Parched Read Online Free Page B

yeah?”
    â€œThe new head of Innovation at Simutech is Dr. Abel Rockwood!”
    I’m stunned. “My uncle? That’s not possible.”
    â€œWhat?” she calls over the roar of hundreds of old floaters.
    â€œHe split—quit!” I call back. “He told me himself he’d quit Simutech. He promised he’d destroy Mom’s research!”
    â€œGuess they made him an offer he couldn’t refuse!”
    My
uncle
is the head of Innovation? The position that got his own sister killed? I wouldn’t have picked Abel as a career-hungry grave digger. The idea tastes as bad as
pourriture
. All my fear and panic and guilt begins to solidify into another emotion, as clean and pure as a flame. Anger.
    â€œThat’s why we need you, Tess!” Ling continues. “Dr. Rockwood is our best way in, and you’re the only person who knows what to look for!”
    Going back to Eden means getting close to secrets—horrific, ugly secrets that I’ve worked hard to bury. But if I don’t
really
get involved with Kudzu and Simutech and Aevum, those secrets will stay where they belong—unknown, and then lost forever. I can pretend I’m interested, take the free passage, then disappear as simply as smoke clearing.
    â€œOkay!” I yell. “I’m in!”
    â€œThen I guess we’re heading the right way!” Ling points to the hand-painted sign we’re passing under. It has one word on it:
Vuelvol
. Airport.
    I’m going home.

chapter 2
    It’s a three-hour flight to one of four crossings into Eden. A decrepit cargo ship flies us the thousand-odd miles to the Western Bridge. Like the floaters, Badlands cargo ships are also Eden hand-me-downs. The soft passenger seats have been stripped to make room for as many people and things as the fast-talking captain can cram in. This means we can bring Ling’s floater with us, but it also means I have to be sure the hungry goats in the cage next to me don’t make a meal of my backpack.
    After taking off, we circle back over the Manufacturing Zone, which most people just call the Zone: miles of stifling hot factories, where people aged seven to seventy used to do everything from recycling glass bottles to building talking tennis rackets. But there are no human workers there anymore. In the last six months, the Trust switched over the entire workforce to shiny new substitutes. There’s a tired joke about it—the Zone was the only place in the Badlands where you got good service. Everywhere else, the substitutes were a notch above junkyard.
    It’s obvious why the Trust made the change. Substitutes are more efficient. Plus, subs don’t need bathroom breaks or fresh water or shelter. Even though many are human-shaped, they’re not sentient. They’re just robots. Ex-Zone workers were left to starve like everyone else.
    When we clear the outskirts and begin to head east, the earth becomes more uniform. Glimpsed through the small, dirty windows is endless dry, red clay. Occasionally we pass over forsaken villages, or larger cities stripped of everything useful. The land, once a compact grid of people and parking lots and ninety-nine-cent hot dogs, is now empty.
    Ling and I sit with our backs pressed against the side of the plane. Itoe my backpack farther from the cage of goats and say, “I assume you have some proof to show me.”
    Ling checks that her floater, which is parked directly in front of us, obscures us from everyone else’s view. Then she unzips her backpack and pulls out a folded piece of scratch. The gold computer is paper-thin, but made from a durable, flexible material that you need a knife to cut. That’s one of the good things about scratch: you can cut it if you want to share it. You can even meld together the same generation if you want a bigger piece for bigger holos. At the cinematheques in Eden, they use scratch the size of houses for holos just as big.