Blight Page 25

  “You want to tell me what?”

  I rub my fingers over my palm and shake my head. We sit in silence for several minutes.

  “You don’t have to stay with me,” I say. “I’m fine. It’s your night off.”

  “More reason to keep you company,” he says. “The health clinic’s dead boring.”

  Suddenly my head clears. I sit up straight. This is it. The MA building. Alder is somewhere nearby.

  “You want something to eat or drink while we wait?” Eli asks. “The cafeteria upstairs is open all night.”

  I glance around at the triage nurse and the other patients. No one seems to be paying any attention to us. “Um . . . yeah. Okay.” I try to smile. “As long as it’s not more scorpion bombs.”

  Eli winks at me. “Back in ten.”

  I watch him disappear into the elevator at the far end of the room, then count to twenty and stand.

  “Bathroom?” I ask the triage nurse.

  She points down the hall to the left, without looking up.

  I walk quickly, trying to look casual. A set of double doors with a scanner lock closes off the rest of the floor from the waiting area. I try my com bracelet, but the lock flashes red and beeps unhappily. Damn. I stand back and wait, pretending to look something up on my com. A minute later, the door opens, and a young man in scrubs breezes past. I catch the door an inch before it swings shut and slip through. What was it Crake always said? “The majority of system failures are the result of human error.”

  Exam rooms line the broad hallway. I keep close to the wall, ready to duck into one. The corridor Ts, and I stop. Which way? I close my eyes, calling up the floor plan in my memory. Right should take me deeper into the building, left toward the exterior. I turn right. I need a service elevator. And a disguise.

  I scan the signs. EXAM 1017. EXAM 1019. SUPPLIES. MAINTENANCE. LAUNDRY.

  Laundry. I stop and glance up and down the hallway. At the far end, an orderly pushing a patient on a gurney rolls in my direction, but I don’t think they’ve seen me yet. I try the handle. Unlocked. I slip into the laundry room and push the door closed behind me.

  Lights stagger on, sensing my movement. Huge rolling bins with black biohazard symbols stenciled across their sides fill the room, parked in crooked lines. I peer into one. Bloodstained and dirty scrubs, soiled sheets and pillowcases.

  I grimace and pick through the bin. Halfway down, I find a pair of teal scrubs, wrinkled, but mostly clean. I ball up my own clothes, stuff them under one of the bins in the corner of the room, and pull on the scrubs. They smell faintly of someone else’s sweat and deodorant, but no one will know it but me.

  I take a deep breath, pull open the door, and step back out into the hall as if I belong there. The pair of nurses passing by don’t so much as glance at me. I fall in behind them, walking purposefully, keeping my head up, searching for an elevator or a stairwell.

  The nurses veer right and stop in front of an exam room. I curse silently, then keep walking. This building is thirty stories tall. If there’s a way up, there has to be a way down to the sublevels, too. I check the time on my coms. Four minutes since Eli left for the cafeteria. He’ll be back soon.

  I spot a janitor’s cart outside a lab, grab it, and keep moving. Every floor might not need a doctor or an orderly, but every floor has to be cleaned. I find a handful of disposable paper caps with elastic bands in one of the boxes on my cart and pull one over my hair.

  The hall ends at a bank of elevators, with a cluster of hospital personnel waiting for one to arrive. I linger at the back of the crowd. The minute marker on my com ticks over. Five minutes gone. I jiggle my foot. Come on.

  The elevator dings and its doors slide open. I follow the rest of the workers into the car, pulling my cart after me.

  A woman in a white lab coat waves her wrist com over the elevator’s security scanner and pushes the button for level five.

  “Hit seven for me?” The man behind her says.

  She does. “Anyone else?”

  “Three,” says a woman in scrubs beside me.

  I swallow. “Sublevel two?”

  I expect them to turn and stare, to be caught out, but none of them do. She presses the button for sublevel two, and the doors close. We ride up first, dropping off passengers and picking up others, then back down. I check my coms again. Seven minutes. The elevator empties on level three, and then I’m alone.

  The elevator doors open. Dim track lights run along the ceiling. The walls are dingy gray-green, the floors dull beige. A plexiglass guard station stands directly across from the elevator.

  “You’re early tonight,” says a staticky voice.

  I jump, and then spot the guard on the other side of the glass, his feet up on his desk and a tablet open in his lap.

  “Um . . . I got done early upstairs.” I roll the cart forward, trying to look bored, but my hands are sweating like crazy.

  He glances up at me. “You’re new.”

  “Yeah?” I say.

  He drops his eyes back to his tablet and shakes his head. “New meat. You won’t win any friends by overachieving.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  He looks up at me again and gestures to the door. “Well, get on with it. Wouldn’t want you ruining your winning streak.”

  Shit. I approach the door scanner hesitantly and eye the guard. He’s going to figure it out. He’ll know. Why won’t my palms stop sweating?

  “What’s the matter?” he calls.

  I raise my wrist com and pretend to swipe it across the scanner, sweeping wide of the beams’ focal point.

  “It’s not working,” I call back.

  He drops his feet and leans up to the glass. “That one’s tricky. You’ve got to hit it just right.”

  I pretend to swipe again. “I . . . uh . . . I think it’s broken.”

  He sighs. “Goddamn piece of shit. Here.”

  A buzzer sounds. The lock mechanism clacks open.

  “Thanks!” I wipe my hands on my shirt and push my cart through the door.

  A dim hallway lined by glass-faced cells stretches before me. I check my coms again. Eleven minutes. Eli is surely back now, wondering where I am. Bulbous security camera eyes dot the ceiling at regular intervals. I’ll have to be fast, hope no one is watching on the other end of those feeds. I scan the cell numbers as I roll past. S2-010, S2-012, S2-014. S2-016. S2-018. I stop. There it is. S2-020.

  I peer inside. Someone is lying on the narrow bunk, under a thin gray blanket. I tap on the scuffed glass, but the figure doesn’t stir. There’s a narrow rectangular hole cut into the door, barely big enough to slip a meal tray through.

  “Alder,” I whisper, kneeling beside it.

  He still doesn’t move.

  I clear my throat. “Alder.”

  He lifts his head.

  “It’s me,” I say. “It’s Tempest.”

  “Tempest?” He sits up.

  The blanket falls away, and I gasp. He looks so thin. His skin is sallow and bruised, and his eyes bloodshot. A thick white bandage covers his forearm. It was real, all of it. It’s written on Alder’s body.

  “What did they do to you?”

  “Nothing.” He grimaces as he eases his feet to the floor. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had to make sure you were okay.” I press a hand to the glass. “They wouldn’t let me see you.”

  He shrugs. “Well.” He looks me in the eye, the accusation plain in his voice. “I’m here.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” I say. “The morphine, it wasn’t enough, and then . . . you were lying there, and . . .”

  “You promised,” Alder says.

  “I know,” I say. “But I couldn’t do it. Not after everything.”

  Alder shakes his head and looks away. “You know what they’re going to do with me now, right?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t talk around the lump in my throat.

  “They’re sending me to an assimilation camp. They’re transf
erring me in two days.”

  Assimilation camp. A place hardly ever mentioned, except as a threat or a punishment. “If you can’t walk in line, I’m sending all of you to assimilation camp.” Or, “Damn, I heard he got picked for assimilation camp duty.” It was somewhere far away. Somewhere harsh, somewhere you had to go if you weren’t behaving like a loyal employee. Now it sounds even more sinister.

  “Listen.” I clear my throat. “I’m going to try to get you out, okay? But I need your help. Is there any way to get word to the other scavenger settlements? The blight is only partially contained. It’s still spreading east past the firebreaks. AgraStar is evacuating all its personnel.”

  Alder stares at me, then narrows his eyes. “Did they send you here to question me?”

  “What?” I blink.

  He stands and limps closer. “I see you. You come here looking all clean and rested. I thought you’d changed, but you’re still one of them. Cog, through and through.”

  “No!” I catch myself and lower my voice. “I’m your friend. I’m not—”

  “I’m not falling for it,” he shouts at the ceiling. “Do you hear that?”

  I glance nervously at the security camera. “Alder, stop—”

  “I don’t know where anyone is, and even if I did, I’d never tell you!”

  “Goddamn it, Alder!” I say through gritted teeth. “Will you shut up? I’m trying to help you.”

  “Help me.” He scoffs.

  “Yes,” I say. “AgraStar was able to use the seeds. They can splice the genes together with ones from other plants, make them blight resistant. We’ll be able to plant again, but first we have to get everyone out of harm’s way.”

  Alder shakes his head. “You really think AgraStar is going to share that information? You think they’re going to let a bunch of scavengers have their intellectual property, no strings attached?”

  “No, but . . .” Of course they won’t. It doesn’t matter that the seeds that will save us came from the scavengers in the first place. They’re AgraStar property now.

  “I’ll tell you what’ll happen,” Alder says. “The same thing that always happens. AgraStar will be the savior. They’ll have the only seeds that will grow in the blighted areas. And all those free people living outside the compounds? Those scavengers and uncontracted farmers? They’ll have to sign on with AgraStar or starve.”

  I don’t say anything. He’s right. I’m an idiot. That’s exactly how this will play out.

  “And you know,” he says, his eyes sunken and half wild, “now that they have the key to developing blight-resistant crops, what’s going to stop them from letting the blight spread so they can bring more people under their control? Maybe next there’ll be an outbreak down in Tallahassee or Shreveport. Or up in Richmond. Or out in Bloom.”

  A chill runs through me. If AgraStar releases the blight outside our territory, what choice would the other companies have but to create their own biological weapons? Their own proprietary strain of resistant seeds? How long before we can’t out-design one another anymore, before nothing will grow and everyone is dead?

  “It doesn’t matter if you get me out,” Alder says. “If they’re the only ones with the seeds, nothing matters.”

  “What about the Latebra Congress?” I whisper. “If we can contact them—”

  “Shh,” Alder hisses. “Not in here.”

  “If they’re listening, we’re already screwed,” I say. “Let me help. How do I get the word out?”

  He stares at the floor, chewing his lip, but says nothing.

  “You have to trust me,” I whisper. “I’m running out of time. They’ll notice I’m not where I’m supposed to be any minute and run a trace on my com cuff.”

  He looks at me, his expression unreadable. “There’s a game,” he says slowly. “MoleMaze. You play it on your coms or a tablet.”

  I screw up my face. MoleMaze? Isn’t that one of the games Dr. Mitra tried to get me to play? “And that’s supposed to help us . . . how?”

  Alder rolls his eyes, and for a second I see the boy I knew on the road. “It’s not the game itself you want. That’s a cover. There’s a link where you can submit fan art or a picture of a mole you spot in the wild. You go there, and it’ll let you upload anything you want—a tip, a file, whatever.”

  “And the filters won’t block it?” I say. “They have me locked out of any sites that aren’t AgraStar approved.”

  “I don’t think so,” Alder says. “We couldn’t get a network signal out at our camp, so we only ever used the satellite phone to call in tips and check for any warnings. The game’s more for city dwellers and informants inside the compounds. You know—”

  “Moles,” I finish, and close my eyes. “Got it.” At least someone in their resistance movement has a sense of humor.

  “Get out of here, Tempest.” Alder moves back. “Before they realize you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “I’m coming back for you.”

  “Don’t,” Alder says. “Get the data out. That’s all that matters.”

  “Not to me,” I say.

  “Then you’re an idiot,” Alder says.

  “Lucky for you, then,” I say, and before he can answer, I slip away.

  .23.

  BLOODROOT

  SANGUINARIA CANADENSIS

  I take the elevator to the ground floor and find my clothes. Is this what I am now—a mole? A spy? I follow a group of doctors and nurses to the cafeteria and scan the crowd for Eli. No sign of him. Relieved, I step inside the public elevator to ride back down to the main floor.

  “Tempest!” My mother, still in her gown, flies across the waiting room and grabs me. “Where have you been?”

  I freeze under her touch. Shit. What is she doing here? She must have come straight from the gala. Did Eli call her? I spot him, standing behind her near a row of seats. He shrugs and grimaces. Sorry.

  “I . . . I went upstairs to find Eli.” I meet her eyes and then look over to him. “I’m feeling better. I was thinking I’d go home, but I wanted to tell you before I left.”

  My mother glances over her shoulder at Eli.

  He gives her a sheepish look. “We must have missed each other.”

  “You had me so worried.” Her fingers dig into my arms.

  “How did you know I was here?” I step back and look at Eli. “Did you call her?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I have your security settings programmed to alert me if you’re scanned at any medical center,” my mother says. “Same as Isabel.”

  My cuff. I twist it. I’m lucky she didn’t activate its tracking function.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Eli was with me.”

  “He said you had some kind of attack.” She frowns.

  “I just . . .” I glance at Eli. “I saw something that reminded me of being out there on the road.”

  “Oh, m’ija.” She buries me in a hug. I smell her perfume, like honeysuckle and oranges, and I realize she must be truly rattled if she used that name for me with other people nearby. “You’ve been through so much. You see, this is why I didn’t want you going out yet. You need more time to heal. We’ll set up an appointment with a trauma therapist first thing tomorrow.”

  Out of nowhere, tears spring to my eyes. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I say into her shoulder.

  But that isn’t true. Guilt swells in me. If I’m caught, she might be able to save me from the worst fate. But what will happen to her if I succeed? First her husband, and then her daughter turned traitor? What will Kurich and the board of directors have to say about that?

  She steps back and cups my face. “My brave, tough daughter. I don’t want to lose you again.”

  Eli clears his throat. “I should go. Tempest.” He nods at me, and then turns to my mother. “Ma’am.”

  “Oh!” My mother holds out a hand to him. “Young man . . .”

  “Eli,” I say.

  “Eli.” She smiles at him. “Thank you for
looking after my daughter. Please come to dinner at our house tomorrow, if you’re free. Wouldn’t that be lovely, Tempest?”

  I want to sink into the floor. “I don’t know.” I look at Eli. “Don’t you . . . I mean, you must be on duty.”

  “I think we can work around that.” My mother winks at me. “There are a few perks that come with my position.”

  “Do you want to come?” I ask Eli. Please say no. Please say no. There’s so much to do, and when Eli is in the room, it’s all I can do to fight off the flashbacks and memories.

  “It’d be an honor,” Eli says.

  “Seven o’clock?” my mother says.

  Eli nods. “Thank you, ma’am.” He looks to me, and some of his soldier-boy rigidness melts away. “See you then, Tempest.”

  I stand watching him, openmouthed, as he walks out the front doors of the clinic, and then I turn on my mother. “Why did you do that?”

  “Well, you like him, don’t you?” She smiles and raises an eyebrow. “His record is top-notch. He’s on a leadership track within Security. He’s an excellent match for you.”

  “I don’t want a match,” I say.

  “It’s perfectly normal at your age,” my mother says. “That’s what you need right now. Normal. Routine. A chance to recover.”

  I look at my feet and swallow the scream building inside my chest.

  “You’re tired,” my mother says. “Let’s go home.”

  “Okay.” I head for the door, but my mother catches me with a laugh.

  “Oh, no. We don’t have to go by street.”

  “Huh?”

  “Come along.” She gathers me under her arm. “This way.”

  She leads me down a corridor to a small elevator with buffed steel doors. It’s scanner-locked and, inside, tiled in white marble.

  “Executive elevator,” my mother explains. “For security reasons, of course, but sometimes it’s nice not to have to fight your way through the hoi polloi. I’ll arrange for you to have clearance for it, too.”

  “Oh.” I’m too wrung out to protest or ask what those strange words mean. “Thanks.”

  I watch the elevator’s readout as it rises. Level twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two . . . we stop at the thirtieth floor and step out directly onto a skywalk. Beyond the glass, the city is beautiful—headlights crossing the street below us, streetlamps bathing the buildings in warm orange, a slice of the Ferris wheel glittering between the skyscrapers. I pause and take it in. All that glittering night moves me and makes me feel lonely at the same time.