Fox Forever (Jenna Fox Chronicles #3)

by Mary E. Pearson

  “You’re familiar with the green line?” he finally asks.

  “I already told Livvy. I lived close to it. The D branch in Brookline.”

  “Well, as near as we can figure, the green line was expanded with two more tunnels after you lived here, so it probably isn’t quite how you remember it.”

  “Are we going there next?”

  He shakes his head. “No Non-pact in his right mind would go down into the green line—stations or tunnels.”

  “What? Because of the bogeyman?”

  He stops walking and stares at me, clearly not amused at my comment. “Bodies. At least parts of bodies. A headless torso. A leg. Sometimes the bowels.” He looks away and resumes his pace. “But we think they could be ruses, placed there to keep others away. One well-placed body part has years of scaring power. Especially for Non-pacts, who are pretty much defenseless.”

  I would hardly describe Xavier as defenseless, but maybe for the typical Non-pacts scrabbling out a day-to-day existence in a city where they have no rights, defenseless sums it up. Especially when it comes to some unknown creature that leaves body parts scattered in their underground realm.

  “Maybe there really are half-dogs.”

  He shrugs. “If there are, the Secretary’s right-hand man isn’t afraid of them. We saw him slip into a green line entry point at the public gardens and when he came out hours later he wasn’t missing so much as a finger.”

  “Why would someone like him even go down there?”

  “Because it’s a helluva good place to hide something—and he has something big to hide.”

  He doesn’t have to say what the something is. Karden and the Secretary’s own secret detainment facility that’s under the radar of officials.

  “Can’t you check it out? See what he’s up to?”

  “We did, but only for a short way. There’s the matter of the half-dogs, plus it’s dark down there. Very dark. And using any kind of light to see is not an option. A few tried that once and they barely got past the entrance. They were immediately arrested for trespassing. There must be some sort of light sensors down there. They want it to stay dark, which is a problem for us because there are hundreds of tunnels. During the Civil Division, half the city was fleeing underground and creating shelters. There are lots of unauthorized passageways that lead nowhere and aren’t on any maps, and the old engineering plans that we have are incomplete at best. We don’t know just what’s down there, or which tunnel to follow. A person could get lost for years. But we think one of the green line tunnels leads straight to the Old Library Building and coincidentally, the Secretary seems to visit there often for no apparent business.”

  “You mean the Boston Public Library? Maybe he goes there to read.”

  “It’s a food warehouse now, and he never leaves with any packages.”

  I weigh this bit of information. “Maybe it’s another entry point to the tunnel?”

  “Maybe, but we can’t find it.” He stops and looks cautiously behind us and then back at me. “When you first met me, I had a limp. Remember that?” he asks.

  “I remember. I was wondering if it was an act.”

  He pulls up his pant leg. It wasn’t an act.

  I see a large round scar on the side of his calf where it looks like the flesh has been gouged away. “Two more like that in my thigh.” He drops his pant leg. “When I first got whiff that Karden might be alive, I broke into the Old Library, no plan, just searching for a lead. It was impulsive and a miracle that I got away at all. Security shot me. The only thing that saved me was their bad aim, and me jumping into the river and nearly drowning in the process. I made the mistake of not following one of my own rules. Some lessons you have to learn over, and over. As much as we’re in a hurry, we’re taking our time to get this done right.”

  I hear the frustration in his voice. He wants this badly. I grab his arm to stop him and he looks at me surprised. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “You know Karden could be dead. He probably is. All this work might be for nothing.”

  His lips pull tight, like he’s contemplating that possibility. “Could be,” he finally says. “Or we might all fail miserably, but I have to try. Karden said to never stop believing that things could change. I haven’t and right now this is our best shot at change.”

  And your best shot at eighty billion duros? But I keep that thought to myself.

  We resume walking and he tells me they think they have it narrowed down to the stretch between the public gardens and the library. “A half mile at most,” he says.

  “A half mile of dark tunnels that go in all directions isn’t exactly narrowed down.”

  “Out of an entire city it is. And if there’s a detainment facility between the gardens and the library, it shouldn’t be hard for you to find—”

  “What do you mean, for me to find? I’m not going down into any dark—”

  “Relax, pretty boy. I’m the one who’s going down. You just have to charm Raine and her friends so you’re invited into their little circle. The Secretary keeps close tabs on her. Where she is, he is. We just want you to find out what’s down there and where. Do some discreet snooping. Keep your ears open. Pinpoint the location for us. That’s all. You can handle that much, can’t you?” His last sentence drips with patronizing sarcasm like he’s talking to a seven-year-old.

  I straighten my fingers, trying to resist the urge to curl them into a fist. A Favor. That’s what I’m giving back. For Karden. For Miesha. I have to remind myself of this fact over and over to keep from recentering his nose on his face. I work to hide my anger. I won’t let him push my—

  He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re as soft as a baby’s powdered butt.”

  I pounce, but he sidesteps with lightning speed, grabbing my arm and twisting it behind me, smashing me up against the wall. He wedges his body weight against me so I have no leverage, no room to move. It doesn’t matter that I outweigh him, or that I’m stronger. He’s got the moves and plenty of practice at them. “Lesson two,” he says. “Restraint. Never let the enemy push you to move before you’re ready to move.” He leans close and whispers in my ear, twisting my arm up just a little tighter so I wince. “And just as important—lesson three: you may never know precisely who the enemy is.”

  He lets go and I spin around, arching my shoulder where he wrenched it. He smiles, reminding me of my brother after the dozens of times he beat me in wrestling matches, never wanting to leave lasting marks that my parents would see, but inflicting enough pain to make sure I got his message. “We need to get back,” he says. “We’ve had some unexpected good luck. We got you entry to a mixer at the Somerset Club tonight. Your meeting date with Raine has been bumped up. Showtime, pretty boy.”

  The Meeting

  Livvy, Carver, and Xavier trying to dress me is far worse than Miesha choosing clothes for me to wear. They fuss and cluck over every detail. Buttoning my coat, unbuttoning my coat. Smoothing my hair until it looks like a bowl on my head. Changing shirts three times because none of them can agree. It becomes a nervous frenzy that rapidly spirals downward. This meeting has come too soon. Xavier may have portrayed it as good luck because he’s eager to get it under way, but they’re not ready, or maybe it’s just that playing stylist is simply not in their repertoire. Every grooming decision is blown out of proportion and spawns squabbles among them. Black silk pants. No, the brown with cuffs. No, the old-style tunic with billowing pants. Livvy takes a comb to my hair again.

  “Stop!” I stand, ducking out of her reach. “Out! All of you, out! I’ll dress myself! I don’t need you!”

  They stare at me like I’m a raving lunatic about to destroy their plans.

  Livvy steps forward. “We—”

  “Out!”

  We’re all stuck in a silent showdown. Carver’s eyes narrow like he’s weighing this new development. “Maybe he’s right,” he finally says. “Let’s step out for a moment and see what he comes up with. He needs to feel real to be believable
, not a complete creation of ours.”

  At last. Someone who trusts me. But when I look at him to acknowledge this concession, the look in his eyes doesn’t seem like trust. More like a gauntlet thrown at my feet. Don’t screw up.

  They leave and I immediately begin tearing off layers of clothes. I shove my head under the faucet to wash away whatever it was that Livvy put in my hair to make it as smooth as porcelain. I shake the drips away and run my fingers through it, leaving spiked clumps in their wake. I put on the pants I was wearing when I arrived, frayed at the hems and split at both knees. I slip on my scuffed black boots. The only thing I choose from their wardrobe is a plain, perfectly pressed white long-sleeved shirt that I roll up to my elbows.

  I walk out, water still dripping from my hair. “Ready,” I tell them.

  “He’s lost his mind,” Livvy blurts out instantly.

  “If he ever had one,” Xavier adds and flops back in a chair like the whole mission has been aborted.

  Livvy groans. “This is the Somerset Club we’re talking about. They have dress codes. Especially this crowd. You’re meeting Raine, for God’s sake.”

  “Have you ever met her?” I ask, knowing none of them have, and no one replies.

  “Have any of you ever been to the Somerset Club?”

  More silence.

  Carver hasn’t expressed his opinion yet, examining me, starting at my shoes and stopping at my wet hair. He finally shrugs. “It might work. She’ll notice him and that’s what we want.”

  “That’s if they even let him through the door.”

  * * *

  The walk from Louisburg Square to the Somerset Club is short. Only a few blocks. It’s on Beacon Street just half a block from the Secretary’s home, both buildings facing the Commons. I’m sure Xavier, Livvy, and Carver are all following me in the shadows, but they don’t accompany me. From here on out, I’m on my own. Except for Livvy on occasion as needed to play my mother, they won’t even be coming to the apartment anymore. It’s too risky. Once I meet the Secretary’s daughter and her friends, I will be under the Secretary’s scrutiny.

  The sun is down, but twilight still illuminates the sky. I think of Jenna. It’s her favorite time of day. It’s the time the world whispers, she says. Even the winds quiet, ready to change their course. Twilight is a gift, a brief quiet hour in the day to slow down and think, to be grateful for what the day has brought. That’s how we spent our twilights together, slowing down, enjoying the quiet and each other. I miss that time. What’s she doing right now? Does she think of me at all during her twilights in California?

  I turn the corner and see the bowed facade of the Somerset Club half a block away. Carver, through a series of mysterious “Favors,” was able to get me a coveted spot in the Beacon Hill Virtual Collective. Apparently the state has face-to-face socialization requirements for the Virtual Collective, so members must meet for various occasions on a regular basis. Tonight’s event is one of the required whole group meetings. Approximately 130 students ranging in age from sixteen to nineteen will be there. My job is to secure a spot in Raine’s smaller group so I can participate in the more intimate meetings at the members’ homes. Raine’s home is used for most of her group’s meetings, either because of its size or because the Secretary wants to watch Raine’s every move. The catch is, you have to be invited into the smaller groups. Just as I left the apartment, Xavier reminded me, “Crank up the charm, kid. This is your one and only chance.”

  Nothing like a little pressure. I’m wondering which Raine I’ll be meeting tonight—the bored, restrained one, or the risky one who sits on rooftop edges. Either way, I know I’ll be meeting the Raine who has secrets. As I get closer, I see others arriving and walking up the front steps. Two of the guys wear tunics with loose, billowing trousers—reds, blues, purples, and brilliant greens—very showy and as colorful as strutting peacocks. Another guy has on a black suit resembling a skintight tuxedo. His shirt is black too. The only color is a bright red rose attached at his lapel. Do they always dress this way for these meetings or is this some special event—like prom? Livvy’s words come back at me like a bad lunch. If they even let him through the door. I look down at my frayed pants and back at the last flash of color disappearing through the front door of the Somerset Club. Here goes.

  I pull myself up another inch and walk up the steps. The door opens before I can ring, and a Bot greets me. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by my clothes, only asking for my name. Apparently I’ve been added to his memory database and he welcomes me into the foyer. So far, so good. I haven’t set off any alarms, real or imagined, which is always a cause of concern for me because of my BioPerfect. Gatsbro made it so I could pass through standard micro-scans without detection, but I always worry what kinds of other “nonstandard” scanners might be out there and how deeply they might see what’s beneath my skin.

  The Bot seems to know all the information Carver supplied in my application to the Collective. He’s aware that this is my first visit to the Somerset Club, telling me where various rooms are that I might need, and also telling me some history on the Somerset Club itself including its many uses and renovations over the centuries. He reminds me of Dot in that respect, always part tour guide. I watch politely as he points out Venetian tapestries, carved rosewood balustrades, and elaborately framed oil paintings of old, long-dead members on nearby walls. The place smells of aged wood, polish, and plenty of money.

  “The gathering is in the room at the top of the stairs to the left at the end of the hallway. If I can be of any further assistance, sir, please let me know.”

  “Thanks.”

  He makes a slight bow and steps back into an alcove to await the next arrival.

  I walk up the stairs, already hearing murmurs and music and an occasional excited shout. Or were those screams? Halfway down the hallway, I stop, examining all possible exit routes—the way I came, another hallway that leads to unknown parts, and a third-floor stained-glass window—only a desperate exit option. I take a step toward the unknown hallway.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turn slowly, making an effort not to jump at the unexpected voice, and see a tall thin man with protruding cheekbones looking like he’s more skeleton than skin. It’s LeGru. I recognize him from the file photos. He’s the Secretary’s right-hand man who Livvy warned me about. He slithered up on me as quietly as a snake, seemingly out of nowhere. What’s he doing here at a student gathering? Or maybe the club is used for other purposes as well? I mask my recognition with a confused smile. “Actually you can. It’s my first time here, and I just want to make sure I’m going to the right place—the Virtual Co—”

  He cuts me off, pointing back to the end of the hallway with a long, bony finger. “Over there. You were headed in the right direction.” He smiles, a pasty tight-lipped smile. “You should trust your first instincts.”

  I nod. “I usually do.” I look at him, forcing a more genuine smile than he offered me. “Thank you.” Livvy was right. This guy is trouble and I don’t need to study his face to figure that out. He wears it like a badge of honor. I turn and walk to the end of the hall, feeling his gaze on my back. I resist the urge to turn around again to see if he’s still watching as I walk through the doors.

  The blast of noise masks my entry. I’m surprised to see that the room resembles a modern nightclub, a stark contrast to the revered antiquity of the rest. Music blares and the large dark cavern has colored accent lighting to highlight perimeter areas. Groups of students crowd the edges, either standing in tight circles or sitting together on tufted benches that bend in half circles. There’s a large dance floor in the middle of the room with only four people on it doing something that doesn’t appear to be dancing at all—rigid tight movements that look more like spasms than a dance. None of this is exactly what I expected for a student gathering. Steps lead to another level at one end of the room that overlooks the dance floor and has more students sitting at tables and drinking. Even though there are
several groups standing at arm’s length from me, none move to acknowledge my presence. If I ever felt like an outsider, it’s now, but somehow I must find a way to fit in—and fast. I spot a refreshment table over against the far wall and head for it. I’m halfway across the room when a boy stumbles out of a group and into me. He falls to the floor, nearly taking me with him.

  He rolls over and looks up. “Sorry, friend, I…” His eyes spin and he forgets what he was saying. I reach out a hand to help him up, deciding it will be wise to choose my refreshments carefully.

  “No problem,” I tell him. “It’s dark in here and I probably got in your way.” He laughs, apparently cognizant enough to find humor in the bending of facts in his favor. I pull him to his feet and turn him back in the direction he came from, but as I walk away I notice the music has stopped, the dance floor has cleared, and every face has turned my way, following me as I walk to the refreshment table. I try to pretend I don’t notice. I’m not sure if they’re staring because of the kid who stumbled into me or because I’m a stranger who doesn’t look like the rest of them. Maybe I’m standing out too much.

  Thankfully, when I reach the table the disturbance is forgotten and the music and rumble of conversations resume. I sniff a sweet white liquid that smells safe enough, but I don’t take a chance and pour myself a glass of water instead. Who knows what kinds of banned substances these students have snuck in. I don’t want to end up flat on the floor like the kid I just helped up. I lean against the wall, observing the crowd, and try to casually scour the room for Raine. At first I think she isn’t here, but I finally look up and see her standing on the opposite end of the second level with a small group of friends—and she’s looking straight down at me. It’s the restrained Raine who’s here tonight, her black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her clothing a dull gray from head to toe. But as hard as she tries, she’s not expressionless. I see the bare hint of a condescending gaze. Charm her? Good luck. I smile at her, giving it my best shot. She looks away.