Possession Page 3

  He lay back down, his eyes dancing with amusement.

  “You gonna hog the bed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fine.” I sat with my back against the metal bed frame and flinched when he tousled my hair.

  “Don’t,” I growled.

  “I like it. It’s just like mine. Very posh.”

  “Sure, posh.”

  “Bad,” he said, and I twisted to look at him. He managed to shrug with his arms behind his head. “I like it.”

  I ignored his comment. I’d always longed to be bad, maybe then my mother would have a real reason to hate me, and I wouldn’t feel so bad about myself all the time. But now the thought of really becoming bad scared me more than I wanted to admit.

  “How are we gonna get out of here?” I asked.

  “I think you already know the answer to that.”

  Umm, no, I don’t. That’s why I asked. He didn’t seem troubled by my glare. A superior glint reflected in his eyes.

  “I’m not living here with you for a week,” I said.

  “You can have the bed. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

  The sleeping arrangements were not my main concern. I glanced at the toilet and he laughed. “You can go when they take me to shower.”

  “How often is that?”

  “Every morning.”

  “Great,” I said, turning around and admiring the blank wall three feet in front of me, wondering how long it would take to train my body to use the toilet only once a day.

  The night stretched into eternity. Jag let me have the bed, but he paced back and forth, and the constant squeak of his boots kept me awake. Finally I sat up, and he told me about life in the Badlands. People didn’t have teleporters in every room because they actually walked to their destinations.

  “Really?” I asked. “They walk?”

  “Yes, Vi,” he said. My nickname sounded natural in his voice, like we were old friends or something. “The Baddies don’t have access to your superior tech crap.”

  “I thought that’s why you were here,” I said.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Yeah, but nothing, jerk. You like our superior tech crap.”

  Jag did his annoying shrug. He reached above me to the shelf and pulled down a book. He lifted my legs and slid his underneath, leaned his back against the wall, and trained his eyes on the pages.

  “What’s with the books?” I eyed the two remaining on the shelf.

  “It’s called reading.” He didn’t look up. “Surely you know how to read.”

  “Of course I do. It’s just that we don’t publish books anymore.”

  Jag finally lowered the book, his gaze sharp enough to make me flinch. “But you used to. I requested something to read. This is what they brought me.”

  Maybe they didn’t want him to have access to our tech, didn’t want to give him an e-board. Whatever. He went back to reading while I thought about what he’d said about the Badlands. Such freedom. I envisioned my dad walking wherever he wanted. Without fear. Without that pinched look he got around his eyes when he went out to develop our “superior tech crap.”

  He’d hug me good night—yeah, that broke a rule—wearing his jacket. The shiny black leather made my nose tingle with the smell of polish.

  And I knew.

  He was going into the forest. At night. Two more broken rules.

  Rule-breaking must run in the family, said that voice again, the same voice as in the courtroom. I wished I’d been able to turn and see who it belonged to.

  I hadn’t heard any voices before this. Maybe it was my proximity to the Thinkers. Or maybe my offenses had finally landed me on someone’s to-be-monitored list.

  Maybe the Baddies didn’t abduct Dad after all. Maybe the Greenies . . . This time, the voice was all mine. I shoved the thought aside and told myself to go to sleep. My dad had worked in the tech department, level ten, top secret. He’d developed the highest-class tech in the Goodgrounds.

  He’d had clearance to enter the forest. Anytime he wanted. That’s what he’d told my mother when she asked. That he’d gotten the proper approval, that many of his inventions needed power he could only get when the rest of us were asleep.

  And I’d believed him.

  As I drifted to sleep, I could almost smell the leather of his jacket. Almost feel the gentle press of his embrace.

  Almost, almost. But after seven years, everything about my dad was harder to imagine.

  Waterfalls and rivers and streamlets and the sound of waves on the shore . . .

  I couldn’t keep the images of water out of my head, and I seriously needed to go. Morning had arrived and Jag still hadn’t left to shower.

  The luxuriously warm water of a hot spring called to me.

  “I gotta go!” I sprang up and took the two steps to the toilet. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t go in front of him. He would hear!

  I felt his eyes on my back. Didn’t he need to go? Turning, I saw his playful smile before he wiped it away.

  He closed the book and started banging on the bars with it. “Hey! Get me outta here!”

  Slowly, painfully slowly—so painful and so slow, I thought I might wet myself—the guard sauntered down the hall.

  “I gotta go,” Jag said. “And I’m not goin’ with her here.” He jerked his head toward me.

  My face must have looked absolutely pitiful, because the guard laughed as he unlocked the cell. “You guys working together yet?” He ran a red reader from Jag’s shoulder to his ankle and bound his hands with superior tech crap.

  I stared at the guard. Working together? What did that mean? Jag shrugged and threw me a look that made my heart do a little flop. The guard appraised me for several seconds before escorting Jag down the hall.

  And then I was able to go.

  4.

  The first time I got thrown in Lock Up, my mother came as soon as she got the e-comm. If I’d stayed longer, I might not have been so eager to go back (the getting-puked-on came during my second incarceration). My mother droned on about how embarrassing it was for our family to have a rule-breaker, how my sister, Tyson, hadn’t died so I could be a vagrant, how I was exactly like my father. Blah, blah, blah.

  I was proud of her last argument. I wanted to be like my dad. Maybe not living in the Badlands against my will. But at the time, I thought even that would be better than living in the Goodgrounds according to someone else’s will.

  After the lecture-that-had-no-end, my mother smeared perma-plaster over my link, gunking me up from ear to ear. She dialed in special transmissions for me, ones about lying and stealing. It started because I told her I’d attend this totally lame Goodie party. And I went to a party, just not that one. Instead, I’d snuck down the street and into the Abandoned Area where I’d hidden an old ID card on another . . . questionable trip.

  With the card tucked in my back pocket, I’d snuck to the Central community closest to the Southern Rim. Zenn arrived a few seconds behind me using his older brother’s ID.

  We had a good time. A little too good. On the way back to the teleport pad, I only made it half a block before a red iris recognizer caught my bleary eye. At least all the good citizens were asleep and hadn’t been influenced by my bad choices. Yeah, those were my mother’s words.

  Now, sitting in prison, I reminded myself that it wasn’t my fault Dad had been snatched. It wasn’t my fault Ty died. Disgusted that I’d let my mom get to me, I followed a Mech down the hall without trying anything funny.

  We met a human guard at the entrance to the showers. “Lucky you,” he said. “The guys all shower together.”

  I tried to get that picture out of my mind as I scrubbed my skin in lukewarm water—in a room that wasn’t completely closed off. I kept my eyes toward the doorway and my towel nearby. Maybe now that Jag had specifically pointed out that we didn’t have adequate facilities, I’d get a separate cell.

  The water turned off as I finished rinsing. I toweled my hair, but I had nothing to make it
stand up the way I liked. Jag seemed to get his spiked. Maybe he had something hidden back in his cell.

  Maybe they’d put me in a cell close enough to borrow it.

  Oh, they did. They put me back with Jag.

  The guard threw in another blanket along with a pillow and fixed me with a glare. “Don’t try anything bad.” But he wore a knowing smirk on his face as he shuffled away. Why did I have to share a cell with Jag when the whole ward was empty? They wanted me to break more rules. Well, they weren’t gonna get that.

  Something strange bubbled inside, smoked through my bloodstream. “I’m innocent!” I pressed my face against the bars. The guard turned around, something silver already in his hand.

  I jerked my thumb toward Jag. “He distributed illegal tech. I took a walk in the damn park.” The foreign feeling seethed beneath my tongue, coated my mouth. Rage.

  Jag lay on the bed, a notebook open, his dull pencil hovering in midair. With a curious hint of determination, his eyes warned, Be careful.

  A blue spark caught my attention. A taser filled my view. Then the guard’s cruel grin. “You had a question?”

  He wasn’t any bigger than me, but that was some serious electricity flowing next to some very metal bars. I swallowed. “Um, no.”

  “No, what?” A very unfatherly twinkle resided in his dark, slanted eyes.

  “No, um, sir.”

  “That’s what I thought.” The guard sauntered away, deactivating his taser before stuffing it in his pocket.

  The rage waited, coiled in my toes.

  Jag went back to writing. The scratch of the pencil grated on my already raw nerves. “What are you? Like, a poet or something?”

  He didn’t answer, but I didn’t feel like being ignored. “Where’d you even get that? You’re in the Goodgrounds. We use projection screens and electro-boards.”

  “And you get controlling messages transmitted to your communicators,” he said, still scrawling away. “I think I’ll stick to my notebooks, thanks.”

  If only we could all be so lucky. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”

  He glanced up. I wore the same blue uniform he did. Mine didn’t have my name blinking on the sleeve. I guess they didn’t think I was worth it for only a week. At least I still had my own shoes, and I slipped them on so no one could take them without a swift kick.

  “I’ve been here awhile.”

  “So? That means you get to have notebooks and hair products?”

  Jag watched me intently, and my heart did that annoying flop again. Something passed between us, a feeling so strong, certainly he noticed it too.

  “Yeah,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. Determined not to look away first, I waited for him to say more. He didn’t.

  “Well, then can I borrow your gel?” I asked, spreading the blanket on the concrete.

  “Sure.” He plucked the tube of green gel from beside him and tossed it to me.

  It smelled like guy. Like spicy aftershave or musky something or other. Maybe pine needles. I cringed.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “This reeks.”

  “What does it smell like?”

  “Like a guy,” I said. “I don’t want to smell like a boy.”

  “Fine.” He snatched the tube back.

  Smelling like guy was better than flat hair, and I decided to apologize. Spiking, coloring, and cutting my hair were the only outward gestures that showed my blatant distaste for the rules. My hair was all I had, even if it wasn’t technically against the rules to have bluish-black hair. Yet.

  “You know, I could show you how to make it cooler.” He studied the tube of gel like it was the most fascinating thing on earth.

  “What? My hair?” I followed his long fingers as he tightened the lid. He caught me looking, and raised his eyebrows. I shrugged like I didn’t give a damn about the gel. Jag didn’t buy it.

  He made me kneel on the bed and look in the scrap of a mirror hanging above it. Then he stood on the bed behind me. His breath tickled the back of my neck and his hands lingered just above my hair, his fingers almost touching my scalp.

  A loud hiss echoed in my head. Don’t let him touch you! It sounded parental, demanding.

  I deliberately didn’t move. Hardly breathed. That Thinker couldn’t make me follow his rules anymore. I waited.

  Jag hesitated. I met his eye, and we breathed in together.

  Then his fingers landed against my skin. I jumped. “That’s cold!”

  He concentrated as he pulled the spikes into place, a tiny crease appearing in his forehead. After he finished, he kept his fingers in my hair, his eyes down.

  “Are you done?” My hair looked better than ever.

  He hopped off the bed, wiped his hands through his hair and then on his pants. “You clean up nice.”

  “Prison clothes and a two-minute shower in freezing water. You must be joking.”

  He shrugged. Something lurked behind that signature gesture, but he wasn’t sharing.

  I pulled the covers down and stretched out in the bed. “I’m taking a nap. You can have the bed tonight.”

  “Nice,” he said as he settled on my blanket and pillow, pulling the notebook over from where it had fallen on the floor.

  I tried to get the feel of his hands in my hair and the image of his straight, white teeth out of my head while I fell asleep.

  Yeah, that didn’t work.

  5.

  I don’t dream. At least I didn’t used to. But now my sister, Tyson, walked next to me, her green eyes sparkling from something I’d said. She always understood my jokes, just like I loved seeing her new inventions. Her honey-blond hair fell over her shoulder as she bent over something at the water’s edge.

  “It worked,” she said.

  “What did?”

  She sat back on her heels, something gripped in her hand. “I saw this in a dream. It increases algae production.” She held the piece of tech at arm’s length, like it might bite her. Something dark crossed her face. Finally she dropped the device back in the lake. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” She stood and wiped her hands on her jeans.

  “Tell them what?” I asked.

  Ty’s laughter infused my soul with joy. I tried to hold on to it, because I knew she was gone. The sound floated away, replaced by another voice.

  My mother. Blaming me for Ty’s death. She blamed me for everything.

  “Vi?” Jag’s voice interrupted my semiconscious memory. I opened my eyes and found him inches from me. Ty’s image faded, and anger surfaced at losing her. Again.

  I jerked back. “Why are you right in my face?”

  He stepped away, and I pulled the blanket up to my chin.

  “You were thrashing and calling out,” he murmured.

  I hoped I hadn’t said anything embarrassing or revealed something I didn’t want him to know—which was pretty much everything.

  He reached out to touch me but stopped. “You said something about Ty. Who’s that?”

  “No one,” I snapped, sitting up. My sister reminded me of happier times. A life I couldn’t get back. I kicked the blankets off and stood up. I had to get out of the cell, but there was nowhere to go.

  “Sorry, I just—”

  “I said no one. I don’t want to talk about it.” I glared at him until he sank onto the closed toilet seat.

  “And I said I was sorry.” His eyes tightened and he held out his notebook. “I wrote something I want you to read and take to a friend of mine in the Badlands.”

  I ignored him. The cell seemed much smaller than it had a few hours ago. The walls pressed closer, smothering me. One wall flickered and moved a tiny bit. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was programmed to shift, a control tactic to mess with my mind.

  I could reach out and take the notebook from him without even taking a step. He shook it, rattling the pages. The sound set my already frayed nerves on edge.

  “I don’t want to be your messenger,” I said.

  “You’ve
got to stop attacking me. We have to live here together.”

  “Like hell we do.” Maybe if I caused enough trouble, I’d get my own cell. Isn’t that what They wanted? More trouble?

  I turned and started banging on the bars. “Let me out! I gotta go!”

  A Mech whirred down the hall with a guard, and together they cuffed me before taking me to the bathroom. I took a long time washing my hands, using the hottest water possible and three doses of stinky prison soap. The plastic started to wilt, and I pulled my hands apart hard. Please, please break.

  As soon as I thought it, the tech popped with electricity. Shock waves splintered up my arms, and I stifled a cry. I dunked my hands under the faucet and yanked harder. With more soap, the cuffs slid easier. The thin electrodes seemed to stretch in the heat and suds.

  Someone banged on the door. Tears leaked down my cheeks. I was so close! I imagined the tech broken, lying limply in the sink.

  The metal fibers cutting into my wrists broke, sending a spray of scalding water in my face. Blood dripped from my arms and I hurried to press hydro-dryers onto them. But HD’s are made to absorb water for recycling, and the blood merely congealed on contact. Some of it plopped on the counter and bounced.

  “Just a minute!” I called.

  Just as I’d imagined, the defeated tech sat in the sink. I swept it into the garbage can with the jiggly blood. I hastily wiped my wrists on the inside of my shirt. When the bleeding stopped, I laced my fingers in front of my body before pushing the door open with my foot.

  The Mech waited next to the door, but the guard stood down the hall, talking with another man—the bald Greenie from the hearing. This was so not going to work. Not with mind-reading Baldie here.

  The Mech whirred toward the cell, stopping next to the two men. I continued past them without glancing over. I focused on taking one step at a time, thinking that I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  I waited outside the cell, the air too thick to enter my lungs. Keep talking, I thought. I’ll wait.

  The murmur of Baldie’s voice wafted down the corridor. I relaxed enough to inhale.