Control

CHAPTER 22

I AM GOING CRAZY.

Lack of sleep and food will do that to a girl.

I stay up all night, trying to think of ways to manufacture my trait into something tradable. Even my “fun” breaks, taking the time to identify the intricate bio-accelerant components to Cy’s DNA, don’t cheer me up.

Marka finally threatens to close down the lab if I don’t consume some calories, so I march away to the kitchen with Cy to get a bite. I jump onto one of the countertops as he orders two bowls of Greek lemon soup from the food efferent. I grumble into the bowl between sips.

“If I can’t think of how to do this, I’m just going to trade myself.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Cy says, slurping soup.

“That’s uncharacteristically optimistic of you.”

“It’s not, actually.” Cy looks at me under his hair. I love his eyes, those shining bits of gold within the gray, but at the moment they’re more cold metal than sun.

“Explain,” I say.

“If we can’t find an alternative, Marka won’t let you leave.”

I put my bowl down. “She can’t do that.”

“I won’t let you leave either.”

“You’ll just let Dyl rot away with those people? They keep her drugged half the time!” I slap the table and accidentally hit my spoon, which sails across the room and clatters to the floor.

“The silverware has nothing to do with it. If you’re mad, take it out on me,” he says evenly.

I ignore his comment, festering. Cy walks over and clasps my hands in his own warm ones. He holds them still, as if administering a blessing. It melts me inside to have him looking at me. Like that. Cy presses my hand against his cheek. Today there are no piercings anywhere, and no tattoos either.

“Don’t hate me for saying this,” Cy starts, “but don’t you see? They’ll kill her, one way or another. At least here you’re safe.”

“This is a moot conversation. We’ll find a way to make my trait tradable. And then I’ll bring it—”

“No.”

I pull my hand away and cross my arms. Cy’s face is hurt, but he doesn’t budge. Oh great. He’s not done.

“If and when we make something tradable, you’re not going.”

“Who exactly is going to go instead?”

“Marka. She’ll arrange an exchange, but you won’t be there.”

“No. That’s not . . . No!”

“It doesn’t matter. We all voted on it, with Marka.”

“What kind of democracy is it where I don’t get to vote?”

“The kind where you’re underage. I’m eighteen. Vera is too.”

“I’m going to be eighteen in four months! This is idiotic!”

Cy doesn’t answer.

“I need some air.”

“Where are you going?” Cy manages to grasp my arm, but I wriggle away.

“The agriplane.”

“But—”

He stops when he catches the look on my face. I walk up to Cy and lean my arms on either side of him, staring lovingly into his handsome but appropriately wary face. I speak low but very clearly.

“If I hear another but or can’t or don’t today, I will unleash the hellfire of all things female and bitchy and you won’t recover for a millennium. Okay?”

Cy sweeps his hand to the door, and I’m out of there.

THE DOOR IN THE WHITE DOME IS locked. I press the pad next to it. Nothing. My fist bangs the door, but the light continues to stubbornly blink in red.

“Wilbert!” I call, hoping he’ll hear me. After a few moments, there’s a crackle of sound.

“Oh. Hey, Zelia.” There’s no mistaking the less-than-enthusiastic tone.

“Do me a favor and unlock the door?”

“I can’t.”

My most unfavorite word today. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We’re on lockdown for a while. Even Vera doesn’t have access. She’s turning brown in some spots, you should see her.”

Damn. Outside the window, it’s cloudy, and true to Wilbert’s words, Vera is nowhere to be seen. Now I’m desperate. Ah, what I wouldn’t do for a drive in the Porsche! But Wilbert’s lost his rights to the keys since the junkyard disaster, so I’m really trapped. I don’t know how Cy can stand it. No wonder everyone else was willing to defy Marka and risk everything for a night out.

I go back to my bubble room and sulk. Dyl’s purse sits on the center of the floor, a little shrine to everything I can’t control. I open it up gingerly and take out our mom’s broken necklace. I untie my dad’s ring, and I hold it up to my eye, peering through it like a telescope.

Though scuffed a little, it’s still a perfect circle. No end, no beginning. The necklace is just a line. The links that would bring the broken ends together are a little mangled, but mendable. I just need a link. Just one, little, matching . . .

Oh my god.

The idea comes in a flash, so simple, it’s laughable. I want to rush back to the lab and tell Cy, but not yet. I’m still desperate for that bit of freedom I haven’t tasted.

“I need some air!” I holler, waving my arms in a desperate attempt to enjoy the moment of inspiration.

“Filtered, or unfiltered?” my room’s feminine voice asks.

“What?” It still shocks me when the building talks to me. It must be programmed for slow people like me, because it fills the silence after a moment.

“Select ‘increase internal air flow’ or ‘window’ option.”

“There’s a window option?” I’m all agog. “Okay, window option.” I stare at the bubble wall of glass that makes up half my room, with the backdrop of dreary Neia. Three small, clear squares slide into the invisible space of the thick glass. They’re high up on the curve of the glass wall, a foot below the ceiling. In seconds, the stale air of the city pours in.

I stand on the couch and pile on a few cushions, scrambling up to reach one of the windows. It’s about fourteen inches square. Too small for normal people to fit through.

Then again, I’m not normal.

I wriggle half my body through, like a worm escaping a bad apple. Straight down, I peer over the curve of the glass and see the ground, hundreds and hundreds of feet away. Specks on the ground—no, people—walk around, oblivious to the half girl sticking out of one of the many bubble rooms on the façade of the building.

I look up. The agriplane is only a few floors above me. The decoration of the building includes white metal ledges, jutting out a few inches every foot or so. Under the agriplane, there’s scaffolding that runs in every direction, spiraling down each of the spidery legs of synthetic supports for the plane.

My ass is still in the room and my torso outside when my holo buzzes. I click it on, breathless from balancing my stomach on the three-inch-thick glass of the window.

“Who is it?” I ask breathlessly. The reception is about as bad as when I’m on the agriplane.

“Please don’t turn me off.”

It’s Micah.

“I want my sister back, you son of a bitch!” It’s a good thing I’m outside, because I’m yelling at the top of my lungs.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Make it easy!” I snarl. “You goddamned liar!”

“Zelia, please. It’s out of my hands. I’m not even allowed to see her anymore.”

“Or screw with her mind, like you did mine? Or drug her senseless?”

“Listen, please.” He’s said please at least three times. It’s not working. “Aureus is willing to do a trade. You for your sister.”

“It’s impossible. I’m locked in here.”

The fuzzy holo screen suddenly divides into two squares. The square on the right bleeps at me, pulsating an obnoxious yellow color. There’s a simultaneous transmission coming in.

“Mute left,” I order, and Micah’s screen goes silent. The right screen is pretty fuzzy too, but slightly less so. It’s Cy.

“Zel? Where are you? You haven’t answered my wall-com. I had to resort to a crappy holo stud to find you.”

“I’m—I’m just . . .” Halfway out the building? I can’t think of a single excuse.

“I know you’re still upset. I’m coming by.”

Crap. The screen shuts off on the right, and the blurrier side fills the void. Before I un-mute it, I do my best to yell over my shoulder, through the tiny space between my waist and the window’s edge.

“LOCK DOOR!” I holler. Distantly, I hear the lock click.

“Micah,” I call.

“I’m here. Zelia, you have to come. Figure out a way. They won’t accept anything less than you.”

“I have a proposition. I’ll give Aureus what they want—”

“So you’ll come?” Micah’s voice sounds hungry.

“No. I’ll do better than that. I’ll give them me, in a marketable form.”

“Your longevity trait?”

“Yes.” Of course they already know about it. “A usable form, in a bottle. And Dylia will come home with me to Carus.” It was unconscious, but now that it’s out there, I realize my words are true. Home. Carus. They are one and the same, even if my family is locking me up like a misbehaving toddler.

“You can do that?” Micah can’t hide his surprise.

“I know I can. And I’ll prove it. I need a week, maybe—”

“We’ll consider it.” Micah pauses, and I hear a muffled conversation going on in the pause. “They’ll give you three days.”

“What?” I yelp.

“Your sister is so sick, she won’t last a week.”

“Then stop making her sick!” Tears of fury are beading on my lashes.

“It’s not me. She’s the one refusing to eat, to sleep . . .”

“But Marka said she’d bring it herself. I’m telling you they won’t let me out of here.”

“No. It has to be you. If you have something better, you have to bring it yourself,” he explains. “You have till midnight, three days from now. Get out of that place, and call me on your holo. We’ll be waiting nearby to pick you up.”

From outside, Cy’s fist pounds on the door. “Zelia? Open up!”

“One second! I’m changing!” I holler.

“Changing what?” Micah asks.

“Nothing. Listen, I can’t do three days, I need more time.”

“That’s all you have. I’m sorry. Sorry about so many things. Zelia, you have to believe me, I never meant to hurt you.”

I snap the holo off. Take that for an apology not accepted, you piece of dog shit.

The pounding on the door escalates. I push my hips down and squelch my shoulders together, wriggling out of the window. On the way down to the bed, my chin bangs on the lower edge of glass.

“Ouch!”

“What is going on in there?” Cy yells.

“Close windows,” I command. The three glass squares resume their place and the bubble wall is once more a continuous curve of glass. The breeze disappears, leaving behind the dead, still air inside. My head is dizzy, so I force several, huge breaths before commanding the door to unlock. It whisks open and Cy steps in.

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Why does your hair look like that?”

I gingerly touch my hair. It’s at least three times its usual volume, frizzed out and kinked from the damp wind outside.

“Oh my god.” I cover my head and run into the bathroom. I may be stressed out and pissed, but I have no intention of looking like a crazed victim of bad hair grooming in front of anybody, especially Cy. After a few taps of Dyl’s styling wand and a twist into a hair clip, I reenter the room.

“Why did you lock the door?”

“A girl needs privacy sometimes.”

He studies my room, as if my furniture could somehow divulge my secrets. “Were you talking to Micah again?” he asks quietly.

I don’t answer right away. Because I know that depending on how I answer, I’ll be walking toward a solution that includes Cy, or doesn’t. Because the only way this will work is if I lie to him, and defy my new family. One mouthful of words. I don’t know what they’re going to be until I say them.

“Of course not. You know I don’t get any holo reception in my room,” I say, as evenly as possible. “I could barely hear you when you called me.”

There.

And just like that, the road splits from the lie that’s planted into the floor between us.

Cy and I are no longer walking in the same world anymore.