by Lynette Noni
“How hard is it for you to create your favorite childhood book?” he asks. “Your favorite pair of shoes, stuffed bear or piece of jewelry? These should all be vivid in your mind — this should be easy, Jane.”
He’s right. And he’s wrong. They are vivid in my mind. But what he’s asking is not at all easy.
I can clearly see my ragged old copy of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, the cover worn by time, the pages nearly torn from the spine that is strained from countless readings with my father.
I can clearly see my ballet slippers, the pink satin in perfect condition because it only took one lesson for me to realize I preferred watching the dancers with my mother than being one of them.
I can clearly see Pink Bear, the stuffed teddy I was given by my father during a hospital stay after a swarm of bluebottles became tangled in my hair while I was swimming at the beach.
I can clearly see the diamond ring my mother always wore, the ring that was still on her finger when —
I suck in a heaving gasp, close my eyes tight and draw air carefully through my lungs.
Ward is right. It’s easy for me to visualize all the things he’s asking me to create. But seeing them in my mind and bringing them to life are two different things. I can barely handle the images — I know the physical evidence of them would be more than I can take, and the last thing I need is to break down in his presence again.
The Ward who held me in the bathroom is a long-distant memory. This Ward in front of me is more likely to snap at me than to hug me. So I refuse to give him the opportunity.
“Maybe I don’t remember,” I say. “I’ve been locked down here for so long — maybe I’ve just forgotten. Give me another task.”
“That would defeat the point of this exercise,” Ward says, unyielding. “To create an object with personal meaning from memory alone.”
I raise an eyebrow as I consider his words. “Why didn’t you say that was all you wanted?”
Immediately, I create three things one after the other: The book Ward threw at me to read the first day I met him. The woolen socks I found on my feet after spending the night in his bed. And the ice cream he bought me during our trip topside.
The book and socks I hand over without looking at him. The ice cream I keep for myself, not letting on how amazed I am that it’s edible. I swipe my tongue over the chocolate scoop, the coolness bringing relief to my throat.
Ward regards the book and the socks with an unreadable expression, but there’s something working in his eyes — an emotion I can’t interpret — before his face blanks again.
He holds up the objects in his hands. “This isn’t what I asked you to do.”
“I created three objects from memory alone,” I say, “just like you wanted.”
“They needed to have personal meaning.”
I almost laugh, because he knows damn well that they do.
Reading my expression, he practically barks, “Personal meaning to you, Jane. Not to me.”
I reel backward, unable to control the reflex action. But before I can pull apart his words or their meaning, the door to the room opens and Dr. Manning strides in.
I haven’t seen him for three days, not since Falon ended my morning therapy sessions — sessions that were a ruse all along.
“I hear congratulations are in order, Jane,” Manning says as he approaches, his partially balding head gleaming under the halogen lights.
“Congratulations, commiserations, take your pick,” I reply, not caring that the first words I’ve ever uttered to him are brimming with attitude. He’s yet another person who should have told me the truth — years ago.
“We’re in the middle of something,” Ward tells Manning.
“The director sent me,” Manning says. “Jane no longer needs to see me regularly, but Falon wants me to have a follow-up session with her now that she’s … openly communicating.”
I suppress a snort. Is that what they’re calling it now?
“Are you even a real therapist?” I ask. “Or were you just another Genesis Speaker tasked with trying to get me to reveal my ability?”
“Both,” he says without guile.
I have to admit, I’m surprised by his admission. Maybe not everything down here is a lie.
To Ward, Manning says, “Falon wants to see you while I speak with Jane. I’ll escort her back to her quarters when we’re done.”
Ward shakes his head. “She’s not ready to talk without me covering her words.”
I’ve only been training for two days, so he’s right. The idea of him leaving fills me with anxiety.
Straightening his white lab coat, Manning says, “I can hardly expect her to feel safe enough to share if you’re in the room.”
“And you won’t be safe at all if I’m not,” Ward shoots back.
I flinch, knowing he speaks true.
“What about the Karoel?” I say as a compromise — and a reminder. To myself as well as them. “As long as we stay in here, it’ll keep me aware enough not to consciously push power into my words.”
Manning’s eyebrows lift, and I’d say he was agreeing with me if he didn’t look so puzzled. But it’s Ward I’m focused on, waiting to see what he says.
He cocks his head to the side and asks, “You’re confident the Karoel will be enough to stop you?”
“Considering it’s a pain in the backside to Speak around, yeah,” I answer truthfully. “It’s much easier to talk normally in here than it is to use my ability.”
With his hands tightening around the book and socks, Ward gives a brusque nod. “Dr. Manning is experienced enough to take care of himself if you do slip up, since despite what you say —” he raises the objects in his hands “— you can work around the restrictions of the Karoel easily enough. So be very careful not to power your words with intent.”
Manning still appears bewildered, but then his face pales as he peers at the walls and understanding hits him — a delayed recognition of my Creator ability and exactly how dangerous I am without the power-dampening black mineral surrounding us.
“Just to clarify,” I say, “I’m not allowed to accidentally turn my therapist into an otter?”
Ward doesn’t respond, not verbally, though that strange light does enter his eyes again. It’s there for only a fraction of a second before his lips tighten and a muscle ticks in his jaw. He leaves the room without another word.
“So, Jane, how are you feeling?” Manning asks me, drawing my attention to him.
How are you feeling? Four words that he used to ask me every morning, four words that I never answered. Now, in the safety of the Karoel room, I can actually reply. Not that I know how to respond. How am I feeling? The truth is impossible to articulate.
“Fine, thank you,” I say, as if I’m speaking politely to a stranger — which I guess I am. “And you?”
His beady black eyes narrow slightly. “Perhaps we should sit.”
After standing for hours with Ward, I’m happy for the reprieve as I fold my legs under me and sit cross-legged on the ground.
Manning looks down at me, one dark eyebrow raised. “I thought perhaps you might like to produce chairs.”
My first reaction is to feel embarrassed for missing his implication, but I rally and say, “You heard Ward. I have to be careful with my intent. Unless you want to risk becoming the chair, then I suggest you make do with what we have.”
I don’t know why I’m so flippant with him. Perhaps it’s because I spent years in his presence and he never once shared that there were other people like me — and that he was one of them. Protocol or not, as my therapist, he should have realized how much I needed to know.
Lowering himself to the floor, Manning says, “You seem agitated.”
“You don’t say.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
A therapist’s perfect opening line: Would you like to talk about it?
No, Dr. Manning. I would not.
“
You know what I’d like to talk about?” I say, instead, but I don’t wait for him to ask. “I’d like to talk about Lengard.”
His expression sincere, Manning invites, “What would you like to know, Jane?”
And just like that, the floodgates open. Questions I haven’t been game to ask Ward, questions I haven’t had the opportunity to ask anyone else. But with Manning in front of me, one of the original Genesis-generation Speakers, I take full advantage of everything he’s willing to share. And that turns out to be a surprising amount.
I learn that to survive down in this underground bunker, everything needed comes from Speakers with mental abilities similar to telekinesis — like my Creator ability but with much stricter limitations. They are able to summon food, clothes, money, whatever, from a storage bunker located topside and deliver it to Lengard as required.
I learn that when new potential Speakers are discovered, a team is sent out to bring them here so they can learn how to control their power. They each spend time in a cell as a “test subject,” just as I did, but the initiation process — which Cami already described for me — only lasts a short time, unlike in my case. As soon as they reveal their Speaking ability, they are moved into the dorms so they can commit themselves to the program.
I learn that their training is mostly covered by the Genesis Speakers, the ones who aren’t out scouting for new teenagers. Those older-generation Speakers — many of whom comprised my bevy of floating evaluators before Ward came along — are tasked with teaching the Exodus recruits control, just like Ward is attempting to teach me.
I learn that they’re training — we’re training — so that when the time comes for the government to announce our existence to the world, the military can call on us to use our abilities for everything from international political negotiations, to conflict resolution, to encouraging peace during times of war.
Everything Manning tells me lines up with what Falon said about us being the perfect weapons. No need for ammo, just a pointed syllable or two from a Speaker with the desired ability and the world could be brought to its knees.
Manning’s willingness to share all this blows my mind. But he saves the best until last. Because after nearly an hour of unending conversation, I learn that there are other Speakers out there; an offshoot group who once lived at Lengard but now … don’t.
“They call themselves the ‘Remnants,’” Manning says, giving a distasteful sniff. “They’re made up mostly of Genesis Speakers and their children who, after learning how to control their abilities, chose not to remain in Lengard any longer.”
There’s something about the way Manning’s eyes avoid mine that prompts me to look at him more carefully.
“They were … allowed to leave?” I ask. “Just like that?”
“The Remnants are rebels,” he states, straight up. “They are a terrorist group who disagree with the values and ideologies that Lengard adheres to.”
By this, I assume he means they didn’t want to take part in the government’s “super soldier” program.
“A few of the early dissenters managed to escape a decade ago, taking their families with them. Their numbers remain small, but they are growing, since they, too, are actively searching for new breakout teenagers, convincing those they find before us that Lengard is the enemy to be feared.”
Manning gives a sad shake of his head. “One in four new Speakers ends up being located by the Remnants before we can get to them. They’re then deceived into believing they are a part of something special, when really they’re training to become the very terrorists they’ve been brainwashed into fearing.”
There is so much in this information that I don’t know where to start. I focus on what I believe is the most important thing: his repeated use of the word “terrorist.”
“These Speakers — these Remnants — are they dangerous?”
Manning’s eyes don’t leave mine as he says, “More dangerous than you can possibly imagine.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
“The director told you about the military’s early experiments on Genesis Speakers — what my generation went through in those initial testing days,” he goes on, without any hint of the trauma he must have experienced.
“Falon said the tests were unpleasant,” I say carefully. “That not everyone … made it.”
“They were unpleasant,” Manning agrees, again without any sign of distress — or resentment. “But they were also effective, and most of us came to see that — at least, after a time. Regardless of the methods, we learned how to control our abilities, and that was more important than anything else. However —” he shuffles into a more comfortable position on the hard ground “— even after the testing changed to actively help us utilize and strengthen our powers, some of those in my generation weren’t able to appreciate the lengths the military went to in order to reach their goals.”
“And a rebel group banded together,” I guess.
Manning’s face is grave. “They waited many years, carefully stirring up discord and whispering about the need for vengeance, before they made their escape.”
Holding my gaze, he goes on, “The Remnants threaten everything we are trying to achieve here. Once their numbers are strong enough, I fear it will only be so long before they reveal themselves to the world — in a way that no one will ever forget.” He pauses. “And in a way that no one will ever recover from.”
*
Late that night I lie awake in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, trying to comprehend everything I learned today.
Manning didn’t attempt to play the therapist card after sharing his bombshell. He seemed content that I’d been “openly communicating” with him for the duration of our conversation. Or perhaps he’d merely noticed my ashen features after hearing about the rogue group of Speakers with nefarious intentions. I, more than anyone, know exactly how dangerous our powers have the potential to be. So the idea that there is a rebel group out there — a terrorist group — knots my stomach and makes me break out in a nervous sweat.
Needless to say, I didn’t have much of an appetite for dinner, and after watching a movie with Cami but not actually seeing any of it, I silently excused myself and headed to bed.
It’s now hours later, and I’m still tossing and turning — something that is not ideal, since I know Ward will be relentless in my training tomorrow, and I need a good night’s sleep before I have to face him again.
With a frustrated sigh, I push my covers aside and stand to my feet. A glass of warm milk used to settle me before bed when I was younger. Perhaps the nostalgia will be enough to do the same tonight.
But when I reach the kitchen and turn on the light, I jump backward in fright at seeing the figure on the couch in the adjacent sitting room. My hand goes straight to my chest, and I release a terrified squeak before I press my lips together to keep anything more disastrous from leaving my mouth.
“It’s just me,” Ward says.
As if there’s anything “just” about him at all.
“Sorry if I scared you.”
The defiant part of me wants to tell him he didn’t, but even if I were willing to risk saying so, we’d both know it was a blatant lie. My heart is still pounding from the shock of seeing him in the shadows, and I’m sure that’s clear from the rest of my body language.
Remaining seated, Ward tells me, “I just got back.”
I presume he means from his meeting with the director, though I’m surprised, since he left me alone with Manning hours ago. But then I take a step closer and see that his hair is windswept and there’s a flush to his features as if he’s been outside. Perhaps Falon had him out searching for a new breakout teenager.
Ward scrubs a hand over his face in agitation. His body is tense, his eyes downcast, as if he’s trying to keep me from reading his expression.
“I thought I’d check on Cami before heading to bed,” he explains when the silence drags on between us. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”
All I can do is look at him with raised eyebrows, wondering why he’s telling me this. And why, upon realizing the lateness of the hour, he decided to camp on our couch in the dark rather than return to his own suite.
Rising to his feet abruptly as if hearing my unspoken questions and wondering the same, Ward gives me a stiff nod and strides quickly to the door.
Given how odd he’s acting, I half expect him to walk straight through without so much as a “Goodnight,” but he doesn’t. Just before he disappears, he turns back to me, his face not blank in the way I’ve come to despise over the past few days. Instead, he looks … he looks … There are no words to accurately describe his features. If I had to go with anything, I would say he seems agonized and uncertain … but also determined.
“Everything will work out,” he whispers. His voice is so quiet that I have to strain to hear him. “Just know that.”
And then he’s gone.
My eyes wide, all I can do is stare at the now-empty doorway and wonder what the hell that was all about.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Three weeks later I collapse to my knees, unable to support my weight any longer. There are tears brimming in my eyes from the sandpaper feeling that comes when I try to swallow, but I push them back, not allowing Ward to see that I’m in any kind of pain — physical or mental. It’s not usually this bad; I’ve been using my voice for the past twenty-four days, enough that it’s become normal again, but today’s Speaking tasks have been more arduous than usual. Ward’s demands haven’t eased up for hours.
“Back on your feet, Jane,” he barks at me. “And do it again.”
I stagger up into a standing position, breathing hard from the effort it takes to concentrate while fighting against the limitations of the Karoel.
“I need to rest,” I rasp out. “Something to eat, some water. Just a moment to recover.”
