Coda (7 page)

“I know. Come on, princess, let’s go find something to do.” I’m still holding on to her, my thumb against the tiny area of skin over her ID chip. She frowns when I let go and stand up.

We leave the park, and I hide my shaking hands in my pockets. I need to get to a console soon.

I glance at her face. I can wait.

The streets this far north are lined with stores, faces of steel and neon beckoning, a mobile rainbow brighter than the sun. Haven would probably go in if she were alone and spend credits on outfits
of latex and lace that would make me want to blind every man who could see her.

She leads me into a dusty, hushed library. Everything in here is old. Few new books have been printed since before the war; the ones that have been are Corp manuals. There’s enough here for anyone’s lifetime, especially mine. When I was younger, I wondered why the Corp let us have books. In my mother’s last months, she finally told me. I guess by then she had nothing to lose.

Neither does the Corp. Relics of the past aren’t indulgences or evidence of generosity, they’re reminders. Warnings. Look, they say. Look at how the society that produced these things ended. The lessons, virtues, morals, and freedom they teach are something to fear, not covet.

An hour is lost in brittle pages: Haven finds the funny stuff she likes while I rifle through novels for mentions of music overlooked in the cull.

I creep up behind her. She’s somewhere else, head bowed, submerged in an old world.

“I should go home,” I whisper.

The book hits the floor with a heavy thump and a cloud of dust. “You ass!” She wheels around. “You did that on purpose.”

“Yeah.”

All the way downstairs, she tries not to smile. The doors slide open and noise floods in, too loud after the reverential hush. We step outside, one single step before I freeze.

She’s an Exaur, the woman who is crossing the street away from us in a creased orange uniform, her head bowed, oblivious. I don’t have time to go through a list in my head of all the things she could’ve done to earn the worst punishment the Corp can dish out and still keep the person alive.

“Stop!” Haven yells, her voice joining the wail of the patrol-pod’s siren as it turns the corner too fast. “Stop!”

Almost too late, I grab Haven before she runs out into the road. The woman crumples on impact with the pod; blood sprays up the windshield like drops of acid rain. Once, twice the body bounces, skidding to a stop near the opposite curb.

“She couldn’t hear you,” I say into an ear that won’t stay still because Haven is shaking violently. “She . . . Exaur. She couldn’t hear the siren.”

“I—” Haven gasps, doubling over. Vomit sprays our shoes, staining the air sour, and I tighten my grip on her arms, holding her until she seems steady again. I grit my teeth and breathe to quell the nausea.

A crowd has assembled behind us. I don’t think I’m the only one who wants to look away from the bloody figure, just as I’m not the only one who can’t.

Everything’s stopped. The only movement is from the guards emerging from the pod. “Didn’t you see her?” Haven yells at them. “Or didn’t it matter? What’s wrong with you?” Her voice is full of tears. One of them shrugs as he surveys the woman and takes out a tablet to type a message.

“Haven,” I hiss. “It was an accident. Be quiet.”

She pulls herself free of my arms, stepping off the curb toward the guard striding over to us. “Identify yourself, Citizen,” he says, mouth twisted into a smile that promises pain. “I repeat, identify yourself.” One of his hands moves to rest on the barrel of the gun in a holster at his waist.

Actual shootings are rare. I look at the woman again. The Corp prefers other methods.

With his free hand, the guard takes out his scanner. “Don’t touch her,” I snarl when he reaches for Haven’s arm. He laughs at me.

“You, too,” he says, waving the little device. Maybe if I cooperate he’ll leave her alone. I step forward and show my wrist. The sensor hovers over my skin for a fraction of a second before it beeps. “Conduit scum,” he snorts above the ringing in my ears.

“Go to hell,” Haven says. I’m not quick enough to stop him from grabbing her; the beep sounds an instant later. Hot, thick fury oozes in my gut, but it’s worth it for the way his eyes suddenly bulge. His recovery is quick, but not quick enough.

“You should choose your company more wisely, Citizen.” His voice has turned from ice to oil. It’s not an improvement. “Surely your family doesn’t approve of this trash?”

I’m impressed by her aim. The gob of spit barely misses his eye. It lands on his cheekbone and slides past flaring nostrils to a faltering smile. The stillness of the crowd is palpable. No one breathes until the guard steps back and wipes his face on the sleeve of his uniform.

“Feisty little thing, aren’t you? I like that. Let me know when you’re tired of him.”

“Yeah,” Haven scoffs. “Sure.”

“Disperse,” he orders. Feet scurry, and when I pull Haven away from the curb and the sight of the body being dumped in the back of the pod, it’s impossible to tell anything happened.

As soon as we’re around the corner, Haven collapses into my arms. Tears sink into my clothes. “That poor woman. I hate them,” she says, hoarse and defeated. “I hate who I am to them.”

“I know. You should track. We both should.”

“Yeah.” She pulls away, wiping her eyes. “Your place? I don’t want to go home.”

I pull out my tablet and send a message to Fable’s mother. A minute later it buzzes with her agreement to keep the twins another few hours.

It’s a long walk back to my apartment, but neither of us feels like getting into any kind of pod right now. Clouds move in and a light rain starts to fall when we hit the other side of the Vortex and descend into Quadrant Two. The streets run slick with grime, the same nothing-gray as concrete and the river. It coats the soles of my boots, knee-high indulgences of black plastic and gleaming metal.

Shoes are harder to make than they look. I gave up after ruining too many pieces of good material.

Haven presses herself into my side and I tighten my arm around her, only letting go when I have to swipe my wrist. Towels from the hygiene cube and the extra headset hanging above my father. She uncoils her hair, and I flip through menus on the console in my room, ignoring the stronger meds that would eat up too many credits in favor of a list of mood stabilizers that should help.

“Thanks.” Her voice cracks. I take the towel from her cold hands and run it over her hair until it’s as close to dry as it’s going to get.

“Come on,” I tell her. We sit on the bed, headphones over our ears, a blanket pulled over us, boots and all.

Despite the shivers that wrack her body, she’s so warm next to me, and I’d be more than a little okay with just staying like this forever. I’m not even sure I need the tracks that work to leach the chill from my bones, calm my stomach, and drag my mind from dark places. Haven relaxes by degrees until her head is on my shoulder, plastic headset digging into my collarbone. I don’t move.

I concentrate on remembering to breathe. My eyes close for an instant; I see red and snap them open again. Slowly feeling returns to my toes.

The static hiss of near silence signals the end of the music. I edge out from under her, lay her head down on the single pillow, and adjust the blanket. She’s not completely asleep—a word I can’t make out forms itself on her lips—so I set up another handful of tracks and leave her to rest.

Alpha and Omega burst through the door an hour later, cheerful and loud, fighting to tell me and our father about the games they played with Fable. It’s impossible not to smile, and in any case I don’t want them asking what’s wrong, but I put my finger to my lips and tell them Haven’s asleep. While I cook and all through dinner, I compose lyrics in my head—a sad, slow lament—while they compete to see who can be more quiet.

It’s Omega, but I give them both a square of chocolate for dessert.

Haven joins us in the kitchen, creased from sleep, her face streaked and swollen. The twins jump up, homework forgotten on the table until she reminds them. Even then, she’s the one who clings to them for another minute.

“Hungry?”

“No.” She shakes her head, her hair spilling into red-rimmed eyes. I toast a slice of bread anyway, and make tea from peppermint leaves and the last of the sugar. Crumbs land on the table when she leans over to help Omega with a math problem.

Later, when they’re in bed and I’ve failed at getting my father to eat, we go back to my room. “Your mother,” she begins after a long silence. I hold my breath. “Is that why you could handle it? I’ve never seen a body before.” Her voice tightens, and I lace our fingers together.

“I guess? Mostly I was worried about you.”

A smile flickers dully on her full lips. “You never talk about her.”

“You don’t talk about yours either.”

“True.” She looks out the window.

“Do you miss her?”

Haven shrugs. “I miss the way she was, before . . . When she was herself.”

Yeah. I miss the way my mother was
before
, too.

“I hate them, Anthem. Everything they do. The Corp. They wreck people. I wish they’d all just . . . die.”

“Maybe you should tell your father what we saw today.”

“He won’t care.”

I can’t believe that’s true. She’s too good, too generous, and she must get it from somewhere. But I know she believes it, and she’s the one who matters.

“I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I just”—I shake my head—“I don’t have any answers.”

“Maybe I do,” she says, her head jerking sharply away from the window to look at me.

“If you mean what we were talking about in the park.” It feels like that was days ago.

“No, not that. I mean getting into the mainframe. Changing things.” Her set jaw could smash glass.

I grab her shoulder, rigid under my hand and a layer of purple lace. “Haven, what do you want to do?” I ask slowly.

Quiet. “Nothing,” she says finally, a smile appearing on her face, too bright and wide. “Come on, lie down with me.” I hesitate and she rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to attack you.”

“Yeah.” My laugh sounds false even to me. The bed creaks as we move around. She must be able to hear my heartbeat, fast and loud, when she puts her head on my chest, but she doesn’t comment. I inhale through fine, rose-scented hair that tickles my nose and shift on the hard mattress. She asks if I’m comfortable and I just tighten my arms. Sleep finds her first. I stare at the ceiling, wishing I could
be down in the basement, screaming my lungs out, the wail of Johnny’s guitar erasing the siren from my mind. Eventually I give up, disentangle myself, and head for the console.

Just for one track. Maybe two.

Blood pulses to the beat of harsh machine-driven noise; the music’s texture is like shattered glass, each note precisely jagged, edges hard. They fit together in a melody that moves my feet inches and sends my mind miles away
.

Freedom. I move, fly, float on memories, and sink into dreams
.

I am nowhere. And everywhere. One day maybe someone will look, scan through my thoughts and find this night, this club, this floor on which I’m dancing. They’ll see the neon lights brushing over my skin, red hotter than blue, green that tingles a little, purple soothing as a warm shower. They’ll see Haven through my eyes and know that I loved every pink, glittering, fierce inch of her
.