Unstrung

by Kendra C. Highley

  “I need to hitch a ride.” Jole limps toward me as fast as his bad leg can take him. His face is covered with dirt mixed with blood, and he has a long burn on his arm. “Mark took care of Turpin, but they didn’t have room for me.” He brushes my hand with his fingertips. “We did it, Lex. I told you we would.”

  I manage one last smile before I lose him in the dark.

  Chapter Thirty

  Down Memory Lane

  I regain consciousness, screaming my head off. Someone’s trying to kill me, poking my wound over and over. My legs flail about of their own accord, and I connect with someone who lets out a curse.

  “Hold her down,” a man commands. “I don’t have anything strong enough to numb her pain, so we gotta get her through it best we can.”

  “Maybe she’ll faint again.” Jole’s voice is hopeful as hands push down on my shoulders.

  Somebody stabs me with a piece of burning steel. I scream again. “Stop!”

  “I’ve almost got the dart tip. Quinn, grab her legs so she won’t kick me in the crotch this time.”

  I find that satisfying. I made the mean man hurt, too. Quinn’s strong fingers wrap around my ankles. His grip is tight, but he rubs my legs gently with his thumbs, almost like he’s sorry to torture me for my own good.

  Someone slips a leather strap between my teeth, then the hot metal digs into my side again. I bite down as hard as I can, refusing to cry out. If I do, Maren wins and I can’t have that.

  There’s a scraping of something sharp inside my flesh. Tears run out of the corners of my eyes, but I don’t groan or scream. After one last horrible tug, the sharp thing pops free and I can breathe a real breath.

  “That’s my brown-eyed girl,” Jole whispers into my hair.

  I spit out the strap and open my eyes. “Hmmm.”

  “Skies, that’s a big slug,” the man says and I’ve come around enough to realize it’s Doc. “She’s a strong one to survive it. Lucky, too. It missed all her vital organs. Another hair to the left and it would’ve nicked her liver.”

  Quinn hasn’t let go of my legs. I wiggle them a bit. “I can’t yet, Lex. Doc has to sew you up first.”

  I moan and close my eyes again. More pain. And Doc’s rarely gentle…I remember that much. “Why can’t you just dope me up?”

  Doc snorts. “It won’t work. Your metabolism requires special drugs; not stuff I usually stock. Besides, the only way to prep you for surgery is to send you into suspension mode. I didn’t think you’d like that.”

  I think about Drummond and what he did to me. “Not at all.”

  “The hard part’s over, Hellcat,” Doc says. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  “Liar,” I mumble.

  Doc laughs like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard. He’s right, though. Compared to fishing-for-darts, the stitches aren’t too bad. Once he’s patched me up, he comes around to pat my shoulder. “You’re one tough kid. Tortured, shot, fell off a roof, and here you are with only a puncture wound and a little internal damage.”

  “Indestructible, that’s what I am,” I say. “Can I have some water?”

  “Ice chips for now,” Doc says. He jerks his head at Quinn. “Go get your princess some ice.”

  While Quinn’s gone, Jole wipes sweat from my forehead with a damp cloth. “You did good, Little Rabbit.”

  I’m so glad he’s alive that I don’t give him hell about the nickname. “How’s Turpin?”

  “He made it,” Jole says. “Beat up, though. They broke both his hands and he’s blind in one eye. He’s also got four cracked ribs. But he survived all that and a hover cart crash—he’ll make it. Mark took him to a human doctor who Doc knows.”

  “You saw Mark?”

  Before Jole can answer, Doc says, “He’s outside. It’s a regular party out in the streets. They escaped with about sixty artificials, and our people are finding places for them to stay for tonight.”

  “Then what will they do?” I ask.

  “They’re still thinking that through.” Quinn says. He sets a plastic cup full of ice on the bedside table and sits next to me. “But as soon as you’re able, Mark and his captains want an audience with you”

  “Me? Why?”

  There’s this very full silence.

  Then Jole says, “Quinn and I read Caldwell’s journals. All of them.”

  I struggle to sit up. Doc gives me a sharp shake of his head and I lie back down. “What does that mean?”

  “We found out some things,” Quinn says. “For one, ‘Lexa’ means ‘defender of the people.’ That’s why the file was called Defender, but that’s not the only reason.”

  A little shudder runs down my back. “What’s the other reason?”

  Doc puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You boys clear out. Hellcat and I need to have a confab.”

  Jole kisses my forehead and leaves. Quinn lingers a moment, giving me a somber look. I know the expression. I’m going to be asked to do something hard. He must see that I understand because he manages a small smile, and disappears. A door opens and closes a moment later.

  “So back in the day,” Doc says, taking a seat by my bed, “I used to put you through your paces. Agility exercises, mazes, martial arts, games that made you think on your feet. Do you remember anything about that?”

  I try to nod. Not easy while horizontal. “You know, it’s hard to talk to you lying down. Can I sit up?”

  “I’ll let you sit up after you’re rehydrated and I’m satisfied that wound’s gonna stay closed. Stay on topic. Do you remember?”

  I heave a sigh. “Yes, sir. I remember you being tough on me, and I remember….” Something clicks into place. Crumbs, on a plate. The taste of milk and chocolate on my tongue. “I remember that I’d run to Caldwell to tattle when you weren’t being nice. He’d always give me a cookie and call you a big meanie.”

  “You do remember,” he says, wheezing out a laugh. “So, do you have any idea why I was teaching you those things?”

  “Caldwell said Maren wanted to use us—to lead.”

  Doc nods. “Maren custom-designed Quinn to see patterns, to think outside the box and make logical leaps. Enhanced vision, mental acuity, and the ability to be whatever or whoever he had to be to diffuse a situation. All those practical jokes? Angry as she was about it, she created that monster herself.

  “Her design for you was different—high aptitude for following complex instructions and making decisions on the fly, physical prowess, especially small motor control, and a willingness to take risks.”

  A willingness to take risks—doesn’t that sound familiar. “A trickster and a tactician…” Caldwell said Maren wanted to push beyond Triarch. Maren said something about protecting people in other cities. “She wanted us to outsmart her competition. To lead her army.”

  “Yes, if we could pull it off. When we started the project, she said it was to help quell the outlands. I have my doubts about that. But here’s the thing—you were too tenderhearted for her liking. On top of looking eerily like Caldwell’s niece, you had a fierce capacity to love. You took to Caldwell and Quinn right away, defying any command that put you at odds with them. Funny enough, you hated Maren from first sight.” Doc laughs. “She didn’t like you much, either.”

  I find it surprising that anyone thinks I’m tenderhearted, but he’s right about the fierce capacity to love. I think about the little girl arguing with younger-Doc, how she refused to do her homework until she was assured of seeing Quinn. Then there was the love in her voice when she spoke of Mr. C.

  My throat tightens. “I loved him—Caldwell. I loved him a lot.”

  “Indeed,” Doc says, slumping his shoulders. “He was a good man. We knew what the penalties would be, but he took the risks anyway. He got close to Maren, sacrificed his own happiness. For you.” He sits up straighter. “For all of your kind—every last one.”

  “Doc, you never told me why you’re helping us,” I say. “Look at what happened to Caldwell. You’re free of Maren—w
hy keep doing this? It’s not your fight anymore.”

  “Not my fight anymore?” Doc glares down at me, his grief turning to anger in a flash. “When you disappeared, Caldwell blamed himself. Maren blamed me, not realizing we’d learned a hard truth. The more advanced we got with the technology, the more human the artificials became. We saw it, even if she didn’t. Maren was too clinical, too driven. You were tools, a means to an end. But to us, to Caldwell and me, you were individuals and we saw what was going on. So don’t give me any shast about this not being my fight. It was my fight before it was yours.”

  A dull flush crawls up my chest to my cheeks. For an artificial with advanced emotional response, I sure don’t seem to have much control over my mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hellcat, we’re all sorry.” Doc stands, grimacing like his knees hurt. His face is careworn, each wrinkle showing how hard his years have been. “I need to go check in on Turpin. He’s at the clinic down the block. I’m friends with the doctor-lady there. She’s taking good care of him for you.”

  Friends, huh? The little gleam in his eyes says it’s more than that. “Thanks for fixing me up.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He leaves me then, telling me to sleep. As if I could sleep after our conversation—I’m already planning what to do next. There are too many artificials still left to save. Too many like Adam, who gave his life to help me and the others.

  I was one of them once—a slave to Maren and any other human who wanted something from me. My people are a class without rights, without the ability to act on a dream or even say no. A people forced to allow someone to have dominion over their bodies.

  A memory, born on the fog of indignity, rises to the front of my mind. A maid, in Maren’s house. A K600 Quinn and I had named Lily. I was hiding under one of the beds that day. I’d gotten in trouble again, for stealing Maren’s favorite pen just to see if I could. Rather than submit to my punishment, I ran, and this was where I’d ended up.

  I laugh a little—it was the same bed I hid under when Quinn found me that first night. The memory dances, trying to fade, and I force my mind to quiet, to let it come back to me.

  Lily was humming, making up the bed. She didn’t know I was hiding underneath. A guard came. He didn’t know I was hiding there, either.

  Whether it’s my brain trying to protect me, or I really don’t recall, all I remember after that was a thump, harsh male laughter, then Lily crying as she scooped her dress off the floor.

  “Just like the girl at the monorail station,” I whisper. And all the escorts at the party. And what about the K400s, who don’t know there’s more to life than sweeping up trash around the city? Or the elegant servers who know nothing about love.

  It’s Lily. It’s Adam. It’s the crush of artificials fleeing Maren’s house.

  It’s Quinn. Beautiful, broken Quinn.

  They don’t deserve this life. None of us do. The least I can do is join their fight. I’m one of them.

  And I wasn’t named Lexa for nothing.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Blood of Tyrants and Patriots

  By the time Doc tells me I can sit up, it’s late the next morning. I feel insulated here, in Doc’s tiny spare room, with its bare white walls, cloudy window and twin bed. My own little cocoon. I know I’m in Sector Q, but for now my entire world is this room. It seems impossible that I fell off Maren’s roof only yesterday afternoon, but time doesn’t always run a straight course. I sip broth, listening to the boys compare notes about what’s happening in the city.

  “The feeds are calling it ‘a dangerous revolt,’” Jole says. “There are police squads hunting down ‘rogue artificials.’”

  “There aren’t many of those roaming the streets, though,” Quinn says. “The ones we freed are here, blending in as humans. The cops haven’t been able to figure out who’s whom.”

  I laugh. “And Maren lost the only guy who can tell the difference.”

  “Damn straight,” he says. “Gears, it’s good to hear you laugh.”

  “It is,” Jole says, straightening the bandage on his right arm. Doc’s friend patched up his burns. The gash in his forehead will scar, though.

  I make a face. “Oh, please tell me you two aren’t getting mushy on me.”

  “Quinn, she’s not always this sweet. Sometimes she’s really full of pepper,” Jole says.

  Quinn leans close to kiss my cheek. “I know. It’s the part I like the most.”

  Jole rolls his eyes. I can tell there’s still some tension between them, but they aren’t at each other’s throats like before. Having a common goal must be helping. If they manage to build a tolerance to each other out of a revolution, I’ll be happy enough.

  There’s a knock at the door. Mark pokes his head in. “Doc said you might be ready for a short visit.”

  I wave him inside. “I’m sorry about Adam.”

  “Me, too.” Mark rakes a hand through his dark hair, looking uncomfortable. “He was a good friend.”

  The room goes quiet. Jole stares awkwardly at the floor. Quinn picks at a loose thread on my blanket. Me, I lock eyes with Mark. I don’t know what else to say, but it doesn’t mean I’m not sorry and I’m willing to make sure he knows the words aren’t empty. Too many people have been hurt or killed in the last few days. It’s worse that some of them died for me.

  I blink fast, trying not to cry. The only thing I can do to repay them is to save the others.

  “Lexa?” Quinn touches my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s…nothing. I’m okay.” I pat the mattress and nod to Mark. “Have a seat. I need to know whatever intel you have about the group who escaped from Maren’s.”

  He sits at the foot of the bed, perched like he’s ready to flee at a moment’s notice. “Our total count freed is fifty-eight—fifty 600s and eight 500s. Sector Q has been very accommodating to us so far.”

  “How are the 500s?” I ask. “Are they high-functioning enough for us to free more of them?”

  “Absolutely,” Mark says. “IQs slightly above average, decent range of emotional capability. They have enough compassion to be ethical.” He laughs. “Doc and Caldwell programmed us to be upstanding citizens.”

  “Does that mean they won’t be willing to fight if we need them?” Quinn asks. I hide a smile—his own programming is showing. He’s already thinking three moves ahead.

  “I said they were compassionate, not soft,” Mark says, giving him an irritated glare. “What I mean is they aren’t going to go around killing humans for sport. They’re in this for their freedom, whatever it takes, but they won’t go off the deep end.”

  Quinn looks abashed. “Just asking.”

  “So we have fifty-eight,” I say. “It’s enough for a start, but we need more. Jole—how did you break Mark’s security protocols?”

  He shrugs. “Once we figured out how the systems worked, I hacked the code. It can be transmitted by wireless broadcast through the pain switch. That’s how Maren’s people send the mind-control instructions to the artificials; we just borrowed their system.”

  “We interrupted the pain switch feeds while we were at it,” Quinn says proudly. “Once we free an artificial, Maren’s people have absolutely no control over them.”

  “There was one problem,” Jole says. “It’s meant to be a short range control. I only had enough bandwidth to run the hack across the grounds at the lake house. If we’re talking about going large-scale, I’m going to need more power to boost the signal.”

  “And how would we do that?” I ask, knowing full well he already has the answer. Jole never brings up a problem without being halfway toward a solution—it hurts his pride too much to say “I don’t know.”

  Jole gives me a sly smile. “Turpin and I talked about it last night, and he thinks we can route the signal over a com tower. If we pick a tower in the middle of uptown, say near the Precipice offices,” his smile grows wider, “we’ll cover most of the inner city.”

  The iron
y isn’t lost on me. Using the maker’s com tower to free her slaves has a delicious justice to it. “When will it be ready?”

  “Doc’s got some people buying the components we need. It’ll be a few hours. Tonight at the earliest, probably.”

  “We have something else to consider first,” Mark says. “The hack only helped the 500s and 600s. The earlier models are on a different system. We need to decide if we’re willing to leave them in Maren’s hands or try to free them too.”

  That’s a dilemma. “They aren’t nearly as advanced, are they?”

  Mark shakes his head. “There was a huge breakthrough between the 400s and 500s. That’s when Dr. Martine joined the team. Dr. Mendal joined soon after. Between the two of them, the neuro-tech improved significantly.”

  I twirl a strand of my hair around my finger. “If the models like Fourteen stay, will Maren be able to use them?”

  “Yes,” Mark says.

  “Well, that complicates things. What if—”

  “There’s a bigger complication than that,” Doc says, standing in the doorway. “Turn on the feed, channel two-sixty.”

  Quinn produces my data pad. A reporter stands in front of the Maren’s office building, where her penthouse is, wrestling for a spot in a sea of other reporters. Maren’s coming down the front steps, the Chief of Police on one side and the governor’s top aide on the other. All three are dressed for important business: the police chief in dress uniform, Maren in a skirted suit tailored for her tiny frame, and the aide in coat and tie.

  What are they up to?

  When they reach the teeming mass of press, Maren raises a hand to quiet them. Microphones stick up in all directions and an expectant silence settles over the crowd. Maren looks unaffected by the attention, as cool and unflappable as ever, contained by some professional elegance I know I’ll never have. As she begins to speak, the reporters lean forward in one mass like they’re hypnotized.

  “As you know,” Maren says, “there has been a significant attack on my property due to a malfunction with some of our more advanced artificials.”