Fox Forever (Jenna Fox Chronicles #3) Page 3

  “He’ll do a background check on you, and given enough time and enough digging, he’ll figure out you’re a fake, but before he digs too deep, you’re going to find what we need. That’s why we have to get you in and out as fast as we can.”

  We can hope.

  He reaches for my pack resting on the edge of the desk. I put my hand out to stop him. I may be on his “team,” but I still guard my own space.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Just a few things. Personal things.”

  “We need to know.”

  I hesitate and then reluctantly dump it out. My dad always told me, Save your battles for the big ones. This isn’t a big one. My few possessions tumble across the desk. Protein cakes. Water. The crumpled tissue and pit from the chocolate peach Allys gave me. The Swiss knife Miesha sent along with me. My phone tab. The green eye of Liberty. Kayla’s one-eyed elephant that she had insisted I take along.

  Xavier walks closer to take a look. “A stuffed elephant?”

  “A farewell gift from a four-year-old.”

  He smirks and I think I’m going to smash his teeth in right there but then he catches sight of something else on the desk that interests him more. “Where’d you get that knife?”

  “Miesha gave it to me. It used to belong to—”

  “I know who it belonged to.”

  Carver picks up the knife and looks it over. “It’s the one Karden left at my house the day before he disappeared. He came over while I was gone, and forgot it there. I gave it back to Miesha when she got out of prison.” He runs his thumb over the red enameled casing. “It’s a crude tool. An older model at that. I don’t know why Karden was so attached to it.”

  “His father gave it to him,” Xavier says.

  “It’s come in handy for me,” I add, without going into details of amputated CabBot fingers.

  Carver rolls his eyes. “You can keep it. Just say your dad gave it to you if someone sees it.” He picks up the phone tab. “But this has to go.”

  I argue bitterly with him. This is a battle worth taking on. It’s my only connection to Jenna and Miesha. I promised them I would stay in touch. He concedes one last phone call to them when I say they’ll show up in Boston if they don’t hear anything from me—but one call and that’s it. He doesn’t budge on the fact that it must go. “No past connections. I told you. We can’t afford one slip. Besides, this will peg you as a Non-pact. Only the poor use phone tabs. We have an iScroll for you. Here, give me your hand.”

  I never thought I’d get another iScroll. My hand is healed where the last one was slashed away. This tattoo is a different color than the last, a swirl of blue and silver. They teach me the basics. One light swipe across the tattoo with a finger to bring up the Assistant. Two swipes and he’s a three-dimensional hologram in my palm. Three swipes and he’s life-sized. The Assistant can connect me with anyone of my choosing within the allowed directory. For communications, they’ve already disallowed anyone outside a two-hundred-kilometer radius. This is how they will contact me most of the time.

  He allows me to keep the eye of Liberty. Of course, only because I tell him it’s just a talisman, a bit of green sea glass I picked up in California, which it is, even if it means more to me than that. “Sea glass is pretty rare these days, but you can say you picked it up at an antique store. Go ahead, keep it.” Like it’s a favor.

  When the grand inquisition is over, they allow me to go into the bedroom to make a last call to California before they confiscate my phone tab. I only get to talk to Miesha. Jenna is putting Kayla to bed.

  “Everything okay?” Miesha asks.

  “Yeah. Fine.” My heart pounds knowing what I do about Karden, but I can’t tell her. It would be too cruel to give her hope if it does turn out to be just a rumor. Or worse, what if he did just take off with the money and leave her to rot in prison? I can’t get that possibility out of my mind. And even if he is alive, we may not be able to find him. She lost him once. I can’t let her lose him twice.

  “You don’t sound fine. You want me to come out there?”

  “No! I mean, no, that’s what I need to tell you. This Favor requires that I lie low for a while. I won’t be able to call. Maybe not for a month—”

  “What?”

  “Don’t shout, Miesha!”

  “I think I should come out there. I don’t like the way—”

  “Miesha, stop. I’m not a kid. I’m way older than you, remember?” I laugh, but it comes out forced.

  I hear her grunt. She knows she’s powerless right now and would do me no good here anyway. She’s weak and still recovering from being hit with Gatsbro’s tazegun.

  “Tell Jenna,” I say. Silence slips between us. Only with Miesha can it mean so much. “Is she all right?” I finally add, almost hoping the answer is no.

  “Jenna’s fine, Locke. Fine.”

  I’ve always hated that word.

  More silence and a knock on my bedroom door.

  “I have to go, Miesha.”

  She hates good-byes more than I do. “Remember Dot,” she says. “If you get a chance, that is. And you’re in a Cab. And—”

  “Got it. Dot.” She didn’t need to remind me. I would never forget Dot. Our words dwindle away but the word good-bye never passes over our lips. We both need practice at that.

  I walk to the door to go back out with the others but pause instead, leaning my head against the cool slick wood, looking at my feet, my hands against the door like I’m holding the world out. Maybe I am for just a few minutes. I see my mother, my father, my old bedroom, a quick flash. A letter fading on granite.

  Locke. The sound of my name on their lips. Good-bye.

  “Locke?”

  “Coming,” I call and step into the bathroom and turn on the water.

  I splash water on my face and when I come out of the room, Carver is standing at the door ready to leave. “Xavier will wrap up a few more things with you. Stay put. We’ll see you in—” He stops, spotting my coat lying on the back of a chair. He shakes his head. “Almost missed that.” He snatches it up in his hand and leaves.

  I don’t say anything. I know. It might peg me as a Non-pact, but the coat is almost the hardest thing to give up. I remember Allys frowning the first time she saw me in it. Some people wear them for protection, others with purpose.… You wear yours like you own the planet. That’s how it made me feel. It felt like armor, like I was through apologizing for being different from everyone else. Like I was claiming my rightful place in this world.

  “Over here, kid.”

  Xavier shows me the code to lock the door if I leave. “But don’t leave. Not yet. You can use your iScroll to enter the code too.”

  “From how far away?”

  “The moon. Forget to feed the cat, you can let someone in wherever you are. But don’t. Carver, Livvy, and I have the code. That’s it. Not even your Assistant can save it. You have to keep it up here.” He taps his finger on his temple. “If anyone else other than us tries to come through that door, you toast ’em.”

  Does he think I have special frying abilities? That I’m more Bot than I am human? I could argue the point with him, but I don’t.

  “What do you need in Manchester?” he asks.

  His question catches me off guard. “Need?”

  “Carver gave you his word. There are plenty of people who will do whatever you ask, just so you get this job done. We need all of your concentration here. So what do you need there?”

  Assurance. And I’m not sure I want that task left to some Non-pacts who can barely read. A flash of guilt hits me. I remember the line of land pirates armed with rifles who showed up to drive off Gatsbro and his goons. They saved my neck. “There are labs in Manchester. I need to know what’s stored there.” I tell him about Gatsbro Technologies. “Kara and I sat on a storage shelf for 260 years because no one knew there were copies of us there. I need to know with certainty that there aren’t more copies of us waiting for someone to come.”

>   “And if there are?”

  If there are. I haven’t devised a plan beyond knowing. “If there are—”

  What? What do I do then? I stare at his scar where it intersects the corner of his lip, the dip, the crease, where whole meets wreckage, staring at skin, pores, division. I feel myself slipping for the first time in weeks. If there are. Would that Kara be different? Would that Locke be different? Would I be a better or worse version of myself? I pull myself out of those dark endless hallways before I have gone too far, snapping my gaze from his scar to his eyes. “If there are … bring them to me.”

  “Done. Now get some rest. You do rest, don’t you? We’ll be back early. The pantry’s stocked.” He grabs his coat and heads for the door.

  “Wait.”

  He turns to look at me, heaving his body so it’s one big sigh like I’m keeping him from brain surgery.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I rest. I rest just like anyone else.”

  He shakes his head. The corner of his mouth pulls into a grin. “You’re an easy mark, kid.”

  “My name’s Locke.”

  “And my name’s Xavier. You gotta problem with that?”

  Touché. I could almost like this guy if he wasn’t such a jerk.

  “That it?” he asks.

  “No. Carver said you’d explain how all this would get me into the Secretary’s house.”

  “Oh, yeah. That.” He smiles. “File Fifty-two.” He points to the desk. “You better start crankin’ up that charm. You’ve got a long ways to go.”

  He leaves without further explanation and I go straight to the desk and bring up File Fifty-two and read it. No wonder they both left before I could look at it.

  The In

  File 52

  Raine Branson (pronounced: rayn)

  Age: 17

  I stare at the girl I’m supposed to abduct. When I agreed to a favor, I never agreed to this, but there’s no turning back now. Of course kidnapping is Plan B. Only if the first plan fails. I guess I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t. I quickly flip through the holograms. One image is pretty much like the next. Her expression doesn’t change. Grim. Bored. It’s hard to tell what’s going on in her head, but smiling isn’t part of her repertoire. Every hair is smoothed into place and pulled back into a long ponytail tied at the base of her neck. Utilitarian. Jet black and severe. The Secretary’s daughter.

  There are ten images but nearly all are the same. Same hair, same range of expression. Zero. I go through them again, this time slower, examining her features more closely. I’m looking at the fourth image, a full frontal view, her lips slightly parted like she’s about to speak, when I stop and turn my attention to my arms, a prickling sensation shooting through them. I watch one arm as the hairs on it literally rise before my eyes. This has never happened to me before. It’s like the BioPerfect has suddenly found this long dormant animal response and is testing it. I’m almost fascinated by this beastly reaction but in the next second my stomach clenches and a flash of heat hits me. My heart pounds. I look back at her image. Sweat beads on my forehead. This is insane. Something isn’t right.

  Something isn’t right about her.

  I stand up and walk away from the desk, pacing the room, trying to shake off the alarms I don’t understand. Is my body telling me something before my mind has put it together? The alarms subside. Was it just a random hiccup in my BioPerfect? I return to the desk and increase the image size. I look into her blank eyes, just inches from mine. Her irises are large and dark, such a deep dark brown I can barely see her pupils. But I do. They’re pinpoints, tight and guarded, on alert, belying her bored expression. What’s she hiding? But her face reveals nothing else. She’s had practice at this. Is that what disturbed me?

  I look back through the file. The information is sparse.

  Mother: deceased

  At least we have something in common.

  Schooling: The Virtual Collective

  Not a clue. I swipe my iScroll and the Assistant appears. “What’s a virtual collective?”

  “To activate, please give Assistant a user name.”

  A name? But then I remember having to give my boxing instructor a name with my last iScroll. “Percel,” I say.

  “Welcome to the Assistant, sir.”

  “Locke. My name is Locke.”

  “How can I be of service, Locke?”

  I repeat my question for him.

  “The Virtual Collective is a state-approved educational program.”

  “What does the program do?”

  “It provides guidelines and requirements for students who are in independent study programs.”

  “So they don’t go to an actual school?”

  “An actual school, sir?”

  “You know, walls, bells, lockers, detention, that sort of thing? Real people seeing one another face-to-face?”

  “Anchored Educational Systems exist within walled units for students who prefer that structure. No matches for the bells, lockers, and detention portion of your inquiry.”

  “Thank you, Percel. That’s all.” He blinks and disappears back into my palm.

  So, she doesn’t go to school. She’s isolated. Is that why she’s bored? I read more of the file.

  Interests: Fencing. Chess. Bonsai.

  Bonsai? Seriously? Having an odd interest is one thing, but something doesn’t ring true about having three. She’s seventeen years old. Girls couldn’t have changed that much in 260 years. Those all sound like old man hobbies.

  Objective: Ingratiate yourself with Raine and her friends

  They really have a way with words. And she has friends? That’s a surprise. Or are they all virtual? What kind of life does she lead?

  First Meeting: 09/19/21

  I push away from the desk and walk to the window. So this is my in with Secretary Branson? Get in good with his daughter and her friends so I’m invited over? Carver and Xavier couldn’t do better than that? And our first meeting is two weeks away? How’s that going to happen if she doesn’t even go to school?

  I turn and look back at her image. I zoom in on her mouth, poised to speak, and I try to imagine what she’s about to say. I follow the lines of her lips, the curves, looking for a clue, and my pulse begins to race again. There’s something disturbingly familiar about her, but that’s impossible. I’m certain I’ve never laid eyes on her before. Yeah, something isn’t right.

  Especially around her, I’ll need to watch my back.

  Training

  The next day goes by in a regimented blur. Xavier, Carver, and Livvy arrive early. They take turns with my training. Carver tests me on my background, asking me detailed questions about my “father” and the places he’s been assigned. Next, Xavier brings up Vgrams of each city where I’ve supposedly lived: Paris, Hamburg, Milan, Sydney, and half a dozen more. I’m apparently well-traveled. I walk virtual streets, climb stairs to apartments, memorize addresses, learn transportation routes, visit local bistros, and shop in the marketplaces. Every city is different, but by the eighth one, they all begin to look alike and we start over.

  “Didn’t I do anything for fun?”

  “No.”

  After a second review of my newly created past life, Livvy takes over. She drills me on the staff who work for Secretary Branson, both at his office and at his residence. His right-hand man is a fellow named LeGru. She tells me to watch out for him. He’s often seen at Branson’s house. The home staff is minimal according to Livvy. Three full-time employees for one apartment hardly sound minimal to me. Dorian is the household manager and cook. Jory is the all-around maintenance person, and Hap is the personal assistant to Raine Branson. Her own full-time personal assistant? I roll my eyes at this piece of information. Even Jenna and Kara weren’t that spoiled. Livvy reviews the layout of the house again, at least as they currently know it, and which rooms they suspect might be Secretary Branson’s office. The apartment occupies the whole of the eighth and ninth floors. Most of the living quarters are on the ninth f
loor. Above that is a rooftop garden.

  “Raine dabbles in bonsai and is sometimes seen up there.”

  They’re watching her. Watching everything. I find it unsettling that this girl has become a target just by virtue of being the Secretary’s daughter. As Livvy finishes up with a few last details about the guard who works the front desk of the Tudor Apartments, I hear Xavier and Carver speaking in strained hushed tones in the next room. I try to listen but Livvy speaks louder, like she’s trying to mask their voices.

  “Any questions, Locke?” she asks, demanding that I become engaged in our conversation.

  “They’re arguing,” I say.

  She shrugs and whisks some V-files back into their folders. “What else is new? It’s nothing for you to be concerned with.”

  But I am. “Not a good sign for two guys on the same team.”

  “Their differences are smaller than their mutual goal. That’s all that matters.” She stands. “Come on. It’s time for Mother and Son to go for a walk in the city. You need to be up to date on that too. We can’t have you gawking at changes like you’re an alien who’s just landed.”

  As far as I know, no real alien life has landed, so I’ll assume she means that figuratively, but I can’t help but feel there’s some hint of implication in her remark too. “What about your health? According to the files, you aren’t well.”

  “According to the files, I’m also rich. I guess for now, we’ll have to ignore the files because I guarantee neither one of us will be spending any money.”

  As we leave, Carver and Xavier are hunched over large sheets of yellowed paper, running their fingers along faint lines I can barely see from across the room. It looks like they’re viewing maps or very old architectural drawings. They both shoot us dark glances while they bring their voices down to barely mumbled whispers. But I can still see their lips.