Regret (2 page)

He’d been extremely tight-lipped about everything since his return from Seaside. I knew he was looking for something important in the Goodgrounds, but I didn’t know what. I don’t even think he knew. But he’d never said as much, and he didn’t broadcast his emotions through his eyes the way I did.

I knew this was the most important mission Jag had planned. I’d heard it in the urgency of his voice. Seen it in the tension of his shoulders. And I wanted to go, because I longed to be as important to Jag as his missions were, as the Resistance was.

Realizing I was the only one left in the house, I left the Resistance hideout and strode down quiet streets. I didn’t need Jag Barque. I needed some of my mother’s cooking, and it was just about dinnertime.

By the time I reached my house on the northern limits of the Badlands, night ruled the mid-April sky. Cheery yellow lights welcomed me from the porch, and as I approached, the plaguing tension in my shoulders melted away. Warmth greeted me inside, along with the smell of roasted meat and curried vegetables.

Despite my argument with Jag, I smiled. I found my mother in the kitchen, wearing an apron and brandishing a spoon at my father, who was trying to sneak a taste of the duck.

“Indiarina,” he said. “Just in time.”

I ignored his use of my full name. I much preferred Indy, and my parents knew it. Yet they both continued to call me Indiarina. “In time for what?”

He snatched a piece of meat as Mom turned away from him. “You look terrible,” she said, her voice filled with concern, not criticism. Still, that didn’t make me feel any better. I hated wearing my emotions so close to the surface. I found it a weakness in others, and it was never a good idea to allow the enemy to know how you felt. Of course, I wasn’t in enemy territory right now. And I wouldn’t be tonight, either, no matter how much I longed to be.

I offered my mother a weak smile as I sat at the already set table. The fact that only three spots were laid out indicated that Irvine would not be joining us tonight.

In fact, Irvine was set to lead a mission out east that would require him to be gone for months. I missed him already.

My parents supported the Resistance, a movement against the Thinkers of the Association. They didn’t agree that those who were endowed with special gifts should be allowed to brainwash legions of people—or control peoples’ choice of occupation, spouse, and everything else. I felt lucky to be raised by two people who believed in the Resistance.

And not just because their belief led me to Jag Barque.

I’d joined the Resistance as soon as possible: the day I turned thirteen. My parents had been in it from the beginning, and they knew the risks involved. They’d spent hours at this very kitchen table counseling Irvine and helping him
plan his mission to the southeast region. They’d financed his eye enhancements so the recognizers wouldn’t log his true identity. Now whenever I looked at him, I found green eyes instead of his usual murky brown.

“Is Jag coming tonight?” my mother asked, ladling soup into an urn.

I slouched and grunted. I had forgotten that Jag had a standing invitation to eat at my house—especially on the night of a mission. The infiltration team didn’t carry food with them, and it often took two days before they returned.

When I remained silent, my father stopped picking at the duck and sat at the head of the table. His bald head reflected the tech lights as he peered at me.

I’d have to say something. “He’s too busy.”
With Sloan.

My parents exchanged a glance, but otherwise accepted my answer. They didn’t push me to talk as we ate, another reason I loved them. Stuffed in body, but desperately hungry in mind, I excused myself from the table.

The comfort of the kitchen did not extend far. Halfway down the hall, I heard my parents begin to whisper, and by the time I reached my room, the irritation of getting left behind on this mission was blaring through me.

I shut the door a little too hard, but it wasn’t like I had much to rattle. I tossed my high-tech phone on the thin blanket
covering my bed. A closet I could fit in if I turned sideways housed my simple clothing, but I flung my shirt next to my phone and dropped my jeans to the floor.

I moved toward the armchair in the corner and nestled into it. The fabric, though threadbare, housed the scent of Jag. That same smell I’d inhaled at the party. The same smokiness and piney-ness I’d had to endure at headquarters a few hours ago. Even my mother’s cooking could not remove his smell from my chair.

He’d slept there too many nights.

I lingered in the chair a moment longer than was healthy before moving to the window and staring out into the darkness.
Don’t go.

Just go,
I told myself.

Quickly now, I pulled on my black jeans and a black tank top. I covered up with a black leather jacket with matching gloves in the pockets, and slid out the window into the night.

2.

I crossed the desert alone, with only the occasional drifting of the breeze and the promise of catching Jag and the infiltration team at the border. The Goodgrounds existed a good ten-hour walk from the Badlands, which was why the team left at nightfall. That way, they’d arrive for a dawn entrance into the controlled and guarded city. The Thinkers in the Goodgrounds didn’t exert too much authority over the Badlands, something I knew hadn’t always been the case.

Raids used to be a regular occurrence, and even now a trifecta of Thinkers sporting green robes could show up with their fancy iris recognizers and high-tech hovercars. When that happened, the streets emptied and doors were shut tight. I had only been out once during a raid, and that had
been over a year ago.

Entering the Thinker territory of the Goodgrounds promised untold risks. The Thinkers sent brainwashing messages into the air. You could never be sure if your thoughts were yours or not. They employed hovercopters with pilots that underwent vision enhancements and completed Ask Questions Later courses in the Association.

Teleporters required codes. Buildings needed iris clearance for entrance. Even moving from one part of the land to another required the right permit. Luckily, the Resistance employed some spies, and we had people in several governmental departments inside the Goodgrounds.

I loved the rush, the thrill of sneaking around right underneath the Thinkers’ noses. The night air swelled inside my lungs, filling my life with purpose beyond going to school and fighting with my best friend over a guy.

I possessed useful skills for a Resistance member, though I had no special genetic talents. My keen sense of hearing and my dead-on gut feelings had helped me escape more than one pinch. And still Jag wouldn’t allow me to go on this mission.

The baked sand of the desert gave little under my feet. I marched on, desperate to make up the hour I’d spent at the dinner table. Perhaps when Jag saw my determination to
come on the mission, he’d relent.

I clung to this hope, however small, and pushed my legs to move faster. While I walked, the moon made its arc through the early spring sky. The sight of that moon caused a rush of memories to overwhelm me. Each one featured Jag and me holding hands and kissing under a sky much like this one.

I could almost feel his skin and lips pressed against mine.

My stomach felt so tight as I forced back the pain threatening to bring tears to the surface. Those memories were too fresh, too real, too haunting. I swapped them out for happier ones about my brother, Irvine. Older than me by five years, Irv had been part of the permanent infiltration team for what seemed like forever. That could’ve been because of his ability to manipulate tech. Or maybe because he thought long and hard about things. Or perhaps because he only spoke when necessary, and when he did, everyone listened. We’d spent many nights reviewing mission notes and discussing tactics. He’d nudged me awake when I slept on the floor at Resistance headquarters, and he made sure I ate before my missions.

Irv had a magnetic quality about him, making everyone feel like they were in his inner circle of trusted confidantes. He learned more through his methods of unhurried questioning than Jag did with his hot-tempered fits of frustration.

And, once again, I found myself circling thoughts of Jag. Thankfully, my ears picked up a quick snatch of conversation, which eliminated all annoying thoughts of my stubborn ex-boyfriend.

I slowed my pace and rolled my steps through the sand to ensure silence. I breathed shallowly, unwilling to broadcast my presence just yet. Upon cresting a gentle swell in the desert landscape, I located a fire with several forms hunkered around it.

The infiltration team. All guys, they spoke little as they passed water bottles around the circle. Based on the liveliness of the fire, I estimated that they’d arrived only ten minutes ago.

I mentally congratulated myself on making up so much time. The celebration was short-lived, however, as one form separated himself from the fire and walked toward me.

“Walked” isn’t entirely the right way to describe Jag’s canter. Each step spoke of extreme confidence, with a touch of swagger. I stopped and waited for him to come to me. As he grew more corporeal under the moonlight, I found frustration welling with the admiration in his eyes. He stopped just out of my reach, far enough away to suggest coolness, yet close enough to make me yearn to feel his arms around me.

“Indy,” he said softly, inviting me to speak.

Just when I wanted him to rave, he’d gone for the caring, compassionate guy I’d fallen in love with last summer.

“I want to come,” I said, making my voice strong so it wouldn’t give away my nerves. As if Jag needed to hear to know how I felt.

“I need you in the Badlands,” he said. He took a step closer and skated his fingers up my forearm. My breath stuttered in my throat at the familiar touch. Way too familiar. I couldn’t stamp down the emotions fast enough, and Jag saw.

He saw everything.

“I led last month,” I said, only a slight tremor in my tone. “I have intel you need.”

“I read your report. More than once.”

I cursed myself for being so thorough. “I can—”

“If anything happens to me, you’ll need to take over,” he said, removing his fingers from my arm and regaining the distance he’d closed between us. He looked over my shoulder as if he expected a hovercar to appear and swallow him right then and there.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I said, angry he’d played that card. As second-in-command, I’d accompanied him on missions before. It had never been a problem. Until now. I schooled my expression and stared at him coolly.

“Maybe not,” he said, backing up another step, his face
completely blank—the way mine should’ve been. “But I can tell you’re furious with me.”

“That’s because—”

“I told you I needed iron on this mission.” He ducked his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. I had no idea what his body language meant. “If something happens to me, you’ll know what to do.”

He turned and went back to the fire, leaving me wrestling with my emotions once again. I stood watching the team as they waited for the new day to wake. They extinguished the fire and ran the remaining three hundred yards to the ravine marking the western border of the Goodgrounds.

Never once did any of them look over their shoulder. I realized, maybe too late, that the reason I wasn’t on the permanent infiltration team had nothing to do with my status as second-in-command.

No, as Jag had told me several times, I wasn’t sufficiently shut down. I wore my feelings too close to my eyes, too easy for a Thinker to see and hear and know everything. It had only taken Jag four seconds to sense me watching him.

I waited until the tears didn’t threaten to spill down my cheeks, and then I began the day-long trek back to the Badlands, determined to contain the emotions I knew warred across my face. By midday I’d constructed the first flimsy
barrier around my heart, shutting Jag out. But I couldn’t erase his words echoing in my mind.

You’ll know what to do.

Three days later I sat at the kitchen table breaking the ends off the beans my mother had brought home from the market. With no Resistance work to be done and school a waste of my energy, my insides squirmed constantly. I needed more than making my bed and the few menial household chores my mother inflicted upon me to keep my mind occupied.

I began planning what I could do to release some of my pent-up energy and frustration. There had been no word from the infiltration team, and with the closing of the third day, rumors were beginning to circulate. I decided I’d head over to Lex’s house after dinner and ask his little brother if he’d heard anything new.

A knock interrupted my plans, and I glanced at my mother stirring something on the stove. She waved the wooden spoon at me, her way of saying
Go get the door, dear.

I tossed the beans to the table before moving to the front door. When I opened it, a body fell into my arms, and the weight brought me to my knees.

“Mom!” I called, turning the person—Lex—so his head lay cradled against my thighs. I quickly rubbed his hair out
of his face to find his eyes closed and his breathing labored.

My mother bustled in from the kitchen, still brandishing the wooden spoon. “I’ll get your father,” she said immediately and left.