Control (4 page)

Out of the periphery of my vision, I see something that can’t possibly be here. What the
hell
? A tendril of pale green vine, so lush and beautiful, curls into my field of vision. It sprouts orange flowers, the color of a grand sunset. One of the vines curls around my ear to tickle my neck.

Ren lets go of my face. I swat at the vine, which is now encircling my leg. A new bloom, the size of a dinner plate, bobs over my face. It’s beautiful but menacing.

“Stop. Go away,” I say, but my words are coming from a far distance. Holy shizz, I can actually see the letters, crawling along Dyl’s bed.
Stop
shimmies under the covers in a lump and
Go away
floats over the floor and squeezes a hasty exit under the door.

“She’s so gone. Let’s go.” The words shimmer in gold, retreating behind the bloom still dancing over my head.

The distorted flower is almost painful to behold, wringing out my brain that’s so used to all things logical. It hurts. It tells me to stop fighting, stop resisting, stop everything and just worship.

Has it been minutes, or hours, or weeks? My eyes grow dry and weary from the adoration, when one of the petals simply disappears. Where did it go? I turn around, trying to see where it’s fallen. Around my body, the green filaments begin to disintegrate, blurring into a pale smoke and then nothingness. The vision is gone.

Suddenly, there is pain. The back of my head, throbbing. And silence. I shake my head and try to look around the room. Reality is back. The two strangers are gone.

And so is Dyl.

MY MIND IS STILL FUZZY AND MY LEGS WEAK
, but I crawl to the door, pushing it open. Outside, the hallway is empty. There’s no sign of the hoverchair or Dyl.

Throbbing pain screams from the new lump behind my head, which isn’t helping me think straight. What about Micah? No. He’s just an underling in this place. What about the other guy he worked with? I don’t remember ever hearing his name.

I wobble over to the transport and get inside, leaning against the curved wall, forgetting to hold on to a loop.

“New Horizon’s director’s office,” I command, and then promptly tumble to the floor when the transport zooms off sharply to the left.

The door opens to a narrow hallway, gray but with plush carpeting and walls adorned with pictures of hyper-happy parents and mismatched foster kids. The translucent doors are all closed, but I soon find one embellished with a brilliant logo of a rising sun and
DIRECTOR
printed underneath. I pound with all my might, and the pain in my knuckles shocks me.

“Open up! Please!”

Through the frosted door, there is a faint glow of pinkish purple. Someone is in there, ignoring me. I throw my weight into traumatizing the door with more pummeling. When it slides open abruptly, I pitch forward, falling. My skull nearly hits the floor when someone catches me.

I scramble out of the arms of a middle-aged woman so tall, I’m taken aback. Six feet plus, for sure. Her black hair is cropped short like a boy’s, but it befits her angular face.

“Are you okay?” Her voice is husky and mellow. In her tank top and loose pants, she’s dressed far too casually to be the director.

“No, no. I need to talk to the director. Where is she?”

The woman points to a screen behind a desk, where a person would normally sit. It glows purple, with a yellow message parading across:
NH Director will return on Tuesday 060656
.

“What? Next . . . next week?” I stammer. “No. I need to call the police!” Now I’m freaking because this was my only plan, and my plan is gone off on vacation.

“Zelia, there’s no point in calling the police.”

My hand instinctively goes to my chest. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m Marka. Your new foster mom.”

I just stare at her, because I don’t know what to say. Her violet eyes soften, and she tries a half smile. Nothing’s prepared me for meeting a new parent and losing Dyl in the space of one hour. I thought I had weeks, not minutes, to get ready to meet this person.

“I was hoping we’d meet in a less . . . urgent way,” she apologizes.

I have nothing to go on but her looks and a handful of her words, but someone has to help me. And besides, there is a gentle warmth in those violet eyes. The coin toss of trust just landed in her favor.

“If you’re my new foster mother, then you have to help me. My sister was taken. They drugged her or something, and me too, I think. It’s all wrong. She’s supposed to come with me. She—”

“No.” She says it so flatly, I stop my babble to stare at her.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean, your sister, Dylia, is with her new . . .” Marka has to practically spit the next word out. “. . . family.”

“But why would they separate us? They have no right!”

She thinks over her words carefully. “Dylia’s placement was special. I’ll explain soon, but you have to remember that you’re both minors, and you signed a form that gave New Horizons the power to place you as they saw fit. Separately, if necessary.”

“I never signed . . .” But the second I say it, I remember. Those forms. I had no idea, and neither did Dyl. We couldn’t even see straight yesterday. “What have I done?”

“Come with me. New Horizons can’t help you, because Dylia no longer exists to them.” The words are callous, but her voice isn’t.

A shadow falls on the wall next to us. An elderly lady in a brown suit appears with her holo glowing orange. Not the same one from the New Horizons waiting room, but clearly the same breed. There isn’t a drop of friendliness in her face.

“Ah, you’ve both found each other. All right then. Mrs. Sissum, your forms are nearly finished.” She nods at me, faking a smile. “And then you can get started with your new family.” She sounds like a commercial for something I don’t want to buy.

My mouth is so dry, I can hardly force out my words. “What happened to my sister?” Marka touches my arm in warning, but I step away.

“Who, dear?” The brown-suit lady’s lip twitches uneasily.

“My sister, Dylia Benten.”

The woman searches her holo screen, scrolling through a list. “We haven’t had anyone with that name.”

“We both arrived yesterday,” I say quickly, my heart pounding as I force a deep breath. “Something is wrong. Those people came in our room and took her. He—this guy—he breathed into my face and there was a
jungle
in my room.” My voice is a warbling mess. I hear how insane I sound. Everyone hears it.

The old lady switches her holo channel. She angles the glowing plane to face me. A guard is now on the screen, watching and listening.

“Listen, my dear,” she enunciates carefully. “I don’t know what neurodrug you’ve managed to sneak in here, but unless you settle down like a good girl, you’re going straight to the detox unit.” Her eyes harden even more. “And detox is not fun, as they say.”

I draw back, considering the threat. I’m never the one to cause trouble. I don’t rock the boat, because I don’t know how to swim, metaphorically or otherwise. But this isn’t about me. Dad’s voice replays in my mind.

Take care of yourself. Stay safe, no matter what.

I stand there, numb and stupid, unable to move or speak. The guard on the holo disappears, and the brown-suit lady takes a cautious step away from me. Marka puts her hand on my arm again, this time more firmly.

“It’s all right, Zelia.” She gives me the tiniest shake of the head, a quiet plea to come with her.

A door down the hallway opens. A gigantic uniformed guard with a neck twice as wide as his head marches toward me. He’s got a medicated air gun in his hand.

“A lot of fuss for someone so small,” he says. His eyes are unsympathetic, clinical. I swallow and try to control my breathing. A smile eases onto my face, but it probably looks like a grimace.

“I’m sorry,” I babble nervously. “I’m really not crazy, and I’m not on drugs. I have a sister. Her name is—”

The lady quickly signals the guard, who takes my shoulder and head and pushes them to the floor in half a second. I crumple into the carpet, kissing the residue of a thousand office shoes.

“Umf!” I say. Well, I tried to say
“Stop it!”
but the carpet translated my words. Dad was wrong. The rule isn’t
Don’t rock the boat.
It’s
Shut up, then don’t rock the boat.

“Shall I take her to the eval unit or detox?” the guard says, bored. His hands feel like a thousand pounds of meat on my scrawny hundred-and-five-pound body.

“Please let her go. She’s my responsibility now,” Marka says, her voice firm.

Yes, yes, help me, please.
The facial rug burn is starting to kill me, when suddenly, I’m released. I stand up, brush off my clothes, and plaster on the sanest expression I can muster.

“I’m sorry. I must be really . . . underslept, is all.” Everyone watches me warily. I shake my head, trying for pity. “The stress of losing my dad, you know.”

Both women nod with satisfaction, happy that I’ve returned to the land of the sober and mentally sound. Marka wears an expression that says I just dodged a gigantic cannonball. The guard puts his dinner-plate-sized hand on my shoulder.

“Why don’t we get you back to your room, miss?” he says, more a statement than a suggestion.

Marka gives me a helping smile. “It’ll be fine, Zelia. I’ll finish the screenwork. Gather up your things from your room, and then—” She doesn’t say the rest, but I read it in her eyes.

I’ll help you find your sister. I promise.

• • •

MARKA PUTS THE MAGPOD ON AUTO
and sits in the back with me. The seats are soft and every surface is polished. There are buttons to which I normally have no access, for things like candy and vitamin elixirs. Marka reaches over and hits a pharma button, and a small patch slides out of a tiny drawer. She hands it to me.

“Here. It’s for the headache.”

“How did you know I needed this?” I say, touching the tender spot where that red-headed, druggy-halitosis guy played basketball with my skull.

She tilts her nose up a touch. “I can . . . just tell.”

I stick the patch to the back of my neck.

“Is that your sister’s?” Marka asks.

I nod. In my lap, Dyl’s purse sags open and I touch the contents delicately. She’s got a whole universe in here I never knew about. Some of it is expected, like the styling pen, half-dozen hair accessories, and a tiny rotating makeup palette. But there’s also a doll-sized lace pillow that Dad bought her on her sixth birthday. One of the frayed ribbons is knotted to a gold necklace that belonged to our mother. Dyl used to wear it before it broke in half. There’s also my silver baby ring. I remember giving it to her years ago when she’d begged so hard, and I couldn’t say no. I flip the pillow over to find Dad’s ring tied to a ragged ribbon on the other side. Her whole family represented by useless, broken bits of cold metal.

The wedding ring upsets me the most. I know it’s just an object, but it hurts to think she doesn’t even have this to comfort her, wherever she is. I dig deeper into her purse and my hand touches a hard edge. It’s a book—a real one. I remember hearing how carrying books was the new fashion. Vintaging, they call it.

I’ve also got her holo stud, fished out of the bathroom corner. It’s still brand-new-looking. I’m dying to turn it on and see what she’s stored on it, but there’s no time. What’s worse, there’s no Dyl.

“How’s the pain?” Marka asks, reaching toward me.

The pain. I pull away from her. I lost a dad and a sister, and she’s still asking about a stupid bump on my head. Our trio has vaporized. Together with Dad and Dyl, we were three points in the universe, a connected plane. Without them, I’m a single point in space. Unanchored and directionless.

Tears creep to the edge of my eyes. Marka doesn’t say anything, just waits. Like she’s been through this before. Maybe she calms down crying orphans on a daily basis, along with drinking her morning coffee and watching the news.

“I am sorry. Truly I am.”

“Look,” I say, “thank you for taking me out of that place and for the medicine. But I want to know what happened to my sister. She was drugged. I’m sure of it.”

Marka takes a long time to answer. Finally, she meets my eye and takes a light breath, which I match automatically with my own.

“You’re right. But it wasn’t any drug that you’ve heard of.” The magpod takes an abrupt turn as we start heading farther away from central Neia. Here, the only tall buildings are those that hold up the agriplane, along with the narrow, plasticized beam supports sprouting above every other intersection. They splay upward like a waiter’s hand holding a tray of cocktails. A few holographic ads whizz by, offering the newest, latest holo studs for sale—cornea implantable. Other mags drive by, calm and orderly on the street.

“Please. I’m going kind of crazy here. Nothing makes any sense to me.”

“We can’t talk in here. It’s too public.”

At this, I rub my eyes because now I think she’s gone crazy. We’re alone in the magpod. At least I think we are. Granted, like all magpods, it isn’t privately owned. They’re for general use, tiered in their luxuriousness based on how much you can pay.

“Here we are.” The magpod slows to a stop outside a large building, one of the agriplane support buildings that crop up every twenty blocks or so. It rises a thousand feet to abut the plane, and the façade is all smooth, reflective glass, save for several blister-like bulges of windows here and there that must look like fishbowls from the inside.

I follow Marka out of the pod, which returns to the daytime traffic and disappears. The hazy midday light soothes my eyes, but the tangy scent of metal magpod lines in the road is sharp. Marka must not like it, because she covers her nose.

She walks to the entrance of the building, then speaks into a square etched into the wide glass doors.

“Marka Sissum.” She places her fingertip in the square’s center, and the doors open. Except for a single white transport door, the rest of the lobby is nothing but mirrors. Even the floor and ceilings. It’s hard to tell where the lobby ends with the endless reflections. My multiple mirror images (small, dark, worried) follow me as I head for the transport door. Marka stops me.

“No, that’s not for us.”

I look around. There are no other doors. Marka walks up to a mirrored wall on the left and stares at her own reflection.

“Ready,” she says.

“Your password?” her reflection asks.

Whoa. I swear the real Marka didn’t say that. But her reflection did. How is that possible?

The real Marka answers herself. “Pygmy hippopotamus.”

“I hope you aren’t referring to me,” I say.

Marka shakes her head seriously, and her reflection is suddenly bisected by a black vertical strip that widens. It’s a door to another transport.

“How did that work?” I see my jaw hanging open in my reflection and close it quickly.

“Nanocircuits built into the mirrors. My programmed circuits only recognize me, and I transfer two passwords before I leave, so only I know the answer.”

“Two?”

“One for ‘everything is okay’ and one for ‘I’m in trouble.’”

“And pygmy hippos are . . . ?”

Her face brightens with a warm smile. “That one is code for ‘everything’s okay.’”

“What’s the code if everything’s not okay?”

Marka doesn’t miss a beat. “Coprolite.”

Fossilized dino crap. How appropriate. “What’s with the security? Are we going to a bank vault or your house?”

“Home, not house,” she corrects me. “You’ll understand soon enough why there are security measures.” She waves me into the transport, whose walls are covered in a million black polka dots. “Okay, don’t move. I’ll go up after you.” She points to foot-shaped pads in the center of the transport and I stand on them obediently.