Angel Eyes

by Nicole Luiken

  Ron and Gerry shook their heads.

  “No soft spots for girls?” I asked, reluctant to give up that angle.

  "Definitely not," Emily said. "He loomed over me all day yesterday. Two cards."

  Gerry snorted. "You were so nervous I thought you were going to faint.”

  “How many cards?" Jazzy asked Sahan impatiently.

  "Four."

  "I hate it when people look over my shoulder," Emily said with suppressed violence.

  "Me, too," Sahan commiserated while Gerry and Ron drew their cards. "Doesn't everyone?"

  "Actually, I do better under pressure," I said truthfully. Which didn’t mean I didn’t hate it.

  "The key to handling Pinchot," Tad said unexpectedly, as he pushed forward one card, "is to make him nervous. Then he doesn't hang around."

  Silence blanketed the table. It wasn't just Pinchot Tad made nervous, I saw. It was a vicious cycle. Tad received prejudice, grew surly in reaction, and then his bad attitude prevented him from making friends with those who didn’t care that he was Augmented.

  "Good tip," I said. "Two, please."

  Jazzy drew three cards and then we were down to the bidding. "Chicken dance again?"

  "How about hopping on one foot around the table?" Gerry said. He raised the stakes twice more, winnowing the field down to himself and Tad, then laid his cards down with a flourish. “Two pairs. Aces and jacks.”

  For only one draw it was a good hand, much better than my busted flush.

  Expressionlessly, Tad laid down his cards one by one, revealing a mess. No pairs, no straight, no flush. Gerry whooped—until Tad gently tapped on the King of Diamonds. “Man with the axe wins.”

  Gerry groaned.

  I squinted at the card, noticing something odd. Another clue? Resolutely, I refrained from taking a closer look, cheering as Gerry got to his feet. He hopped around the table on one foot, backwards, while singing New York's national anthem.

  "I'm curious," I said as Emily dealt the next round. "How long have you all been here? Who's been here the longest?"

  Everyone glanced at Tad, but Emily answered first. "I've only been here a few days."

  "Four months," Gerry said with unaccustomed grimness. "One hundred and sixty-two days."

  "Same for me," Ron said. "Gerry and I flunked out together and made a run for the border. Boy, was that a bad idea!"

  "Two years, one month and seven days," Tad said. His eyes were absolutely blank.

  I winced in sympathy. "You must be close to getting out then."

  "I'll never get out," Tad said. Abruptly, he scraped back his chair from the table. "Deal me out."

  "I told you he keeps getting penalized with extra time," Emily whispered after he vacated the room.

  The poker game continued until curfew. Gerry lost consistently, even the time he got a full house. He threw his pair of fours down in disgust. "I’m never going to win, unless we start playing that low cards count high.”

  “Ooh, good idea,” I said. “Let’s make the last game a reverse round, where everyone tries to have the lowest hand and the winner has to do ten push-ups."

  Ron hooted. "Ten's nothing. Try twenty, or ten one-handed."

  "Twenty for Ron, ten for everybody else," I suggested. I wasn't at all sure Emily could manage more than ten.

  "Hey, I can do twenty," Gerry protested.

  "Big deal, so can I," Jazzy said.

  I sighed theatrically. "Anybody who wants to do more push-ups can. Now can we please play?"

  "One draw," Sahan said, shuffling. "Jokers and deuces wild."

  Instinct told me the time was ripe. It was late, and everyone was in a good mood. "You know what we should do tomorrow?" I asked while he dealt. "We should have a contest to see who runs across the weirdest name or the longest name."

  "Or the shortest name," Gerry said. "I had an Al Ix today. This hand is crap; no cards."

  "Sure," I said. "We could have lots of categories. Rhyming names, most boring name, etc."

  "For the first time all night I get dealt a three of kind and I have to break it up." Ron shook his head in disgust. "Three cards."

  "Longest first name and last name, or just longest name?" Gerry asked. "Tad could enter himself."

  “Both names, I guess.” I pretended to study my cards. I had a good hand, a pair of aces and a wild card. I threw all three leaving myself with a seven of hearts and a four of clubs. "Three please."

  I drew the queen of diamonds, a three of diamonds and a deuce. Another wild card. No good.

  Jazzy requested one card.

  “Does Tad have a long last name?” Emily asked. “Two cards.”

  "Nah, it’s something like Cook. But Tad is short for some weird ethnic name," Gerry said.

  I dragged the conversation back on track. “Excellent." I acted as if it were a done deal. "I'll draw up some charts tonight and we'll have a contest."

  "With what prizes?" Jazzy scoffed. "More chicken dances?"

  "I'll come up with something," I said confidently. "If we boost our efficiency numbers, I bet I can talk Ms. Rodriguez into throwing in something."

  "But won't our efficiency go down?" Emily frowned.

  "You're thinking like Mr. Pinchot," I told her. "Sure, we might talk more, but I bet our numbers rise anyway because the more records we go through the better our chances of hitting a winner."

  "Maybe," Emily conceded, "but Mr. Pinchot won't buy your reasoning. He won't let us hold a contest."

  "He'll try to stop us," I admitted, "but I have a secret weapon."

  "What?" Jazzy asked witheringly. "Knockout patches?"

  I produced my copy of the handbook and brandished it. "No, the rules. Here, let me read them. Number one: no falling behind quota. Number two: no harassing other workers." I looked up. "That one's easy. We're all part of the contest, no one will complain." Actually, Tad wasn't, but I’d talk him around. "Number three: no drugs, alcohol or illegal substances. Numbers four and five are about having a clean work area. Nowhere in here does it say anything about talking, laughing or getting up from your chair. There are enough loopholes in here to drive a train through, I promise."

  "I don't know," Emily said uncertainly.

  "Pinchot will have a fit, if we try any of this," Ron put in. “I don’t want to risk extra time added to my sentence.”

  Frustration gripped my chest. I knew I could get around Pinchot if they’d just let me try.

  Sahan, the dealer, cleared his throat. "Ah, everyone has had their draw. It is time to bid."

  "No bidding, this time. Just lay your cards down," I said. "I drew a wild card, so I have a pair of queens."

  "That lets me out," Emily said with a sigh. "I have a pair of eights."

  "Anybody else with higher?" I asked hopefully.

  "Nothing higher than a nine in my hand." Jazzy laid down her cards and did a victory dance.

  "Sorry, Angel," Gerry said cheerfully. "All I have is ace high."

  "Actually, Jazzy," Sahan started. He looked miserable.

  A glance at Jazzy's hand showed me that she had a straight.

  I caught Sahan’s eye and shook my head, then quickly scattered the cards before anyone else could notice—though hopefully the cameras would catch the byplay. I got down on the floor. "Here goes." I leisurely did ten standard push-ups, plus one more as a bonus, then jumped back to my feet.

  "That was only eleven," Ron said.

  I raised an eyebrow. "I never said I would do twenty."

  "Welsher," Ron said.

  "Leave her alone," Emily said. "It's only five minutes until 9:30."

  "If I do thirty push-ups in thirty seconds, will you guys try things my way tomorrow? I promise I'll take care of any Mr. Pinchot problems."

  "No way you can do them that fast," Ron said. "You're on!"

  Gerry echoed him.

  "If you can't do them in thirty seconds, you have to do twenty more before curfew," Jazzy said. "And ten sit-ups."

  "Deal." I looked at eve
ryone else.

  Emily fiddled with her necklace, uncertain.

  "If Mr. Pinchot hovers over you, I'll get out of my chair and do something outrageous to distract him," I promised her.

  "Okay," she said at last.

  "Sahan?"

  "I’m willing to try Angel's plan even if she can't do all the push-ups," Gerry said unexpectedly.

  Sahan shifted uncomfortably, caught between me and Jazzy. "Whatever the group wants is fine by me."

  "Time me," I said to Ron and dropped to the floor. I rapped out the first ten cool and easy, but started to sweat after fifteen. It took major effort to make my body keep moving so rapidly.

  "Five seconds!" Ron warned.

  Go, go, go! I did the last five in a blur then collapsed when Ron said, "Time."

  "I don’t think she touched the floor on the third last one," Jazzy said.

  "Don't be petty." Emily glared at her, a mouse rounding on a tiger. "Angel won fair and square. I'd like to see you do one push-up where you touch your nose to the floor and lift yourself up again."

  Gerry helped me up. "Impressive. But now we've all got to run, or we'll miss curfew and have time added to our sentences. We'll be your obedient slaves tomorrow, promise." He saluted me.

  Troops, I thought. Not slaves. And I smiled.

  Jazzy and Sahan could puzzle over obscure clues all they liked. I was going to win the scenario my own way.

  My footsteps became heavier as I approached the prison of my room. I did not want to go in. It was only 9:30. Who the heck went to sleep at 9:30? It was demeaning. But if I broke curfew, I’d risk being disqualified.

  Reluctantly, I went inside. Shut the door. Checked for cameras. Exercised and prepared for tomorrow’s plan, which ate up a little time. It was still only 10:45, but I decided I might as well get ready for bed anyhow. I started to unzip my jumpsuit, then stopped and checked for cameras again. Lectured myself.

  You’re being obsessive, stop it. Dr. Frankenstein is dead; he’s not watching you.

  Nonetheless I kept tossing and turning in my narrow bed that night. To distract myself, I started puzzling over the ‘princess’ clue. Did it imply the NextStep Immersion would be a medieval setting? A fantasy? Except I suspected both had been done before.

  I started to nod off, then jolted awake, three different facts colliding in my head.

  Oh. Wow. I was seriously impressed. But I could never be the one to reveal the secret. Better to just pretend I didn’t know, stick to my original strategy. Still, a smile curved my lips as I laid my head back down on the pillow.

  Now I knew why the Man with the Axe had been crying.

  Chapter Eleven

  MIKE

  Mike turned the corner and caught Devon pacing, mad as a wet cat, in the corridor outside his room.

  He slowed his steps, concealing his satisfaction. So Catherine was sheltering her, too. He’d suspected as much.

  “You low-life creep.” Devon’s eyes narrowed as soon as she saw him. She’d changed out of her fancy black dress into a tee and jeans, but still wore heavy eyeliner and dangling earrings. “How dare you profess Gabriel’s ‘love’ for me on HoloTV?”

  Mike smiled pleasantly, though he could feel his temper rising like mercury on a hot day. “You impersonated Angel, sedated me with Knockout, and sold me out to a hate-crime group, but I’m the low-life creep? Nope, not buying it. You’re definitely at least three rungs below me on the slime scale.”

  She flushed, but didn’t back down. “Those are things I did to you. You want to ruin my reputation, go ahead and try, but leave Gabriel out of it. This will haunt our career for years. Instead of focusing on our team as serious contenders, we’ll get questions like, ‘Are you dating?’ ‘Did Devon break your heart?’ Our competition will laugh at us.” She glared at him.

  Mike folded his arms, unimpressed. Angel did it better. “Anything else?”

  Her black eyes smoldered. “Aren’t you worried about how Angel is going to take your little declaration of love?”

  “Angel trusts me,” Mike snapped, but thinking about her viewing the clip made his heart dive down to his shoes.

  Devon arched an eyebrow. “That much? And when I tell her how you kissed me—not once, but twice—how’s she going to feel?”

  Angel had seen the security tape so Devon’s shot missed the target. “Nice try, but I already told Angel that I kissed you, thinking you were her.”

  “And she forgave you? Or did she just pretend that she did? The way I see it trust is like a brick wall. It looks solid, but if you hit it with a hammer it’ll take one, maybe two, blows before it starts to crumble. The kiss was the first blow; the proposal is the second. How many more do you think your wall can withstand? If I tell her you kissed me again, she’ll want to believe that I’m lying, but by then your wall will be looking like Swiss cheese.”

  Doubt poured into Mike like cold water. His relationship with Angel was already strained. More weight added to the fragile structure might send it crashing down on the rocks. He could lose her.

  He loomed over Devon, projecting menace. “If you lie to her, I’ll wring your neck.” As soon as he uttered the threat, he knew he’d made a mistake. He’d exposed a weakness.

  Devon smiled tauntingly. “Remember that the next time you feel like taking a shot at Gabriel.” She touched his cheek, and he flinched back as if she carried the plague.

  Still smiling, she strolled away.

  *ANGEL*

  Day Two.

  A sense of mischief seized me when I realized I was the last person to enter the workplace floor. I handed the rule handbook to Em. “Can you put this on my desk?” I hung back while she complied, then did a series of four cartwheels and a round-off ending neatly at my cubicle.

  Gerry and Ron wolf-whistled.

  There. That ought to wake up any sleeping cameramen. I wanted them focused on me so they didn’t miss the next bit.

  I received my first—but by no means last—visit from Mr. Pinchot two minutes later.

  "Good morning,” I said cheerily, while my fingers flew over the keyboard. "No need to check up on me; I remember everything from your instruction session yesterday."

  That stymied him, but only briefly. "Angel, what was the meaning of those, those—"

  "Cartwheels?" I supplied.

  "Acrobatics. This is a workplace," he said sternly.

  "Gymnastics." I tried to jolt him off his stride.

  "What?"

  "Cartwheels are gymnastics, not acrobatics. Acrobats swing through the air—or maybe that’s trapeze artists," I mused.

  Mr. Pinchot refused to be sidetracked. "Neither one should be done here. I'm going to fine you—"

  "Can you do that?" I asked doubtfully. "I thought you were only allowed to fine detainees if they break the rules and cartwheels aren't against the rules. There aren't any rules about travelling to and from one's desk at all, I checked." I stopped typing long enough to tap the handbook on my desk. "Can you show me which rule I broke?"

  Mr. Pinchot paused, then regrouped. "Some rules are unwritten, known by everyone—"

  I interrupted. "I don't like unwritten rules. Everybody has a different idea of what they mean. No offense, Mr. Pinchot, but I'll feel better if I just stick to the written ones."

  Mr. Pinchot glared down his nose at me, lips thinned. "It's obvious that cartwheels are both dangerous and cause a disturbance. I can't allow them."

  "I’d never do anything to hurt someone," I said sincerely. The aisle was four feet across; in gymnastics I'd done cartwheels on a four-inch balance beam. "The only disturbance I caused was making people smile."

  Mr. Pinchot drew himself up to his full five foot six height. "As your supervisor, I have authority over you. You will not do cartwheels again, is that understood?"

  “Not really, but I wasn't planning on doing more today anyhow,” I offered him as a sop.

  Fuming, he stalked off the floor, no doubt intending to fire off an email to Ms. Rodriguez demanding
a rule change.

  "I've got one," Em whispered from across the aisle. "Longest Name: Josephina Constanzia."

  "Nineteen letters," I said, not whispering. "Not bad." I wrote it down on the chart I'd prepared, then raised my voice. "Anybody else have an entry?"

  "I have a rhymer,” Gerry called. “Mack Black. Sounds like a nursery rhyme. 'Mack Black had a sack.'"

  As I wrote it down, I made up another line. "'Which he stuffed with snacks.'"

  "'Until he had no lack,'" Em put in quietly.

  I repeated the whole rhyme for everyone else's benefit while my fingers continued to type records. My numbers would be needed to keep our efficiency rate from going down the toilet.

  "'And his wife stopped giving him flack,'" Gerry added.

  "I have a short entry," Jazzy called five minutes later. "J—just the letter, not the bird—Cox."

  "Good one," I said.

  Mr. Pinchot stormed back onto the floor. He headed straight for Gerry. That wouldn't do. I’d promised I’d take all the heat. I raised my voice. "We've got a shortest, a longest and a rhymer, but we still need a funniest entry. Anybody?"

  A pause, then Ron said, "I had a Gandalf Adams last week, does that count?"

  "Sorry, only today's records. Remember," I said piously for Mr. Pinchot's benefit, "the more records you enter the greater your chances of winning. Hi, Mr. Pinchot! I forgot to tell you about this great idea I had to improve efficiency." I explained to him about the contest.

  "It sounds more likely to decrease efficiency than increase productivity," Mr. Pinchot said sourly.

  "Oh, I'm sure you're wrong," I said optimistically. "But if our numbers go down we can stop the contest tomorrow—although everyone would be terribly disappointed." Everyone definitely looked more alert today, not falling asleep from boredom. Hopefully, the viewing audience would feel the same.

  “The thing is,” I confided, “even though the data entry is important, it gets a little tedious day after day.”

  "This is only your second day," he gritted out.

  I shrugged. "I have a low boredom threshold. Yesterday everything was new, but today my productivity would’ve dropped without the contest to hold my attention." Both true.