that glared down at me as I followed a wheeled Mech through a door labeled WARD A .
I stopped just inside the entryway, staring down the hall. Numbered doors hid the cells beyond, but I didn’t detect any hint of puke. This was far better than Lock Up. In there,it’s everyone for himself. Or herself. Girls don’t normally get put in Lock Up, but I’d been there four times. The rules are really stupid. Like it matters if I don’t lock my window at night. Who’s going to come in? It’s against the rules to be out after dark.
I had to wait for a hearing. Mechs took me to the bathroom and back. (No toilet in the corner—I’d hit the big time.) They brought me packets of food that I mixed with bottled water, which tasted funny. Metallic, almost. Tech-cleaned. One wall projected the scenery outside, and I wondered if the weather was accurate.
My mother wouldn’t come. She’d been notified, but I knew she didn’t care. The Southern Rim was a long trip for a daughter she didn’t want. I’d broken the rules one time too many the first time. She could have at least sent an e-comm. Even Zenn—trapped in the den of Special Forces agents—did that.
His message was short, only a few lines about how he couldn’t get away for the trial, how he was trying to get me out of prison. But he’d signed it Love, Zenn and those two words provided all I needed to endure prison and whatever it held.
I don’t remember time passing. It was just gone. Finally, I followed a shiny Mech down a wide hall, my heart beatingfuriously fast. Mechanical whirrings from its wheels scratched against the polished steel floor. The only other noise came from a motionless Mech in the middle of the hall. The oily smell of burning gears filled my nose as the beeps became one constant alarm.
Two guards emerged from the room at the end of the hall. Their gray uniforms almost blended into the surrounding walls. I twisted to watch them deactivate the malfunctioning robot by reaching under the chest cavity. So that’s how—
My Mech tugged at my collar, forcing me to turn around. It had rolled out of line and stopped in front of a door. Another robot-guard already waited there, and next to it stood a guy who made my every sense pause.
His sun-stained skin gave everything away. He was bad.
He wore the uniform of someone who’d been in prison for a while. A name had even been sewn on the shoulder: Barque . He couldn’t be much older than me and stood almost as tall as the six-foot Mech, completely relaxed. Maybe he knew something I didn’t.
He looked at me and grinned like we were going to a fabulous party together. Alarm spread through me when my mouth curved up in response. Raising his tech-cuffed hands to his spiky black hair, he tapped his head. “Nice hair,” hemouthed to me. One glance from his Mech, and he dropped his suntanned hands and stared forward again.
The shiny metallic doors widened, ready to devour me whole.
“Violet Schoenfeld,” a voice boomed. “Jag Barque. Come forward.”
The name of the bad boy echoed in my head. What kind of name was Jag Barque? I’d heard stories about how sometimes the Baddies got to name themselves. Surely this Jag guy was one of them. Who would torture their kid with a name like his?
The Mech swiveled forward and stopped at a table as tall as its canister-chest. It opened a briefcase, pulled out a black cord, and plugged it into the podium. The briefcase rotated and the top half flopped back, revealing a touch screen. My picture filled the wall in front of me. My name ran along the bottom, followed by a list of my offenses. Crossed a border. Illegal electro-comm. Broken curfew. In the park after dark, with a male. Resisted arrest.
My jaw tightened. I’d climbed that damn ladder to the hovercopter, swaying in the gusting wind. It was a miracle I hadn’t fallen to my death. Now I was being accused of resisting arrest. As if all the other offenses weren’t enough. What a joke.
It took
I stopped just inside the entryway, staring down the hall. Numbered doors hid the cells beyond, but I didn’t detect any hint of puke. This was far better than Lock Up. In there,it’s everyone for himself. Or herself. Girls don’t normally get put in Lock Up, but I’d been there four times. The rules are really stupid. Like it matters if I don’t lock my window at night. Who’s going to come in? It’s against the rules to be out after dark.
I had to wait for a hearing. Mechs took me to the bathroom and back. (No toilet in the corner—I’d hit the big time.) They brought me packets of food that I mixed with bottled water, which tasted funny. Metallic, almost. Tech-cleaned. One wall projected the scenery outside, and I wondered if the weather was accurate.
My mother wouldn’t come. She’d been notified, but I knew she didn’t care. The Southern Rim was a long trip for a daughter she didn’t want. I’d broken the rules one time too many the first time. She could have at least sent an e-comm. Even Zenn—trapped in the den of Special Forces agents—did that.
His message was short, only a few lines about how he couldn’t get away for the trial, how he was trying to get me out of prison. But he’d signed it Love, Zenn and those two words provided all I needed to endure prison and whatever it held.
I don’t remember time passing. It was just gone. Finally, I followed a shiny Mech down a wide hall, my heart beatingfuriously fast. Mechanical whirrings from its wheels scratched against the polished steel floor. The only other noise came from a motionless Mech in the middle of the hall. The oily smell of burning gears filled my nose as the beeps became one constant alarm.
Two guards emerged from the room at the end of the hall. Their gray uniforms almost blended into the surrounding walls. I twisted to watch them deactivate the malfunctioning robot by reaching under the chest cavity. So that’s how—
My Mech tugged at my collar, forcing me to turn around. It had rolled out of line and stopped in front of a door. Another robot-guard already waited there, and next to it stood a guy who made my every sense pause.
His sun-stained skin gave everything away. He was bad.
He wore the uniform of someone who’d been in prison for a while. A name had even been sewn on the shoulder: Barque . He couldn’t be much older than me and stood almost as tall as the six-foot Mech, completely relaxed. Maybe he knew something I didn’t.
He looked at me and grinned like we were going to a fabulous party together. Alarm spread through me when my mouth curved up in response. Raising his tech-cuffed hands to his spiky black hair, he tapped his head. “Nice hair,” hemouthed to me. One glance from his Mech, and he dropped his suntanned hands and stared forward again.
The shiny metallic doors widened, ready to devour me whole.
“Violet Schoenfeld,” a voice boomed. “Jag Barque. Come forward.”
The name of the bad boy echoed in my head. What kind of name was Jag Barque? I’d heard stories about how sometimes the Baddies got to name themselves. Surely this Jag guy was one of them. Who would torture their kid with a name like his?
The Mech swiveled forward and stopped at a table as tall as its canister-chest. It opened a briefcase, pulled out a black cord, and plugged it into the podium. The briefcase rotated and the top half flopped back, revealing a touch screen. My picture filled the wall in front of me. My name ran along the bottom, followed by a list of my offenses. Crossed a border. Illegal electro-comm. Broken curfew. In the park after dark, with a male. Resisted arrest.
My jaw tightened. I’d climbed that damn ladder to the hovercopter, swaying in the gusting wind. It was a miracle I hadn’t fallen to my death. Now I was being accused of resisting arrest. As if all the other offenses weren’t enough. What a joke.
It took
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