by A. L. Davroe
Quentin hisses air between his teeth and looks away. “Fuck.”
Cam grins at him. “You deserve it, big baby.”
Quentin’s amber eyes open and light up as he glances back at Cam. “I’m going to smother you in your sleep,” he rasps.
“Oh really?” Cam visibly pinches the skin around the wound, making Quentin yelp to such a pitch that he makes no sound at all, then he groans, “Mother fucker.”
“Hey,” Sid snaps. “Take it easy.”
Cam lets go. “You kiss your momma with that mouth?”
Quentin jerks his arm away and glares at Cam.
“Uh,” Cam grunts, probably noticing his faux pas. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
Looking wounded and dejected, Quentin glances away again. That pity feeling I get for him creeps up. I know what that feels like. To not have parents anymore. To feel alone in the world. Part of me wants to rush forward and hug him.
Sid slips over and examines the wound, his face turning grave. “This… This is bad, Quent. They may not be able to fix this.”
Quentin’s eyes die and he nods. “Do what you can.”
“It’s infected,” Sid says. “I’ll need to strip away some of this tissue. It’s going to hurt. A lot.”
“Great,” Quentin adds, balling his fists and going rigid. “It’ll give me something else to think about.”
“You might want to hold him down,” Sid says to Cam.
Cam reaches out and takes Quentin’s hand, prying his fingers open and cupping them around his. He plants his knees on either side of Quentin’s legs, sitting on him, and shoves his palm against Quentin’s chest. He leans in close. “Hold your breath—that always works for me.”
Quentin draws a deep breath. I do, too. I suddenly feel cold and wooden. I shouldn’t be watching this. This is Quentin’s pain and weakness, it’s not my place to see it. Yet, I can’t look away.
Sid’s first cuts drive a winced wail to Quentin’s throat, but he holds it back, making the blood rise to the surface of his skin so that pale becomes red and the veins stand out on his neck and forehead. Tears streak down his cheeks.
Teeth clenched, I dig my nails into my palms. I’m shivering and cold sweat is dripping down my spine, soaking the back of my neck. Look away. Look away. But I can’t. I watch the blood dribble down Quentin’s bare arm, over the tattoo under the wound.
A fox. Like Gus’s. Do all of Gus’s friends have it?
Flakes of discolored and crusted skin fall to the cement floor. I hear Cam make a shushing sort of cooing noise, which feels out of place and strange coming from a big guy like him. It reminds me of the noises Meems made for me when I was lying in bed, delirious and weak from the accident and subsequent discovery of my father’s death.
Quentin is panting now, sweat pouring down his forehead, neck, chest.
A whimper wells inside of me, escapes in a long, low squeak. Hold on. Hold on just a little longer. He’s almost done.
Sid’s hands move quickly, cleaning away the dead skin, wiping away the blood, plucking out scraps of fabric that got stuck in the wound. He frowns and mutters something now and then, but neither Cam nor Quentin respond to him.
I count the seconds, keeping time. Minutes pass. Quentin’s eyes have drifted closed and his body has gone limp. Part of me fears he’s dead, but Sid and Cam don’t seem concerned so he must still be breathing. He’s probably passed out from the pain. I would be. Sid sprays the wound with nano-knit to help rebuild Quentin’s muscle and skin, and over that, he applies antiseptic sealant to keep it clean and seal the nanos in. He should be healed within a couple of days. That’s if Sid got all the infection. If not? Quentin might die. And as for the use of his arm? Who knows? Maybe it will have to be removed. Maybe he’ll only be part of a person, like me.
Absolute dread at the idea pools in my stomach and panic makes my breathing speed up once more. I stand there, dumbfounded by the concept of actually caring at all for Quentin Cyr. The thought of something that awful befalling him makes acid churn up in my throat.
Suddenly, Sid and Cam both stand.
Realizing that they will want to start heading back toward the group soon, urgency makes me swallow my nausea. I totter around on my busted leg and hobble back to my sleeping bag.
I nearly trip over Sadie, because the light-sticks have all died to nothing and the room is in total darkness. I feel around for my sleeping bag and crawl into it, relishing the dry warmth of it over the dampness of my sweaty skin and the biting cold air. I curl into a ball and squeeze my eyes shut, willing what I’ve just seen to leave my mind’s eye, but I can’t sleep. There’s a lump of anxiety inside of me that keeps my muscles tight no matter how hard I try to relax. So I lift myself into a sitting position and lean against the wall like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
When Cam and Sid do return, Cam’s carrying Quentin on his back. Sid grabs his own sleeping bag and drags it a little away from the others. Cam squats down, and they both lower Quentin onto the ground.
Cam notices me sitting up and watching. “What are you doing up?” he whispers.
“I-I”—best stick to the truth—“I had a nightmare and then I couldn’t fall back to sleep,” I say. Desperate to know the prognosis, I tip my chin toward Quentin. “Is he okay?”
Sid slides the top flap of the sleeping bag out from under Quentin’s deadweight. “I think so.”
“What happened?” I ask, trying to sound like someone who doesn’t know.
Cam says, “He’s just tired, that’s all.”
I grumble, annoyed that he’s saving face for Quentin, covering his weakness. It must be nice to have people who are so loyal to you. Though, why they choose loyalty to Quentin, I don’t understand. I slump my shoulders. Maybe I do. Just a little bit. He’s genuinely worried about everyone here—including me—and he wouldn’t express that kind of concern to his Dolls, who know the real him, unless he meant it. So maybe he’s not as bad as I thought he was. I close my eyes, but suddenly remember that harsh, vacant expression Quentin had on his face when he squeezed the trigger and blew my uncle’s brains out. I shiver. Maybe he is as bad. He’s still a Cyr. He’s still an Elite. He still willingly helped to destroy our home, played a part in his father’s murder.
“Try to get some sleep,” Sid says, dimming the light-stick.
I lay back down and close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come for a long, long time and when it does, there’s only darkness.
PART TWO:
The Threads Call to Ella
chapter six
Post-American Date: 7/4/232
Longitudinal Timestamp: 10:58 p.m.
Location: Sub-Tunnel 6
I flinch awake and sit up. Someone pushes a cup into my hands. “Here, drink this.” The voice is an instant balm that soothes aching muscles and tired bones.
I take a few sips and stare into the lolling fluid, letting the vita-pep solution take effect, dragging my brain out of its catatonic state before I glance at the white-clad boy behind me.
Quentin’s watching me, his expression closed off and troubled. “You sleep okay?”
Swallowing, I look away and shake my head.
“Me, neither.” He looks down at his own hands clasped around his mug. “I don’t think many people did. I woke up to someone screaming.”
Shuddering at my own bad dreams, I pull my legs close to my body and hug them, balancing the cup between my knees. The silence stretches and I need to fill it. “I miss coffee.”
A soft breath escapes him. “Me, too.”
“Me three. Even the instant stuff. Anything is better than this drivel.” Blinking, I glance up, finally realizing everyone else is awake and sitting in a circle, huddled around the sterile glow of pooled light-sticks. Purple, blue, green. Together, they make our group look morbid and ghostly. We’re disheveled, stained with blood, dirt, and tears, the dark hollows under our eyes noticeable. Our souls must look even worse. Violet lifts her cup and, grimacing into it, continues speaking. “
Energy drinks. Who would have thought that would be a staple of the future? Here”—she tosses me a nutra-pack—“I saved you your share of breakfast.”
I open the nutra-pack and squeeze some into my mouth. It tastes like salty apricot jelly, but I continue to swallow knowing I need my strength for the days ahead.
After a long silence, Sadie says. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Stop it,” Bastian growls.
She peeks up at him, her expression sad. “Stop what? The thoughts? The images? The screams?” She shakes her head, tears brimming on her lids, and whimpers, “I can’t.” She breaks down into sobs and Bastian, looking apologetic, pulls her close, smoothes her hair, and says he’s sorry.
I can’t help weakly smiling at him as he gives me the helpless look. Bastian obviously loves this girl. I want them to stay together, to love each other this much always, to have a big wedding with a Harley Dean gown for Sadie and a— No, that can’t happen. Harley Dean is dead. Katrina who, smiling, would have given Sadie away is dead. And likewise Uncle Simon, who would have stood beside Bastian, is also dead. It would be a wedding of ghosts.
Feeling my smile fade, I look away.
“Now that we’re all here and have had a chance to wake up a bit,” Quentin says. “Ella, Bastian, Violet, I want to speak with you. Would the rest of you excuse us?”
Cam and Sid both stand. Sid holds out his hand to Sadie, who, sniffling, allows herself to be led away. Cam shuts the door.
A few seconds pass in silence before Violet becomes impatient and says, “Out with it, boy.”
Quentin shakes himself. “As Ella already knows”—he glances at me furtively—“we are in a bit of a bind.”
Bastian frowns and Violet urges Quentin on. “Explain.”
“Our stores have been compromised, and we don’t have enough supplies to last the group the distance between here and Cadence.”
Violet whistles low under her breath as she leans back against the wall and crosses her arms. “That is a pickle.”
“We do have a plan,” Quentin says, “but I think we’re going to need your help.” His chin lifts and he looks back and forth between Violet, Bastian, and me. “All three of you.”
Unable to help my sarcasm, I lower my brow. “You? Need us?”
“Strange, I know,” he says, matching sarcasm oozing out of his voice and expression. “I know it seems like I’m entirely capable of everything, but it’s a clever ruse, I assure you. In fact, I need help dressing and bathing and wiping my—”
“Okay,” Bastian says, “cut to it.”
Quentin clears his throat. “We plan on a small group going up ahead, trying to see if there is a way out and up. Hopefully, get some supplies topside.”
“In The Waste?” Bastian asks, dubious.
“The Outer Block, actually,” I say.
“As if that’s better.” Bastian rolls his eyes. “People can hardly feed themselves in Kairos, and you want to see if they’ll give you supplies? You? An Aristocrat? A Cyr, nonetheless.”
Quentin has the good grace to look a little bit embarrassed. “My Dolls have assured me that supplies can be had. They do exist. Just—for a price.”
Bastian stares at him for a long moment, his eyes pinched.
I look back and forth between the two of them.
Finally, Quentin lets out a long breath and looks away. “I’m not thinking of the skin trade, if that’s what you’re referring to. I want to stay as far away from Doll Houses as I possibly can.”
Bastian’s words are low and clipped. “That’s a relief. I’ve been there and I can’t say I’m fond.”
Quentin’s scoff is bitter. “I’ve heard. Look, my Dolls… They’re not just my Dolls. They’re my friends, Bastian. I know about the skin trade. I know about the Doll Houses and what happens when you end up in one. I wouldn’t do that to anyone. Not even to sacrifice one to save many. There’s got to be another way.”
“What way?” Violet asks. “I’ve been out there on relief missions. You don’t approach a trader unless you’ve got a deal in mind. And you need to be good at deal making. Trust me when I say that.”
He nods. “I do trust you. That’s why I’m asking for your help.”
When neither Violet nor Bastian speak, I sit forward and slowly say, “What do you need us to do?”
Quentin meets my eyes, stares into them for a long moment. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something, but I just don’t know him well enough to know what it is. “I’m going to go up there.”
“What?” Bastian barks. “You can’t go up, you’re the new President. What if something happens to you? These people will fall apart.”
Quentin still doesn’t look away from me. “I have to. I’m the only one of us with skills in negotiation. I’m the only one with anything to bargain.”
“What could you bargain?” I ask. “We don’t have anything.”
“Leave that up to me. I’ll take care of it.”
Violet says, “That still doesn’t answer the question of why you need us.”
Quentin says, “I need you. I can’t do this without you.” He’s saying it to me and me only. I know that. Deep in my bones, I know it.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“That makes three of us,” Bastian mutters.
Finally, Quentin breaks away and blinks. “I can’t go up there alone. Bastian, you’ve lived out there—you’re one of them.”
“So have every one of your Dolls,” Bastian reminds.
“Yes, but they’ve all been too badly Modified at this point. You’re the only one who could remotely pass for a Natural. Even then, maybe only an Unmentionable. But one of them, nonetheless.”
Bastian looks away, his mouth tight.
“Violet, you’ve worked among the Disfavored. Some of them may know and trust you. If not, you at least know your way around Kairos.”
She nods once, the gesture clipped and tight.
“Ella…” He looks at the floor and rubs his neck. “I need someone to have my back.”
Bastian uncoils from his brooding manner. “What? You want someone to have your back? Then take Gus, not Ella. She wouldn’t know the first thing about being a bodyguard.”
Quentin’s eyes narrow in dark humor at the comment then slide sidelong at me. “I wouldn’t say that. Would you, Ella? Last time I checked, you could hold your own pretty well. You’re smart. You keep your head under fire. You’re good with a gun. And you care about your companions, you look out for them. I don’t think I could ask for more.”
Swallowing hard, I look away.
Quentin turns his attention back to Bastian. “She’s good for it. I trust Ella with my life.”
Silence falls then, like a door slamming against an unauthorized G-Chip, and I refuse to look at Quentin or the others. Why would he say that about me? I barely even know him. He trusts me that much? Just because his best friend dated me in a game? Gus must have really blown me out of proportion. Still, I feel my cheeks heat. It’s kind of flattering to be thought so highly of.
“What if I refuse?” Bastian says. “Sadie’s pregnant. I can’t be taking these sorts of risks.”
I bolt upright. “What?”
“Oh, yeah.” Bastian blinks and his mouth quirks in an awkward grin. “It just sort of…happened.”
“Why wasn’t that the first thing you told me?” I demand, suddenly torn between the urge to shake him and hug him.
Quentin snaps his fingers. “Focus you two. If we don’t find food and water, you’re not gonna live to see this baby born. I’d think that’s the only motivation you need—to protect that girl and your unborn child.”
That changes Bastian’s mood immediately. His dark eyes go stormy and he shovels his fingers through his thick hair, salt and pepper now that the fiber-optic shots of silver are dead and have turned white. “Fine, I’ll go.”
“Violet?”
She shrugs. “I’m living on borrowed time anyway. Might be nice to see s
ome old acquaintances, breathe that awful air once more. Always tastes like biting tin foil. You wouldn’t know what that’s like, but it’s awful, lemme tell ya.” Then she giggles.
Quentin turns questioning eyes on me.
I can’t help the desperate expression that passes over my face. “I’d really feel better if Gus came, too.”
Chest rising and falling in a deep breath, Quentin’s lips purse and he looks away. “Knowing his past, do you really want to ask him to go back into the Outer Block? Because I don’t.”
The nail hits home. And it hurts. He’s right, of course. Gus is from that place—Kairos. They nearly killed him the last time he went there. For being a Doll. To bring him back there would be tempting fate. I couldn’t ask that of him, not for my own selfish need to have him by my side—to feel the safety of having him at my back.
Quentin’s voice is soft as he says, “You’ll have to make do with me. But I promise I’d never let anything happen to you.”
I can’t help but flash a morbid smirk. He’s going to protect me? Even though he’s asking me to protect him? I want to say no. I’m scared. I’ve only just escaped danger and I want to remain here where it’s safe. But Quentin is important to the Aristocrats. They need him to come back alive. Gus needs him to come back alive. And because I care about making both the Aristocrats and Gus happy, I should make sure he does.
But what if I fail at covering Quentin or the others, and one of them gets killed? That failure is on my hands.
And what if I succeed in protecting them? I probably could. Yesterday proved that my training in Nexis translated over to Real World survival skills. Threads or no, I’ve just spent a year in a crucible, fine tuning my mind and body in an effort to protect myself and the people I love.
What if that means killing? This isn’t a game anymore. Killing here means real death.
But I’ve already killed a lot of people, haven’t I? Innocents. It’s not okay and I don’t forgive myself, but I’ve somehow managed to live through the shame of it. Killing someone who is attacking us would be far more justified.
Still…an accidental virus and a gun to the head are far from the same thing. “Okay,” I say quietly.