Disruption (5 page)

‘Have you turned on your Phera-tech since yesterday?’ I asked, working to keep my voice unaffected.

He shook his head.

I let go of the breath I’d been holding, not entirely sure if my relief was about the plan or for myself.

‘We can talk, but only if I have your word that you will never use any of this against me. You’re a
Mercer
after all.’ I couldn’t hold back the judgement as I hissed the last words at him.

For some reason my attack seemed to settle him, as if it brought him back into familiar territory. Maybe he was used to people pigeonholing him. He threw out a sardonic grin. ‘Do I look like I’m in a position to use anything against
you
of all people?’

My return smirk was equally mocking. He was so right. The upper hand was right where I had put it – with me.

‘After school?’ he prompted.

I shook my head. ‘I’ve got work. Lunchtime.’

He scouted the immediate area nervously, weighing up whether he wanted to be seen with me or not. According to the rest of the school we might’ve rated well, but he was still an M-Corp heir and I was still … me. His desperation clearly won out because he gave a curt nod and said, ‘Grass by the track.’

Arrogant bastard didn’t give me a chance to agree or disagree, he just spun around and stalked down the hall, making me question yet again what I was getting myself into with Quentin Mercer.

I
vy had wasted no time, rumours already spreading like wildfire that she had rated high with one of her older brother’s friends the night before. It shouldn’t have surprised me when I saw her avoid Quentin in the halls between classes – neg ratings were designed to forewarn people about volatile personality combinations. But still, I was amazed. Had she forgotten so quickly that the two of them had been the perfect couple for the past year? Had she forgotten how she’d hung off his every word?

I shook my head at my naivety. Of course she had. That was the entire point of the ratings system. And Quentin was no different, barely noticing her himself – but then again, his response seemed to be more natural than premeditated.

When lunchtime rolled around, I took my time, stopping by the cafeteria to collect a hotdog topped with cheese, mustard and ketchup. I had a weakness for anything that came with ketchup. By the time I reached the grass strip beside the bleachers he was already there, reading a book.

I craned my head to read the title. ‘The history of Nascar?’ Not what I’d expected.

He closed the book, sliding it under his outstretched legs before he looked up, squinting into the sun. ‘You know there’s no real meat in that thing?’ he said, gesturing to my half-eaten dog.

I shrugged, sitting down beside him, licking a smear of ketchup from the back of my hand. ‘Tastes good, though.’

When I took a bite, his brow crinkled and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

‘Do you really think eating hotdogs will lower my match potential?’

With an obvious effort he relaxed his forehead and sighed. ‘I guess I don’t know anything anymore.’

‘I guess not,’ I replied, pleased that he could at least admit that.

After a few beats of uncomfortable silence, he blurted, ‘Why’d you help me? You don’t even know me.’

‘If I had said out loud that you’d tested neg with me, they would’ve forced the point, asked you to take another reading, and we both know that would’ve tipped you over.’

‘But that doesn’t answer why you helped me.’

I nodded, expecting this, and swallowed a too-big mouthful. ‘My father turned neg. No one knew why. One day he was all good, rating ups and downs like normal – then, presto, he was a full neg.’ I shrugged as if it was no biggie, but I knew my jaw had locked tight. ‘There was no explanation, no reason, and we lost everything, including him. I know how bad it can be for an average family like ours, I can’t begin to imagine how … Anyway, it was a spur of the moment decision I guess.’ I knew that, despite the lump in my throat, I’d done well to keep my lies as close as possible to the truth. Best tactic for believability.

‘I thought negs were supposed to be hazards or whatever,’ he rasped.

I smirked at him. ‘They are.’

‘So that means I’m … bad. Dangerous.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Even if I haven’t done awful things yet, there’s something in me that means I will.’ His voice had dropped to almost a whisper and he couldn’t look at me. I pretended not to notice.

‘According to the science, but if you’re asking me, I don’t really know you all that well.’

He nodded at my answer, though clearly unconvinced. Then he glanced around, ensuring we were alone. ‘You said you could help. How?’

As I finished the last of my hotdog, I caught him eyeing it with something new. Envy. He probably hadn’t indulged in imitation-meat products in years.

‘I have a question for you first.’

‘What?’

‘More of a requirement really,’ I added.

‘Which is?’

I fixed my eyes on his, hiding my anxiousness. ‘I need access to one of the M-Labs, one where control data is kept.’

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would you need that?’

‘Because there’s a chemical in there that can help me formulate a disruption to your pheromone rating.’

His eyebrows shot up, but his tone was dubious. ‘A disruption? You mean you could change my ratings?’

I shook my head, looking right at him to make sure he understood. ‘Not permanently, but maybe for a couple of hours at a time.’

He threw a hand up in the air. ‘Well, how does that help?’

‘Because you still need to register four minimum ratings per month. By the end of this month you will have to log at least one more rating –
a positive rating 
– or you’ll be found out.’

Quentin’s brow furrowed and I could sense his fear.

I pushed on. ‘Plus, you need to be able to prove to the people around you that you can rate like a normal person. You and I both know Quentin Mercer can’t go for long with inactive Phera-tech. Too many people will start asking questions and before long you’ll be forced to activate.’

He swallowed heavily and I wondered if he might actually throw up.

‘
But
,’ I stressed, ‘if you help me, I can make it so that you can have small windows of opportunity where you can switch on and be seen interacting and registering ratings. The only catch is, you’ll have to make damn sure you turn back to inactive before you clock another neg rating.’

Quentin was silent, weighing his options no doubt. He knew I was right, but still he had to know: ‘What’s in it for you?’

I smiled as if the question was perfectly acceptable. ‘They’ll have information in those labs about my father. I might be able to find him. I might be able to get him out.’

‘You want to help him escape?’ It was more of an accusation than a question. His steel-blue eyes narrowed. ‘How convenient that I’m suddenly in your debt.’

I leaned towards him, so far into his personal space that he had to arch backwards. ‘He’s no different to you, Quentin. The only difference is he didn’t have someone to help. As for the convenience issue, I agree. It is.’ I shrugged, leaning back. ‘I’ve learned to grab opportunities when they come around. But if you’d prefer to take your chances with your family and whatever isolation unit you’re assigned to …’ I held out my hand, inviting him to leave.

Quentin blinked, stunned, and I heard the small but unmistakeable beep of his M-Band registering his increased pulse. It was a satisfying sound.

‘What if it doesn’t work?’ he asked, looking away.

I had him.

It was time to finish the conversation. I stood and looked down at him, enjoying the higher ground. ‘I’ve got it covered. Just get me access when the lab is closed and I’ll take care of the rest.’

I stared at him until he nodded.

‘And if you set me up or we get caught …’ I trailed off.

‘Yeah, yeah, I get it!’ he snapped.

Walking to work that afternoon, I couldn’t deny I was pleased with myself. Years of planning had gone into this and it was all falling into place perfectly. If things kept going this way, the next time I broke into an underground hub I could be bringing my father out with me.

The thought opened up a number of other questions, but I couldn’t afford to go there. I had to have faith that once my mom and brother saw Dad, once they understood that he wasn’t to blame, that he hadn’t done whatever horrific things they’d envisaged, everything would work itself out. Maybe we’d even move back to the countryside. Dad had been a pesticide engineer; he developed and produced tailored pesticides and plague remedies for crop farms. It would be nice to get out of the city. I imagined Dad would want nothing more than open spaces after being underground for so long.

‘So, how’d it go?’ Gus asked, when I made my way into the back office.

I smirked at him.

‘Poor guy,’ he mumbled. ‘Can’t wait till someone turns your world on its head and messes with you.’

They already had, but I wasn’t about to sob-story with Gus. He knew I was looking for my dad, but otherwise we had a strict need-to-know relationship.

When he realised I wasn’t going to respond, he went on. ‘I set up a meet with that new contact tonight, if you’re game?’

Actually, I was bone tired. I hadn’t slept at all the previous night and I’d done a work-out early this morning that a saner person would’ve skipped. What I wanted to do after I finished my shift was go home, do my homework and sleep.

But providing cover for Gus was my responsibility.

Gus had the contacts to set up the meetings, but he barely knew how to throw a punch and the black-market crew were hardcore.

I clenched my teeth together. ‘Sure.’

Gus nodded, looking down at his computer. He glanced back up only to say, ‘We’re meeting at Burn after close.’

Icing on the cake.

I hated that place – it was full of heavy gambling and lust-enhancers. It was like walking into a sensory overload. Plus I was underage, which meant I had to use the forged M-Band Gus had programmed for me. All in all, it made my head hurt.

At least I’d get to see my brother. Burn was where he worked.

‘Fine, but I’ll have to stop by home to get something to wear.’

Gus gave me an up-and-down look and a nasty grin. ‘Completely understood.’

I alternated between stocking the shelves and running the register. I usually worked with two or three other assistants out the front, while Gus ran the programming side of things out the back. So, for the next four hours, I moved between listening to Stella – who was thirty-five and a career shop assistant – brag about her latest lust conquest, which had me somewhere between disgusted and plain embarrassed for her, and a stream of customers all looking to upgrade their M-Band software and accessories. I struggled to keep a straight face when a man who looked like he was well over seventy wanted to have his Viagra doses controlled by the M-Band medical zip. Ew.

The low point of my day hit when Stella dragged me out back and told me to feel her fake boobs. She was adamant I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. I tried to explain that I didn’t need or want to be convinced, but she just grabbed my hands and thrust them to her chest, right as Gus headed past us for the back door, a huge smile on his face. His M-Band camera zip was in continuous shot mode.

I smiled grimly at Stella. ‘Thanks,’ I said, desperate for her to release my hands.

She nodded, and then had the audacity to start massaging my hands up and down. ‘I told you,’ she said, beaming.

I wondered if I should tell her that I could break both of her arms in four seconds.

‘You know,’ she went on, ‘everyone tried to talk me out of it because of the pheromone effects, but I knew I’d come down on the right side. Honestly, girl, I’ve never rated better. Maybe you should try it.’ She glanced pointedly at my uninspiring chest.

I’d been worried about Stella going under the knife. Plastic surgery was more of a gamble than ever because self-image could cause a chemical reaction. Even if a person seemed happy with the results, there was the chance it would feed further insecurities or encourage an addiction to surgery, which could in turn create pheromone instability. Luckily for Stella, it had boosted her esteem, causing only positive effects.

I pulled my hands free. ‘No, thanks,’ I said, putting some space between us before she tried to grab me again. ‘I’m pretty sure there is a customer waiting.’ I quickly made my way to the shopfront.

By the time I finished closing down the tills and locking up, Gus was out the front with the car running.

‘Might’ve been faster if you’d helped,’ I suggested, feeling narky.

‘Or if you hadn’t paused to feel Stella up,’ Gus returned, smirking when I shuddered. ‘I may be your bitch, but I’m not your slave,’ he added, throwing his new model Audi-Glider into gear. I rolled my eyes. The sports car was much more valuable than what he should’ve been able to afford on his salary and had the same effect as a flashing neon sign with the words,
up to no good
. He sped down the road, drawing every passing eye.

‘Are you planning on leaving me the car when you wind up in jail?’ I said, purposely annoying him by putting my feet up on the dash.

To my surprise, he burst out laughing. ‘Have you forgotten you are currently messing with a Mercer? Baby, if I’m on my way to jail, you’re on your way to the firing squad!’

I glared at him, which only encouraged him to snort louder as he pulled up at the back of my house.

‘Here,’ he said, still smiling as he passed me my fake M-Band. ‘Make sure you leave your true band behind.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Yes, because I never would’ve remembered,’ I said sarcastically. The wanker at the parking garage might’ve been enough of an amateur to think he could get away with switching M-Bands in his car, but we knew better. Police had scanners and if they passed an unmanned M-Band in a car, they would know about it. Only someone stupid or looking for trouble risked leaving unmanned M-Bands lying around.

I ran through the house, checking to see if Mom had taken my suggestion and given herself a few shifts off. She hadn’t. It meant I had another few hours until she was home. I headed for my room above the garage and changed into a pair of leather pants and a black tank top.

I tugged at the bottom of my pants, wriggling the seams into place. I didn’t have time for a confused self-image. Frankly, I didn’t care much about my looks, but I’ll admit that when I needed to jam myself into tight-fitting clothes, it helped that I worked out a lot.

I gave my outfit a quick glance in the mirror as I tied back my dusty brown heap of hair. Discreet. Not too dressy. It would work. Despite my fake M-Band I was still underage and dressing up too much drew the wrong kind of attention, plus I was there to act as Gus’s cover. Two good reasons why I needed to blend in, not stand out.

Staring down at my black work boots, I sighed. I wanted to put them back on, bad. They were perfect for moving fast and hurt like hell for the person who copped one in the head, but last time I’d worn them I’d barely made it through the club’s front door. Reluctantly, I dug around in the back of my tiny wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black high heels – a re-gift from Stella once she realised they were a size too small for her.

I huffed as I squeezed into the shoes. They wouldn’t kick for shit. But then I turned and studied the back of the dangerously high heel. If I didn’t fall over and kill myself in them, the heels could come in handy.