“Are you sure you want to do this?” I am whispering, because the darkness seems to demand it.
“Do what?” Trigger whispers, and I wonder if that’s because I whispered first or because the shadows feel delicate to him also. As if too much sound will raise the lights and expose us.
“Run. Escape. You could go back to the dorm right now and tell them you left because you wanted to help with the search. No one will ever know you helped me.”
“They’ll see you on the security footage eventually,” he points out, and I can feel his breath on my cheek with each word. It’s a feather of a touch, yet it feels somehow solid. Important. “Besides, we’ve already been linked through the original arrest record.”
“You could tell them you told me to turn myself in. I could hit you on the head so they’d believe I knocked you unconscious.”
Trigger chuckles. “They wouldn’t believe that even if you were a Special Forces cadet.”
“They might,” I protest, unable to filter irritation from my voice. “I’ve become dangerous and unpredictable of late, in case you haven’t heard.”
His chuckle sounds deeper. More intimate somehow. “I’ve heard. But if a five-foot-two, one-hundred-ten-pound gardener could knock me unconscious with nothing but her bare fists, I’d deserve to lose my braid.”
My eyes widen, but I’m not sure he can see that in the deep shadows. “How do you know my physical dimensions?”
“Special Forces. I’m trained to assess any potential opponent’s physical strengths at a glance to better defend myself.”
“So? Assess me.”
The vehicle rocks slightly as Trigger settles deeper onto the floorboard, and I hope no one outside has noticed the movement. “Your fingers are nimble and you have excellent fine motor skills. However, your arms are less physically developed than your lower body. That’s because you do frequent light lifting and occasional moderate lifting as a part of your primary duty to the city, and you lift with your legs. Your physical recreation consists mostly of team sports concentrating in cardiovascular fitness. A lot of running, like relays and soccer.”
“So what am I best suited for?”
“Gardening,” Trigger says, and I scowl into the darkness at him.
“I mean, what kind of…battle? How much damage could I do in a fight?”
“Against a soldier? Very little. You might get in a lucky kick or two, but your upper body is too weak to pack much of a punch or break someone’s hold, and you’re too slow to specialize in any of the martial arts that don’t require much in the way of size. That can all be fixed, though.”
“It can?”
He shrugs. “Somewhat, anyway. You’ll never be an extraordinary fighter, because you were designed to grow plants rather than muscles. But your frame is straight and solid, and you could support much more muscle than you currently have. So yeah, you could be taught to defend yourself.”
“I—”
Trigger’s hand covers my mouth, cutting off my question, and before I can recover from the surprise I hear what he’s already heard. Footsteps—boots on concrete. And a voice that is more than familiar after the discussion we overheard on the twelfth floor.
“—want her found within the hour,” Ford 45 says. The car rocks around us as he opens the front left door and daylight falls over the interior. We are shielded from the light by the seat backs in front of us, but if either Ford or the soldier he’s talking to looks through the rear window, he will see us. “Ping me immediately when you have her. You have my direct contact?”
Through the tinted glass, I see the other man nod. The name on his uniform is Calibre 32.
Ford closes the door and I peek between the seats to see him holding his wrist beneath the sensor built into the dashboard. The engine hums to life and the car vibrates around us. Ford leans his seat back and pulls a small tablet from his inner suit pocket. “The Administrator’s mansion,” he says as he begins tapping and swiping his way through a series of messages I can’t read.
The car rolls forward smoothly, following the cruise strip painted onto the road, and I rock with the motion, surprised when my stomach seems to lag behind the rest of my body for a second. I’ve never been in a vehicle before. In fact, I rarely even see cars, because the training ward is populated mostly by children and adolescents, who lack the authority to start a CityCar.
Not that we’d have anywhere to go if we could start one.
The screen built into the dashboard shows the default route as a highlighted line through a two-dimensional map of the city. I stare at it for as long as I dare, fascinated, but Ford doesn’t even glance at it. He’s already lost in his leadership duties.
As the private vehicle rounds the dormitory and rolls onto the main road, daylight falls on Trigger’s face and I realize that he isn’t terrified by Ford’s destination as I am. Instead he looks relieved. He wants to go to the Administrator’s mansion.
And somehow he knew that’s exactly where Ford 45 would take us.
I stare out the window over Trigger’s head as familiar buildings steadily march past at an unfamiliar angle. I’ve never seen them like this. So tall and…fleeting.
A chime rings through the vehicle and I flinch, startled by the sudden sound. The dashboard screen flashes, and the map of our route disappears to reveal a message reading Incoming communication request.
“Accept,” Ford 45 says.
The screen flashes again and I catch a glimpse of a lightly lined female face and graying hair pulled back into a Management-style bun as I duck back behind the seat, my heart pounding in fear.
Trigger’s eyes are wide. Were you seen? his expression seems to demand.
I shake my head. And hope I’m right.
“Administrator,” Ford 45 says. “I’m on my way—”
“Where is she?” the Administrator demands.
My throat feels tight. They’re talking about me.
“I believe we’re closing in on her—”
“You believe? I want to hear what you know. Do you know where she is?”
“No, ma’am. I’m on my way to the mansion, then I’m headed back to the Defense Academy to question the cadet. I—”
“Ford 45, that girl represents the greatest security threat Lakeview has ever seen.” The Administrator’s declaration sends chills across my skin.
“But she’s just a gardener,” Ford says, echoing my own thoughts. “What’s so dangerous about a defective gard—”
“She cannot escape the city. What about the geneticist?”
“Wexler 42. He’s still missing. His lab is studying the genome, trying to figure out what happened with Dahlia 16, but the whole thing is very strange, ma’am. They can’t find any of the DNA assembly records and work logs for the genome in question.”
During the Administrator’s brief silence, I can hear my own heartbeat.
“You think Wexler 42 deleted them?” she asks at last.