Silver Eyes

  For my son, Simon, who was born during

  the writing of this book

  I would like to thank the following members of my writers’ group for their help and encouragement: Aaron Humphrey, Ann Marston, Karen Glessing, Kevin Lotsberg, Mari Bergen, Marissa Kochanski, Marg De Marco, and Susan McFadzen.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  I NOTICED THE FIRST serious gap in my memory eleven days after my training accident.

  Before that, the memory lapses had been just small things: forgetting what high school I’d attended, blanking on who gave me my angel pendant. Little things that nagged at me when I tried to sleep at night but that I forgot during the day.

  Until I found a secret message wadded up in the toe of my somck.

  I almost didn’t read it. I was running a little behind schedule for my morning workout, and my instructor hated people to be late. Anaximander would be ten minutes early for his own death. I, however, was of the opinion that if Anaximander wanted me in the gym at 6:20A.M.he should say, “Angel, be there at 6:20A.M.,”not 6:30A.M.

  Every morning I played a little game with myself, seeing if I could arrive exactly on time, neither early nor late, preventing a lecture from Anaximander while still annoying him.

  I was already a couple of minutes late when my big toe encountered something in my sock. Impatiently, I yanked off the sock and pulled out the offending object.

  I was about to throw it away when I noticed that it was a piece of paper neatly folded into a square, not a piece of lint as I had assumed. Frowning, I opened it. Pinholes in the paper spelled out three words: “Violet eyes lie.”

  For half an instant I knew what the words meant—and then the world flipped on me.Dropping through murky green water like a stone. My hands and legs thrashing and struggling, but not bringing me closer to the surface. Pressure in my lungs, stopped breath; water getting darker and colder as I fall away from the light—

  An eyeblink and I was back in my plain allwhite bedroom at SilverDollar.

  I hated it when that happened. Really, really hated it.

  I took a deep breath, swallowing back the thick nausea that had risen in my throat. I rubbed my hands down my sweatpants. My hands were damp, but my clothes weren’t. See? I told myself. You’re safe and dry. You’re not drowning.

  Grimly, I forced myself to look back down at the message—“Violet eyes lie”—but its meaning now frustrated me.

  I hurried into the tiny bathroom and washed away the greasy sweat that had sprung up on my skin. I sluiced the meager cup of water dispensed by the conservation sink over my face and stared at my reflection. My eyes were a purple-blue that could be called violet. Was the message calling mea liar? Why? I couldn’t remember telling any lies lately—nothing major anyway. Telling Anaximander I’d eaten a bran muffin, when actually I’d eaten a doughnut, didn’t count.

  I couldn’trememberlying, but what if I had and just didn’t remember? A cold talon of fear scratched down my spine at the possibility.

  I reread the message a third time. “Violet eyes lie.” The message seemed vaguely hostile to me, a threat.

  But if it was a threat sent by some unknown enemy, why hide it in such an inobvious place, where it might never be found? Why not send an anonymous e-mail? Or write it in bloodred lipstick on the mirror if e-mail wasn’t dramatic enough?

  Secrecy was the only reason I could think of to hide the message. The sender of the message had wanted to be sure that I, and nobody else, found it.

  I automatically picked up a Clean-comb and started running it through my short blond hair, trying in vain to think of someone who might have left such a message. I’d been employed by the SilverDollar Mining Company for only two weeks, and, other than Anaximander, I knew only a few other employees casually. People to sit with at lunch or shoot a few hoops with after work. At eighteen I was SilverDollar’s youngest employee by a good six years, which kind of inhibited instant friendships.

  I tried to picture Anaximander breaking into my room to leave mysterious messages in my sock drawer, but the image wouldn’t gel. Anaximander was far too dignified.

  I put down the comb, my hair now clean and shiny after having been de-oiled by the Clean-comb, but my expression was unhappy. Reluctantly, I faced the truth. I knew who had sent the message, and it wasn’t Anaximander. I had recognized the note’s handwriting as soon as I’d seen it.

  I had written it.

  I tried to convince myself that it was impossible to identify handwriting made up of pinpricks, but I couldn’t. Thethad been crossed at a jaunty angle, and the top of theswas smaller than the bottom, both traits of mine. The message had been written by me, Angel Eastland, and not only had I forgotten what it meant, I couldn’t remember writing it in the first place.

  Not good.

  I touched the bandage on my forehead, and the blond girl in the mirror did the same. I had no memory of the training accident in which I’d hurt myself, but the doctor had told me that spot amnesia wasn’t unusual with head injuries so I hadn’t been concerned. But this was more than spot amnesia. Chilled, I wondered what else I had forgotten. Something important?

  Something dangerous?

  A sick feeling rode low in my stomach. Something was very wrong inside my own head.

  The correct thing to do at that point would have been to go to the infirmary to tell Dr. Clark about not remembering the message, but something inside me balked. My breath came quicker as if I was afraid. Why didn’t I want to go to the doctor?

  Five seconds later a soothing, plausible reasonoccurred to me. I couldn’t go to the doctor even if I wanted to; it was too early in the morning. My pulse eased up.

  I looked at my watch, saw that I was late for my workout with Anaximander, and slammed out the door.

  Four steps down the hall, I stopped, compelled to go back for the note. The door to my quarters had a cardlock, and the only thing likely to enter my room while I was gone was the housecleaning robot that came through the vents under my bed, but I felt better with the message in my pocket.

  I sprinted down the red- and white-tiled halls, going from the Blue Section, where staff quarters were, past Gray (Work), and into Yellow Section (Exercise and Recreation). I stopped running once I turned down the last hallway so my breathing was under control when I arrived.

  Anaximander frowned at me. “Angel, you’re late. On the job, timing is everything.” He saw nothing ironic about wasting the next ten minutes lecturing me for being six minutes late.

  Although it was notoriously hard to read Augmented people, Anaximander didn’t seem to possess a sense of humor or much in the way of emotions at all. A tall black man with a shaved head, he rarely smiled, and his silver eyes, with their Augmented vision, gave nothing away.

  I briefly considered confiding in him but decided against it. Anaximander spent a couple of hours a day training me to be a security investigator as he was, and did a diligent job, but I was always aware that he was also testing me to see if I was worth SilverDollar’s money.

  There was no one at SilverDollar I could confide in.

  I fought against the current of homesickness that thr
eatened to sweep me away. I focused on Anaximander; he had information I needed. “How did I hurt my head?” I asked.

  Anaximander stopped, thrown off balance by the abrupt change of subject. “You fell.”

  Had I imagined a slight pause before he spoke? “Fell from where? Were you with me?”

  “A rope. We were rope climbing.”

  I accepted that in silence, but the answer felt unsatisfying, sparking no memories.

  “Being late is also unprofessional.” Anaximander picked up his lecture where he’d left off.

  My mind wandered. Why had the message been written in pinpricks? Hadn’t I had access to a pen?

  “Okay, let’s get started,” Anaximander said long minutes later.

  We did stretches and warm-up exercises for ten minutes. Anaximander had Augments in his legs, which meant that he could run me and any other un-Augmented person into the ground, but I was a lot more flexible than he was. I usually took pleasure in proving it, sitting and bending forward until my head touched the floor, but today the rote exercises irritated me. I was dying to get back to my room to examine the message again, maybe do a computer search on “Violet eyes lie.”

  “Enough warm-up,” Anaximander said. “Let’s go outside and do a five-mile run.”

  The restless thing inside me sat up and howled at the thought of yet another run. Boring, boring, boring. “Why?”

  Anaximander turned his silver-eyed stare on me like a weapon. “Running is an excellent cardiovascular exercise.”

  I cut him off. “No. I mean, why do I have to be in such great shape? What does it have to do with my job?” From what I’d been told, a security investigator acted like a troubleshooter, an outsider sent in to figure out what was causing the problem with a mining operation.

  For a moment I thought I’d stumped Anaximander, but then he said smoothly, “Your fitness training is in case something goes wrong on the job. If you uncover some saboteurs, your life may depend on being able to run five miles faster than they can.”

  I didn’t buy it. Did neither I, nor the hypothetical saboteurs, have an aircar? But I didn’t argue the point because it gave me an opportunity to twist things to my advantage. “Running while being chased is different from just running. Let’s practice chasing!” I threw excitement into my voice.

  Anaximander was unmoved. He crossed his arms. “What do you have in mind?”

  I noticed that the other employees using the gym were looking our way, curious. I pitched my idea to them. “The maze. One of us chases the other into the maze. We each carry a volleyball. The first to either nail the opponent or reach the exit wins.”

  Grins and encouraging comments broke out.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “You show her, Anaximander!”

  “I’ll race you if he won’t.”

  I raised a challenging eyebrow at Anaximander. “Well?”

  “Throwing a volleyball isn’t very similar to taking down an opponent,” he observed.

  I shrugged. “Okay. No volleyballs. We pretend that we have Knockout patches, and we try to tag each other. Are we on?”

  A cool nod. “Yes. Who goes first? The person being chased has the advantage.”

  I was feeling generous. “I’ll chase you. You can have a ten-second head start.”

  The maze was in one of the gardens surrounding SilverDollar’s facility. I’d jogged past it with Anaximander but never gone inside. The walls were concrete, eight feet high, and covered with murals of mining scenes. Very tacky.

  Most of our audience followed us outside, tracking through the dewy grass, and I chose Ben, a thin, dark-bearded techie whom I’d played basketball with, to stand as timekeeper.

  “Wait,” I said, just as Anaximander was about to enter. I smiled at him. “Care to make a bet on the outcome?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t bet.”

  “Anyone else?” I looked hopefully at Ben.

  “You’re hell on wheels on the basketball court,” Ben said. “I’d bet on you if you were going first, but no way can you win going second. I’ve seen you two run together.” Ben politely didn’t mention Anaximander’s many Augments, which would help him.

  “It’s a bet then,” I said, swinging my arms to keep the muscles loose in the April morning chill.“Winner gets to use the loser’s employee debit card for one day.”

  The others whistled appreciatively.

  Ben insisted on a maximum spending allowance but accepted the bet. I tried not to show my relief. The bet was the best way that I’d thought of to get my hands on someone else’s debit card.

  Anaximander looked impatient. “Can we start now?”

  Ben clicked his stopwatch. “Go!”

  Anaximander vanished into the maze. I listened for his footsteps but heard only a faint patter. I couldn’t tell which way he’d gone.

  Ten seconds ticked by. “Go!” Ben shouted.

  I entered the maze at a crouched run. The entrance bottleneck was the most obvious place for an ambush, and when I saw movement ahead of me I threw myself into a dive.

  On the floor, I saw that it wasn’t Anaximander’s tall black form up ahead, but my own reflection in a mirror. Only the outside of the maze was painted; inside, all the walls were mirrored, throwing off infinities of possible turns. It took my eyes a moment to sort out the two true choices available to me: left, then straight ahead or right, then straight ahead.

  Anaximander could follow two possible strategies: running flat out for the exit or lying in ambush. It all depended on whether or not he knew the maze. I didn’t see Anaximander as the type to be intrigued by a maze, but if he had walked through it even once he would be able to call up the layout from his Memory Recorder Augment and navigate it perfectly. If he didn’t know the maze, he riskedlosing time in a cul-de-sac and being tagged by me when he reversed, so ambush was the better option.

  If so, he was sure to be waiting just beyond one of the passages. If I chose wrongly, he’d tag me as soon as I poked my head around the corner. If I chose correctly the game would become more complicated with the two of us hunting each other.

  My odds of winning were less than fifty percent.

  I’ve always hated losing. So I changed the rules.

  I FACED THE INNER WALL of the maze and jumped up. My hands caught the top edge of the mirrored wall, and I exhaled softly, trying not to grunt as I pulled myself up out of the maze.

  The walls were six inches wide; no sweat for someone who’d had her own balance beam as a kid. From above I scoped out the layout of the maze: the right-hand path led to a dead end, while the left-hand one eventually wound around to the exit.

  I spotted Anaximander running down the correct path, halfway through the maze.

  “Hey!” One of the crowd at the exit saw me and pointed. After a jaunty wave, I ignored them, intent on the maze.

  I started to run along the top of the wall but quickly realized I couldn’t catch up to Anaximander without going too fast and risking a bad fall. And losing.

  I narrowed my eyes and took a closer look atthe maze, memorizing the hairpin turns and forks that led to the exit. Swiftly, I lowered myself back down to the ground. I took off at a run, taking the next three turns flat out. Left, right, right again.

  The correct path went left next, but I kept running straight forward into a dead end. I charged my own reflection, leaping at the wall. I scrambled over it into the passageway beyond, saving myself a lengthy detour. Unfortunately, I was still behind Anaximander.

  A second scramble over another wall did the trick. I was home free, within sight of the exit, when a sudden impulse of mischief seized me. Anaximander would be confident of victory, certain that even if I could catch him, I would come up from behind. Never in a million years would he expect me to have gotten ahead of him.

  Ben poked his head into the maze, impatient to see who the winner would be, and I held a finger to my lips for silence. I flattened myself against the last corner.

  I almost forgo
t about my reflection, but a movement from Ben in one of the mirrors reminded me. I retreated two steps, pulling my mirror image with me, just as Anaximander’s footsteps pounded up.

  The second his reflection entered the mirror facing me, I launched myself forward. I slapped his arm.

  “Tag! You’re It,” I started to say, but Anaximander cut the words off in my throat, grabbing my arm and twisting it behind my back. His arm hooked around my neck—and then loosened as he remembered that this was a friendly contest, not a truepursuit. He released me, and for a moment I saw astonishment on his face. “How did you get ahead of me?”

  Ben answered. “She climbed over a couple of walls. She beat you to the exit, too, but went back for the double win.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I bet on the wrong person.”

  I grinned.

  Anaximander wasn’t impressed. As we exited the maze, he said coldly, “You cheated. The purpose of the chase was to test your fitness. You circumvented this.”

  His words stole all the pleasure from my victory. I shrugged, trying to hide my hurt. “I thought the purpose of the exercise was to win.” Which I had.

  He paused, then softened his stance. “You demonstrated great ingenuity. Nevertheless, I wished to test your abilities. We will repeat the exercise—”

  “Oh, surely there’s no need for that,” a new voice said.

  I turned and saw a short, little man with black hair and sideburns walking toward us. He wore a skintight gray suit with a purple iridescent sheen, the kind of outfit only the vain and rich wore and only the young and beautifulshouldwear. It threatened to burst at the seams when he flexed his biceps.

  Ben and the other watchers scattered as he neared us, as if suddenly remembering other places they had to be.