Dualed (25 page)

As the train charges up and gathers speed, I take out my cell. With a shuddering sigh, I open the file I’ve managed to keep buried until now.

The file fills my screen. The details of my assignment. I read, deduce, decide.

When I’m done, I put my cell to sleep and tuck it back into my jeans pocket. Leaning my head against the window, I wait for the day to climb over the edge of the world and make its way up to where the city’s barrier cradles the sky.

Five days left. It has to be enough for what must be done. But first, to convince myself I’m ready to do it.

Back in the Grid, it’s sunny for the first time in days, and the streets and sidewalks seem even more crowded than usual. I walk out of the pawnshop and head toward the train station, rubbing my newly bare wrist. Where I wore Luc’s watch these past couple of months.

The clerk must have sensed my desperation, because he had no problem ripping me off. And I had no choice but to let him. I guess that girl at the terminal was right—I did still need it, in more ways than one. A thin sheaf of bills is in my pocket now, hopefully enough to take me all the way to the end. And I know Luc would have wanted that for me.

But it’s hard to let go of a piece of him that didn’t hurt to think about.

I get in line for tickets at the outer ward train station. When
it’s my turn, I step up to the console and punch in the information it needs to get me where I have to go. Even though I don’t select the free option available for actives, I still keep my eyes a safe distance from the scanner, in case of accidental contact. I feed some of my new cash into the machine, and when my ticket number appears on the screen, I hold my cell up to receive my two tickets. One for now, and one for boarding the second outer ward train to take me down to Calden. It’s Kersh’s southeastern ward, whose far borders stretch out long and thin, a swiping paw on a beast.

And it’s where she grew up. My Alt’s home.

When I was very little I used to think the world was a huge place, even if it was just one city, heavily gated and surrounded by an even larger entity. The idea of my Alt was hazy, vague, only a hint of a threat. But the closer I got to qualifying age, the more the walls started closing in—and the more real her presence grew.

Only now, reading the Point of Origin on my assignment and finding out where she lives, does it hit home just how small the world really is. How all that time I was thinking of her, she was probably thinking of me. Wondering what I was doing in any given moment, what I was feeling, imagining.

She won’t be going back to the terminal now. Since I managed to track her from there to the Quad, her whole routine will have altered. So I have to start from scratch. Go back to the very beginning.
Her
beginning.

It’s where I should have gone first, instead of making excuses to run and losing sight of what I needed to do. I know full well she’s long gone from there, but if she’s left any trace of
herself behind, any sign of what she’s thinking, maybe I’ll find it. I have to start thinking like her—
be
her.

The train is only a bit more than half-full, and I find my seat near the emergency exit, my bag on the seat next to me so no one can sit there. I watch people slowly file in and make a note of them. A mother with a toddler and an overnight bag. A teenager, short and greasy-haired and an active from the sight of his eyes—not to mention the gun tucked beneath his arm. A couple sits close together on the bench seat, hands entwined.

Then we’re moving, and I send a text to Chord.
On a job please don’t worry about me. I’ll let you know when I get back
.

I wait and wait, but he doesn’t respond. I’m both disappointed and relieved. As the train lays down more miles between us, I refuse to allow myself to think about him anymore.

It’s easy to see where Jethro ends and Calden begins. Factories and warehouses slowly give way to farms and barns, grain silos and rows of parked combines. Wheat and produce fields are brown, dormant, still wet from the rain. Greenhouses are everywhere, shapes and shadows of busy farmers moving within their translucent walls. Even inside the train, the smell of manure pervades, making my nose flare in protest.

The business center of Calden is made up of blocks of grocers, bakers, and butchers. When the outer ward train reaches the end of its line, I get off at the station along with everyone else. My stomach is hollow; I need to eat.

It’s the third food stall I come to that finally doesn’t demand an eye scan for making a transaction. The clerk is a young complete, too busy wrestling with a roll of locally woven flax to hang across the front window to press the issue. Flax fibers
are milky, obscuring the view so that an active inside the shop won’t be spotted by his Alt from outside. Such means attempt to keep any potential completion moving along, away from the premises. Half the businesses here opt for flax—the other half for middle-grade bulletproof glass—to protect their storefront windows.

I leave him to his work and eat my lunch: real chicken from a Calden farm. Slaughtered just that morning, cubed and roasted with fresh potatoes, it’s whatever didn’t make the cut for a Leyton delivery. And even though I had to overpay for something reserved only for completes, and even though it wasn’t good enough for Leyton, it’s hot and utterly delicious and makes it almost easy to forget for a few minutes how cold I am … why I’m even here.

Leaning against the side of a building with my food, I observe the crowd some more, the people milling about. There’s an air of abundance here—not so much one of luxury or indulgence like in Leyton, but one of total satiety all the same. No one would ever go hungry living here. If whatever Calden produces is nothing even close to fancy, it can’t be said that the most basic of human needs is not met, and met well.

Friends, families, couples. At a bakery across the street stands the couple I saw on the train. Their body language speaks volumes, the way they lean toward each other, touching without touching. Deep in conversation, when even the spaces between their words are understood.

The couple disappears around the corner. I recognize no one else, which isn’t a surprise. But seeing all the bodies around me spins a new thought: if my Alt’s parents were to walk by
right now, would I recognize them? How much do I resemble either of them? More than my own parents?

The inner ward train pulls up to the corner, and I hurriedly sort what’s left of my lunch into the proper garbage and recycling units. I give an automatic glance at the brass plate that’s bolted onto the unit—
REMEMBER PLEASE BE CONSIDERATE AND AVOID DAMAGING PUBLIC OR PRIVATE PROPERTY DURING COMPLETIONS THANK YOU THE BOARD
—before getting on.

I slide into a seat near the back. Allow the train to wind me deeper into her world, leave my own farther behind.

Her house is in the suburbs of Calden, the equivalent of my neighborhood in Jethro. But these streets are wider, a bit less run-down, a small step up in the world. And while we have garages crammed full of industrial materials, here it’s yard sheds spilling over with farming equipment.

Her house is a two-level, with a white stucco exterior and a picture window in the front. A row of skeletal fruit trees stands sentinel along the curb lining the front yard, their final harvest for the season long past. On the far side of the yard, a huge winter vegetable patch is swirling with pale shades of greens, creams, violets.

Everything is maintained. My Alt hasn’t left behind an empty house, then. Parents, siblings … family.

No cars are in the driveway, but that means little since there is a closed garage. No lights are on in the windows, despite the darkness that’s creeping in fast. I might be lucky tonight after all.

The gate at the side of the house is locked, but it’s the kind of lock that’s found at two houses out of three. It’s easy enough
to reach over and pull the latch. The gate swings open, and I slide through it to enter the backyard.

There’s a small wooden deck with an umbrella and matching chairs, all covered up for the off-season. Their tarped shapes are hulking shadows, far from welcoming. A series of raised flower beds—probably filled come spring, the blooms reserved for the market—sit empty except for soil. The back door to the house is next to a large window that’s bare, the curtains open.

I’ve never before broken into a house knowing that there could be people inside. It makes me nervous, like something wants to fly free from the pit of my stomach.

Just do it, already. This is nothing
. Nothing.

I feel for Chord’s disrupter along the outer side pocket of my bag. Slip it out so I have it ready in my hand.

Somehow, I make my feet start moving.

When I get within twenty feet of the house, the back door’s overhead light switches on and I freeze. Suddenly the whole area is thrown into harsh brightness—anyone inside happening to look out the window right now would be able to see anything and everything.

It must be set to detect motion, and I need the light to turn off before anyone sees me back here. Which means either breaking the bulb and risking being heard or getting inside as quickly as possible.

Without even knowing I’ve already decided, I break into a sprint to cover the rest of the way.

I press the black strip hard against the lock, the seconds passing much too slowly. Listening endlessly and breathlessly
for those tumbles, clicks, minute turns. I’m quiet enough, as quiet as I’ve ever been, but if there’s someone inside—

There’s a muffled thump, deep inside the lock, and it’s done. I keep the disrupter tight against my palm and with one twist of the wrist of my other hand I’m in.

The lines of the kitchen are illuminated by the light coming in from the window. Linoleum flooring, dishes stacked high and messily in the sink. There’s a dining room to the right, the table still uncleared, and a small family room off to the side of that. A short hall directly in front of me leads away to another room, what I’m guessing is the main front room.

Smells from that day’s cooking linger in the air—coffee, spices, meat—all normal smells, routine smells. It reminds me of any house in the suburbs of Jethro. There’s not much difference between this and those … except for the people who live here. My family, but not. Me, but not. Because I can only think of it as
hers
.

The light outside blinks off, and the room is thrown into darkness. But it’s not whole, because on the side table in the hall, someone’s left an open tablet behind. Images flicker on the screen, turning the ceiling into a spinning celestial design.

Acute curiosity springs to life, too pointed to ignore. I carefully put the disrupter back in my bag before moving closer to look.

Family photos.

It’s weird to see my face with people I don’t know, at events and places that don’t exist for me. The sensation is unnerving, and I feel like a ghost, sliding through walls, unsure of my place. The life I know to be mine is suddenly less real.

In this life, I’m a privileged only child.

I was top of my year two class; we celebrated at a fancy restaurant last spring.

My date for last year’s winter dance was a guy who’s cute enough—in a bland, jockish kind of way.

I was presented with a trophy as the star forward on the school soccer—

Hold on.

My eyes scan back over, waiting for the photo of the dance to show up again. When it does, the confirmation of my suspicions hits me hard, clogging my breath in my throat.

It’s
him
. The striker she had on me. The boy I killed. Her friend, boyfriend, someone she loved.

A deep and painful pang of regret has sudden heat flaring up behind my eyes. Why did she have to make me do it, when it should have stayed between the two of us? What if what happened to him happened to—

My mind automatically skitters past the thought, the way I used to hop over cracks in a sidewalk as a child. No, it’s not going to happen. Not now, when I’m so close to the end. I shut my eyes, breathe out slowly. Open them again and look at the rest of the photos.

Concentrate.

In every picture, she has the same smile on her face, the same expression. Bright, lively, open. Her hair is always neat, her clothes never wrinkled. Even her posture is flawless.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Absolutely perfect.” She’s my biggest nightmare, a type A with real results. She’s the kid in school who can’t help but reveal just how much slower
and clumsier and inadequate I really am, no matter how much I try to hide it.

She’s the Alt who deserves to win.

I shudder and turn away, my gut clenched into a fist. However true that is, on the playing field of our assignments, things are level now. Her striker is dead by my hand. I refuse to believe she’s better than me. I can’t.

No more time for any of this. I have to get out of here as soon as I can. I don’t know what would be worse—for someone to come in and think that I’m her or for someone to come in and know that I’m not.

A groaning creak comes from upstairs, directly over my head. Another creak, then a squeaking of floorboards as feet move across.

Someone’s home, after all.

There’s no use trying to calm the queasiness in my stomach, the nerves jangling in my blood as it races through my veins. None of it will go away until I’ve done what I need to do with this place.

Full dark outside now, turning it even darker inside. My hand uses the walls for guidance as I silently make my way upstairs.

I can see better up here. There’s a large skylight in the roof above me, and it’s raining again outside. Drops trickle down the rounded dome in rivulets. The sound wants to be soothing, but instead it ramps me up, each dull thwack winding me tighter.

Four rooms. One’s a bathroom. Another is a home office, and through the doorway the sight of a desk; there’s the faint outline of a high-backed chair behind.

Next to the office is the closed door of what must be a bedroom. A line of dim light shines through from where the door doesn’t quite meet the floor. From inside comes the muffled reception of a show or program. Slightly louder are voices like the reedy buzz of insects.