Unstrung

by Kendra C. Highley

  “Lexa?”

  I turn to Quinn. He’s on his knees, peering at the carpet. A dark, wet stain has seeped into the fibers. I take a sharp breath. “They killed him.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Quinn says. “If they didn’t find what they were looking for, maybe they kept him alive so they could question him.”

  I dare to hope he’s right. “There’s one more place I want to search, then we can go.”

  A few years ago, Turpin built a panic room in the lab. Its entry is made to look like a locked cabinet with a glass door and shelves full of equipment. But the equipment is useless, and glued to the shelves—it’s a false front. I run down to the lab and sigh with relief. Even though the intruders smashed most of the stuff inside the cabinet, they never discovered our secret.

  I punch the code into the tiny access pad on the back lip of the doorframe. The whole cabinet swings open and I cry out at the sight of Jole, huddled on a cot at the back of the small room. He blinks in the sudden light, but he doesn’t appear to be hurt. I’m so glad to see him, I don’t care if he still hates me; I rush inside and throw my arms around his neck before he can say anything.

  “Oh, Gears, I was so scared they got you both!”

  To my surprise, Jole squeezes me tight. “Did you just say ‘Gears?’ And what happened to your hair?”

  “The hair’s a disguise, and yes, I just said ‘Gears.’ It’s part of my new vocabulary.”

  I expect him to back away, to remember I’m the enemy, but he holds onto to me even tighter.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just so sorry. We never should’ve made you go. What I said to you before you left…Skies, it makes me sick to think about it.”

  I blink back tears. “I’m here now, okay? Don’t worry, we’ll fix it.”

  “When they broke in, I didn’t even have time to warn Turpin.” Jole’s voice cracks. “Did you…find him?”

  I shake my head. “There’s some blood upstairs, but Quinn thinks maybe they kidnapped him.”

  Jole goes stiff and lets me go, a weird expression twisting his face. “Quinn?”

  The way he spits out the name makes me take a step backward. “Yes. He’s—”

  “I know who Quinn is,” Jole says, his words measured and cold.

  Behind us, glass crunches. Quinn is edging out of the lab along the wall, his face blanched. I look back at Jole. A stunner appears in his hand like magic. “What are you doing?”

  Jole clicks off the safety and reaches for his cane. “Killing that Bolt.”

  “Wait, stop!” I put my hand over his. “He’s our friend.”

  “Don’t be so sure about him being our friend,” Jole growls. “I make a point not to befriend the thing that got my parents killed.”

  For a moment, the world stops. “No.”

  “Ask him.” Jole limps forward, sighting the stunner on Quinn’s chest. “Or has he convinced you he’s good and kind and that he loves you?”

  The word “love” sounds like it’s been wrenched from Jole’s heart to become spoken pain. Is this why Quinn acted so weird about coming with me earlier? Because he knew he’d have to face Jole after all this time?

  “Quinn?” I ask. “What’s this about?”

  His answer is soft, ashamed and not for me. “Maren turned me, Jole. She installed that damn pain switch once she figured out what I was up to with your parents. She tortured me, then swore to kill four K600s each day until I told her who was helping me.”

  “So those artificials meant more to you than my parents?” Jole’s face has gone from white to bright red.

  Quinn shakes his head. “No one meant more to me than your parents, except for Lexa. But Maren wasn’t going to let them go no matter what I said.”

  Jole’s laugh is bitter. “You say that like you didn’t have anything to do with it!”

  The unspent rage I saw in Quinn last night comes back. He widens his stance and stands tall, almost like he’s planning to rush Jole. “If you think I don’t regret what I did every day, you’re an idiot. You have to live with their deaths. I have to live with being the reason they died!”

  I feel dizzy, weak. Quinn’s the one who betrayed Jole’s parents? What kind of cruel, twisted joke is this? “So it’s true?”

  “Lex…”

  “You lied to me!”

  “No,” Quinn says, his anger melting into hurt. “I just never mentioned it. I wanted you to trust me. If I told you what I did, you’d have left me at the first chance.”

  He’s right—I would have. But the truth is always more complicated when it’s staring you in the face. “Don’t talk to me right now.” He starts to say something and I hold up a hand, too sick inside to listen. “I mean it. Just…don’t.”

  I turn to Jole. “Put the stunner down. We need Quinn to help us. When this is over, you have my permission to hate him to your heart’s content. Until we get Turpin back, though, you need to keep it together.”

  “He has to answer some questions, first.” Jole’s hand wavers and the stunner shakes. “Tell me why. What was so important that you put them in danger like that?”

  “Why?” Quinn’s laugh is ugly. “Because I’m human enough to hate being a slave, you arrogant ass. I was tired of being experimented on, tortured to test my endurance, treated as some…thing. You know what Piers did to me. I still have the scars.” Quinn crosses his arms across his chest, glaring at both of us. “Your parents saw what was happening. It’s not my fault you never could.”

  Jole draws a sharp breath. For a second he holds the stunner steady, like he’s about to fry Quinn. Then he bows his head.

  I gently pry the stunner out of Jole’s hand. “Let’s not forget one very important thing. Maren killed your parents. Maybe Quinn bears some fault for it, but in the end Maren gave the order.” I close my eyes, feeling torn apart. How can I ask him to trust Quinn when I don’t anymore? Worse, how can I keep us together when we’re all so broken? “Will you put it aside for a while and work with us? For the boss?”

  “Okay,” Jole says, still staring at the floor. “But just until we get Turpin back.”

  “Fine,” I say. “So, what happened? Do you know who did this?”

  “It was the clients’ men—those two giant bodyguards they brought over all the time. They burst in here with a gang about three hours ago. I peeked out into the hall when they came up. When I saw them smashing up the house, I hid. I could hear them upstairs, though, through the vent in the panic room. One of them kept shouting, ‘Where is it? Where is it!’”

  “They were looking for the chip?”

  “I would assume so.” Jole fishes a small plastic case out of his pocket “It’s good luck that I had the chip with me in the lab when they broke in.”

  I lean against Jole’s work table, feeling all the fight draining out of me. If luck had anything to do with the last few days, I wouldn’t call it good. “Now we just need the primer and we’ll have everything we need to bargain for Turpin.”

  And to start a revolution.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  What Matters

  Despite Quinn’s protests that the warehouse isn’t safe and Jole’s arguments that we have to stay here because his lab is here, I put my foot down and tell them I’m getting some sleep before I decide anything. I’m at the end of my patience, and I think they realize that because the arguing stops. Besides, I’m convinced the men who broke in won’t be back, not during the day at least. They don’t know the chip is here, and they have Turpin, so there’s no good reason to raid the warehouse again.

  After I tell the packing staff they have the rest of the week off because vandals tore up the shop floor, I go upstairs and manage to scrounge up three inflatable mattresses that survived the break-in. I bring them to the boys, who are standing at opposite ends of the rec room, taking great care to ignore each other. As soon as I arrive, Jole grabs his mattress and disappears into his room. The lock turns with a sharp click. I don’t blame him.

/>   When I go to my room, Quinn tags along. I stop short just inside the door. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I thought maybe we could talk a minute.”

  I make the mistake of meeting his eyes, losing myself in the deep blue. How did I ever get so weak? I should be punching him in the jaw for keeping such a big secret, not staring into his eyes like a blushing school kid. My programming must be too deeply ingrained for me to be near him without losing all reason. That’s what it has to be. The lightheadedness is because I feel betrayed, not attracted, right?

  I’m not sure, and that’s a bad sign. Is this something more human—hormones, real feelings? Or is this some kind of chemical reaction, carefully added to my DNA when I was created in a lab?

  Until I know for sure, being near Quinn isn’t an option.

  I put a hand on his chest and push him back a step. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

  When I try to slam the door in his face, Quinn sticks his foot in the crack. “Fine, but let me say one thing. I didn’t tell you because I’m ashamed of what I did. I regret it more than you’ll ever know, and I don’t blame you for hating me.” He presses his cheek to the door frame so I can’t help but look at him. “I hate myself, and I have for a long time. I just hoped you wouldn’t.”

  He pulls his foot free and I shut the door. Surrounded by the broken pieces of my old life, I push the button to auto-inflate my bed and collapse on top of it. Sleep doesn’t come easy. If you know someone’s darkest, most horrible secret, what do you do with it? When I wake up this afternoon, will I hate Quinn for the rest of my life, like I probably should? Or am I strong enough to forgive him, knowing I’ve done enough reprehensible things to fill a book? I’ve broken into buildings, I’ve stolen, I’ve hurt people, even my best friend…who am I to judge anyone?

  And if I do forgive him, should I allow myself to care about him, too? Or is the attraction just another lie?

  The shattered butterfly lies in a pool of sunlight streaming from my window. It doesn’t have any answers for me, either.

  * * *

  The little girl stands at the edge of her bed in the white room. Her hair is beige now, and her pale irises are darker, almost tan. She smiles and motions for me to lean down so she can share her secrets. “The boy visits me every day.”

  This is the first time she’s spoken to me directly, or even acknowledged I’m there. “He likes you a lot,” I say.

  She claps her hands, the picture of a happy seven-year-old. “The man, too, he likes me.”

  “Which man?”

  “The nice one—Mr. C.”

  “Have you met anyone else?”

  “The lady.” The little girl gestures me closer and whispers, “She doesn’t like me.”

  “She doesn’t?”

  “No.” She stands up straight, hand on her cocked hip—a perfect impression of Maren. “‘She’s flawed, Caldwell. We should scrap her now.’”

  Then the girl stands solemn, quiet, her expression very much like Caldwell Martine’s. “‘Let’s give her two years—she may yet be useful. Besides, I need the research data for the 800s, my dear.’”

  “I heard them through the door,” the girl says. “The lady didn’t think I could, but my ears are very good.” She flops onto her bed. “I don’t know what ‘scrap’ means, but I know it’s bad.”

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s bad.”

  When I wake up, I’ve kicked my blanket onto the floor and I’m curled up, shivering. “To save your life,” Doc said. Could it be true…was Maren planning to have me decommissioned? Is that why Caldwell removed me from the lab?

  Stiff with cold, I get up slowly, feeling every ache in my joints. My toes hurt most of all. I need to find clothes and shoes before we decide where to go next. The attackers spared my favorite green pajamas—I guess I should be thankful for that—but I can’t wear those or the hooker dress all over town.

  I slip into the rec room. Quinn’s asleep in the corner. He’s created a little nest out of torn up sofa cushions, partitioning his mattress off from the rest of the room. I wonder what he’s warding off by building walls, but I think I know. Watching him sleep makes my chest ache. I should leave now, before I’m too enthralled to go. There are cast-off clothes in the storage closet at the end of the hall; maybe there are a few things that haven’t been slashed. I should go look for something to wear.

  I should go.

  Instead I kneel down and pull the cushions away from Quinn’s bed one by one. Asleep, he looks younger, vulnerable. And he is vulnerable. So am I. So is Jole. We’re up against forces we can’t possibly hope to beat. But we have to try; it’s the only way to bring Turpin home. Maybe that’s enough to carry without worrying about anything else.

  So I decide.

  “All of us do things we’re ashamed of. I know I have, and I didn’t even have a good reason,” I whisper, before bending to kiss his cheek. “I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t forgive you.”

  As I turn to stand, Quinn catches my wrist. “Thank you.”

  “You’re awake. Faker,” I say, no humor coloring the words. I’m too exhausted to make jokes.

  “I woke up while you were taking my cushions away. I was kind of worried you were planning to smother me in my sleep.”

  There’s no humor in his words, either. Only a tired resignation. I pull a discarded cushion over to his bedside and sit on it, tucking my feet up under my legs. “Tell me what happened with Jole’s family. I only know his side of the story…he said you asked them to break your security programming, when you actually were setting them up for Maren.”

  “He thought I was using them to spy for Maren?” Quinn buries his face in the mattress. “Gears, no wonder he hates me so much.”

  “Then tell me what really happened, so I’ll understand.” I shake his shoulder to get him to look at me. He turns toward the wall. His pain is palpable, but he’s not going to take the easy way out. He’s not going to let me give him encouragement or comfort. I remember he’s always been like this, too independent to show weakness. Always shouldering someone else’s burden. I can’t remember why I know, though. It’s just fact somehow.

  “It was an experiment, to see how I’d adapt to family life,” he says. “This was after you were gone. I’d become very disobedient, so I think Maren wanted to find me other company to see if it would right the course. Namely, parents and a brother.”

  “She sent you to live with them?”

  “Not right away.” He starts picking at his fingernails. “I spent time with them in their lab. They were geneticists, and I was apprenticed to them for a while. They treated me much better than the other scientists, and…and…”

  I pat his back gently, like he’s a little kid. “You started to love them.”

  “Yes. So when they took me home, it was the greatest thing ever.” He finally faces me, looking like his heart’s been torn apart. “I missed you, and having Jole to hang with helped. After I’d been there a while, I wanted it to be real. I wanted to stop being a Bolt and have a real life. Be a real son to real parents.”

  I know how he feels. “You wanted a family.”

  “Or at least something close to it. They wanted it too, and Jole’s dad figured out how to rewrite my security protocols by stealing some information off the mainframe. He was going to deactivate my pain chip, then we were going to run, leave the city and never come back. Jole didn’t know that, and it’s good he didn’t. It may’ve saved his life.” Quinn’s looking at me, but I can tell he doesn’t see me. He’s trapped in the nightmare. “When Piers figured out there was a leak, he notified Maren, and her people followed the trail on the mainframe. She came for me right away. I tried not to tell her...” He gulps down a breath. “They burned me. I held out for a while—I’d been through worse. Then she had Piers kill a few of my artificial friends. Maren said she’d kill as many as she had to, and I just...couldn’t stay strong. Not when people were dying.”

  I think about his scars and tr
y to imagine what it was like to have someone threaten to kill dozens of people, asking me to choose who to save. I can’t, not without making myself sick.

  “So you told her.”

  “Everything.” Quinn hides his face from me again. “I broke.”

  The horror of what he’s been through almost steals my breath. All these years he’s carried this guilt, this sin, without anyone to give him absolution. All these years he’s been alone, and in a way, I have too. His frustration, his anger, it all makes sense now.

  “She didn’t break you—you bent, because you had to. You didn’t have a choice,” I whisper. “Hating yourself won’t change what she did. One day you’ll see that.”

  Quinn lets out a sigh, but his shoulders are still bunched up. Words aren’t going to be enough to convince him.

  “Scoot over,” I order.

  He moves to give me room on his mattress and I stretch out next to him.

  “You’re really going to forgive me?” he asks.

  The hope in his voice cracks my heart. “I forgave you last night, if you want the truth.” I brush his hair off his forehead, smiling because it’s still blue. “My being here now means…well, I don’t know what it means, but I promise not to run out on you again.”

  When I kiss him, I plan for it to be soft, gentle, quick. Something to say we’ll start over and slowly get to know each other again. That we’re not alone anymore. That, over time, maybe what I think I feel for him will turn out to be real.

  And that’s how we begin, gentle and slow. But stress, exhaustion, shared pain—it catches up with us. Any thoughts I had about boundaries, any doubts, fly out of my head. Some small, rational part of me is asking what the frak I’m doing, but even that is soon drowned out. All that matters, the only thing that matters, is the feel of his hands on my skin.