Disrupted (6 page)

It was all coming out in the wash now, wasn’t it?

Oh, God, and now I sounded just like mum. Could life get any ickier?

I could almost feel the self-pity glugging up in me, from the toes on upward like a person-jug, and I knew I should stop.

Just stop.

But this pathetic, bitter emotion was there, real, more solid than anything else in my life had seemed for months. More solid than this crazy alternate future I’d been thrust into. More solid than the loser existence awaiting me.

I looked straight into Chris’s eyes. And I couldn’t help thinking that maybe I’d also have ended up some kind of hero with a destiny if I’d had a Drustan watching over me. “God forbid anything messy like a broken home distract you from your humongous destiny.”

Chris dropped his gaze from mine, rocking back until he was sitting on the floor, drawing his knees up. “My mother died when I was a few weeks old. I have no idea who my father is. Either Nan never knew or she won’t tell me.”

What?

I stared at him blankly, waiting for my brain to catch up.

A lifetime of pictures surged up at me.

Outings to boring museums.

Freezing my ass off in Hyde Park while mum and dad frolicked amongst the leaves.

Comforting arms wrapped around me.

Bickering over the TV remote, quarrels and slammed doors, laughs and steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

I closed my eyes, trying to imagine it all away.

I couldn’t.

It would be like—like cutting off an arm or leg.

“Oh, Chris.” My throat was so tight, I could barely speak. My eyes opened on him. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s not your fault.”

“But the way I went on and on like that about a silly divorce when your—” I stopped myself just in time.

“When my situation is so much worse?” Chris finished, looking up again with a frown. “It isn’t, you know. And I only told you because, well, you seemed to have the wrong impression. I’m used to people just knowing, I guess, being as Biggs Hill is.”

“I didn’t know.” I felt like hitting myself over the head. Preferably with an iron frying pan.

And that was before I remembered the way I’d spoken about his perfect world and humungous destiny. Oh, God, my name is Spite. I am that person.

“I am such a cow. I should be grateful for what I have, but here I am, mucking all my self-misery out over you.” A sharp ache gnawed at my tummy, a hard nip each time I recalled what I’d said, what I’d thought. “I’m a horrible, horrible person.”

Chris put his hand on my arm. I expected a half-hearted pat, followed by something like, “There, there, you can’t help being a stupid, selfish prat.”

Instead his hand stayed there, steady and comforting. “Then that makes two of us,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “Because I sure as hell wouldn’t feel any less worse about getting a B for math just because the rest of the class got Cs.”

I had no idea what his grades had to do with anything.

But he was still looking deeply into my eyes, with that warm smile, and then I understood.

About his grades analogy.

About a crappy life being no less crappy just because someone else’s was crappier.

And also a little more about the amazing compassion he was capable of. I looked into his eyes, into the warm smile there, and saw something of the man Chris would one day be. It was a little like the genetic stamping Drustan had spoken of, or at least my interpretation of an instant download. Because right then and there, without very much to go on, I absolutely understood why Chris was the one who’d one day earn the SWAT team watching his back.

Chapter 7

W
e were marching back up the street to the corner of 56 and 12.

Chris was gazing about him, entranced with the occasional robot and the odd mix of people (jeans and T-shirts were still a classic favourite, but high fashion seemed to alternate between tunic-wear and flowing rainbow robes).

I was eyeing the conveyor belts longingly, wondering why we were footing it on immobile slab when Gale was clearly in such a hurry.

Gale, of course, wasn’t footing it anywhere.

She was flittering behind us at shoulder level, huffing, pouting, pecking. You know, just being her usual annoying self. “I should have known you’d do something like this.”

“Like what?” I snapped. “You told me to find Chris. I found Chris.”

“And when exactly did I suggest you take him to a movie? Before or after I spent two hours searching through every crummy croy hole and lob bar in town?”

“It was a promotional screening of an upcoming Asteroid Cruise. And what on earth,” I flung over my shoulder, “is a croy hole and a lob bar?”

She brought her hand up, formed an ‘o’ with two fingers, and flicked my forehead.

I gasped. “Did you just flick me?”

Chris scowled our way.

“No,” said Gale, flittering to the other side of Chris. Wise move. “You knew how worried I was about Christian Wood. Drustan will be furious if he knows what you’ve been up to.”

“Good. I hope he’s furious enough to strip you for spare parts.”

“Bleeding hell,” groaned Chris, striding on ahead of us. “Do you two never stop?”

“See?” Gale poked my upper arm with one of her spindly fingers. I tried to catch it, but she was too quick. “You’re going to chase him off again with your nasty bickering. Don’t you care about anyone but yourself?”

Fascinating, really, how Chris had sneaked out of the apartment to live it large downtown, but this was all my fault.

There are some kinds of indignant bafflement that words can just not fully express. So I whopped her ridiculous excuse for a head with the flat of my hand. Hard. It bounced back and forth a few times on the triangular point until coming to a quivering rest.

“Oops,” I said, “I hope I didn’t rattle any screws loose.”

Expecting a vicious comeback, I prepared myself. My hands came up, my body tensed.

I was almost disappointed when Chris disappeared around the corner and Gale flew off after him.

I caught up to them as they were revolving through the door to Drustan’s building. I pushed through as well, into the tranquil lobby.

It felt good to be back here.

We’d had a bit of fun, Chris and I, after I’d stopped sniffling and whining. We’d found Tripod Travel’s promotion lounge and watched a series of screenings. Acting kind of silly. Okay, a lot silly. As in pretend remembering our own jolly holidays, sailing into the purple gassy remains of Pluto and scavenging for moon gold.

Chris was actually a decent laugh, when he wasn’t giving me ‘whatever’ glares and yelling at me to shut up.

Who would have thought, me and Chris.

No, not like that.

Just strange, really, to be so chummy now.

Although not chummy enough, apparently, to dish on what had gone down between him and Jack and what he wasn’t telling Drustan.

“You should be helping Drustan, not obstructing,” I’d told him.

“Why? So Drustan can use whatever I say to justify his crazy theory?”

“Drustan doesn’t want to hurt Jack.”

“Don’t be daft, Willow. Jack had a defective heart. He could die if Drustan kidnaps his mom and prevents her from having the corrective genetic treatment.”

“Were you and Jack really friends?”

At which point, Chris went quiet.

I watched the screen phase out of the purple haze into diamond studded blackness as the cruise ship left Pluto behind for a terrifying game of dodger.

Dodging asteroids, that is.

“Perfectly safe,” boomed a voice from above. “Our path is fully automated and plotted with the latest Xaneteric anti-collision technology.”

Still, I found myself jerking and ducking as we near-missed speeding asteroids.

“Cool,” said Chris.

I set my eyes on him. “Maybe it’s worth the risk, Chris.”

“Totally,” he agreed, his mind back on our silly game. “We did comet racing last summer, so Nan’s sure to be up for asteroid dodging this year.”

“I’m talking about Jack. For all we know, Jack will be fine to have the genetic engineering when he’s a little older. Or some other heart surgery. You don’t know how severe his medical condition was or what other measures can be taken, but we do know exactly how dead you’ll be if Drustan does nothing. Maybe it’s worth the risk.”

“You’re something, you know?” said Chris, and not as a compliment. “You’re supposed to like Jack. Hell, you’re supposed to be his girlfriend.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t.” Chris stared at me for a long moment. “I almost feel sorry for Jack.”

“Chris.” I clutched his arm. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to Jack. But you didn’t see him coming at us. Your back was to him. He had a knife, Chris. We know for sure he went ahead and stabbed you. I wish he hadn’t. I wish he wasn’t capable of doing something like that. But wishing doesn’t make it all go away.”

Chris pushed my hand away. Not roughly. But firmly. And there wasn’t anger or irritation in the gaze he kept on me. “That’s not the point, is it?”

I’d stopped then. Stopped pressing. Stopped being confused.

Chris was hiding something. Something bad. Probably something along the lines of Jack going from Dr. Jekyll to antsy Mr. Hyde in one day for no reason at all. No reason, that is, except for his genetic stamping kicking in.

I thought I knew why Chris wouldn’t confirm Drustan’s theory. No, I knew I knew why. For whatever reason, Chris was protecting Jack in the only way he could. Even if it meant sacrificing himself. And unfortunately, that’s exactly what Chris would be doing. Because Jack would kill him if Drustan didn’t reverse the stamping. Correction. Jack had already killed him. All we had to do was wait for the time wave to crash and that would be Chris. As in, there would no longer be a Chris.

And Chris was right about me. I couldn’t compete with his selflessness. I couldn’t even begin to understand it. Chris was a better enemy than I was a friend (or girlfriend.)

Maybe that’s his destiny.

Maybe Chris is actually a saint.

We settled back to the screenings after that, which had switched to touring the moon buggy races. The buggy races were Formula One spaced out, with various moons hosting a circuit for each stage of the championship. Chris dreamed aloud of a career in lunar racing and I dreamed silently of the really cute driver who’d placed third last year.

But the serious stuff was still out there. And the only reason I wasn’t totally freaking out was Drustan. I wasn’t the total monster Chris mistook me for. I didn’t treat Jack’s life lightly. I just wanted everything to be okay again, and I trusted in Drustan to make it so.

Drustan might not be what my mum would call a fully functional adult, but there was something both reassuring and familiar about him, and I believed him when he said he’d fix everything.

So, yes, I was glad to back here, in Drustan’s building, happy to wait until he returned with good news.

We were half way across the lobby when one of the elevators slid open.

I tried not to gawk at the two men stepping out, I really did. The one on the left was a little shorter than his friend, but they were both still well over six foot and rather on the thin side. The tight black two-piece zipped tunics with starched Chinese collars up to their chins weren’t doing them any favours. Neither were the tinted sunglasses that covered half their faces. Then again, if I were that pale, I’d also probably cover up as much face as possible. And wear a wig. These two were completely bald.

“Oh no,” whimpered Gale, plucking at my T-Shirt. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

I stopped dead.

So did Chris. “What is it?”

The men had come to an abrupt halt as well. I didn’t have to see their eyes to know they were staring at us. A slow chill prickled all over my skin.

“Run,” urged Gale suddenly in a rusty whisper. “Run, Christian Wood, run.”

I met Chris’s eyes, then we both glanced at Gale. She was blipping, her body glowing orange and pumping long and squat, long and squat, in quick pulses. She had her fingers on each of us, tugging ineffectually.

I looked forward. The men were moving again, in our direction.

‘Run,’ echoed my brain.

Excellent idea.

Any second now.

My blood raced. I could actually feel it skidding around the bends at my elbows and knees and revving straight through my heart.

Chris slipped a hand in mine, turning me with him as he dashed for the door. He had to drag me a few feet before I came into my own, and then I was running for England.

We jammed through the revolving door as one, Chris and me back to front, Gale perched up on top somewhere. Out onto the packed sidewalk, elbowing our way amidst gasps and screams and curses until we were on the conveyor belts, first the slow one, a quick hop over a mangy looking rat dog, and then we were in the fast lane, legging it eastward.

I’d spent long enough watching the civilised system to know we should either have been standing close to the edges or, for those in a desperate hurry, marching briskly down the centre. Either way, the scenery moved past fairly quickly. But this was not a time for civilities and ‘fairly quickly’ had nothing on my pounding heart.

Still, we weren’t just squirreling beneath a couple of armpits and ducking between the odd pair of legs. We were battering down the hoards in front of us, leaving a trail of chaos in our wake that a blind man could follow. Not to mention Gale, who was flittering above us in petrified orange like a homing beacon.

“Chris!” I caught him by the back of his shirt to slow him down and jerked my eyes upward.

He glanced up, saw Gale, and apparently my mind had some greatness potential because we thought alike.

He reached up, grabbed, yanked and tucked Gale under his arm without a break in his crashing stride. She struggled a bit, then obviously realised she was exactly where she’d always yearned to be, and went kind of limp. Seriously. Her tubing even dulled to a soft pink, and there she was, looking like a wilting offshoot of alien plant matter.

Meanwhile, I’d spared a brief glance behind and found, well, an angry mob picking themselves up and dusting off, probably searching for a handy pitchfork while they were at it, but no sign of our men in black.

“Wait,” I yelled with another tug on Chris’s shirt, bringing him to a complete halt as I pointed out irritably, “Look. No one’s after us.”

Chris turned around and looked.

I glared at Gale’s head, popping out at Chris’s side. It was an inviting target. I mean, those poor men were probably residents in the building. They hadn’t been coming for us at all. We’d just happened to be between them and the door.

“Oh yes there is,” muttered Chris.

“Exactly. If this tin head hadn’t—”
What?

I swirled around.

Yelp.

They were less than a block away, threading inconspicuously amongst the few commuters we’d left standing.

“This way,” called Chris, bounding off the East Line at the corner and onto the intersecting North Line.

We were more careful this time, weaving in and around rather than bull bashing. Gale was still tucked under Chris’s arm, although one arm had snaked itself around his neck. Chris was sprinting in a low crouch, dodging bodies left and right.

I tried the crouching sprint, but after a bit the strain on my knees and thighs pushed me upright.

My mum was right. She’d told me I’d regret quitting ballet at age 6. And I had. Because when I’d wanted to quit piano, she’d diagnosed me with Quitter Syndrome (to this day, I’m sure she made that up) and brought up the ballet lessons every time I protested. Now had I had yet another reason for regret.

We jumped Lines so many times, I no longer knew my east from north. All I knew was my chest was about to explode. My lungs were on fire. I had to push harder and harder just to keep going. I was more afraid of losing sight of Chris than actually being grabbed from behind.

But my body was protesting in earnest now, my limbs heavy and uncoordinated.

Next thing, my feet tangled in a mass of voluminous robes, bringing me down on top of the owner. I stayed down, fighting to catch my breath. The sudden pain in my side was so sharp and deep, I thought my victim had aimed an angry kick. He hadn’t. In fact, he wasn’t moving at all.

I groped my way free of his robes, trying not to breathe as each breath was a new stab in my side, and leaned over him. His hair was silvery white, his face a web of powdery crinkles.