Faded Flare Page 3

  The gull turned to the side so one eye could peer at her then gave a little hop, hovered, dove down at the water and swooped back up.

  “I guess you do eat wet food all the time, huh? Easier when you don’t have teeth. Like my old babysitter, Mrs. Paulson. She was our neighbor. She ate a heck of a lot of porridge near the end. Stay there,” she instructed, like the bird was a dog, then shut the door and grabbed the dripping bag of cooked corn kernels from off the floor next to tens-of-thousands of dollars in dead technology. She snorted at the… what she was pretty sure was irony, anyway.

  Henley darted back out and pulled up short. Her friend had a friend. “Well, I’m not eating it anyway.”

  The sun was warm as it rose over the ocean, lifting up the fog with it. As she tossed single kernels at the ravenous animals so they didn’t choke, she pulled off her shirt and pants and laid them on the deck beside her to dry. The underwear and bra were kind of like a swimsuit. Then, with a moment of hesitation, she did the same with her gloves. Her waterproofing had worked so far, but prolonged exposure she hadn’t tested.

  Laying down on the warming wood, she closed her eyes against the Sun’s glare, trusting the sharp eyes of the gulls to catch her haphazard tosses.

  She hadn’t worn a bathing suit since Mama took her to the beach right before the fire. She’d always loved water—pool parties, playing in the rain. Mama hadn’t wanted to go to the beach after that day—hadn’t really wanted to do much of anything. Not that Henley wanted to be that naked in front of anyone anyway.

  That wasn’t a concern here. After the huge storm, people were wary of the waterfront, especially the rich, who probably had some fancy condo on an eighty-ninth floor, far from any floodwaters. A boat would be an easy thing for them to call a loss and abandon, keeping far from her current bathing spot.

  Allowing her clothes to dry gave Henley time to think about what she was going to do now. She had her resolve back after her short little pity party, but the feasibility was a whole different question.

  An idea with some merit threaded through all the other possibilities, arising from her previous musing. If Henley stole a boat, the owner would just think it was washed away in the storm surge. They clearly hadn’t been by to check on it yet.

  “I’m already a criminal; it seems fitting to commandeer a ship, right?” she asked the gulls, tossing a whole fist-full of crumbs from the bottom of the bag in celebration though her tone remained resigned. “The world is my oyster. It’s a pirate’s life for me. No wooden leg, but I do have this arrrrm.” Irony again? The gulls laughed at least.

  Something blocked the light, turning the orange glow behind Henley’s eyelids to black.

  “And we’ll start with another storm, it seems. Swept out to sea.” That was one way to shift the boat off its perch.

  “This is an ocean not a sea.”

  Henley lurched up at the male voice, squinting at the silhouette in the bright sun. The boat owner? BTI? Henley reached around for a weapon with her good hand. The fork was still inside on the empty bed. The gulls sent up a chorus of alarm, mostly because she’d flung the bag in surprise and they were fighting for the remnants.

  “You didn’t show up. I sent you a note,” the figure observed and took a step back, non-threatening, just as her searching hand ran into her pants.

  Right. No clothes. No gloves. Immediately, Henley pulled cloth over her arm, dismayed to discover when she looked down that it was her wet jeans, not gloves.

  “Buster?” His voice was uniquely deep, identifiable in its bass timber. Henley relaxed fractionally, while at the same time, her urgency to cover up rose. “That note was from you? How?”

  He didn’t answer. “We need to get moving,” was all he said. Then he stood as still as the ballerina, as still as the broken tech inside, while she fumbled with her clothes.

  She was sure it was him now, because for one, he’d turned around when he’d stepped back—it was his massive back she was unnecessarily hiding from—and secondly, she didn’t know anyone else who’d be wandering around in a lab coat at dawn. Had he not taken it off once they got in the truck like she had? And how the heck had he not been spotted even faster than Henley in that attire?

  Once dressed—and gloved—in soggy garments she stood and cleared her throat, relieved and, honestly, a little weirded out and a lot embarrassed. “I thought you would have already left.”

  Buster continued to observe the horizon where two gulls, one on either end of the plastic bag, were multi-tasking by having a game of tug-of-war and fighting off a new hoard of arrivals. Henley wasn’t sure he even saw it. If she was a pirate, he was an astronaut.

  “How did you find me?” A more important question since it was obvious they hadn’t left.

  “Tracked you.”

  “Tracked me?”

  “Yes.” He finally turned at the horror coating her voice, blinking in confusion like her reaction was an interesting puzzle to solve, but he couldn’t discern where to begin.

  “How did you track me?” Henley clarified, shrinking toward the boat cabin and glancing around. If he could, anyone could. How? She had no electronics on her, except—

  Did he know? He hadn’t reacted just now. She had presumed, perhaps incorrectly, he hadn’t noticed it in her rapid scramble to cover up. He never looked at her, not even that day. He’d just passed the note—the first one at BTI.

  Henley’s arm was behind her back, pressed between her and the cabin’s outer wall. If it was that through which she could be tracked, she’d have to get rid of it and give up her mobility and the first thing she’d ever invented.

  “I saw what they saw.”

  “You saw… Fanieul?” Henley realized.

  He looked relieved that she seemed relieved, though he clearly didn’t know why, and gave a sharp nod. “I monitor all their surveillance.”

  Henley balked. “All?” Sure, the Bus was supposedly the best programmer at BTI—possibly ever—but BTI had eyes everywhere. It was one way they got their feedback for improvements. Heck, there was a whole team in charge of just observing the footage.

  She knew because there’d been a stand-off in the cafeteria with a first-year who’d started during her third. They’d claimed he’d done drugs in the bathroom before going back to lab. He’d claimed they didn’t have proof. They did. They’d shown the entire room …as a warning probably. They had cameras everywhere, constantly recording. In retrospect, that should have been the first sign that BTI wasn’t the most loyal and caring place. The bathroom? In fact, it seemed like they were more pissed at him for the being-high-while-working problem than the disobedience-and-lying issue. They demanded quality in the products their people produced.

  “We need to get moving,” he repeated, not answering her question. “I can only block their signals for so long.”

  Ah. Well, that answered a different question, raising more along the way.

  He was already swinging a leg over the ladder and dropping with a thud back onto the sidewalk, so Henley hurried after him. He’d gotten her out of BTI. Even if he refused to divulge his secrets on the hows, he was clearly her best bet. Joining back up with him removed most of her list of obstacles.

  “Where are the others?” she asked as she jogged to catch up with his trademark stride.

  “Getting food.”

  Because she hadn’t. “Are you blocking surveillance for them, too?” She was impressed, reluctantly. Evidently, she needed to stop underestimating her colleague. The arm she’d built felt suddenly very rudimentary.

  “No.”

  “No?” Couldn’t he just explain a little more. As grateful as she was, it seemed it was going to be a quiet trip across the entire country.

  “The specimen is continuing to pretend to be a new model.”

  “If she did it, then why did you come back for me? Actually, it’s been nagging at me: why did you bring me with you in the first place?” She hadn’t told him her plan to get to Bromley. Had he surveilled that at s
ome point?

  He paused, staring down at her, his eyes hooded in the shadows. “I need you.” He turned and took off, back to the market.

  Well, that wasn’t ominous.

  She chased him, wet strands of hair slapping, a little angry now, unsure what she’d gotten herself into. “It would be helpful if I knew what my purpose is here. So I’m prepared.” She’d have to ditch her team at some point closer to the end.

  He didn’t reply.

  Henley lost her focus a bit as they neared the areas where the performers had been. They weren’t at their posts. She glanced around. The plaza was fairly empty in the morning, save a few gulls. Where did they store them? Was this the secret—that they were powered down and the Bus was just letting her believe he was some genius?

  Buster suddenly veered left, pausing by a wooden bench.

  Henley cussed internally. There sat a ballerina, clown, and the unicyclist. As she rounded them warily, she saw that indeed their eyes were open, recording. She hissed and jumped back.

  “They’re on loop,” Buster informed her as he leaned over them. “Won’t record live feed for about another five minutes.”

  About?

  “Actually, four minutes and forty-three seconds,” he corrected himself, checking his watch.

  Henley swallowed, warily inching closer. It was hard to believe him, given what she knew about BTI’s level of expertise and efficiency. Yet, the statues weren’t yelling creepy stalker phrases at her.

  The Bus stood abruptly and turned to continue on. “Four minutes, thirty-seven seconds,” he reminded.

  She felt like a puppy towing after him, annoyed. “Why did you bring me with you?” she repeated her demand, needing at least one answer.

  When there was no response, Henley grumbled, trying to remind herself calmly that she was a smart engineer, one of the few elite who’d made it into a university. She’d just solve this query herself.

  That meant the Bus was her new, unofficial, post-BTI project. She planned to start observing and taking notes immediately.

  She was doing such a great job at paying attention that she jumped when he spoke again.

  “Why are you wet?”

  Chapter Two

  They decided on the commuter rail. Getting out of the city fast was essential. It was a risk being among the public—a girl with green hair sporting a hospital gown, a guy and a girl in laboratory coats, and a fourth who was wet.

  However, people were on their way to work, so the carriage was packed, minus the few inches around Henley given that no one wanted her passing along her condition. No one paid their group any notice. The subway wasn’t a place to engage strange persons. Most were focused on tablets, phones, or napping in the first place.

  That was ideal for their group of three students and one lab rat from BTI. Ace was leading, of course. He kept an eye on the electrical engineer he’d roped into his plans to escape BTI (and he wasn’t allowing himself to think about that), Henley Bickford, though she didn’t need it. Henley knew him as Buster Acton. He was going to keep it that way as long as he could. Once they arrived at their destination, it’d be impossible to prevent her from discovering his real name—Ace Acton—and the fact that he had a job beyond BTI student.

  He did, however, keep a closer eye on Jennifer Tate, the daughter of Professor Katheryn Tate and a BTI student herself, who he had been requested to escort through BTI’s security.

  She had been accompanied by the freakish… human, he supposed she was on some level. She was a lab rat though, created in a genetics lab under Professor Tate’s direction. He thought Jen had called her a name—Sirena. But to him, she was just a science experiment to be preserved if Jen so insisted.

  All he cared about was getting Jen back as instructed as well as the information he stole.

  The train stopped at another station, and more people crammed on. A few hands slipped between their bodies to reach the pole in the middle that all four clung to. Their eyes kept meeting then darting away awkwardly as the T trundled bumpily on the tracks, screeching around corners with the occasional light in the tunnel flashing by the windows.

  Ace could tell Henley wanted to ask all the questions burning up her throat but resisted in front of so many others who might be involved with BTI for all they knew.

  The lab rat’s hand was shaking as it gripped the pole. After a few made room for a family, bumping into the back of her, Sirena’s free hand scratched for a moment at her wrist where a hospital tag wrapped. Then she dropped the arm, squeezed her eyes shut and placed her forehead onto her white knuckles on the pole.

  Ace turned minutely to look out the window as the train emerged above ground to cross a bridge over the Charles, and the morning sun snuck in to their encasement. He calculated through the hours, determining where they would get off, what their transition would be, how long it would take them, the pit-stop he required and how much time that detour would add. They plunged into the dark again, switching the view like a TV switching on to a reflection of himself. His dark hair hung too long, his chin was lightly stubbled, and bags sagged under his dark eyes.

  In case they were spotted, they got off at another arbitrary stop he indicated with a tilt of his head as discussed prior to their sneaking through the wheelchair access gate behind a lady with a stroller. Jen slid her hand down the pole to touch Sirena’s to alert her when it was time. The science experiment jolted upright with a considerable exhale and snatching her hand to her chest.

  Squeezing between suited bodies, the four jumped through the closing doors of the train on the opposite side of the platform and backtracked a stop or two before returning to their original direction, always waiting for Ace’s random signal to avoid pre-planning anything that might be overheard.

  Their cover started to dwindle as people began to get off at various stations still within the city. The experiment seemed to relax while Henley’s apprehension visibly grew. Like him, she knew that just because they were farther away did not mean they were safer; they were becoming more noticeable. Jen acted as though this were a normal day, humming to herself.

  “Here.” Ace’s voice was quiet, barely audible, and tossed out suddenly. Then he calmly and resolutely stepped onto the platform when the doors whisked open.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Henley, Jen and Jen’s project tag behind. Dodging around another passenger, the latter exhaled out another lung-full. She seemed to trap it in her chest as a way to deal with her anxiousness. Being owned by BTI surely instilled a lot of reluctance to be caught and sent back.

  Ace kept his path straight, most people in their way stepping around. The commuter rail was simply a few platforms over, so they just hopped on and found a few seats in the back corner.

  It was a tense few minutes before it left the station, everyone trying to be as invisible as possible. Jen began to bite her nails. Ace watched Henley internally cringe at the action. He was doing the same. As a scientist, Jen should be aware of all the germs that hand had just picked up from the public transportation. He was sure Henley was used to everything in the lab being kept pristine. Ace would use some soap before he went near any membranes with his hand.

  Contradicting expectations, given her appearance, the experiment was clearly the best at being unassuming because Henley jumped when Sirena spoke softly from across her. “He was on the last one.” Her finger pad tapped the glass window as some man in a black suit strolled past then entered the doors they had.

  Their little group kept intent eyes on the businessman as he swept his gaze over the car then took a step away from them to settle in a chair facing them on the other side of the doors.

  Ace kept him in his periphery as he studied the train map overhead. He might just be going in the same direction. It was a big city. One of the few universities left, BTI had hosted several thousand, and it was probable people could end up on the same path.

  The train announced only a couple more stops. Jen tapped the armrest. Jen’s experiment cower
ed up against the window and the back of her chair. In contrast, Henley leaned forward as though ready to run. Exiting wouldn’t work if that man was following them—he was right beside the escape. She needed another method. She was clearly processing like Ace was, looking around for another exit.

  “What?” Jen hissed at Henley. She must have done something to get her attention. She was going to draw the man’s attention that way too. She wasn’t thinking.

  “We’re being watched.” Henley’s voice was lower but less breathy, keeping her consonants soft.

  “Duh,” Jen snapped, tapping faster.

  “Quiet.” Ace censured their noise.

  Henley pretended to toss her hair, snatching a glimpse out of the corner of her eye.

  The man stood, the smile soft and menacing.

  Ace stifled another sigh. She’d raised his awareness whether he was from BTI or not.

  “Hey,” Henley snipped to her group. “He’s—”

  The train slowed, brakes squealing to a stop.

  Henley whipped around, being far too blatant about ogling.

  The man stepped around the partition and opened his mouth. “You have a nice day now, pretty lady.” He tipped an imaginary hat at Henley then stepped off, shoving his hands in his pockets and pursing his lips. The tuneless whistle was left behind as he strolled down the platform, nodding once to Henley again as he passed by the window.

  “And I thought I was paranoid,” the experiment muttered as Henley’s cheeks warmed with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. She was right to be vigilant. She was wrong to address any potential issues the way she did.

  Jen snorted.

  At the last stop, they were forced to evacuate. “We need a car,” Ace announced to no one in particular, waltzing out the gate and into the parking lot.

  “And clothes,” Jen reminded, appraising both her experiment and Henley.

  “Henley?” Ace addressed her, pushing his glasses up, waiting for her to let go of the panic from the man that had scrambled what he knew to be an intelligent, thought-processing mind.