Coda (9 page)

“You coming?”

I look at Scope and shake my head. Eventually, he disappears up the ladder behind yellow-laced boots, leaving Johnny and me alone.

“How’s everything?” I ask.

“Good, I guess. Life in the Web.” He leans against the pillar Yellow Guy adopted earlier and folds his arms. “Except . . .”

I wait.

“I don’t know. It’s . . .”

“What?”

His eyes flick to the trapdoor. “I didn’t want to freak everyone out again, but I keep seeing that pod.”

“They’re all over the place,” I say, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. The band is the only thing that keeps me sane. “You think we should find a new spot?”

“Or I should stop.” The thought looks like it causes him physical pain.

“C’mon, all the patrol-pods look the same, man. You’re thinking about it because you’re looking for it.”

“Yeah.” He exhales and uncrosses his arms. “You’re right. Anyway, good sound today.”

We move on and talk about new stuff he wants to try, more weird shit like Scope breaking the glass.

I’m all for it, but I just can’t figure out why he wants to. Why he bothers. The tiniest taste of actually performing makes me ask myself why Johnny works so hard to perfect a sound no one but us—and Yellow Guy, I guess—will ever hear.

Lights wink at me; Mage’s fingers click instructions that flash across a monitor.

“I’ll never get that,” I say, and he grins.

“It’s not so different from what we do. Being in there, it’s almost transcendent. Code is pure, man. Clean. And a little dangerous.”

“Think I’ve got enough of that in my life already.”

“Yeah. Okay”—he hits one last key—“done. One sec.” Doors open and close, not quite muffling the scrape of a vent screen being pushed aside. He’s back inside within a minute, holding out a battered book that I bury under a pile of old sweaters in my bag until I can hide it under my bed. “Give it back to Johnny when you’re done?” It’s not safe to keep it in one place all the time, and Johnny’s already worried about being watched.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Typical Mage, not to ask why I want it, and I’m glad because I’m not sure. There’s nothing in these pages I don’t have memorized. A book on real music can’t tell me how to protect Alpha and Omega’s young ears from the Corp.

“Water?”

“I’ve gotta get home before the twins do,” I say. “Have fun with that.”

“I’m telling you, it’s a whole different level.”

Outside, there’s a crackle in the air like the moment before a thunderstorm, even though the sky is as close to blue as it ever gets.

I step into the street in front of his building, slowly, because down here moving fast is a good reason for a guard to wonder why.
One arm wrapped around my bag, protecting it from the people who brush past. Out of the corner of my eye I see a patrol-pod and hug the book tighter.

Fuck, I’m turning into Johnny. My tablet buzzes in my pocket, a message from Haven.

Club later?_

Where else would I be? Good day?_

Productive._ Whatever that means. She still won’t tell me what her project is, which I guess is only fair. I smile at the screen, blocking out everything around me except her name as I cross a crowded square. I picture Haven in that short skirt I love and put my tablet away to restrain myself from suggesting it.

It happens too fast. I look up too late, into the wide, wild eyes of a girl on a violent trip a few feet away. A piece of metal flies from her hand, misses someone’s head by an inch, and ricochets off a street-lamp. Someone cries out. I reel backward, clutching my bag, but there’s nowhere to go. A guy tries to grab her arm and she throws him into the crowd, her face lit like a fuse. A dozen precious eggs smash on the ground.

I don’t know who throws the first punch, or the second. Who pushes first. I have to get out of here. Glass shatters somewhere on the other side of the square and an alarm starts to scream.

I can’t be caught with the book. It’s too precious to drop. People close in all around me, a violent, formless mass. A single elastic second stretches when no one is touching me, and I can feel the heat, the beauty in the turmoil. The
life
. Someone kicks me and the moment snaps, pain echoing around my knee as I stumble back, am shoved forward. My fingers tighten on the fake leather strap.

“Citizens! Disperse!”

It’s too late for that, and I know what’s coming next. The crowd
roars as if it’s one thing instead of hundreds, a song made up of notes. The air twists and the crowd unites against the pod, streaming around me to charge it, and from the back I hear it tip, the strangled crackle of the loudspeaker smashing to the ground. I step back, away, turning as another patrol-pod careens into view, a third, a fourth, closing in all around us.
Free drugs for everyone
. The music starts to flow from the speakers mounted on top of the pods. Hard and electric, strong and heavily laced with some of their most powerful drugs. A guitar plays and I think of Johnny. He’s better.

He should be playing this.

We . . . should . . .

I can’t . . . think. I can’t think. Are they dancing? Music, anger, energy. Everything goes black.

The green text of
Crime & Punishment
blurs, the plug in my neck jack feels deeper, more invasive. I hate this job. It gives me too much time to think about the things I’ll never say or do because of all the things I’ve already said and done.

At three, I’m de-jacked and I drag myself up, into the elevator, out onto the street. Haven is waiting for me by the statue, holding out a bottle of grape juice. I sigh and push my feet toward her.

“I’ve told you not to meet me here.”

Her eyes narrow the tiniest fraction, then she smiles. “And I choose to ignore it. That’s how we work. Besides, I was here anyway.”

Oh.

“I want to go see Scope,” she adds.

“He’s at work,” I say, twisting the cap off the bottle and pouring half of it down my throat. Sweetness explodes on my tongue.

“Duh. I’m thinking of having something done.”

“Is this about what happened? The Exaur?” Scope’s told me about this before, the way people will come in for chrome as some kind of catharsis.

“Maybe a little.” She shrugs. “Plus, we never see him anymore. He’s always with whatshisface.”

“Okay,” I say through a yawn that cracks my jaw and makes my eyes water.

“That still hurt?” she asks, reaching up, her fingers skating over the healing bruise at my temple.

“Not really.” Thank fuck for Mage. He saw the riot from his window and pulled me out under cover of the confusion.

We climb a trans-pod down to Two, my head against the window until Haven tugs me down to rest on her shoulder.

Scope’s chrome studio isn’t far from his apartment, on the opposite side of Quadrant Two from my own. The river’s acrid scent fills our nostrils on the walk between the pod stop and the storefront, a bitter wind cuts at our skin. Haven shivers, but I lean into it, breathing deeply.

“Hey, beautiful. And Anthem.” Scope grins from a stool next to a chair similar to the one I have at work. A huge guy is on it, tipped almost horizontal, the soles of his boots pointing at us as Scope leans over his head. “Gimme a few.”

Hard, black regulation Corp chairs line the area at the front. I collapse on one, and a sketch of Scope’s work crinkles under my head where I rest it against the wall. Haven settles next to me, close enough to feel her warmth. She crosses her legs, and I focus on a design across the room until it blurs into random shapes instead of a cohesive picture.

I’ve never seen the allure of chrome, not for myself. There are
enough foreign objects implanted in my body. But I do like the way it looks at the clubs, flashing under the lights.

Angry, broken blood vessels edge the new silver swirls on the man’s round cheeks when he stands, pulling off the headphones that were definitely playing something to numb the pain. He checks his reflection in a mirror, grins, then flinches, his jowls wobbling. Scope tells him not to smile for a few hours and directs him to a scanner to pay.

Haven wants bracelets, delicate loops around both wrists. I half listen to her discussion with Scope, who promises to sketch something cool for her. This job is really made for him, or the other way around.

A draft of cold air washes over me. I pry my eyes open, expecting to see another customer, but it’s impossible to mistake that yellow. I wave at him and he smiles back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Honestly, I wonder what Scope sees in him. He’s cute, in an overdramatic kind of way, but colder than Scope’s usual type. Scope goes for guys like himself—happy and trusting, eager for a good time.

Except for me, but he’s known me long enough to look past the things that make me the way I am.

“Hey,” says Yellow Guy, sliding his arms around Scope’s waist from behind and kissing his neck. The blush is such a contrast to Scope’s normal paleness that I laugh and decide I like Yellow Guy a little more. Haven manages to roll her eyes, shake her head, and smile at the same time.

“I’ll close up,” Scope says. “Let’s go do something fun.”

We wind up at my place, all crammed into my room. Yellow Guy immediately claims the bed, sprawling back and pulling Scope down to join him.

“Mess up my sheets and you’ll regret it,” I warn.

“Someone should.” Scope laughs.

“Fuck you. Just for that, Haven and I get to track first.” I tug on her hand until she gets within reach of the headphones and sits on the floor. I choose a pounding rock song that’s been one of my favorites since it appeared on the menu a few months ago.

Oh, hell, yes. It erases my exhaustion and sends me into spasms of laughter at absolutely nothing. Haven is giggling at her own shoelaces. Scope and Yellow Guy obviously think we’ve lost our minds and they want their turn.

We trade the headsets back and forth, swiping our wrists to pay for a stream of tracks that send us headlong into giddy happiness. It’s nice to feel. This isn’t
normal
for me, but it’s nice to have it for a while. Haven climbs into my lap while she has an intense but disjointed conversation with Yellow Guy about water. She smells too good, and she’s too warm. Over her shoulder I’m laughing at Scope’s amazement about how the paint on the wall feels. I put the headphones back on and let the next track play.