Silver Eyes (11 page)

“I lost my angel pendant,” I called back. “Have any of you seen it?”

They all came back to help me search, even Dahlia, but none of them could remember for sure when they had last seen it. Timothy had never noticed it at all.

“Angel, please don't worry about it.” Mike pressed my hand. “I'll buy you another one.”

I shook my head, fighting back panic. He didn't understand. The angel pendant was special to me, yes, but the main reason I was upset was because I was afraid the missing pendant meant another memory loss. It was bad enough that I had almost no memory of my life before my Loyalty Induction; it was intolerable to think that the memory loss was still continuing, that I would continue to forget more and more.

* * * At lunch, I stood in line with Timothy, more to avoid Mike than out of any real desire for a chili dog. I looked around restlessly—

—and my gaze collided with that of a man who stood one line over and five people farther back.

Several small things about him grated on my instinct.

He was the wrong age: ten years older than the students, but younger than most presenters. His hair was black, the curling ends long enough to brush his collar; his coloring and features were a mix of Spanish and Indian. He was very handsome. And he had silver eyes.

I remembered what Anaximander had told me, about almost all Spacers having Augments of some kind.

The man looked directly at me. Even though I'd caught him staring, he didn't look away or smile or look embarrassed.

I broke eye contact as casually as I could and tapped Timothy on the shoulder. “Do you see that man back there? The one with the silver eyes? Do you know him?”

Timothy looked. “No. Should I?”

“I guess not.” I shrugged off my disappointment. So much for my brief fantasy of bringing down one of the Spacers that had kidnapped Timothy. Not everyone with silver eyes was a Spacer—as Anaximander himself illustrated.

We got our chili dogs, but as we were leaving, the man intercepted us. “Are you Timothy Castellan? My name is Seth Lopez. I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful job I think you've done here.”

Timothy shook his hand, pleased. “You really think so? Thanks!”

Seth loaded on the compliments for several more minutes, making Timothy blush, but I didn't buy it. I watched uneasily as Seth leaned forward. He was too intense, full of repressed triumph. “Can I ask you something, Timothy?”

“Sure,” Timothy said easily. “What?”

“How did you feel when—”

My hand moved before my brain had time to analyze why, drawing back my iced tea—

“—when the Spacers abducted you?”

—and dashing it across Seth's face and eyes.

T
IMOTHY BLINKED REPEATEDLY,
stunned by Seth's unexpected question and my actions. Silence rippled through the crowd around us, as everyone turned to see what was going on.

Seth wiped a hand across his dripping silver eyes but kept staring at Timothy instead of me, the girl who'd thrown iced tea in his face. My hunch became a sure thing. Seth was a tabloid reporter, and his silver eyes hid a video camera, an illegal cosmetic Augment, a boon to his job, not a medical necessity. “Is it true—” Seth started.

My mind worked like lightning. “Food fight!” I yelled, drowning out the rest of Seth's question.

“—that your mother refused to pay your ransom?”

I threw Timothy's green slurpie in Seth's eyes, but that was only a temporary solution, so I dumped my chili dog over Timothy's head. Red meat sauce turned his blond hair orange and
streaked his face. He looked almost unrecognizable. Good.

Working swiftly, I showered my French fries on the couple at a nearby table and spilled a standing boy's drink over his shirt and pants. That seemed to do the trick.

“Food fight!” Five different voices chorused, and the air was suddenly full of flying hamburgers.

Timothy was still standing there like a lump. I grabbed his hand and yanked him into a run. I deliberately bumped into people as we went, spreading confusion.

Not about to let his big story get away, Seth gave chase, still yelling questions—“Why were you held so long? Is it true you've been seeing a shrink?”—but nobody paid any attention to him in the chaos.

I snatched someone's waffle cone and threw gobs of ice cream like snowballs over my shoulder on the run. Chocolate smeared Seth's shirt and hair. A girl shrieked as a miss splattered on her bare arms.

A bucket of fried chicken provided me with two minutes' worth of firepower. I thwacked Seth's forehead and chest with wings and drumsticks. He got really mad and ran faster, but slipped on someone else's taco spill.

Timothy was gasping, whether from shock or our breathless run, I couldn't tell. I felt great myself and laughed as a random hot dog hit my shoulder.

A knot of people squirting each other with squeeze bottles of mustard and ketchup blocked our way. I pulled Timothy up onto a table, but for
the first time Seth got close enough to grab my leg. I rubbed a mayo-covered bun on his face, kicked him, and scrambled on.

Then we were out of the food court. I pulled Timothy inside an empty lecture hall and locked it.

One look at Timothy's gray, stricken face killed my excitement. “Here, sit down.” Alarmed, I urged him into a red, plush seat. He collapsed into it and put his face in his hands.

I studied him anxiously. He didn't seem to be crying, so I decided to give him a moment to recover. I pulled out my palmtop and called Anaximander. Hopefully, Timothy would be too shocked to realize that I knew whom to call.

Anaximander's face appeared. “Angel, please call back. There's a—”

“—food fight going on,” I finished. “I know. I started it. Some guy calling himself Seth Lopez was asking Timothy rude questions about his kidnapping. I think he was a tabloid reporter. Can you catch him?”

For an answer, Anaximander hung up. I decided that meant he was going to try so I went and sat by Timothy.

“No one's supposed to know,” Timothy said, the first words he'd spoken since Seth asked him about being kidnapped. Seth might as well have hit him with a tire iron; his words had had the same effect.

“Know what?” I asked gently.

“About the kidnapping.” Timothy stared off blankly. “It was hushed up. Now my face will be all over the tabloids.” Timothy sounded doomed. “Everyone will see me.”

I could at least help him with that worry. “No, they won't. All they'll see is you smiling. Seth won't have any video of your reaction because I threw my drink in his eyes. His tape will be blurred and splattered. And the later shots of you will be unrecognizable because of the chili dog I dumped in your hair.”

“Oh. Is that why you did that?” Timothy looked briefly cheered, before sinking back into depression. “But the story will still come out. And then everyone will
look
at me. They'll stare and stare . . .
I can't bear it
.”

“Your mom will protect you.” I offered all the crumbs I could think of. “It will blow over.”

Timothy wasn't listening, trapped in a nightmare. “There will be cameras everywhere, watching me, recording me in secret.” He shuddered.

“It will blow over,” I repeated. I looked toward the door. Had Anaximander caught Seth? Maybe they could work some deal with him, pay him off for not selling the story to the tabloids.

“The only way I could stand it the first time was because almost no one knew. Now everyone will. Even the people who are too polite to mention it will know. It will be there in their eyes when they look at me.”

“What will be in their eyes?” I asked.

“The curiosity. The wondering. What happened to him all those months? Did he crack?” Timothy spoke about himself in the third person, making the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “Is he crazy?”

“No one who knows you will think that.” Unfortunately, I couldn't vouch for strangers.

“My mother looks at me funny,” Timothy muttered.

A minefield loomed in front of me. “Your mom is worried about you. That doesn't mean she thinks you're crazy.” I tried a smile. “My mom worries about me all the time. That's what moms do.”

A twinge passed through me. Was my mom worried about me? I didn't know.

“Not
my
mother,” Timothy said bitterly. “If Uncle Eddy hadn't rescued me, she'd still be haggling over my ransom.”

I was still struggling with that revelation when a knock came at the door. “It's Anaximander.”

I opened the door and let Mike and Anaximander in. Mike was with him. “Did you catch him?” I asked.

“He escaped.” Anaximander turned to Timothy. “I apologize for the security breach. It won't happen again.”

Timothy's face reddened with anger. “How do you know that? If he got past you once, he can get past you again!” He shoved Anaximander, and I suddenly remembered Eddy's hints that Timothy might be violent.

No, I didn't believe that. Timothy had a right to be upset. Being angry didn't make him violent.

Anaximander questioned Timothy and me about what had happened, then escorted Timothy to a washroom so he could clean up. I had escaped with only minor mustard stains, and Mike wasn't too messy either, so
we stayed behind.

My brows drew together in a frown when I realized that Anaximander hadn't congratulated me on my quick thinking in preventing Seth from getting Timothy on video. Of course, he hadn't lectured me over the planetarium incident either. I should probably count myself ahead, but it still rankled.

“You know,” I said to Mike, “sometimes I get the feeling that Anaximander doesn't want me to succeed.”

“Of course he doesn't,” Mike said, startling me. “He knows you're his replacement.”

“What?”

“Out with the old, in with the new. Before the violet-eyed, the Augmented were top of the line when it came to espionage. Not anymore,” Mike said.

“Mr. Castellan likes to have the newest toys,” Anaximander had said. I had thought he'd been referring to the Black Panther aircar. Had there been a slight bite to his words, a double meaning? I couldn't remember.

“It must really gripe him,” Mike continued, “knowing that once he's trained you, he'll be tossed out like an old piece of garbage.”

“You don't know that,” I said.

Mike shrugged. “No, but it makes sense. As you said, SilverDollar is a company, not a government. How many espionage agents—sorry, I mean
security investigators
—does it need?”

I studied his face, trying to decide whether I could believe him or not.

“You don't trust me, do you?” Mike asked softly.

“I don't know you well enough to trust you,” I said sadly.

A tiny flinch and then his face smoothed out. “Then maybe it's time you got to know me,” he said cryptically.

We told Rianne and the Flower Twins that there had been a problem with a reporter but didn't mention the kidnapping. Timothy rejoined us for
the last half of the afternoon session on genetically adapting humans to Mars instead of terraforming Mars, but remained in a bad mood.

After the lecture, the presenter, Dr. Hatcher, came up to me. “Excuse me, are you Angel Eastland?”

“Yes,” I said, startled. My heart gave an extra pound. Was I supposed to know who he was? Dr. Hatcher was in his forties. He had a lean build and graying brown hair. The few lines on his face gave him a grave, intelligent air. He didn't look familiar and sparked no drowning flashes.

Dr. Hatcher smiled at me. “I read your essay and was very impressed by it. I'd like to discuss a few of your ideas, if you have the time.”

I barely remembered what I'd written, but it would have been rude to say no. “Of course.” I waved Mike and the others on. “Are you one of the judges, then?”

“Not exactly.” He didn't elaborate, going on to talk about several of the points I dimly remembered writing about.

I responded as best as I could. I was about to excuse myself when he suddenly changed tack.

“Tell me, Angel, do you know what you want to do with your life?”

Since my employment by SilverDollar was a secret from Timothy, I thought it best not to tell him I had an exciting career as a security investigator. “I haven't really made up my mind yet,” I stalled.

“Any strong possibilities? Medicine? Theater? Business?”

His eyes were kind, I thought suddenly.

A stupid way to think. How could eyes be kind? But somehow his were.

I shook my head. I'd never given any of those careers the slightest thought.

“Let me rephrase the question,” Dr. Hatcher said. “What do you enjoy doing? What kind of job would you find fun?”

I thought back over the last week. I'd enjoyed racing Anaximander through the maze—and winning. I'd enjoyed flying the Black Panther. I'd enjoyed playing a prank on Mike. I'd enjoyed outwitting Seth.