Kara and Jenna. Our thoughts. My thoughts.

At least I still have those.

Chapter 34

I squeezed her neck. At least a thousand times. I put her out of her misery. In the long dark hallways, I found a myriad of ways to do the deed because she begged me to and because I had nothing but time. And then later, in my dreams, after Gatsbro had given me a body, when I had real hands, blood, and anger, the face I saw changed. It was no longer Kara. It was Jenna. I killed her over and over, my hands around her throat, squeezing, feeling the life ebb from her. Slowly. And with each weakened heartbeat, I became stronger, until I finally snapped her neck and ended it. I did it because she was silent. I thought she was punishing me, and I wanted to punish her back. Or maybe I just wanted to punish someone. Anyone. Someone had to pay.

I would wake in a sweat and see Kara sitting at the side of my bed. Smiling.

"It's all right, Locke. I'm here."

I reached out and held her, ashamed. Did she know?

"It was only a dream," she would coo in my ear.

Only a nightmare.

I showered, trying to wash away my thoughts, the blood on my hands, and the memory of satisfaction. This is not me. And when I was finished, Kara would be waiting for me, still smiling.

Chapter 35

"We're never going to pull this off."

"We have so far," I tell Miesha. "Just keep walking. We look like everyone else."

We stopped at a booth just outside the station, and Miesha purchased a white shawl to cover the back of Dot's cart and a blue blanket to replace the dirty canvas tarp that covered her stump and missing legs. The rusty cart can almost pass for an assistance chair if no one looks too closely. "I've never been inside a train station," Dot says. "Only as far as the drop-off. It's beautiful." She points out every detail, from the moving walkways, to the souvenir kiosks, to the glass ceilings, to the holographic entertainment for bored travelers. Miesha keeps shushing her and shoving Dot's pointing finger back into her lap. If I weren't so focused on trying to fit in, I would be pointing and marveling too.

I watch other travelers who wave away V-ads that hover in front of their faces and I try to do the same with an annoyed look rather than an amazed one. Bots are in abundance--Bots with legs--and Dot's head turns to look at each one, but she doesn't point. Some seem to be owned by wealthy individual travelers. Even the wealthy do not fly anymore. Air travel must be applied for months in advance and is often denied. Sweepers, Bot-manned cargo transports, and military get priority airspace.

A few Bots in the station are designated as Stress Bots. Their only purpose is to provide a place for stressed travelers to relieve frustration. Several children surround one, kicking it and cheering as it howls. Dot looks away. I assume the Bot feels no real pain--the harder the kick, the louder the howl--but is it possible for a Bot to be tired? My gaze meets the battered Bot's for a few brief seconds before I look away, but his weary expression lingers in my mind.

Other Bots serve as guides and information centers. They are the most beautiful Bots, statuesque and adorned with jeweled eyelashes and skin that glows like they are luminous Greek gods. Their clothing is thin and sparse, showing off perfect bodies and long, graceful legs. Dot does point those out. I don't blame her. It is hard not to be in awe of their beauty.

The one thing I notice right away is that the Security Officers are human and plentiful--and they are heavily armed. Apparently a major transportation interchange is not a place to leave Bots in charge.

The schedule shows that the train from Albany has already arrived, but the direct train to San Diego doesn't leave for another thirty-five minutes. Kara is here somewhere. We have time to find her. Three pairs of eyes are better than one in these crowds, or I would have made Dot and Miesha wait outside for me, but I still wonder how hard Miesha will even try to spot Kara. She doesn't care about her the way I do. Or maybe she just cares about her in a different way, a way that translates into money. Is that possible? My gut says no, but I was 100 percent wrong about Gatsbro.

Miesha tucks her chin to her chest and whispers, "Security ahead."

I had already seen the armed guard at the entrance to the moving walkway. I smile, pretending I am pointing out a display of floppy hats to Dot. "Just keep walking. And talking. We have IDs," I say through gritted teeth. My lab heart pounds like I have just run an eight-minute mile. Will my BioPerfect set off alarms on the walkway? Did Gatsbro really know what he was doing? I'm a guinea pig. That's all I am. An experimental first.

I lean down and whisper to Dot, "Don't talk. Just smile as we pass. Got it?"

"Got it, Customer Locke. Zipped lip."

As cool as I try to remain, sweat beads on my forehead. Don't wipe it, Locke. Stay cool. Miesha walks ahead and steps onto the walkway. I follow a few steps behind, pushing Dot and turning my face away as we get close so the guard won't notice my split lip or bruised cheekbone.

"Hello, Officer! Lovely day for a stroll, isn't it?" I am caught off guard by Dot's chirpy comment and turn to look. The Security Officer surveys us.

I shrug like Dot is my eccentric aunt, hoping he won't think too much of my face. He nods, and we continue onto the walkway, a push of people behind us not giving him much time to think about two odd travelers.

When we are a fair distance away, I lean down and whisper in Dot's ear. "Zipped means silence, Dot. Nothing."

"I'm so sorry, Customer Locke. I couldn't help myself. It is my Star Cab training. I have to be especially solicitous to those in uniform. Company policy."