Willful Machines (22 page)

“Just wanted to touch base, Lee. I heard you've had an exciting couple of days.”

“I guess you could say that.”

My shelf of Creatures was still in disarray. I started to right the knocked-over machines one by one, hoping that might help my pounding heart to slow down.

“Trumbull told me about that robot bird of yours attacking you.”

“That happened two days ago.”

“Right.” He straightened his tie. “Listen, I would've liked to call sooner, but I've been booked solid the past couple of days dealing with this new Charlotte scare. I've kept tabs on you, though. I know Trumbull and his boys are taking good care of you.”

“It's all right. I understand.”

He leaned his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers together. “I also heard about your shenanigans the night before last. You were under lockdown and sneaked out?”

“Stroud already lectured me, Dad. You don't have to bother.”

“I wasn't going to lecture you. To be honest, I'm glad to hear you're getting into a little mischief.” In other words, as he'd pointed out a few days ago, I didn't excel at academics, play sports, participate in extracurricular activities, or socialize. At least this was
something
. He chuckled. “Sometime I'll tell you about the antics
I
got into when I was at Inverness. It's good to cut loose every once in a while. Just don't make a habit of it, okay? Especially now, with Charlotte threatening another attack. Trumbull works hard to keep you safe. Don't give the poor guy a heart attack.”

“Okay, Dad.”

I nudged the last Creature back into place. Dad sat back in his chair and rapped his knuckles once on his desk—something he often did when he was winding up a puck conversation. I might be home free.

Then Dad squinted at me. The crease between his eyebrows, the one he always had when he talked to me, deepened. “You look tired, Lee. Is everything okay? Anything else going on I should know about?”

My eyes skittered away from him and landed on my cat-shaped pest catcher, Mouthtrap. “I just didn't sleep very well last night. That's all.” Mouthtrap seemed to sneer at me with his sharp silver teeth. Jeopardizing national security so I could stay in the closet—I was now officially a Walking Walk-In of the lowest order. Bex would be even more disgusted with me than usual if she knew.

“It's nearly eight,” Dad said. “Shouldn't you be dressed by now?”

“I thought I might sit out classes today.”

“Because you didn't sleep well?”

I nodded. “I think I'm getting a cold, too.”

“Come on, Lee. You're not going to miss class because of a little cold, are you?”

I should've known better than to try that excuse. He disapproved of me getting sick almost as much as he did of me having emotions.

“Okay,” I mumbled. “I'll get dressed.”

His face unclenched a fraction. “Good boy. Look, I need to go. I'll check in with you again soon, okay?”

When the projection vanished from my wall, though, I didn't start getting ready for the day. I wandered over to the
window instead and leaned my forehead against the glass. I pressed my scraped-up palms against it too. The cold numbed the pain a bit. The Swarmbots lay on the ledge outside, their little legs in the air, like the victims of a tiny massacre. Right on cue, the voices started whispering in my skull.
Leap. Leap. Leap.
I wondered, not for the first time, if a forty-foot drop would be enough to kill or just to seriously maim.

I flinched away. “Send a message to Bex,” I told my puck.

When I didn't say anything else right away, the puck dipped closer and chimed inquisitively.

I swallowed through a tight throat. “Bex, I'm sorry for yesterday. I was a jerk. Can you cut out of breakfast and meet me in the library? I need to talk. It's important.”

Be there in ten
, she messaged back.

I forced myself to shower and get dressed. I knotted my almost-black necktie in a neat double Windsor. I slid on my silver raven tiepin. The clothes I'd worn last night lay in the corner where I'd tossed them, crumpled and damp, the jeans still crusted with sand from the make-believe beach. I scooped them up and dropped them into my hamper. In the colorless light filtering in from outside, my room appeared as cold and empty as ever.

Before I went out, I drew the silver watch from my nightstand and strapped it to my wrist.

I headed downstairs. On the way, my hand went to my blazer, feeling the absence in my inside pocket. I hadn't gone
even a few minutes without Gremlin near me in years. Not since Mom's funeral probably.

My mind jumped back to that day. The wooden pews in Dad's church in DC, as uncomfortable as the seats in the Inverness auditorium. Dad on one side of me, lost in a miserable trance. Stroud on the other, his back straight, his eyes pointed forward, his craggy face grim and composed, as if this were a military drill instead of a funeral. Mom in a coffin in front of us, her red hair neat and shiny, like she'd never worn it in life. I spent most of the service rolling my lips between my teeth to keep from crying. This was only my second time meeting my grandfather, and I had this idea in my head that if he saw me shedding tears, he'd lock me up in a room just like the one where those terrorists had kept him and my other grandfather prisoner.

Midway through the service, Gremlin crept out of my blazer pocket, perched on my shoulder, and gave my earlobe a tug.

“This is no time for toys,” Stroud growled. “Don't you have any respect for your mother?” He grabbed Gremlin by the tail. For a second my little Creature hung there, legs waving, huge eyes blinking. Then he disappeared into Stroud's pocket.

Later, after the burial, I crept up to Stroud, my whole body tingling with fear.
Remember
, I kept telling myself,
whatever you do, don't cry.
“Sir?” He looked down at me with eyes like chipped ice. “May I please have Gremlin back?”

Except about halfway through the sentence, my words fractured into sobs.

“Stop that,” Stroud snapped. He turned to Dad, who was standing nearby. “John, this is what happens when you let your son develop unhealthy attachments to lifeless objects.”

For once, Dad stood up to him. “Let him have his toy, sir. He just lost his mother.”

“I understand that,” my grandfather replied. “That doesn't excuse his behavior. My whole life, I've only loved two people, and now I've lost both of them. That's what life is: losing things. The sooner he learns that, the better.” He turned on his heel and left the cemetery without another word.

“You have to understand, son,” Dad told me, “this is hard for him, too, even if he doesn't show it. He lost your grandma before you were born. Now he's lost his daughter.”

But I didn't care about excuses. I just wanted Gremlin back. I spent two wretched nights without him. On the third, I heard a tapping at my window. My Creature huddled there, orange coat filthy, battery almost drained. From then on, I'd always given him strict orders to stay hidden before I went out in public. Especially after my arrival at Inverness Prep.

I turned into the library, passed the shelves of musty books, and climbed the iron staircase to the mezzanine. Bex arrived a few minutes later. She dropped into the chair across from mine and folded her hands on the table. “You look terrible. What's up?”

“I think I have something to add to Nico's con column.” My throat had tightened even more since I'd left my room. It felt like a stone lodged there. “You were right about him. You don't even know how right you were.” I pushed up my glasses and buried my face in my raw palms.

Bex jumped up and put her arms around me. For a while she crouched next to my chair, not saying a word, her hand moving in a slow circle over my back. I shot a glance at Trumbull, but he hadn't turned. When I'd pulled myself together enough to talk again, I told her the whole story of last night and this morning. She listened, the absence of makeup making her eyes appear vividly green. She let out a soft gasp when I said Nico was a 2B, but otherwise she managed not to make a sound.

“My God,” she said after I'd finished. “I mean, I had suspicions about Nico, but I never imagined something like
that
. And he wouldn't tell you what Charlotte's planning?”

“Just that she's not going to hurt me.”

“I'm sorry, Lee, but I don't know if I buy that. Those raven attacks make the whole thing too suspicious.”

“He said someone else must've hijacked Nevermore.”

Bex screwed her mouth to one side. “Sounds pretty far-fetched to me. Especially considering Charlotte's track record.”

“So what should I do?”

“What do you think, Lee? Tell someone!” She pointed at Trumbull's back. “Tell Trumbull. He'll know what to do.”

“I can't. He'll find out about the kissing.”

“This is more important than your stupid closet, Lee.”

“It's not just about my closet.” I propped one elbow on the table and pressed my forehead into my hand. In the bookcase next to me, the title of one of the books, embossed in gold on worn red leather, glinted:
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
. “If I tell about Nico, what'll happen to him? I care about him, Bex. I can't help it.”

She rubbed my back some more. “I know this must be really hard for you, Lee. It's a matter of life and death, though. Yours, and maybe other people's too. That attack is supposed to happen
today
. Charlotte has to be stopped. It's not that I don't have sympathy for 2Bs. I already told you what I think of that stupid Protection of Humanhood Amendment. But there's no excuse for terrorism.” She bent her head lower to catch my eyes. “Nico lied to you. He can't be trusted. And, Lee, he's not a human being.”

“I know.” I touched the spine of the book with my finger, tracing the grooves of the letters.

“I'm warning you, Lee. If you won't do it, I will.”

She started to stand, like she meant to tell Trumbull right then. He turned, seeing the movement. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. “Please, Bex, don't,” I hissed. “I'm begging you.”

Her eyes met mine. They softened. “Okay. But there's at least one thing you should do.”

“What's that?”

“Talk to Dr. Singh.”

“Bex, you're obsessed with that woman.”

“No, I'm not. Think about it. She knew Charlotte better than anyone. If you tell her what's going on, she might have some idea what Charlotte's going to do.”

For the first time in a while, I remembered those words Dr. Singh had spoken on the terrace.
Just let him fall.
“You might be right. I didn't tell you before. Something strange happened on Monday.”

When she'd heard the story, her eyes went huge. “Do you realize what this means, Lee? She must know about Nico. She must be working with Charlotte. And maybe she was having second thoughts. That has to be it!”

“That's a big leap, Bex. We don't know anything for sure yet. Listen, I'll talk to her. In my own way, though. This is a delicate situation. If she
is
working with Charlotte, she's not just going to come out and admit it right away. And if she
isn't
, I don't want to give away too much of what
I
know either. Now you have to promise you won't say a word to Trumbull or anyone else.”

Doubt clouded her face, but she dipped her head in agreement. “It's a deal. For now.”

I
still didn't feel like going to class, but I forced myself. Dad would hear about it for sure if I didn't, and I couldn't afford to raise any more red flags now. I sleepwalked through my first two classes, biology and robotics. Then, on my way to English, my body tensed, as if bracing for a car crash. When Nico walked into the classroom a few minutes after me, it did feel like a kind of collision: inside me there was a jolt, then an almost-physical pain that made me grip the sides of my wooden seat. As for him, his eyes stayed on the floor as he crossed the room, and he chose a seat far away from mine. Even though I tried not to, I glanced over at him a few times during class. I never once caught him looking back at me.

I headed back to the robotics lab during lunch. Trumbull wouldn't find that strange: sometimes I went there at lunchtime or after classes ended to work on my Creatures. Dr. Singh was almost always there too, tinkering with projects of her own. At those times she never bothered to sit near the window while she
smoked. Even though we never talked much—maybe
because
we never talked much—I sensed she liked my company.

When I arrived, Dr. Singh sat hunched over her desk, a soldering iron in her hand, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, its inch-long ash threatening to tumble onto the circuit board in front of her. She grunted a greeting without taking her eyes away from her work. All around, squares of cardboard held in place with duct tape covered the holes Trumbull's gun had left in the ceiling and walls. While Trumbull stationed himself near the door, I walked over to her. “Dr. Singh? Are you busy?”