Sugar Skulls (3 page)

I dash across the roof, doing my damnedest to ignore the worrying pings of whatever they’re shooting at me.

Keep going, gotta keep moving—

Impact. My calf spasms, and I snag my foot on a length of sprinkler pipe I should’ve been able to dodge. Just barely, I get my hands up in time to prevent a full faceplant, and the calluses on my right hand rip open. With my left, I check my leg, finding something small and definitely foreign.

A dart.
Shit.

Tearing a strip of cloth from my tank top—undershirts are a must on the run—I wrap up my hand.
Can’t leave a blood trail.

I scramble to the roof’s edge and over the side, sliding down a drainpipe section by section. I hit the street harder than intended.
Dammit. Misjudged the landing.

A tranq dart won’t put me down like most people—
thank you, fubared brain chemistry
—but it’ll sure screw with my balance and depth perception.

Gotta hurry.
Darting out into the street, I baseball-slide across the hood of a sports car as the driver slams on both the brakes and the horn. I’m across the street in a flash, whipping down side roads and back alleys, hoping to lose the greyfaces in the maze of urban shadows.

A few minutes later, there’s no sign of them anywhere. I race out of an alley and into the street, dodging a speeding coupe with no lights on, refusing to break stride as I run toward a tall chain-link fence.

I plant one foot on the fence and step up, using its natural give to get my other foot on the wall beside it and spring upward, pinballing between the fence and the wall. Losing momentum, I grab the top of the fence one-handed and toss myself over, kicking off the wall for good measure. I clear it, barely, landing on the ever-reliable heap of garbage bags outside the Carlisle Building.

Down the pile and onto my feet, I take off down the side street, muscles slower to respond than I’d like.
Must’ve upped the dosage in the dart. How thoughtful.

I crouch between two parked cars, virtually invisible. A big-box delivery truck is speeding from the other direction. Time to hitch a ride.

As the truck passes, I charge, leaping for the tiny offload platform, grasping for the rear handle bolted to the back. My foot slips, and my shin slams against the edge of the platform. I bite my lip hard to keep from crying out. Looping my left arm through the handle, I hug it tight, holding on for dear life as I try to get my feet back underneath me.

After a block or two, my right foot finally finds purchase, and I gratefully stand up. Resting my head against the cold metal, I close my eyes for a moment, the stinging of my bloodied shin radiating up my leg.

I open my eyes and glance at the passing scenery. Half a dozen blocks from leaving the blackout area behind me. Still a long, long way from home.

V

Our limo glides to a halt in front of the Carlisle Building. Fancy digs don’t pout in the dark, even during a blackout, so it’s running on backup generator power. The doorman opens the front door for us with a murmured, “Evening, Miss Vee. Miss Jax. Miss Sasha.” He pauses before adding, “Little Dead Thing.”

The cat’s still pissed, but at least he’s riding my shoulder now and not trying to eat me. I have him by the scruff, just in case. He’s on the last of his nine lives, and the traffic just behind us won’t be as forgiving if he tries to bolt again.

Jax is right in front of me. She’s going to catch it if Little Dead Thing jumps, but that doesn’t seem to be her primary concern. Ignoring all the discreet brass placards that warn people not to smoke in the lobby, she pulls out a bundle of silvertips and lights one up. Her first major exhale manages to nail me in the face, and I teeter in my heels trying to avoid the second.

“Would you please message a med team?” Sasha murmurs in passing, a power cord still trailing behind her.

“Already did, Miss Sasha,” the doorman responds.

Just goes to show that I’m forever under surveillance, even in my ivory tower. I’ve been living here since Damon “discovered” me. For a second, I can’t dredge up how long ago that was, and I have to count back.

Nineteen now, fourteen when I came in, so five years.

Between the mind-scrubs and seshes of nanotech rehab, there’s precious little I remember before waking up in the penthouse and Damon handing me my medical file. Apparently, that’s our thing. I glitch off the grid and he shoves me back on. I go all jigsaw-puzzle brain, he gives me back my name and my voice. Even now, I don’t remember anything pre-Cyrene. No friends, no family, but I sense that it’s no real loss. If someone had ever loved me . . . really loved me . . . I know I would remember that.

That’s how I know for sure that life outside the Wall was utter shit.

Tiny colored dots appear at the edges of my vision—never a good sign—and I forget to be impressed by the ornate foyer before we’re in the elevator, and I lean back against the mirrored wall. Up we climb, up to the heavens.

Everyone in Cyrene sings for their supper in some way, from the newest arrivals to nightingales in pretty gilded cages. The more energy we generate for the grid, the more credits we accumulate, the fancier our accommodations, our clothes, our food, our drugs. Five years ago—

Was it five?

Fuck.

—I’d been singing in a club, I think. Not onstage, just goofing off with that night’s group of riprap pals, trading lyrics for drinks. I remember a business card appearing in front of me alongside a shot of Pennyroyale. Lucky fucking me, one of the few things that
does
stick is the memory of looking up at Damon for the first time. Even after all the mind-scrubs, that first moment of seeing him is still seared into my brain.

Except now . . . now there’s another memory, another face vying for my attention.

The blond guy at the bar.

Remembering him shoves me a little closer toward unconsciousness. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel Jax staring daggers at the side of my head. She’s still torqued off about our conversation in the car. That I hinted something was wrong with the grid, a flaw in her family’s work, rather than take any responsibility for it going down.

But when I open my eyes, it’s Sasha’s fleeting gaze flicking over me, because she doesn’t want me to catch her looking. She stares down at the floor, frowning at the carpet, and I can guess what she’s thinking.

Damon’s played me the recordings, previous versions of me singing. It might as well be a stranger; there’s no connection at all to the songs beyond my voice.
Those songs aren’t mine.
If I need another mind-scrub and a nanotech reboot by a Corporate medical team, this Vee is gone. My connection to the Sugar Skulls songs? Gone. The band implodes like a dying star, and Sasha’s family stops getting that monthly subsistence check.

Can’t be a comfortable way to live, keeping a wary eye on me at all times. Some nights I bet Sasha wishes she could zip-tie my hands together and lock me in the closet.

I jerk my chin at her. “I’m sorry about what happened at the club. It was . . . stupid.”

“You didn’t do it on purpose,” she hastens to say, although I’m not quite sure if she’s trying to reassure me or convince herself.

We hit the top floor. Before Jax can close the apartment door, Damon exits the second elevator with a security detail behind him, crackling radios indicating their greyface counterparts are pursuing someone.

Freshman orientation really went to shit tonight. Wonder what poor asshole had the misfortune to trip their radar in the middle of a power outage.

The security team numbers a modest four tonight: two men, two women, all in dark suits and sunglasses. As always, I struggle to see beyond the bland features and nondescript hair that mark all the past-their-primes in Cyrene. Over-21s are few and far between here, working maintenance jobs, operating within strict caregiver parameters that keep the recruits producing as much energy as possible for the grid. Very few—like Hellcat Maggie—register as individuals. Mostly they’re a blur, background filler in an old black-and-white movie.

Damon manages a bit better than that. Tonight, he’s wearing an expensive navy blue suit tailored to perfection. Despite the late hour, his tie is still tight at the throat, the starch in his shirt still standing at attention. Under the fabric, there’s the suggestion of old-school tattoos, a throwback to the days when he was raising hell as one of the under-21s in Cyrene. When his jacket comes off, I get a better impression of shapes and lettering through the cotton, but nothing definitive. He never rolls his sleeves up around us—part and parcel of maintaining that professional demeanor spit shine.

Knowing the nature of the beast, I strike before he can. “A year since I had an episode, and some douchebag in the audience triggered me. Migraine City. I’m lucky I didn’t pass out in the middle of the set.” I drop Little Dead Thing on the floor and watch as he skitters off in the direction of the kitchen and the nearest can opener, a patchwork tumbleweed of calico and tiger stripes.

Damon steps to the center of the room, making calm adjustments to his cuff links; a small gesture, but even Jax stays quiet. “I just spent three hours reassuring Corporate and their select guests that we’re locked and loaded for the Dome. That these new thrum-collectors are going to push us far beyond covering Cyrene’s energy needs. That energy production will outstrip consumption three to one. That we’re only a few days away from rolling in investment capital and moving ahead with building more cities based on the Cyrene model. And right about the time they cracked open the champagne, the call came in that you cocked things up at Maggie’s.”

He reaches out and snags me by the arm. Some girls get off on being bossed around, but some previous version of me didn’t and stopped sleeping with him. Well, that and Corporate found out we were banging. Apparently, at their insistence, I’d broken it off. This go-around, I have zero inclination to shag him, but it’s still a relief to have an official excuse to keep Damon at arm’s length.

We’d reassured each other that it wouldn’t affect our working relationship.

We’re both good liars.

When I try to pull away from him, he carefully lowers his voice to the Damage Control setting. “You’re lucky you’re still on the grid.” Then he steers me to the couch.

It’s new. White and impractical and velvet-ridiculous, but I love it anyway. I had the apartment made over last month, and the interior decorator took the term
carte blanche
literally. Everything feels sanitized, the metal sleek with silver-shine. The colossal fireplace crackles around the clock, the violet and blue and green flames offering one of two spots of color in the room. The other is a life-size photograph hanging over the hearth: the Sugar Skulls in full hair and makeup but very little clothing. I remember that shoot. Hard to forget freezing your ass off for hours while a photographer shouts at you in a language you don’t speak. Corporate uses it for publicity shots now, so I get to see mostly naked versions of myself plastered all over the city.

The city. Beyond a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows, most of Cyrene shimmers. The playground is still lit up like a dance party: some kind of couture show in the Cordray District has high-intensity halogen spotlights scanning the sky. The nightclubs and restaurants are seeing a steady flow of traffic. There’s the twinkle of strobes off the hyperglass penthouse dance floors of Club Aurora in the distance. The business district is down to night-lights because the paper-pushers have clocked out for the day, but the manufacturing district runs 24/7 to keep up with the demand for nanotech-tuned narcotics and booze.

In eerie contrast, the blackout area still shrouds the Odeaglow. Even more disconcerting, there’s a gap in the endless starry horizon, a hole in the Wall’s standard projection. The Wall keeps publicity hounds, prying eyes, and anti-Corporate interests at bay, the citywide equivalent of velvet ropes and burly bouncers. And who can blame them for trying to get in? Everything here is glitter and music and eternal, invincible youth. No one picks black-and-white Kansas if they can live in the Emerald City.

No one but that sucker, Dorothy . . .

“Is everyone all right?” Damon cuts in, keeping his hand over mine as he redirects a bit of his attention to the other girls. “How about you, Jax? Any injuries?”

“Few broken ribs, maybe a concussion, but it can wait until you’re done dealing with the princess.” She drops down in front of the fire, blocking the flames from view and courting not-so-spontaneous combustion.

“She’s joking,” Sasha quickly adds. “We’re all fine.” She then finds the corner where the windows meet the wall, slides down until her butt hits the marble floor, and opens her laptop again. The light from the monitor bounces off her pink hair and painted cheeks. Her lips move as she reads through the crash information, locating backup files and checking to make sure the new song I belted out on the fly etched electronic grooves in a virtual wax cylinder. Corporate’s going to want a copy of that recording for the morning news blast. It’s her responsibility to make sure they get what they want.

“Fine? You don’t know that. I could have internal bleeding.” Jax’s makeup is already flaking. When she scratches her cheek, more sequins litter the white carpet.

I would protest, but the pain that receded during our adrenaline-fueled escape crashes into me full force. Pressing my fingers to my temples, I bring my knees up and try to make myself smaller, like the migraine might not find me if only I can hide fast enough.

“Could you identify the person that triggered the attack, if you saw him again?” Damon has his phone out, no doubt accessing Corporate databases, profiles, mug shots. Finding the face he wants, he holds the screen out to me, but all I can make out with unfocused eyes is a blue-white blur.