The Rebel Code

Chapter Seventeen

John makes pancakes in the morning. I almost have a panic attack when I wake up and smell something cooking, because it's so out of character, and John has never, ever succeeded in cooking anything from ingredients without serious damage to the infrastructure of the kitchen. I get up, then wake up Larry, and we stumble into the kitchen to see what's going on.

"There they are," announces John. "You're just in time. Mo made me step away from the stove, so she's in charge now. There's fruit and whipped cream on the table."

Mo gets more batter on the skillet and we eat eagerly, too overwhelmed by the surprise to say much of anything. I'm just finishing my third pancake when I see John and Atticus out of the corner of my eye. John isn't eating, and is moving some tools into the living room.

"He's getting the last of the broken arm off Al-Marri," says Mo when she sees me looking. Then, she must notice the alarm on my face, because she laughs. "There's no blood or anything. The arm was attached to a metal shoulder that's actually embedded in his skeleton, and the skin's closed around it. Whoever put that thing on him knew their stuff."

I shudder. "It's still creepy."

"Hey," she says, "could you take this plate out to him? John told me to make extra."

I don't feel like looking at, talking to, or even being in the same room as Link Al-Marri, but I take the plate with the pancakes and walk slowly into the living room. John leaves just as I enter, with a "thanks, kiddo" and a cheerful pat on my shoulder. He gestures to the couch, where Link is still sitting, looking listless. There's something off about him, like he's not all here, and it makes him haunting to look at. He's about as lively as the couch he's sitting on. For a moment, I almost feel bad for him, but then I remember everything he represents and grip the plate tightly. Link is Criterion. Criterion wants us dead.

"John asked me to give this to you," I say, barely loud enough to hear.

He nods, politely acknowledging my presence, but not smiling. His forehead seems permanently wrinkled in frustration, and the circles around his eyes have gotten darker and deeper. He's come a long way from the person I saw in our house in Port Carina. I feel like I should say something, but what if my voice ends up snapping him out of whatever this mood is, and he does something violent? But there are questions weighing me down, and I have to ask.

"How'd you lose your arm?" I ask, stammering over the words. "Originally, I mean."

He looks up at me. He has unusual eyes. Hazel, I think, but they don't sparkle now. The pale color just kind of makes him look hollow. Cold. Tired.

"I didn't lose it," he says cryptically. "I gave it up."

I should leave. I should go back to the kitchen. But I can still see the terrible images in my mind from when Junior tore him up. They're just pictures—they don't even feel like my memories, but I haven't forgotten the screams.

Unable to help myself, and against my better judgement, I ask, "did it hurt when Junior stabbed you?"

He draws a shaky breath. "When they make artificial limbs in the Military Province, they put digital nerves in them. They receive painful stimuli just like the real thing. It's security, so young people in combat don't get careless and waste good titanium. You don't want to lose something if you know it's going to hurt."

I feel nauseous. "So, you felt everything?"

"Everything." For a moment, he almost smiles. "That's nothing. When I was in Durban, there was this..." He trails off all of a sudden, and his gaze grows distant. "There was... I... I have to leave. I can't... I have to..."