Leading toward home. “Maybe so.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  What Was Lost, Now Is Found

  I’ve never ridden the monorail at dawn; it provides a more beautiful view than the brief glimpses I could get out of my window at the warehouse. The city passes gray and pale before us and a sliver of pink sun creeps up in the east as we leave downtown, sending golden sparkles across the lake. Quinn insisted on changing trains three times on our way here, turning a thirty-minute trip into two hours. “Better to confuse the police,” he said. I would’ve complimented him on his newfound criminal mind, but my feet hurt too badly.

  We reach the lakefront station as the early commuters are getting on. Some of them stare at our sheer clothes, wildly out of place for a Monday morning, so I smile and say, “It was one hell of a party.”

  The crowd chuckles and leaves us alone after that. Once the train pulls away, I shake my hair into my face. The next monorail isn’t due for half an hour, and the parking lot is deserted except for the commuters’ hover vehicles. Time to shop.

  I wander into the parking lot, homing in on a gray two-door car. The propulsion is probably kicky but this car is boring enough not to attract attention. Even better, the red security light isn’t flashing; the owner forgot to set it. That happens a lot. The Quad keeps everyone safe enough to feel…safe.

  Quinn joins me, looking confused. Blue curls get blown into his eyes by the wind and he brushes them away impatiently, much like he did in my memory of the white room. “What are you doing?”

  “Stealing a car.” I take off my shoe, rip off the large ornamental buckle and use the metal piece to disable the thumb-pad ID reader. It takes a minute—the buckle isn’t quite big enough for the job—but I get the door unlocked. “Hop in.”

  Quinn stares at the open door. “I’m starting to think your talents are more practical than mine.”

  “How about I let you beat me at chess sometime. Would that help?”

  He gives me an annoyed look and climbs into the passenger seat. “How are you going to start the car?”

  “Jole taught me this trick. A car’s just a computer that drives.” I reprogram the starter into thinking I have the key and the propulsion system comes to life with a dull hum. “We’ll have to ditch the car on the other side of the lake, away from the warehouse. The parking lot has cameras and I’d rather not get charged with auto theft today.”

  “So that’s why you shook your hair into your face a minute ago.”

  “You’re learning.”

  I roll down the windows and pull onto the street leading to the highway. Soon we’re cruising across the lake bridge. The roads are wide open; it’s early and we’re driving against traffic. My shoulders relax for the first time in days. For a moment, I’m normal. Just a girl driving with a boy on a spring morning. I wish we had nowhere to go, that we could drive aimlessly until we feel like stopping. From the way Quinn’s leaning back in his seat with his eyes half-closed, I can tell he feels it, too. The little smile on his face is lazy, but so familiar. The old Quinn’s there, waiting for me to find him.

  That thought catches me by surprise and my throat gets tight with some unnamed emotion. My skin tingles as adventures and jokes and smiles unfold in my mind.

  I remember.

  Not everything, but enough. Bits and pieces of a real life, with a real boy. We played hide and seek. He always caught me…and now I know how. I glowed in the dark, but he never let on. We plotted against the humans in the house—Quinn was very good at planning practical jokes, and I pulled off the tricks to perfection. He’d sneak in my room at night to tell me ghost stories and fairy tales. I made him a model airplane that fell apart as soon as he touched it. He dried my tears when Doc was rough with me during lessons. I stole cookies for him.

  He screamed my name when they took me away.

  The scream was that of a dying boy, desperate and wounded. Tears well in my eyes. His pain. It’s so real, so raw, that even though it’s a memory, my heart breaks for him now.

  The memories are snatches, nothing complete, but each is like a mini-explosion searing my brain. I know what he meant to me then. He was my world in a universe of fear and hurt. And I was his. We anchored one another in the face of unspeakable loneliness. We were each one of a kind, but made for each other.

  He was my best friend, always.

  My hands are shaking with the power of the rush. Now that the torrent has started, nothing can hold back the emotion. It’s like I’m experiencing it all for the first time, and all at once. I pull over into a vacant lot five blocks from the warehouse, feeling lightheaded, woozy. A little door in my mind has been unlocked and light is spilling out. It’s so much, these tangled feelings, I almost don’t know what to do with them…almost. Before the spell breaks, I reach out and brush the back of my hand across Quinn’s cheek.

  His eyes flutter open. “There you are. Finally.” He catches my hand and rubs my palm with his thumb. “You have no idea how much I missed you.”

  Choked, I say, “I think I do now.”

  He smiles and an ache fills my middle. I stare into his eyes, so blue, so familiar. He’d been my friend, but it seems that friendship isn’t enough to describe the depth of who we were to each other.

  Something inside me ignites and even though it’s the wrong time, the wrong place, I whisper, “Kiss me.”

  Then he’s pulling me into his arms, awkward because of the car’s control panel between us. His lips are soft and sweet against mine. Deep inside, I know this is the first time. That our earlier interactions were based on something more innocent. This, though, feels right. We were too young to know desire then. Now, though, we do, and it’s as if everything I ever wanted falls into place.

  His tongue darts into my mouth and I’m breathless. I’m weightless. It’s like the sum of who we were then and who we are now is being born in this moment.

  I dig my fingers into his hair as he trails kisses down my neck, whispering my name over and over. Goose bumps rise on my arms and I take his cheeks in my hands to bring his mouth back to mine, not willing to give him up. He holds me tighter and lightly bites my lip and I want nothing more than to st
ay here until night falls again.

  A moment, an hour, a day later Quinn pulls away. His face is flushed, but he’s smiling. “Much as I hate to stop, we are sitting in a stolen car in broad daylight.”

  I laugh nervously and wipe off my mouth. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened there.”

  “You remembered.” He says it simply, like he expected this all along.

  “But what did I remember?” My face is flushed and my heart pounds so hard, it aches. I’ve never had a physical reaction this strong, not to anyone or anything. Is this what humans feel when they fall in love? “We were kids when I left. We were friends, playmates. This is…different.”

  “But not surprising.” He lets me go and stares out the window. “Look, there’s something I need to tell you.” Quinn shakes his head, falling silent.

  “What?” I ask, fascinated by the sunlight reflecting on his blue hair. I really want to kiss him again, to feel his hands on my body, touching places I never let anyone else touch. Maybe he’ll forget what he wanted to say. Maybe I can convince him to follow me into the back seat.

  No such luck. “Maren believes in the power of old religious stories,” he says, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “There’s one about the first man. He was lonely, so God created him a companion, a woman. When I wasn’t learning as fast as expected, Maren thought maybe I was lonely, too, so she had you created.” He fidgets in his seat. “For me.”

  It’s like summer turns to winter and any thoughts I had about kissing him wither. “Wait…are you saying I was programmed to feel this way about you? That none of this is real?”

  “I don’t know what to say about what’s real and what isn’t, but they did try to make you in a way that would be compatible to me.” Quinn’s smile is sad. “But even if that’s true, I can’t live without you. After you left, I never felt…whole. Does that make sense?”

  I take his hand, staring at the torn fingernails, his knuckles, that funny spot where his wrist bone juts out slightly. Somehow, I know I recognize his hand as well as my own. It scares me. No matter what rushed me this morning, my memories of this relationship are fractured, vague. For all I know, my reaction to being kissed was controlled by a pre-programmed chemical process in my brain.

  So why does it feel so damn real? My heart still flutters in my chest at the thought of touching him. I want. More than I ever thought possible. I can’t trust these feelings, though. I can’t trust anything. But the pull…the pull toward him is magnetic. Gravitational.

  Irrational.

  No matter what we had before, this was programmed in—preordained in a lab by Maren and Dr. Martine. Maybe I grew to love Quinn when we were kids, but what about now? Is this rush of emotion something fired off by an algorithm? Or do I really feel it?

  Quinn’s watching me, looking confused. Of course he is. A second ago, I was all over him and now…now, I don’t know who I am. Or who that girl was.

  “It makes sense, because I missed you, too, even if I didn’t know it,” I say carefully. “Still…I shouldn’t have kissed you. Not so soon, anyway. I need some time to figure things out. Maybe we should take a few steps back.”

  “I understand.” He opens his car door. “We should go.”

  I’ve hurt him, that much is clear as I follow him across the vacant lot to the lakefront. Like the night he appeared at the warehouse after my botched robbery at Maren’s, I read his emotions through his body language. The slight head-tilt says “I’m hurting, back off.” The hunched shoulders say, “I’m frustrated, I don’t know what to do.” The long strides are meant to put distance between us, because he knows I’ll have to jog to keep up.

  All this makes me want to throw my arms around him and say everything is going to be okay. But is it my programming urging me to comfort Quinn? Until I know for sure, I can’t let the emotion rule me.

  Once we make it to the shelter of the rotted wooden buildings on the shore, Quinn takes a seat on the same patio where I sulked only days ago. It feels like ages since I stormed out of the warehouse, angry that Turpin and Jole lied to me. If I’d known how they’d betray me later, I probably would’ve kept on walking, never looking back.

  I settle down next to Quinn, careful not to sit too close. “The packing staff comes on shift in an hour. If we’re going to talk to Turpin and Jole, we need to go now.”

  “It’s probably better that you talk to him on your own. They may not take kindly to having a strange Bolt in their warehouse.”

  “They may not take kindly to having a familiar Bolt in their warehouse either, but I don’t see how we have much choice.” I stand and brush dust off my dress. I’m pretty sure I left my old climbing shoes and a few exercise outfits at Turpin’s. As much as I’m dreading the confrontation, the thought of more comfortable clothes and shoes makes it worthwhile. “I’ll meet you back here once I break the ice.”

  “Okay.”

  Quinn still sounds tense. I don’t know how to make him feel better, so I decide not to try. Picking my way through the dead grass and broken concrete, I hike up to the warehouse. It’s all quiet. Depending on what they’re working on, Jole and Turpin are either still asleep, or getting ready for bed after spending the night in the lab. I don’t want to startle them, but I don’t want to give them the chance to lock me out, either, so I go around to the side door. A little pang goes through me; is my bike still here? Or has Turpin sold it for scrap?

  The first sign something’s wrong comes immediately; the side door has been ripped off its hinges. I peek inside. Cookie boxes are scattered all over the factory floor and several pieces of equipment lay on their sides, broken.

  My bike’s gone.

  Cursing under my breath, I go back for Quinn.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  You Can’t Go Home Again

  Quinn jumps to his feet as soon as I round the corner. “Would they not let you in?”

  Strangely, he sounds relieved. I shake my head. “Something’s wrong. Looks like the warehouse has been trashed. I need you to come with me to check it out.”

  “Maybe we should just go,” he says. “We’re in enough trouble.”

  “And that’s my family in there.”

  “Was your family.”

  I gulp down a breath. He’s wrong—even if they hate me, Turpin and Jole are still my family. So they kicked me out. They did it out of prejudice and fear, but that doesn’t mean I don’t give a shast anymore. Not knowing if they’re safe or dead makes that painfully clear. Just thinking they might be hurt—or worse—makes my stomach churn with bile. They might still hate the very sight of me, but I care, and that’s enough.

  I spin around and start walking.

  Quinn hurries to follow me. “Lexa, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

  “You’re right about that.” I don’t look at him, too angry to want to see an apology in his eyes. I want to stay mad; it might help me through what comes next.

  I stalk across the street, Quinn close behind, and return to the side door. A few pigeons have arrived to clean up the cracker crumbs on the cement floor; other than that, no sign of anyone. Cookies crunch under our feet as we walk through the ruined factory and the birds fly to the rafters. I glance up at the security camera out of habit. Maybe we got video of the intruders. I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.

  We pass into the first hallway; the doors at both ends have been kicked open and the scanner doesn’t activate. The white hallway looms cold in front of us. Visions of the prep room tease my mind, and I’m not the only one who shudders as we walk through it. Quinn rubs his arms, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  The locker room has been trashed. What few belongings I left in my locker—a few stupid souvenirs from a night on the town, a dirty towel and a miniature bird carved out of wood—litter the tile. More troubling is what’s missing: a picture of me and Jole messing around in the climbing room before his accident. If they have that, how much more do they know?

  “Gears,” Quinn breathes. “The
y sure were thorough.”

  He points to the showers. Pipes are bent and one has sprung a leak. The glass door to the steam room is shattered. Broken tiles mix with the glass, like someone has taken a sledgehammer to the entire room.

  “Come on,” I say. “We need to check upstairs.”

  The stairs are dark. The lights don’t respond to my call, so we make the trip blind. At the door to the second floor, I open the door slowly and peer through the crack. The fluorescents in the hall flicker, but no one is waiting to ambush us. I slip out of the stairwell. Same level of destruction here, but it’s more personal: Jole’s halo-posters and my beloved Harley prints are smashed, torn beyond repair.

  Jole’s room is a mess. All his clothes have been strewn about. The bed is ripped apart, chunks of air foam from the mattress and jagged strips of his sheets dumped into the corner. I cross through the rec room—trashed—into my old bedroom. My forgotten pajamas and socks are flung all over the place. But that’s nothing compared to what I find next.

  Jole’s butterfly lies in pieces on the floor. From the scuff on the paint, someone must have smashed it against the wall.

  Quinn wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’re criminals. You could make the argument that we brought this on ourselves, so there’s really nothing to be sorry for,” I say, but I lean against him, letting his strength recharge mine. “There’s no one here. Let’s go check Turpin’s quarters.”

  Quinn nods and we go back to the stairs. Turpin’s floor hasn’t been spared, either. The wall-sconces have been torn down, broken. The carpet is slit from end-to-end. Turpin’s office door has dents in it and his beautiful desk has been pounded into firewood. I stand still, absorbing the silence, finally realizing what I’m missing. The ticking of Turpin’s carriage clock. It’s in pieces next to his desk.