Parched (6 page)

I give my head a hard shake. No, I tell myself fiercely. I don't want to know. I don't want to get mixed up in this. The past is the past and the members of Kudzu are all probably on a fast track to getting banished or getting themselves killed.

I will not go to Abel's.

I absolutely and unequivocally
will not go
.

Abel's front door is just how I remembered it: a pane of smoky gray glass that warps my reflection into something unrecognizable. There's a scanner for those with IDs on his home access list, and a white round doorbell for those without. Familiar and foreign at the same time.

The doorbell chimes faintly. I hear my uncle's voice ring out. “I'll get it, Kimiko.”

His voice, distracted and slightly surprised, sends a shiver of recognition up my spine. Moments later, I am face-to-face with the famous Dr. Abel Rockwood.

Appearance-wise, we make a fine match. The man who created the much-lauded
Toward an Understanding of Artificial Consciousness in Advanced Bio-Cybernetic Systems
stream looks, as usual, like he was dressed by monkeys. Color-blind monkeys. His pants don't fit, his collared shirt is buttoned unevenly, and I'm fairly certain his peach-colored
housecoat was originally intended for ladies. I can't help noticing how weathered his face is. He's unshaven. Sleep-deprived circles cut under hazel eyes, which I watch shift from curiosity to recognition to deer-in-the-headlights shock.

“Tessendra?”

My full name: the one no one except my family uses. I have the urge to hug him. Or more accurately, let him hug me. It's been so long since anyone has hugged me. Instead, I rock back on my heels. “Yo, Uncle A. What's up?”

He stares at me, completely dumbstruck. “But I thought . . . I thought you were—”

“A blonde?” Without waiting for an invitation, I stride inside.

I'm expecting to see Aevum everywhere—charts, holos, streams, reports—just like Magnus had been last year. But the spacious living-cum-dining room that the hallway opens out into is unexpectedly . . . tidy. In fact, it looks suspiciously like a regular home. Colorful cushions are neatly arranged on an overstuffed sofa. The orange tiled floor is spotless, dotted with rugs that actually match the sofa cushions. An immense wooden dining room table plays host to a bunch of poppies, rather than stacks of circuit boards. The smell-conditioning is set to fresh-baked bread. Or perhaps Abel is even
baking bread himself
, a concept even more far-fetched than me getting back over the border unscathed. Did Ling have the wrong intel after all? Or was Kudzu trying to set me up? My plan to confront Abel falls limply at my feet.

“Tess!” My uncle almost trips in his hurry to follow me. “What—Where—When—”

“How, who, and why?” I finish. The emotion on my uncle's face causes my throat to squeeze, and I cough. “Thought you science types answered questions, Uncle A.”

“You're alive! I can't believe it.
You're alive!
” Abel grabs me in a hard hug, words tumbling as if they can't find a place to land. “I can't—I just—I hoped, I did, but I never really thought—” He squeezes me into his chest and my defenses shatter.

“I'm sorry,” I hear myself saying, my voice muffled against his neck. “Abel, I'm so sorry.”

“Oh, Tessendra.” Abel chokes. Eyes wet, he pulls back to study my face. As if it's the most important question in the world, he asks, “Are you okay?”

I nod, and am about to tell him “I'm fine” when I catch movement
from the corner of my eye. A tall, slender boy stands near us, just a few feet away. Adrenaline bangs through my system. I shove Abel behind me and whip Mack from where I'd hidden him in my boot. “Who the hell are you?”

“Tess!” Abel's shocked voice is girlishly high. “Oh my, what in heavens are you doing with a knife like that?”

I'm not sure who is more startled, the boy or my uncle, both of whom evidently know each other. In the awkward pause that follows, the inappropriateness of my actions becomes painfully clear. I drop Mack to my side.

“Give me that.” Abel pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and I let him gingerly extract Mack from my hand. Unsure what to do with the blade, he crosses to the dining room table and puts it down delicately.

The boy stares at me, unblinking. Everything about him is sharply defined, from the straight edge of his nose to the cut of his gaze. He says, “You said Tessendra Rockwood was dead.”

“How do you know who I am?” I ask, hackles up.

My uncle quickly maneuvers himself between us, one eye still on Mack. “Tess, this is my assistant, Hunter Adams.”

“Your assistant?”

Abel fingers his collar in a daze, flitting his attention from Mack back to me. “Yes, I'm still teaching neural engineering at a post-education center in the South Hills. Hunter is one of my students, and yes, a very good one.” Abel turns to face the boy. “Hunter, this is my niece, Tess.”

“I've seen your image on-cycle,” Hunter says, stepping around Abel to offer me his hand. “You've changed your hair.”

His handshake is efficient and doesn't linger. I can't talk to Abel about Aevum with a stranger in the room.

Abel coughs, inclining his head toward Mack. “Can you explain, er, that?”

I draw in a deep breath. “I've been living in the western part of the Badlands, in the outskirts of the Zone.”

Abel and Hunter stare back at me.

“I was living near the Salt Flats and ended up helping this guy ride a bunch of camels to Potkamp, which is farther west. Rumor had it there was a freshwater spring there. But we didn't make it—long story—and I ended up in Kep Sai'an, working in a water bar . . .” I trail off, clocking how overwhelmed Abel looks. Maybe he didn't want that level of detail
after all. “Real nice place,” I finish lamely. “If you like death and dying and stuff.”

Abel's eyes search mine. In a voice as soft as it is serious, he asks, “Why are you back?”

“I'm back because—” I catch myself twisting my hands together anxiously, so I drop them to my side.
Don't be nervous
. “Can I get a glass of water?”

“Would you like me to get that, Dr. Rockwood?”

I spin around to see a sleek, white substitute gazing at me politely. It's a much newer model than Robowrong. Its two spindly arms end with five dexterous-looking fingers, while its bottom half widens out into a bell shape. Above bright silver eyes, two white eyebrows slant up to give the impression of curious and helpful. A panel in its chest displays the time, the date, the temperature, and more. Below the panel, the word
Simutech
shines in mother-of-pearl. It would've come from Innovation, mom's old department.

Abel speaks noticeably slower to the substitute than he did to Hunter. “Kimiko, this is my niece, Tess Rockwood.”

Its smooth, silicon body isn't distinctly male or female but it has a modulated female voice. “Tessendra Rockwood, niece.” It whirs quietly. “Missing, presumed dead.”

This time I almost laugh. “You should teach your little fembot better manners, Uncle A. Am I going to get that every time?”

“Why have you come home?” Abel repeats. “Why now?”

I meet my uncle's gaze with complete sincerity, aware how important it is that he believes me. “If I stayed out there any longer, I would've died. Fresh water's impossible to find, and I am so over eating
pourriture
for every meal. I missed real food and showers and my friends. And,” I add, “I missed you.”

I watch him process this, no idea if he believes it or not. “Well, where are you staying?” Before I can answer he goes on, “After you left, your home in the South Hills was reassigned. Everything was redistributed.” He frowns doubtfully. “I can inquire as to getting some of your things back—”

“I don't want any of that stuff. I want—I need . . .”
I need to know if Ling is telling the truth. Are you really creating another artilect called Aevum?

“What do you need, Tess?” Abel asks gently.

I take a deep breath. “A place to stay.”

Abel's face relaxes into a smile. He comes over to grasp my shoulder, his eyes a little moist, his voice a little gruff. “I can certainly help with that.”

“Dr. Rockwood?” Kimiko interrupts politely. “It is eight
P.M
. You are currently ten minutes behind schedule.”

“What?” he asks, looking confused.

“Your staff meeting,” Hunter says. “We need to go.”

“Good heavens, yes. I'll have to cancel.”

“No, that's okay,” I say quickly. “You should go. All I want to do is shower and then sleep for a week.”

“Absolutely not, Tess!” Abel exclaims. “I can't leave you alone. We have to talk—”

I cut him off by yawning like a jungle cat. “Talk? Sure,” I say, affecting a sleepy tone. “But, later. Tired. So tired. Go to your meeting. I'll be fine.”

Abel stares at me as if I've just started speaking Mal. “I'm not leaving you alone, Tess. Not after—” He shakes his head. “Kimiko, I need to reschedule. Go to the study, we'll comm from there—” Abel's voice breaks off. I catch a quick glance directed at a red door on the other side of the room. The door to the basement. It has a computerized lock on it, the type that requires a password for entry. That's never been there before. A basement door with a brand-new top-of-the-line lock stinks of top secret. Maybe Abel does have something to hide. Weirdly, I feel both thrilled and crushed by this.

I glance back at Abel. He's looking right at me—no, through me. I freeze.
He knows the real reason I'm here
. “What?” I ask nervously.

“You're your mother's daughter, Tess. No one can tell you what to do. Just like her.” His mouth forms a small, sad smile. “Just like Frankie.”

A spike of pain drives straight into my heart. I keep my face frozen.

“I'll be back in a jiffy,” Abel continues, hands fluttering in front of him. “Hunter, wait here a moment. We still have to go over tomorrow's lecture.” Then, calling over his shoulder to me: “Hunter can catch you up on what you've missed!” Disappearing through the living room and into his study, he leaves me alone with Hunter Adams.

Hunter clears his throat. I lift my eyes to his reluctantly. He offers a cautious smile, but it's more like an impression of a smile than the real thing. “Is there anything specific you want to know?” he asks.

“No.” I drop my gaze to the rug in front of me and concentrate on finding patterns in its geometric design. A long, uncomfortable pause follows.

“Can I get you something?” he tries again. “A glass of water?”

I shake my head. The long, uncomfortable pause decides to put its feet up and stay awhile. Where is Abel? I thought he was in a hurry.

After a few more moments of awkward silence, Hunter wanders over to the table where Abel left Mack. He considers my knife with his arms folded in front of him, as if it might bite.

“So,” he says thoughtfully, “you like knives.”

The way he says it, so considered and without trying to be funny, actually makes me laugh. Hunter glances up, looking surprised but pleased at my outburst. “It was unexpected,” he says. “Your entrance.”

I bite my lip, smiling in spite of myself.

Hunter picks up Mack curiously, running long fingers over the worn, cream handle. His eyes flick back to mine. “What was it like out there?”

I can't articulate that to someone I've just met. “I don't know,” I mutter softly.

He cocks his head at me, intrigued. “You don't speak English out there, right?”

“No,” I say. His look of expectation morphs into a look of confusion, I assume at my inability to hold a normal conversation. “Malspeak,” I tell him, somewhat unwillingly. “But we just call it Mal.”

“You said you used to eat
pourriture
. Is that Mal?”

I nod, surprised he picked that up. “It's this disgusting porridge stuff.”

“It's a portmanteau word, right? From the French?”

I frown. “What's a portmanteau word?”

“It's when you combine the meaning of two words into a new one.” He furrows his brow, thinking aloud. “
Pourri
means ‘rotten' and
nourriture
means ‘food.' So
pourriture
means ‘rotten food' or ‘bad food.' ”

“That's right,” I say, a little impressed. I guess it's meant to be ironic because French food used to be the best in the word, and
pourriture
is definitely the worst. But no one speaks old languages like French anymore. I only know the meaning because some local boy told me, tracing the words into the red dust with the tip of his finger. “You speak French?”

“Yes,” he says, as if this isn't unusual.
“Pourriture. Pourriture.”
Hunter rolls the word around his mouth with satisfaction. “That's so clever.”

“You'd be less enthusiastic if you had to eat it,” I tell him, and now it's his turn to smile. This time, it looks closer to the real thing. His
curious, darting eyes seem to exude intelligence. A fast brain, my mom used to say. No wonder my uncle picked him to be his assistant.

Hunter places Mack back on the table, and I'm pleased to see he does it carefully. “So, why'd you leave?”

“What?” I ask, although I heard him just fine.

“Why did you leave Eden?”

I suddenly feel light-headed. “I, um . . .” My palms are sticky with sweat. I wipe them on the front of my dress. “Why did I . . . What?”

Hunter's eyebrows twitch down. “Are you all right?”

I swallow hard, glancing around. “It's just hot in here. Don't you think it's hot?”

“No.” He eyes me uncertainly.

“I should go,” I say, backing away from him. “I'm sorry, I have to—” My leg catches the edge of an end table, knocking a photogram over.