World Of Shell And Bone Page 9

  “No,” he says. “I wouldn’t be part of a group such as that. But still, wouldn’t you be more comfortable here, safe in your own home?”

  I shake my head and begin to button up my uniform top, because I don’t know how to explain that there is no such thing as safety, no matter where you are. Safety is the cleverest illusion New Amana perpetrates. It is the rabbit pulled out of a black hat that, when you’re looking away, morphs into a rabid wolf.

  We take a night bus to the heart of the city, and then hop another bus from there to the outskirts of town. At this time of night, the only other passengers are young boys being ferried to and from the Husbandry and a few female night-shift workers. A single light flickers overhead, casting shadows on their sallow faces. I look out the windows, but the sky is obscured by fog. When I search for the stars and the planets, all I can see are my own eyes, staring hollowly back at me.

  At our stop, Shale grabs my hand. We push through the murky night in a deserted ghost town for about twenty minutes. I see glowing eyes staring at us from hazy corners—scavenger animals, the few left. Finally, when my shirt is plastered against my back like a second skin, Shale turns into an apartment building that likely housed people once. Now, the place stands dark and rotten, and the perfume of decay clings to my hair.

  Shale knocks on a warped door and stands back, prodding me behind him. “It’s better if they see me first,” he says. “Since they don’t know you.”

  The door opens just a crack and someone says, “Password.”

  “Charlie Sigma Oh One,” Shale replies.

  The door opens wider, and the man steps out. He’s dressed in the Rads’ black uniform, a black bandanna around his mop of curly hair. He thrusts his chin at me. “Who’s the cunt?”

  “Watch the language,” Shale snaps. And then, “This is Vika Cannon.”

  The man’s eyes widen. “Your female? No shit. Come in, then. Tomas will wanna see this.”

  When we enter, I stand still a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust to what is all around me. The most taboo of le marché noir material is slathered on the walls. Twentieth century-style posters of women in compromising positions and skimpy outfits are everywhere. I don’t know where to look.

  But I forget my embarrassment, my fear, even Ceres, when I see who’s sitting on a chair, staring right at me.

  Mica.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  The world falls away and all I can see is the face of my big brother. I hadn’t really expected Mica to still be alive, let alone sitting in collusion with a group like the Rads.

  “I know you’re surprised to see me,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to your house the other night. Shale tells me you were worried.”

  I seek out Shale, the faint beginnings of a headache thrumming behind my eyes. “You knew he was here?”

  “I helped him get here.” Shale puts his hand on my arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  I don’t respond. Anger is like a fist in my gut. Surrounded by these girlie pictures and men who keep things from me, I wonder if my loyalty is misplaced. But then I get a hold of myself. This is about Ceres and those other children, not about me.

  “Your building wasn’t safe for me that night,” Mica continues. “But Shale found me in the alley later on. He brought me here to keep me safe.”

  There’s a pause. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?” I ask.

  “You’ve always been Ceres’s little mother. You weren’t right after she left. I can imagine what you’re doing here.” Mica’s face is impassive, his eyes hollow. I wonder if he “isn’t right” anymore, either. He’s suffered losses, too, but without the benefit of being treated like a first-class citizen. New Amana has a way of chewing on people. It swallows their souls and spits out the husks. The streets are littered with them.

  “Where’s Tomas?” Shale asks the Rad who let us in.

  He gestures for us to follow him and leads us through a doorway into another room. A man with skin a shade darker than mine and a black beard streaked with silver sits at a computer terminal, staring at a diagram. He turns when we enter, and I notice a jagged scar running from his left cheekbone to his left eyebrow.

  “Shale,” he says, his voice scratchy. “And who’s this?”

  “Vika Cannon.” I step forward, my hand extended, but the man just grins at me. I can see hostility and suspicion right behind his smile. I let my hand drop.

  “Vika Cannon,” he echoes. “First daughter of the famous Mathilde Cannon, the mother of the Asylum project.”

  I stare at him for a long moment. “The Asylum project was in place long before my mother came along.”

  “Is that what she told you?” His grin widens. “Mathilde is right, in a fashion—the Asylum project has been here in different forms for centuries. But it was she who refined it, who proposed guidelines for the collection of the Défectueux. She’s credited with having coined the term, though that’s disputed. Funny how two of three of her children now qualify for the title.”

  My mother, responsible for the Asylum project? Is that why she defends it so ardently? Why she gave up Ceres and then Mica without a second thought?

  And what does it say about me, that I lived with her for seventeen years and didn’t see what was right in front of me?

  Tomas stands up and I feel the man who led us to him stiffen behind me, as if awaiting an order. A cold sweat prickles at my upper lip.

  Shale speaks. “Vika is nothing like her mother. She has pledged her help. In fact, it’s because of her quick thinking that I have important information on our contact at the Code Agency.”

  Tomas looks at him, waiting for him to explain further.

  Shale goes through how I went to the record office and found Luna there instead of Celeste. “I spoke with Drew last night”—I wonder at the Rads having names from Before; did they choose different names than the ones they were born with to show their dissidence?—”and he assured me he’d get the message to Celeste. The mission could’ve been compromised.”

  Tomas stares at Shale for a long moment. “Drew told you he’d get word to Celeste and then failed to notify you that she wasn’t at her post anymore?”

  “That’s right.”

  Tomas turns and begins to rummage in the desk drawer. After a few moments, he pulls out a gun. It is a black snake with its mouth open, fangs dripping drops of clear, potent poison.”Follow me.”

  Tomas rushes through the doorway into another room, a small kitchenette.

  A youngish man with a long, curving braid sits at a card table, a small tumbler filled with amber liquid in front of him. I notice that the bridge of his nose is crooked in several places, as if he makes a habit of breaking it. He looks up and grins the wide-open grin of the inebriated. “Heyyy Shale.” His gaze roves over me slowly, making me feel unclothed. I suppress a shudder, crossing my arms over my chest without it being a conscious thought.

  Tomas strides up to him and without preamble, puts the gun muzzle to his knee. “What the fuck did you do now, Drew?”

  Fear prickles at the back of my neck. I glance at Shale, but he looks at me and gives an almost-imperceptible shake of his head. Even Shale’s courage dissipates under the leaden glare of a gun.

  Drew goes still, his eyes dropping to Tomas’s hand as he absorbs the meaning of the hard metal pressing into his skin. “To-Tomas man, I don’t know what you’re talking about, m-man.”

  “No?” Tomas puts on a pensive expression. “Strange. You were in charge of setting it up so Shale could get records from Celeste. Isn’t that right? And how’d that go?”

  The man’s eyes widen, and I can tell fear has him fully in its grip. He must realize he never contacted Celeste. That he erred in a big way. “I’m s-sorry, man. I completely forgot—”

  Tomas pulls the trigger. I inhale a piercing, scorching sort of fragrance, and then Drew screams, the sound high and insistent, like an animal squealing for its life.

  “Maybe this will
help you remember next time,” Tomas says. “Tony! Come get this son of a bitch cleaned up.”

  The man who opened the door for us comes running in, wraps his arms around Drew, and drags him out. The wounded man sobs, I suspect, without quite being aware that he is doing it. His leg leaves behind enormous puddles of blood.

  Tomas turns to us once the noise recedes, unperturbed that he has most likely sentenced Drew to a slow and agonizing death. “So, let’s talk business. I’m not sure what’s going on with this Celeste bitch, but I can find out. Far as I know, the mission hasn’t been compromised. For the time being, let’s talk as if we’re still on to get that information.”

  Shale nods.

  “I think we’re going to have to brute-force our way into the records room. Now, we know from the plans there’s a window—”

  “But we saw before that it’s too high and far too narrow.”

  “Then we’ll have to find someone who’ll fit.” Tomas stops to think for a moment. “It’ll come to me.”

  I shake my head. “Shale’s right. I’ve been in there; that window is only wide enough to fit a child.”

  “Okay.” Tomas takes a deep breath. I can see he’s not one to be stymied. “Well then, we’ll just have to force open the door.”

  “And cameras.” Shale turns to me. “There are cameras in the main building, facing the entrance. I’ve seen them when we went in to the Match Clinic. Do they have them in the basement as well?”

  I shake my head, impressed at how quickly they’re able to change and adapt their plans.

  Shale rubs his jaw, his stubble making a critch critch noise that’s much too loud in the small kitchenette. I want to whisk away from this toxic place before Tomas’s gun strikes again. Life’s fragility stares at me with breathless impatience.

  “We can steal an entry key, or if Vika’s still willing to give us hers…” Shale looks at me.

  “I’ll do better than that,” I answer quickly, simply to bring this conversation to its conclusion. “I’ll get those files for you from the record room.”

  “How?” Shale frowns. “I thought you didn’t have a key.”

  “I don’t. But I might have a plan.”

  And I tell them what I have in mind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The hours tear by as if infused with adrenaline. The sun pours over the sky, staining it a bright and brutal red. I get dressed and head out to the living room. Shale has his diagrams spread out on the coffee table.

  He smiles when he sees me, but it’s forced. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” I sit by him. “You don’t look like you got much sleep.”

  Shale squeezes my hand briefly. Before I can react, his fingers are back on the sheaf of papers. “I didn’t. I’m a little worried about this plan. I’ve been trying to come up with an alternative.”

  “You have to trust me. I can take care of this.”

  “People much more seasoned than you get caught only too frequently.”

  “Well, I’m not going to. No one knows I’m involved in this.” I get off the sofa.

  Before I even fully realize what’s happening, Shale stands and turns toward me, his body less than an inch away from mine. His clean masculine scent wraps itself around me, and his eyes hold mine with a vehemence that leaves me reeling. “Take care of yourself, Vika.”

  “I will,” I whisper. My brain can’t seem to disentangle itself from the emotions leaping through my veins. “I’ll be home shortly.”

  And then I leave.

  Thanks to the early hour, only a few workers are at their desks, dotting the room like green bees. I take a deep breath and knock on the door to my boss’s office. I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times since I began working at BoTA, but there is no other way. She is one of the few people who has a key to the records room.

  When the door opens, I stand there a moment, wondering if I’ve made a mistake. Moon stares at me, a smile dripping with spiteful glee on her face.

  “Vika,” she says. “What a surprise.” She steps aside so I can go in.

  “Yes, well…likewise.” I look from Miss Adams to Moon, trying to discern why on earth they are meeting before work hours. My heart trips over itself, scrambles back to its feet. Something like fear coats my throat, but I’m not completely sure why.

  “May I have a word with you, Miss Adams?”

  The woman nods curtly, the sharp ends of her bobbed hair brushing her jaw. Moon rises to her feet. “I’ll see you out there,” she says, still smiling that strange smile.

  When the door is shut behind her, Miss Adams gestures to the chair Moon vacated. “Have a seat.”

  Knocked off-kilter by this encounter, I sit, unable to recall the exact story I’d concocted in order to set the Rads’ plan into motion.

  “Moon is a rather interesting woman,” Miss Adams says, peering at me over the rim of her spectacles. “You can never tell which way the loyalties of a zero lie.”

  My fingers fly to my own zero armband before I can stop them.

  “Your circumstances are a bit different, Vika,” she continues. “Not only are you from a respectable mother, you’re also Matched now. Moon isn’t yet of age. She must be watched closely.” She pauses. “And she is.”

  I nod, unsure of the direction this conversation is taking.

  “Have you noticed anything worth talking about lately? Regarding Moon?”

  The metronome movement of her pencil as she flicks it to and fro has me mesmerized. There is only it and me in this moment, suspended in space.

  “No,” I say at last. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Hmm.” She pinches the corners of her lips together, and a crater-deep dimple sprouts on her cheek.

  “Miss Adams, there’s something else I need to speak with you about. The performance reports…have you heard the latest?” The words emerge from within me without conscious thought. I hold on to the sides of my chair. Abandon is a sort of madness.

  The pencil freezes. “No. What’s being said?”

  The bosses are like nannies appointed by the government. They make sure we, the workers, behave. But performance reports even out the balance of power a little. I’ve wondered before if the government does it on purpose, for the pleasure of watching their nannies perspire and their workers hoard secrets for a fleeting moment.

  I clear my throat. “I think there was someone from the Assessments office in the washroom at the same time I was. She was having a conversation with her colleague about how BoTA’s been lacking lately.” Workers often get nuggets of information, passed on like a poisoned crumb from ant colony to ant colony, until we are all infected and our bosses have us working around the clock till the performance reports are in.

  Miss Adams straightens, her face burnished to a deep scarlet. “Lacking in what way?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all I was able to glean before they left.” I glance over my shoulder at the door. “I heard they were going to be filing a copy of the report yesterday evening.”

  “In the records room?”

  “Yes.” If this were true, it would mean Miss Adams hadn’t been notified that an assessment had been conducted. And a secret performance assessment could mean a number of unpleasant things, including that a Spark had reported Miss Adams for terrorism.

  Her face is already on the pale end of the spectrum, but Miss Adams blanches. We hold each other’s gaze for a minute before she says, “That will be all, Vika. You may go.”

  I know it is crucial I don’t say anything else now. There is a delicate balance between planting the nascent seed of doubt and burying it so deep it doesn’t have a chance of sprouting.

  I return to my desk to wait and watch.

  Moon seems to be deep in concentration over whatever is on her computer screen. I turn on mine and begin transcribing notes.

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” she says after a few moments of silence.

  I look at her but she’s still staring straight ahead. “I’m not tryi
ng to do anything.”

  She chuckles, the sound like dry grass hissing underfoot. “Don’t be shy, Vika. At least you’re not as feeble as I’d imagined. You’ll make a good adversary.”

  I don’t respond. Having Moon watching my every move could mean disaster for the mission. But there is nothing to be done about it now. Bad luck seems to follow me, a hooded creature intent on my demise.

  At forty past eleven, just when I am beginning to despair, Miss Adams slips out of her office. I am quick to avert my eyes, and after a visual sweep of the room, she heads out into the hallway. I wait a full minute before I follow her. Moon doesn’t seem to notice my departure, for once.

  There are a few other people milling about, so I keep a couple of them ahead of me as buffers, in case Miss Adams turns around. But she’s intent on her destination and doesn’t check once. We twist lower and lower, corkscrewing into the innards of the building, our rubber boots shuffling on the cement stairs.

  I wait at the bottom of the stairs while Miss Adams opens the records room door and disappears inside. There’s no one else in the hallway, so I have an unencumbered view. Now I just stand here and wait.

  After a moment, she comes back out, a confused look on her face. She turns left instead of coming toward me, and at the end of the hallway, opens the back door to the alley. When the door closes behind her, I hurry into the records room.

  Some of the boxes have been pulled out, like Miss Adams had been rummaging for the report. I look at the labels, and decide the blueprint to the Asylum is probably filed under “structures.” The bus schedule gives me more problems because it takes me much longer than I’d anticipated to find the travel folder.

  I’m going through the last box, palms damp and brow furrowed, when I hear the back door swing open. I rummage faster. Just as Miss Adams gets close enough for me to hear her footsteps, my fingers brush against the schedule. I gather it into my arms and dart behind a shelf close to the door.