Lockdown (The Fringe #4) Read online

  My jaw falls open, and I go slack in the man’s arms. Am I hallucinating, or is a controller on my side for a change?

  Dellwood has gone stark white under all that blood. “It was just a joke.”

  “We don’t joke about that shit,” says the older controller, finally releasing his grip on me.

  Slowly, cautiously, I turn on the spot to have a look at my new hero: He’s a gristly old guy with calculating eyes, graying hair that’s just a smidgen too long, and a thick mustache that looks as though it’s constantly tickling his upper lip.

  I’ve never seen a cowboy in real life, but if ever there was a cowboy standing right in front of me — albeit a retired cowboy — this man would be it.

  His skin is brown and leathery, as if he’s spent too much time on the back of a horse . . . or napping under the UV lamps. And where most controllers wear the standard-issue navy belt with a silver buckle, Old Boy’s wearing a worn leather number with a tarnished oval buckle that reads “Mess with the Bull . . . Get the Horns.” He’s even got that confident “there’s a new sheriff in town” swagger.

  Dellwood’s stammered excuses bring me back to reality. I think I actually hear the words “he started it” thrown in there somewhere.

  If the situation weren’t so dire with Harper in the cages and Eli being tortured, I’d thoroughly enjoy watching him squirm.

  “Damn it, Dellwood. You’re already on probation after that stunt you pulled in the gymnasium! I’m sick and tired of these shenanigans!”

  Dellwood opens and closes his mouth like a fish, utterly lost for words.

  “You’re off the women’s ward — permanently. From now on, you’re gonna be babysitting the crazies in wing C.”

  “But sir —”

  “Shut your damn mouth.”

  Dellwood looks as though he might burst into tears at any second. I don’t blame him. I would not want to be on the receiving end of the scorching look the cowboy is giving him.

  “You and I will hash this out later.”

  Dellwood hangs his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now scram before I decide to send you out on your red behind.”

  Dellwood nods quickly and shuffles out from behind the desk.

  The cowboy turns to me, and I manage to read “Woodhouse” embroidered on his uniform.

  “Now, you listen here, boy. If you ever come up in my station again and attack one of my officers, I will personally ensure that you do some time in the freezer to cool off. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I stammer — because this man has a presence that demands the word “sir” at the end of every sentence.

  “All right. Now that we’ve got that squared, what can I do for you?”

  “I . . . I came to bail out my friend Harper Riley?”

  The chief deputy frowns. “I’m afraid her bail is set at 250,000 credits. Have you got that kind of cash?”

  I swallow, completely dumbfounded. “N-no.”

  “Then I’m afraid you won’t be leaving with her today.”

  “Why is her bail so high?” I ask incredulously.

  I’d be lying if I said I’d never bailed someone out of the cages before — usually one of my burnout buddies who had no one else to help. But even for people who’d done something really stupid — like try to pee on a controller’s shoes — I’ve never shelled out more than 500 credits.

  “I don’t set the bail,” says Woodhouse. “I just enforce it.”

  I don’t really know what to do now. I didn’t have a plan B. “Can . . . Can I at least see her?”

  Woodhouse sighs. “I have it on good authority that Cadet Riley is not supposed to have any visitors. But after the beating she took today in the gymnasium, I think she could use a friend.”

  My heart pumps a little harder at the mention of a beating. Harper is scrappy, and if she lost a fistfight, they must have her locked up with some scary bitches.

  “Please,” I beg. “I didn’t even know she was in here until a few minutes ago. She’s my best friend — my only friend, really. I just . . . I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

  Woodhouse stares at me for several long seconds, sizing me up with those probing eyes that have seen too much. He seems to decide something and then nods once as though that settles it.

  “All right then. I could tell you were real distraught the second you walked in. And I don’t blame you. Cadet Riley hasn’t made many friends since she got here.”

  “No surprise there,” I mutter.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Five minutes,” he says, holding up his hand in case I’m too stupid to comprehend without a visual aid. “That’s all I can do.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Woodhouse stares at me out of the corner of his eye for another few seconds. Then he jerks his head toward the cages and indicates that I should follow.

  “I’m not even going to put her in Visitation since you’re not really supposed to be here,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “That’s fine,” I choke, stifling a cough as the overpowering stench of urine and unwashed bodies hits my nostrils.

  I shiver a little at the sight of the hardened women staring at me from behind bars. I’ve been here before, but never in the women’s wing. It makes Harper’s imprisonment seem that much more real.

  Harper’s tough, but she doesn’t belong here. All the women are covered in tattoos, track marks, or both. Pale burnout chicks with sunken eyes stare hungrily at me as I pass. They’ve probably seen me in Neverland; they know I have a few spare pills rattling around in my pockets. But it’s the well-kept ones with sharp eyes that make me nervous.

  Those are the really dangerous ones, I think to myself.

  To my right, I see a pale blond girl and an older woman with a crazy mane of sandy hair. When we stop, their expressions grow cold. They know I’m here to see Harper.

  I look to my left and do a double take. Harper blends in so well with the other inmates I almost missed her entirely. She’s wearing a baggy pink jumpsuit like all the others, sitting with her back propped up against the wall and her knees bent in front of her. She’s got a ratty wool blanket draped over her head and shoulders, and the only parts of her body visible are her bloody hands and bright gray eyes.

  She turns slightly, and I have to stop myself from taking a step back. Her face is battered and swollen.

  When our eyes lock, a million tiny expressions flash across her face: pain, relief, embarrassment, despair, and a tiny sliver of hope.

  “Hey, Riles.”

  “Celdon?” she croaks. Her voice is hoarse and weak, and when I look closer, I spot the spidery purple bruises along her throat.

  “Five minutes,” repeats Woodhouse, clapping a hand on my shoulder and turning back down the tunnel to give us some privacy.

  “Christ, Riles. What the hell happened?”

  Harper shakes her head and lowers her blanket to her shoulders like a shawl. Her hair is a ratty mess, and she looks so small swimming in that uniform.

  “Jayden saw Owen on the feeds. She figured out we lied to her. Plus I told the undersecretary of Health and Rehab that I helped smuggle a relic into the compound for Shane.”

  My heart sinks. “You didn’t.”

  Harper nods slowly.

  “Why?”

  “It was the only thing I could think of. She didn’t believe the story I made up, and I didn’t want to rat out Owen, so . . .”

  “So you incriminated yourself? What’s wrong with you?”

  Harper lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “Lots of things. Trust me . . . I’ve had plenty of time to think about it.”

  “What are the charges?” I ask.

  “Lying to my commanding officer, refusing orders, smuggling . . . colluding with drifters.”

  My heart sinks. After everything — the beating I took from Devon, the torture, the lies — Harper still got caught.

  “Did you see your la
wyer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “He’s some public defender douchebag. He says I’m looking at ten to twenty years.”

  “Jesus.”

  Harper shakes her head slowly. “Part of my file is sealed. He couldn’t even see what I was charged with. And when I told him, I don’t think he believed me.”

  “Sounds like a real winner.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So . . . what happened to your face?” I ask as tactfully as I can.

  Harper glances behind me and lowers her voice until it’s barely a whisper. “I think I’ve made some enemies in here.”

  “You think?”

  “It would have been fine, except Dellwood came down here and started running his mouth. I punched him in the balls, and he told everyone what I was in for. This is what they do to traitors in here.”

  “Just be glad you’re not a dude,” I say with a shudder.

  “I don’t even care about that,” Harper hisses. “I’m fine in here, but —”

  “Fine?” My voice cracks as I take in her swollen face. “Riles . . . look at you.”

  “I mean, I’m not fine, okay?” she snaps. “I’ll survive. But Eli?”

  She shakes her head slowly, and I can tell she’s fighting an onslaught of tears. She takes a deep breath and messes with the frayed end of her blanket, hands shaking. “He was arrested for treason, Celdon. They can execute him.”

  I let out a long sigh and drag a hand over my face to hide my guilty expression. I want to summon some words of encouragement — something to give her hope — but I’m coming up empty-handed.

  “He’s not even here,” she adds in a whisper. “Constance took him. I don’t know where they’re holding him.”

  Seeing Harper on the verge of falling apart makes me rethink my entire plan. I can’t just sit here and feign ignorance.

  “I know where they’re holding him,” I say in a quiet voice.

  Harper sits up straighter. “You do?”

  I nod. “It’s got to be where they held me when they hacked into your interface. I didn’t see exactly where it is, but it’s somewhere in Information.”

  Harper grows a little paler, and I know she’s thinking of what I must have looked like when I returned after a week of Constance’s torture — probably just the way she looks right now.

  “Eli’s tough,” I say bracingly.

  “I know he’s tough,” she says, tears welling up in those big gray eyes. “That’s the problem.” She lets out a sniff and wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve. “He’ll never give up Owen. They’ll kill him.”

  I don’t say anything because she’s right. Jayden isn’t going to stop. And once she sees that she can’t win, she’ll end Eli — slowly and painfully.

  There’s a miserable moment of silence as the full weight of Harper’s troubles sinks in. She allows herself maybe thirty seconds of silent tears, but then she dries her eyes and fixes me with a determined expression.

  “Do something for me, will you?” she asks.

  “Anything.”

  “Get out of here and go straight to the medical ward. Those AWOL Recon operatives — the ones who just returned — they’re the ones carrying the virus.”

  “The people who’ve been missing all this time?”

  Harper nods. “Nobody will listen to me — not the controllers, not my lawyer. They think I’m making it up. But it has to be them. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “How do you —”

  Harper shakes her head and cuts me off. “It doesn’t matter. But Sawyer’s up there, and she doesn’t know yet. You have to warn her.”

  Staring at Harper all bedraggled and beaten down makes me think her theory is a bit far-fetched. But right now, I can’t tell her the truth about my involvement with Constance. I can’t stop Eli from being tortured or bail her out of the cages. But I can run up to the medical ward to relay her bizarre theory.

  “Okay, Riles,” I say, summoning the most capable expression I can manage. “Consider it done.”

  five

  Sawyer

  The only thing worse than being pulled out of my bunk in the middle of the night is being pulled out of the shower. There’s no such thing as personal time in the medical ward — not to sleep, not to eat, not to take a bathroom break longer than thirty seconds.

  As soon as I step into the soothing white tile enclosure and push the button to run the shower cycle, the locker-room door slams, and I feel a gust of cold air.

  “Sawyer!”

  I groan. It’s Caleb.

  “What are you doing in here?” I call, sticking my face in the stream of hot water to enjoy it for a few more seconds.

  “Ward meeting!”

  “Now?” I ask incredulously, consulting my interface resting in the little alcove. “It’s twenty-three hundred.”

  “Watson called an emergency meeting.”

  “Shit.”

  You don’t get into Health and Rehab by being an alarmist, so the word “emergency” actually means something around here. And for the word to appear in front of “meeting,” it must be a big deal.

  The shower stops. Even though I’d planned on running the cycle a few more times, I wring out my hair and shake off my body.

  “Um . . . can you hand me my towel?” I ask, slightly annoyed that Caleb is still intruding on my shower.

  “Oh! Right.” His voice takes on an awkward tone. “Yeah . . . sorry.”

  The door opens about two inches, and a hand appears clutching a thin overbleached towel.

  I take it and suppress a laugh. If I had to guess, Caleb’s got his eyes clamped shut on the other side, and he’s doing everything in his power not to be a creep.

  By the time I dry off and step out of the shower, Caleb is standing with his back to me, a good ten feet away. I grab my clean clothes from the bench and scrub up for round two.

  “You decent?” he asks.

  I chuckle. “Yeah.”

  Caleb glances over his shoulder, and I follow him out of the locker room, finger-combing my wet hair as we walk.

  When we round the corner into one of the overflow wings, we nearly collide with a herd of red-clad nurses and interns. There are even a few doctors among them. Most medical ward physicians consider themselves above things like meetings, so if they’re here now, this must be serious.

  “Where the hell have you been, Lyang?” Watson barks. “MacAvoy?”

  Caleb mutters something inaudible, and I feel my face heat up.

  “Sorry, sir . . . I was in the shower.”

  Watson rolls his eyes. He’s the meanest attending physician in Health and Rehab, and he takes pleasure out of embarrassing, belittling, and terrorizing the interns he supervises.

  “As I was saying . . . I have never — been more — disgusted.” He pauses for dramatic effect and licks his lips free of spit. “Someone in this group . . . took it upon himself . . . or herself . . .” Watson glares at me, “to disclose confidential patient information to someone outside of Health and Rehab.”

  He pauses again so he can focus on each and every worker in his immediate line of sight.

  “This is absolutely inexcusable — especially given the sensitive nature of these patients’ admittance.”

  Caleb and I exchange a puzzled look.

  “Would anyone like to come forward before this goes any further?”

  Watson’s overtanned head moves around the circle as though it’s on a swivel, and the people near us exchange nervous glances. No one wants to look accusatory, but joining the witch hunt seems safer than acting casual.

  Whoever leaked the patient information is screwed. Confidentiality is serious shit around here.

  “No one?”

  Silence.

  Watson lets out an exasperated sigh and produces an empty plastic box. “Fine. Those wishing to keep their jobs can submit their interfaces for inspection. If you haven’t been messaging your friends or Information about p
atients during your shift, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Without hesitation, I pull my interface off my ear and toss it over Caleb’s shoulder into the box. Watson meets my gaze, and I raise an eyebrow in defiance. Caleb shrugs and throws his in, too, and everybody else follows suit — everybody except one blond nurse.

  “Clemens?” says Watson in his most deadly “I’m onto you” voice.

  “What if we don’t want to hand over our interfaces?” she asks in a shaky voice. “The data on there is private. You have no right to ask . . .” Her voice trails off as though she’s running out of steam, and she looks around with darting eyes.

  “You’re right,” says Watson with a shrug. “I don’t.”

  The girl looks taken aback, but I notice she stands up a little straighter.

  “You don’t have to hand over your interface,” Watson continues. “Your reluctance just told me everything I need to know.”

  The nurse’s face drains of color, and she shakes her head frantically. “But —”

  “The rest of you . . . you can take your interfaces back.”

  There’s a frantic shuffle toward the box as people scramble to grab their shit and get out before Watson explodes all over the nurse.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of securing our internal network,” Watson calls over the din. “You can still access patient information and communicate within the ward, but you will not be able to access the external network until your shift is over.”

  There’s a collective groan from the crowd, but Watson holds up a hand to cut them off.

  “This is for our patients’ protection, people. I don’t like to play dictator, but that’s the way it has to be from now on — thanks to your colleague here who’s too stupid to read the confidentiality agreement that you all signed.”

  “I didn’t share any patient information,” stammers the girl. “I just sent a picture of this guy I thought was cute . . .”

  But Watson waves her excuse away. “Please turn in any equipment you’ve checked out, and let Operations know you’ll be needing a new placement,” he says.

  The nurse bursts into tears, but Watson wheels around as though he just asked her to fetch his coffee. “Lyang! MacAvoy! I need you!”