Survival Page 6

> Charlie was saying as Tate tuned in to a conversation that apparently hadn’t stopped the entire time she was sleeping.

  Amelia didn’t respond.

  Charlie chuckled. <
  It’s like one bone for a pack of dogs, one nanny for a crowd of yuppie moms —>>

  <> Yago said.

  <> Charlie said merrily.

  “Why isn’t Amelia talking?” Tate asked shortly as she eased herself into a sitting position. She was in a bad mood. Very bad. The pain in her leg was immense.

  <> Yago said wearily.

  “Why?” Tate tried stretching her leg straight out, but that only made the pain worse.

  <> Yago said.

  “I can’t disagree there,” Tate said.

  Charlie laughed strangely. <>

  “Speaking of hunger,” Tate said shortly. “We need to talk about Duncan.”

  <> Charlie asked.

  “Where do you think he is?” Tate said as patiently as possible.

  <> Charlie said confidently. <>

  “But the hunger,” Tate said. “He’ll come after us — me — eventually, won’t he?”

  <> Charlie said. <>

  <> Amelia said.

  There was a short pause during which Tate silently willed Yago to keep his mouth shut. She wanted — they needed — Amelia’s help.

  “What makes you say that?” Tate asked as steadily as possible. She couldn’t imagine Amelia was very happy about losing control of her body. She was braced for an attack; she was ready to fight Amelia off if it came to that. She wondered if she should try to talk to Amelia, set some ground rules — or if that would just add to the hostilities.

  <> Amelia said evenly. <>

  “Okay, so let’s be ready,” Tate said. “Obviously, fighting him isn’t going to work. None of us can control the Mouth.”

  <> Charlie asked.

  <> Amelia asked snidely.

  <> Yago snapped. <>

  “How can we slow him down?” Tate demanded, deliberately cutting them both off.

  Heavy silence.

  “Amelia, Charlie, don’t you know anything about these — these things?” Tate asked impatiently.

  <> Amelia asked grumpily.

  “You were one!” Tate said.

  <> Amelia reminded her. <>

  <> Yago asked slowly. <>

  <> Amelia said thoughtfully. <>

  “You’re saying we should — what? Remove oxygen from the air?” Tate repeated.

  <> Amelia said.<>

  <> Charlie asked.

  <?f Amelia said reasonably. <>

  <> Charlie said.

  <> Amelia said coldly. <
  Turned her into nothing more than a computer, a tool. Someone should have done it a lot earlier Just — pulled the plug.>>

  <> Charlie said fearfully. <>

  Yago laughed. <> Tate fought down her unease. She wished there was another way. She didn’t want to sit in that chair again, feel Mother probing her brain, searching for her darkest secret. But, if what Amelia was saying was true, there was no danger of that. Mother was dead. Only — what if—

  what if Mother had fooled her? What if this was Mother’s way of luring her back…

  “Stop,” Tate told herself firmly. One paranoid personality was enough. And Charlie was already playing that role. She’d witnessed Mother’s decline. She’d felt Mother’s mourning. That hadn’t been fake.

  “Fine,” she said out loud. “Amelia, you’ll have to tell me what to do.”

  <> Yago said, <> Tate walked toward the chair

  It hurt. Each step sent shooting pains radiating up toward her hip. The aching raw pain was concentrated in her calf now. Her foot was like something dead, a piece of meat. She could barely feel it hitting the floor. Something in the region of her shoe was starting to smell not so good.

  She was walking toward the same chair she’d sat in for god knows how long while Mother tortured her. Her body recoiled. The pain, the images of suffering were still bright in her mind.

  The voices in her head fell silent. Even Yago was quiet. He had to be scared. Tate guessed he was too proud to beg in front of the others. She felt very alone as she slowly approached the chair and slipped into the seat.

  She felt the connection with the computer immediately. Mother wasn’t playing games this time.

  “My name is Daughter,” the computer said, and her voice was kittenish. “How may I serve you?”

  Tate was tense. Was Mother playing games with her? “Is this a joke?” she demanded.

  <> Charlie said. <>

  <> Yago asked. <>

  “Oh, god,” Tate said. “I’m starting to miss Mother.”

  Amelia chuckled. <> she said.

  “Five percent?” Tate asked. “That doesn’t sound like much.”

  <> Amelia said.

  “Yeah, but five percent? What’s the point? If it won’t hurt us, it won’t hurt Duncan.”

  Something about this plan was bothering Tate, but she couldn’t quite place it. Her brain was fuzzy with fatigue and pain.

  <> Amelia said.

  “Great,” Tate muttered. She gave Daughter the order. And then she realized something. She wanted to win this battle with Duncan. She wanted to live. She wondered vaguely if she was losing her mind.

  “Now what?” she wondered out loud.

  <> Amelia scolded her. <> Amelia’s comment made Tate’s self-pity well up. For an awful moment, she thought she was going to cry. It wasn’t just her leg. She was thirsty and tired. She had a headache.

  “Whose fault is that?” Tate asked peevishly. “You burned my foot, Amelia, my cheek — and now you have the nerve to blame me?”

  <> Amelia said. <>

  “What do you suggest?” Tate demanded.

  Silence. A mocking sort of silence. Tate was missing something obvious …

  <> Charlie whispered.

  The computer.

  Tate hadn’t had control of a computer since before the Rock. For a long moment she just sat, dizzy with the possibilities. Then she croaked, “Water.”

  A tall glass appeared in Tate’s shaking hand. She gulped it down greedily, sat panting for a moment, retched, and threw up on her
melted and scorched shoes.

  <> Yago said.

  “Water,” Tate said again, breathlessly. The glass refilled. Tate took a careful sip. No reaction from her stomach. She concentrated on going slowly and got it all down. This time, it stayed down.

  Tate next asked Daughter for a cup of chicken soup. What appeared looked too dark, too greasy, and smelled vaguely plastic. Tate gulped it greedily.

  <> Yago said. <>

  “My headache feels better already,” Tate said.

  <> Charlie asked.

  “No.”

  <> Yago said.

  Again, Tate had the feeling something was wrong with their plan. She poked at the feeling, probing at her unconscious — nothing.

  Charlie and Amelia began to debate whether Duncan could control Daughter in his slime state. They speculated about why he hadn’t attacked yet. Was he somehow aware of their combined nature? Was he scared of them?

  Tate could tell Duncan’s continued absence was starting to rattle. The longer he took to appear, the greater a foe they considered him. Maybe that was part of his strategy. Hiding until their nerves were entirely shot.

  Tate felt pressured, too. This might be the only chance she had to use Daughter. She couldn’t waste any time.

  “Bandages,” she told the computer “Antibiotic cream. Shoes.”

  Amelia and the others fell silent as Tate cradled her burned foot in her lap and gently worked off the destroyed shoe. It was charred around the toe; the plastic was brittle and sooty.

  Underneath, the sock was pink and damp with something that was oozing from her puffy flesh. The smell was yeasty — the odor of bad news.

  Tate hesitated. So far this hadn’t hurt. Removing that sock was going to hurt. Just thinking about it hurt. Besides, hadn’t she learned something in school about not removing cloth from burns?

  <> Yago asked.

  “I’m going to leave it on,” Tate murmured.

  <> Amelia asked. <>

  <> Charlie said ominously. <>

  <> Yago said softly. <>

  “It’s going to hurt,” Tate said fearfully.

  <> Yago agreed. <
  “Maybe it won’t get infected,” Tate said.

  <>

  “How do you know?”

  <> Yago said. <>

  “How debonair,” Tate said dryly. Getting advice from Yago felt weird until she realized taking care of her was in his best interest.

  “A bucket of water,” she told Daughter with profound weariness. “Soap, scissors —”

  CHAPTER 12

  <> Tate pulled sock fibers out of her charred skin until her foot was a lump of raw steak.

  The pain from her foot was making her entire body ache. Her hand was cramped and sore from holding the tweezers. Her hip was throbbing. Her shoulders and neck were stiff. Her head hurt.

  When the job was finally done, Tate fell into a sleep that was her body’s release after enduring hours of pain.

  Tate dreamed.

  She saw Mo’Steel and Olga, filthy in their ragged clothes. They were standing alone in the desolation, ash drifting lazily over their shoes.

  Tate could sense the rest of the band somewhere nearby. Mo and Olga had slipped away.

  Their movements were furtive and hurried. Whatever they were about to do, it was secret.

  Olga held out her hand, and Mo’Steel took it. The two of them hitched up their pants and got down on their knees. They clasped their hands in front of their faces and lowered their eyes.

  They were about to — pray.

  Tate quickly glanced down. She wanted to get away, but the dream kept playing out before her. There was no way to shut it out.

  She wasn’t a religious person. Never had been. It wasn’t rebellion — her family just didn’t do religion. Seeing evidence of other people’s faith made her profoundly uncomfortable — like unexpectedly catching sight of someone’s naked body. Embarrassment mingled with fascination.

  Mo and Olga crossed themselves. Olga fell silent, her eyes gently closed, but Mo was in motion as always. He rocked forward and back, mumbling low. Tate couldn’t help but pick out some of his words: “Forgive us” and “sin” and “give thanks” and…

  “Tate”?

  Was she imagining this? No … There it was again. This time she clearly heard Mo speak her name. Why would Mo’Steel be praying for her? Was it because he hoped she was still alive somewhere? Or was he — praying for her soul? Or —

  Suddenly Olga and Mo seemed to hear something. They startled and got quickly to their feet, smoothing their clothes down, trying to compose their faces.

  They looked scared.

  They were in desperate danger.

  And, in some way Tate didn’t understand, she was a part of it.

  Tate woke curled up on the floor of the computer pit. Her clothes were damp with sweat. Her cheek burned. Her bones ached. She shivered, longing to wrap herself in a blanket but too tired to crawl up into the chair and ask Daughter for one. She stared straight ahead, wondering dully why Duncan hadn’t killed her yet.

  Duncan.

  Something in Tate’s brain shifted, connected. She knew how they could defeat Duncan.

  “We Duncan microclimate.” Tate’s words were strangely jumbled, her voice raspy. She tried to clear her throat and unfog her mind. She needed to make herself understood. It was hard work because she felt so — disconnected.

  “Amelia how to tell me isolate Duncan.” Tate’s mouth moved too slowly. Something was junking up her jaw. She was swimming in a molasses sea and the undercurrent was fierce. “Daughter build wall him —”

  <> Amelia’s voice seemed to come from far away. Someone was easing Tate’s body onto the floor — even though she longed to sit up, wake up, get to Daughter.

  <> Amelia said in a hypnotic monotone. <
  Just rest…>>

  Tate’s eyes closed.

  <> someone said gently. A sweet, feminine voice. It sounded like Tate’s mother Ah, yes. It would be so easy to let go. To drift away. Resting would be such a relief….

  With effort, Tate forced her eyes open again.

  Forget resting!

  Forget relief!

  She had to program Daughter.

  She had to destroy Duncan. If she didn’t destroy him, Mother/Daughter would crash on Earth and Violet would grow dreadlocks and someone would try to slash Mo’Steel’s neck She had to destroy Duncan. Olga was praying for her.

  Tate pushed herself up on her hands and knees. The chair was right there. It was a little blurry, but she could see it.

  She crawled toward the chair, dragging her foot. Why did it hurt so much? She put a hand on the seat.

  <> This time it was Yago. <> Tate tried to pull herself up.

  Yago and Amelia and Charlie forced her hand down. They made her lie on the ground and close her eyes.

  This time, she was too weak to resist. Blackness rushed up like a wall. She slept.

  Tate dreamed.

  Billy was waiting for her on the other side of consciousness. He hovered in twilight-colored nothingness, his sneakers looking tattered as they floated in midair He held out one slim, pal hand and smiled — as if inviting Tate to come and play.

  Tate reached out. Their hands clasped — and suddenly they were in motion, flying rapi
dly over the ruined Earth like an apocalyptic Wendy and Peter Pan. The light was at their feet and the Dark Zone lay ahead. There was no wind, no sound. In the twisted reality of Tate’s dream, some details were blotted out entirely and others were bigger than life.

  Billy pointed toward the ground. Tate could just barely make out a tiny figure plodding courageously through the ash desert.

  Without exactly knowing why, Tate felt an overwhelming sadness. The figure looked so alone. As alone as she was in reality, trapped on Mother, whizzing through empty space.

  “Who is it?” Tate asked.

  Billy’s smile grew ever more radiant. “Me.”

  He seemed more than human. There was nothing new about that, of course. Only — this was different. Billy seemed somehow — lit up from inside. Tate looked down at the hand grasping hers. A golden glow shone from Billy’s skin. The reflection warmed her own. She felt a peacefulness flowing from him into her and somehow its warmth made her sadness all the deeper

  Billy.

  They’d made fun of him.

  They’d been afraid of him.

  They’d used him. 2Face especially — but they were all guilty. They’d let him interface with Mother even though it clearly cost him physically and emotionally.

  Billy had never complained. He’d never made a single demand. He expected nothing and that was essentially what they’d given him.

  Only Jobs had ever tried to be Billy’s friend. And it wasn’t until now that Tate realized that Billy had been the most worthy of their love.

  Billy had always been ready to sacrifice himself for them. He was selfless, a hero. Tate admired him.

  And now — here he was glowing in her dream. That glow made her uncomfortable. She didn’t know what it meant. She hoped it represented something good for Billy and knew instinctively it didn’t. You didn’t get to glow without suffering first.

  Tate and Billy swooped in closer to the ground. The familiar image of the crashed Mother rose up below them. The ship was battered and half-filled with ash. And here was Billy’s small figure eagerly clambering up a sliding hill of ash to get inside.

  The glowing Billy gently began to tug his hand away from Tate.

  “No!” Tate cried out. She didn’t want to let go of him until she could somehow thank him. She needed him to know that she appreciated what he’d done for them.