The Fox Inheritance

  "We should get something," Miesha says to me. "It's going to be a long night, and who knows when we'll get another chance." She looks up at the Bot. "Two energy waters and two protein cakes." The drinks and cakes are dispensed from the bottom of her torso stump. I can't help but wonder how that design made it past the aesthetics council.

  "Two hundred duros, please."

  Miesha pulls her money card from her pocket and waves it over the Bot's extended palm. A bar of lights blinks across the stump of the Bot's torso as the money is accepted and approved. "Thank you," she says, and she hands us our order and moves on to the next car.

  Miesha begins to slip her card back into her pocket, then stops. She looks at it like she has never seen her own card before, turning it over to examine both sides.

  "What's wrong?"

  "My card."

  I watch her eyes dart back and forth like she's retracing some sort of sequence, and with each darting pass, her face grows darker.

  "Miesha, what is it? Tell me!"

  Her jaw drops. "It's my card. That's how he knew. I gave it to Dot to use for our food when we were back at the warehouse outside of Boston. I used it again when we refueled before the transgrid, and then again at the diner. And just now. He's accessed my account and is tracking our purchases. He'll know we're on this train, and we're creating a straight line pointing to San Diego."

  "Are you sure? How could he access your account?"

  "He directly deposits my wages into my repository account. I never gave him my passcode, but I've used the estate network to access my account. It probably wasn't secure. I should have known."

  I sit back in my seat, running my hands through my hair. Think, Locke. Think. What should we do? "He's going to be right behind us on the next train. It won't take much for him to connect the dots. He'll know just where we're going once we reach San Diego and--"

  "Unless we don't go. There's a stop in Albuquerque."

  I shake my head, annoyed that Miesha keeps returning to the same solution. "We already talked about this. I'm going. I can't--"

  "I'm not talking about you." Miesha glances at Dot, who is still mesmerized by the world passing by, and then leans closer to me. "Shut up and listen. We don't have a lot of time. And then we'll tell Dot. She isn't going to like this."

  Chapter 37

  I take off my shirt and look in the mirror, fingering the bandage that still wraps around my middle. The white gauze reveals a small oozing spot of blue. Dot's doctor may have stopped the bleeding, but it looks like I could have used a stitch or two. How much blue gel can I afford to lose? I pull the new shirt that Miesha bought me over my head and comb my hair with my fingers. I'm alone now.

  Miesha said going to a foreign country would appear logical to Gatsbro, so she and Dot are on a train to the Republic of Texas now. Before she left, she bought me a pack and a few supplies at the Albuquerque station to hold me over, since I won't have any money of my own. The purchases will also begin a new trail for Gatsbro to follow. From here she and Dot will go on a fast-moving spending spree, leaving a trail all the way to Mexico. She'll try to exchange her money card for a new nontraceable foreign currency card when she gets there. "Then we'll double back and find you in San Diego."

  "We'll try," Dot added, seeming to understand all that could go wrong. She took the news better than Miesha expected, saying that helping an Escapee sometimes means parting ways. It was all for the cause. I didn't really understand what she meant, and there wasn't time for her to explain, but she does tell me that the Network that helped us in Boston is in San Diego too. She doesn't know the contacts there, but she said to fish outside the station among the CabBots and ask if they know a Mr. F. If I found the right one, they would help me--for a favor. I would be worried about how many favors I may end up owing if I didn't already have bigger problems.

  When Miesha saw their train arrive, she gave me some hasty last instructions and told me she didn't know how long it would take them. Days or maybe even weeks. We stood there awkwardly. It was the point you would normally hug someone good-bye. Miesha and I had never hugged, and just a few hours earlier, I was ready to drop her off somewhere. Now I didn't want her to go. Dot saved us both the awkwardness by putting her hand out to shake mine.

  "Remember," she told me, "your success..." She didn't finish her sentence. She didn't have to. Miesha swiveled Dot's chair around, and they left.

  I look in the mirror, pulling at my shirt the way Miesha would have, smoothing out wrinkles that aren't there. Will Jenna recognize me? Will she even remember me after all these years? She's had lifetimes to push away memories like me. I reach up and pull a strand of hair forward, trying to re-create the cowlick that no longer exists. With Miesha, Dot, and Kara gone, I can't get Jenna out of my mind. After all this time, I'm going to see her. What will I say?

  Why didn't you save us?

  We would have saved you.

  Couldn't she have pleaded with her father not to abandon us? I look at my body. It has human tissue. So what if it was made in a lab and isn't mine? Is that why I repulsed Greta and Cole? I lean closer to the mirror, rubbing my fingers against my forehead. Will I make Jenna's skin crawl?

  I step back, tucking my shirt into my pants. My mind is still here. Who cares if I don't have ten measly percent of my brain? That was the difference between her life and our life sentence? We were condemned to a suffocating black prison just because we didn't have a handful of slimy white tissue. That qualifies her as human?

  "Screw tissue."

  I wash my hands in the sink, removing the residue of blue BioPerfect from beneath my fingernail. She of all people knew what the darkness was like. I heard her. I heard her scream, and I tried to reach her. We were there together, for God's sake. At least at first. Why didn't she try to reach out to me too? Kara did.

  Was it the accident? Was Jenna punishing me for that? I was only sixteen. I didn't know. I didn't mean--

  I shake the drips from my hands and swipe them through the dryer. Jenna was never the vengeful type. She understood about mistakes. She understood everything. At least I thought she did. That's what I loved about her. And her laugh. The way she would hiccup if we made her laugh too hard. And her eyes. The ones I could get lost in when she wasn't looking. She was caring and forgiving. But then ... so was Kara. She never used to be the vengeful type, either.

  I take a last look at myself in the mirror. I see a different person from the one Jenna and Kara used to know. Bigger, stronger, and angrier--thanks to Gatsbro.

  Maybe we've all changed.

  I grab my pack from the floor and sling it over my shoulder. I have a train to catch.

  PART III

  JENNA

  Chapter 38

  The first thing that hits me is the moisture in the air. The second thing is my clenched stomach. I am human. I deserve to be here. I am still contemplating the heavy air, my twisted gut, and my tenuous hold on my right to live, when I hear alarms. Just as I'm ready to bolt, guards pounce on the man next to me and drag him away. He briefly pleads and then swears as the guards yell about his ID. They all disappear through a door that seamlessly vanishes like it was never there.

  San Diego is not Topeka or Boston. I keep my head down, my pack gripped tight, trying to pretend that my heart isn't pounding in my ears. I stay with the departing crowds, moving quickly, making a straight shot to the exit to find the CabBots, hoping the guards weren't really after me and will soon discover their mistake.

  As soon as I step through the doors of the tunnel that leads out of the station, I am struck with the deafening clatter of rain. A few travelers hesitate in the protection of the overhang, but then they move forward, stepping into cars that speed forward to get them, or they disappear into the dark sheets of rain with fist-sized umbrellas they have pulled from their pockets.

  I step off to the side and rifle through my pack. At the last minute, Miesha threw in a small black cylindrical package she plucked from a bin. A Bot at a nearby kiosk wrin
kled her nose and called to us, "No one takes those. We have real coats over here. Much nicer for citizens of your status--"

  Miesha dismissed her and said to me, "Government issue. Free. Superficial stab at public display of charity. Most citizens won't touch them, but I'm not too proud, and you shouldn't be, either. They're designed to adapt to whatever the weather is, and that makes them better than any so-called fashionable protection."

  "But those are for--"

  Miesha cut Dot off. "They're for anyone. My husband wore one. I know they work." And plunk, it went into my pack. Miesha knows me. I don't need or even care about fashion--just protection. I may have a lot of CabBots to talk to before I find one who can help me.

  I find the five-inch cylinder at the bottom of my pack and read the words on the outside of the package for the first time. Not for resale. Benevolent Protection Program. National Offices of Human Welfare. I pull the tab, wondering how much coat there could really be in such a small package, but anything is better than what I have right now.

  Slick black fabric immediately unfolds. I shake it out, surprised to see that it really is a full-length coat with a hood that slips out of a hidden seam. I put it on and feel the warmth almost instantly. Miesha is right--fashion or not, they do work. I turn to pick up my pack and catch my reflection in the glass door behind me. I stop, frozen by my image--ghostly in the glass, but oddly familiar. I step closer to be sure, and see someone who is not quite me staring back. Her husband wore one. The wind catches the black fabric, whipping it around my legs, making it flap like it's alive. Like a bird. Like a raven. Like something with broken wings trying to fly.

  Like something dark and dangerous.

  I pull the hood over my head and step out into the night. It's time to find Jenna before Kara does.

  Chapter 39

  The line of CabBots is short. Seven or eight at most. I walk to the last cab, and a line tender waves and yells at me, "Front of the line! Front of the line!"

  I ignore him and bend down to the driver, who opens his window. "I'm looking for a Mr. F."

  "Is that a new restaurant? I don't have it in my database."

  I shake my head and move on to the next one, repeating my question. The line tender is still yelling at me but not moving from his podium that is sheltered from the rain. The CabBot shakes his head no, and I move on.

  The third CabBot lowers his window when I knock. "Go to the front of the line," he says.

  "I'm looking for a Mr. F. Can you help me?"

  He smiles and nods, but it's a smile that makes me uneasy. Not like Dot's. It is slow and dawning, and distant. He turns back to his panel, pressing a spot that expands and blinks. "We got ourselves a Runner here. Come pick him up." He reaches out and locks his hand around my wrist.

  "What--" I try to pull away, but his grip is like an iron cuff.

  His distant smile returns. "You think we don't know their code words? I get points for every one of you I turn in. Five more, and I get legs."

  I feel a rush, my head flooding with my own dawning realization. Never show your weakness. I put my foot up against the side of the cab for leverage as I return his grip, grabbing his wrist with my hand. "You better use those points for arms," I tell him. There is only a split second of confusion on his face before I pull, forcing my weight with whatever inhuman strength Gatsbro and BioPerfect gave me in one direction--away.

  There's a quick pop, and then as I twist sharply, the artificial flesh tears, and the exposed blinking tendons hiss and crackle. The horror on his face is only a flash, because I am already running into the night, his arm attached to mine. I conceal the ripped arm beneath my coat, blindly running into the dark, and soon I'm swallowed up by pounding rain and the unknown. Needles of rain sting my eyes as I look for any sign of stars or moon for direction, but there is none, so I just run and never look back, the Bot's hand still gripping my wrist.

  Chapter 40

  Where are the stars?

  You can make it a few more miles. Just a few more.

  My pace slows with each step. I ran for the first hour without stopping. Like a bat out of hell, my dad would say. That pretty much describes it. I'd still run if I could, but running was not something I ever trained for. For the last two hours, all I've been able to manage is a steady walk. I spot a dark storefront doorway to duck into and rest. I eat a protein cake and swig down a bottle of energy water in two gulps. At a time like this, I could curse Gatsbro for making me way too human, but instead the weakness of my hunger strengthens me. It's a reminder that I'm right. I eat, therefore I am. I'm human. I am one of the Eaters and Breathers.

  So is Kara. Has she eaten? She ran off without any money. If not for Miesha's money card, I would have nothing either. Is Kara hungry and huddled in some dark corner too, but without any food? How is she surviving? But Kara is resourceful--and determined. She will find a way. I have to believe that.

  I finish the cake; the Bot arm is still attached to mine, and that is my next task. I rummage through my pack with my free hand and find the Swiss Army knife. It was another thing Miesha gave me at the station. "It used to belong to my husband," she said. "It's all I have left of his. He had lent it to a friend, and the friend saved it for me all those years I was in prison. It got Karden out of more than one jam. Put it in your pack."

  I knew the knife meant a lot to Miesha, but I took it anyway. I need all the help I can get. It's already gotten me out of one jam by destroying the iScroll. I hope it can handle a Bot arm too. I examine the knife more closely. It has several different tools, some the same as the ones on my grandfather's knife, but also a few that I don't recognize. I decide to stick with the old-fashioned blade. I begin prying and cutting away the arm, piece by piece, finger by finger, sometimes digging into my own wrist to accomplish it. Beads of blood form where I dig too deeply. Eat your points, dirtbag. I finally break his greasy thumb loose, and the arm falls to the ground.

  I wipe the knife blade clean and eye a fuel station across the street, watching it for activity. At this time of night, there is none, only a lone Bot attendant attached to a pay console. I work up the nerve to cross the street and ask where Oak Creek is. Without a star in the sky, I just hope I've been running north. The Bot is as catatonic and uninterested in me as a real clerk working the night shift, and just as short on words. "That way," he says, pointing. But it's enough. At least I know I am headed in the right direction. A light blinks on the panel of his console and he adds, "Fourteen miles."

  Fourteen miles? Fourteen more miles on top of how far I've already come?

  I am wet to the skin. The coat was no match for rain whipped by wind, or for the multiple times I stumbled and fell into knee-deep puddles that I didn't see in the dark. My legs ache, and the stab in my side grows. I try not to think about the BioPerfect that may still be oozing out of me into the gauze. I look in the direction he pointed. I'm going to be walking all night.

  Even in his Bot stupor, he seems to read my thoughts and says, "CabBots or free shuttle, one block east." I nod, pulling my pack up higher on my shoulder, and my hood farther over my head. I walk away, stepping back into the rain. I can't take a chance on any more CabBots or even the free shuttle north. I'm sure the one-armed CabBot scanned my ID when I got close to his cab. It's worthless to me now.

  I look down the long highway. I have miles to go, and once I get to Oak Creek, I still don't know exactly where Jenna lives. My only consolation is that Kara doesn't know either--I'm certain I'll reach Oak Creek before her. Which train did she take to escape Gatsbro? Los Angeles? Seattle? Wherever she went, I know where she will end up. Even if I can't hear her mind right now, I know her mind.

  The road I'm on follows the coast. The town quickly peters away and becomes dark open landscape. Since the cover of dark buildings and side streets is gone, I stay to the far shoulder of the road as much as possible so I can duck into the brush if I need to. I don't know who might be in the occasional car that passes, and I keep envisioning an angry one-armed
Bot bent on revenge.

  Most of the time, the road is a straight shot north, but sometimes it veers in a crisscrossing pattern across steep hillsides and I lose sight of the ocean for miles. The rain has let up to a light drizzle now, but a thick blanket of clouds still blocks out all light. Without the stars or moon, the ocean is my only hint that I'm still on the right path.

  How far have I walked? How much longer? I can't even judge my speed anymore. With the monotony of my steps and darkness blotting out the landscape, my thoughts are what I focus on instead of the road. I think about Jenna--at least the Jenna I used to know. I wonder about the first moment that I see her. What will I say? What will she be like? Her hair was as silky as Kara's, but long and blond, usually tossed up carelessly in a clip. Jenna never fussed much with clothes or hair. An image of the half-bald Bot from the diner flashes in my memory. After 260 years, will Jenna have hair? But she's not a Bot--she's human, like us. Still, the image of the balding Bot with the peeling skin launches an avalanche of others. What if Jenna's outdated first-generation Bio Gel has begun to degrade after all this time?

  I am so busy imagining and fearing the possibilities, I don't notice a pothole in the road, and I trip, flying through the air and landing hard on the pavement. I hold my side, trying to get my breath, and then I just lie there thinking how easy it would be to shut my eyes for a few minutes. I even rationalize for a moment that it would be good for me to lie there. Rest, Locke. I roll to the side, farther off the shoulder and onto the gravel, and lie there, my face to the sky, drizzle dripping into my eyes. A few more miles. You can walk a few more miles. And then I see it, a star peeking through a break in the clouds. I close my eyes, just to blink away the drizzle. A star ...