by Lynette Noni
I grimace when he reaches for the IV tapped into my vein and pauses the blood flow to swap out the collection bags. When he starts it up again, I can’t suppress a quiet whimper, wondering how much more I can lose before I pass out again.
“My Speaking ability was stolen from me,” he says, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Jeremiah saved you,” I murmur, with no strength for anything louder. “He healed your mind. You were insane.”
“Jeremiah destroyed me,” Vanik spits into my face. “He took away the best of me and left me to my fate. And then Falon came swooping in with his regulations and edicts, saying I could only experiment on willing subjects. Of course, no one was willing then. Luckily, I still had some leftover samples from my initial Speaker tests.”
“The people you killed.”
“Their deaths were unfortunate.” Vanik reaches for the scalpel again and holds it up to the light as if to see how sharp the blade is. Satisfied, he places it back on the metal tray. “But ultimately, they were necessary.”
“Just so you can get your Speaking ability back?” I grate out. “How can you rationalize the deaths of all those people — and the rest, with the Ebola and plane crashes and other disasters — just so that you can be a mind reader again?”
Vanik raises a greasy eyebrow. “You have done your research, haven’t you?” He lets out a dry chuckle. “You’re right, but you’re also wrong. I don’t want my Speaking ability back.”
It’s an effort to focus with the pain, the fear, the exhaustion all flooding through my body. “Of course you do.”
“I don’t,” he disagrees. Then he leans in close again — too close — and says, “It’s not my Speaking ability that I want — it’s yours. And thanks to your cooperation here today, it won’t be long until I’m able to identify and locate your specific genetic anomaly. When I have that, Six-Eight-Four, I’ll be but a small step away from becoming a Creator myself.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Vanik’s declaration leaves a buzzing sound in my ears. I can’t handle what it might mean.
“When I’m a Creator, I’ll have the authority to command my specialized army of genetically enhanced Speakers,” Vanik says, oblivious to my turbulent thoughts. “Through them, I’ll bring the world to its knees.”
The buzzing grows louder. Enough that I understand it for what it is — I’m beginning to panic. But I can’t. I can’t lose it here, not now while I’m so vulnerable. I have to push it back. I have to fight it. I have to fight myself.
I am stronger than this.
I will not let fear control me. Not anymore.
I search for something within me, something to give me focus. All I have are the whispers of my memories, and I latch on to one and hold tight.
I need you to take a breath. We’ll do it together. In and out. Come on, Chip. Listen to me breathing.
Ward’s crystal-clear voice hurts my heart but clears my head. I breathe deeply, and the buzzing fades, allowing me to focus on Vanik again as he starts to move around me, slowly taping electrodes to my skull and along my pulse points.
I keep breathing.
In …
… And out.
“Years ago, my intention was to share the gift of Speaking with everyone,” Vanik tells me. “That plan has changed. Now I will share it only with a select few, my chosen ones, and I will serve out a purpose that even Charles Darwin himself would approve of. Evolution at its finest.”
Although my head is now clear again, my thoughts feel like Swiss cheese, with gaping holes preventing me from keeping up with the conversation. “Darwin was all about natural selection,” I rasp out. “If you pick and choose who you turn into Speakers, that doesn’t line up with his theory.”
“All that matters is that human beings evolve as a species, regardless of how I bring that about,” Vanik says, finishing with the electrodes and moving away to grab some kind of scanner, which he rolls toward me. “By studying you, I’ll have the means to start our race afresh, beginning with my army of Speakers, who will look to me for direction, for leadership, and who will be submissive to my will.”
I keep breathing.
In …
… And out.
I realize now what he truly seeks. Everything Manning said when he first told me about the Remnants was a lie. All along it was Vanik who wanted revenge against the government, right from the very beginning and still after all this time. And now that desire for vengeance has morphed into something more — he actually wants to take over the world.
“You’re on a power trip.” I shake my head the little I can, the whole room blurring as the motion prompts a dizzy spell. I’m so light-headed for a moment that I wonder if I’ll throw up, but then I settle enough to continue, “You were stripped of power when you were captured as a teenager, and now you want to get that power back — and more. You want revenge, to make everyone feel as helpless as you felt.”
He says nothing, so I know my assumption is correct.
Kael was right — about everything.
My pulse begins to pound, pound, pound in my ears, but I keep breathing.
In …
… And out.
I try tugging against my restraints again, but they’re just as tight as before, and I’m even weaker now than when I first awoke. Alarmingly weaker. Even if I could break free of the bonds, I’m not sure I’d be able to walk out of this room without assistance. So all I can do is try to stall Vanik and hope that dream-Kael was telling the truth about help being on the way.
“You’re like a case straight out of a psychology textbook,” I say, my thoughts too sluggish to come up with a better stall tactic than to antagonize him deliberately. “You should book a session with Dr. Manning. He’d have a field day with you.”
Vanik’s face darkens, but I am beyond fear now. I won’t let it control me.
I keep breathing.
In …
… And out.
Vanik’s eyes change when the door to the room slides open. As if my words summoned him, Manning re-enters the lab.
“Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear!” Vanik cries, sounding pleased.
Within scant seconds, Manning is beside my restrained body, his beady eyes staring down at me with not a hint of emotion on his face.
“You lied to me,” I rasp. “The Remnants aren’t the terrorists — you are.”
Manning shrugs, unfazed by my accusation. “The military took our lives from us. They threw us down here and tortured us into submission. While others of my generation might not care, I’m not willing to let them find us again to finish what they started. This time, we strike first.”
I only just stop from shaking my head again, not wanting a repeat of the dizzy spell that almost took me out a moment ago. “The government can’t be the threat you claim they are. I’ve met the Speakers who live away from Lengard, and they’re thriving outside these walls. And my parents, too —” I swallow but force myself to continue. “They survived away from here for years without being noticed. Until — Until —” I swallow again. “Well, it wasn’t the military who got to them in the end.”
“No, it was you,” Vanik says heartlessly.
I feel the stab of that but manage to remain in the here and now. I’ve come too far to spiral deeper into my panic; it’s time I faced what happened and begin to move on from it.
I keep breathing.
In …
… And out.
“Yes, it was me,” I admit, my voice weak, but my words strong. “It was me who killed them. But until that happened, we were living happily — outside of Lengard. I never knew about Speakers or the military or anything else. Our lives were normal.”
“And then you killed them,” Vanik says, unnecessarily repeating the fact.
“Yes,” I say again, also unnecessarily. And I …
Keep …
Breathing.
There’s a pause, like time has stopped and the earth has halted its rotation arou
nd the sun. And then, of all things, Vanik begins to laugh.
The sound is loud and raucous, and I press deeper into the hard material supporting my spine, heedless of my injured flesh. I want to get as far away from him as possible.
“I love that you believe that,” he bellows around his laughter. “I love that you believe you’re even capable of that.”
My forehead crinkles. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re a Creator, Six-Eight-Four,” Vanik tells me, his laughter waning, but his eyes still lit with glee. “By definition, Creators create. You bring life, not death. Your ability is only limited by your imagination, but your imagination is limited in this case. You are mentally and emotionally incapable of summoning the intent to kill someone, let alone the control to see it through.”
I wish you were dead … You’re dead to me … Both of you.
I try to shake the memory away, but it lingers.
“There’s no possible way your Speaking ability could have caused your parents’ deaths,” Vanik states.
I hate you … I’m never talking to you again … You’re dead to me …
“You’re wrong,” I argue, pushing back the voices in my mind. “I killed them.”
He laughs again, shaking his head. I speak over him, needing to get my admission out now that I’ve come this far.
“I told them I wished they were dead,” I say, uttering words I’ve never been able to speak before now. “I told them they were dead to me.”
He seems to be waiting for more. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough?” I say. “I had no control — the words were all it took for the action to follow through. I ran upstairs after my tantrum, and when I came back down, they were lying on the floor, dead.”
I close my eyes as the memory plays across my mind. My mum in her favorite Sunday dress, yellow with the white daisies. My dad in his pressed slacks and starched shirt, not a wrinkle to be found. Both staring up at the ceiling with glassy, unseeing eyes.
This time when Vanik laughs, it’s a bitter-sounding breath of humor. “You really do know nothing, Six-Eight-Four.”
My eyes shoot open, and I glare at him. “I know what I did. Just as I know I have to live with it for the rest of my life.”
“You’re wrong.”
Vanik’s confident declaration hits me like a nail dart to the chest.
“You’re lying,” I croak.
“I’m not.”
His gaze is unwavering as it meets mine. It’s enough to plant a seed of doubt in my mind — a seed that blossoms when he adds, “I’m curious, Six-Eight-Four. Given all that you’ve learned about Speakers, have you never wondered what abilities your parents had?”
My heart skips a beat.
“It’s a shame you’ll never leave here,” he goes on, his eyes lit manically as he takes in my stunned expression. “Because I’ve now given you more than enough to find out what really happened to them.” He pauses. “Or even, perhaps, to simply find them, full stop.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I draw in a painful breath at what I think he’s implying. But I can’t — I won’t — believe him. I can’t allow myself to hope.
Now is not the time to wonder about this. What I need is a plan to get out of here, as I doubt I can stall for much longer. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to remain conscious for much longer.
“Story time is over,” Vanik says, checking my restraints are still firmly secured. “Alvin, start preparing the recruits to leave. All except for Camelot. We may need her … just in case.”
Just in case his hand does slip, I presume, and he needs someone with a healing ability to keep his precious Creator from bleeding out. Though, if he drains much more from me, not even Cami will be able to help.
I listen as Manning begins commanding the unresisting Exodus recruits to remember nothing of the night, belatedly making me realize that Vanik doesn’t have a memory modifier after all — just Manning, who can convince people to do things, including forget experiences. From my limited view, it looks as if all the recruits are fully recovered from Vanik’s experiments, presumably a result of Manning manipulating Cami into healing them.
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, Six-Eight-Four,” Vanik says, drawing my attention back to him. “Alvin’s abilities have no effect on Landon — I have to assume the same is true for you. So to keep you from running, you’ll be staying here with me. Indefinitely.”
My skin feels cold and clammy, yet my forehead is dotted with sweat. I’m not sure if it’s because of what he’s saying or because my body is reaching the end of its limits.
Vanik’s gaze narrows as it travels across my face, taking in my feverish skin and unfocused eyes. “I think you may have had enough for the moment.”
I hiss when he yanks the IV needle from my arm, and I have to close my eyes against the dizziness that comes at the sight of blood welling up on my inner elbow. I know my reaction is irrational considering the bags of deep red fluid I can see, but for some reason it’s different to see it and feel the pain of the incision point.
“I’m sorry about the blood loss,” Vanik says, not sounding apologetic in the least. “Some of it will be used for testing, but mostly I had to drain you to keep you weak.” He reaches forward and taps my nose with a finger. “We don’t want you Speaking yourself free, do we?”
I snap my teeth at him savagely, but he pulls back with a laugh. The move costs me, with darkness flickering around my vision as I fight to remain conscious.
“I won’t lie to you, Six-Eight-Four, this is going to hurt,” Vanik says. “I’m used to my patients heeding Alvin’s command to not feel anything, so I don’t keep a ready supply of anesthetic handy. Instead, we’ll have to improvise. Open wide.”
“Wha —”
My voice is muffled when Vanik shoves a wadded-up piece of material in my mouth.
“That will stop you from biting your tongue off,” he says, before reclaiming both his razorblade and scalpel. “Feel free to scream as much as you need to.”
The heart monitor picks up my accelerating pulse, the beats becoming more rapid with my growing distress. My fear is a tangible thing, but I keep breathing. I remain in control.
I remind myself that I am a monster. And monsters fear no one.
Only … I’m not so sure I’m a monster anymore.
I don’t know what I am.
No — that’s not true.
Because I am … I am Alyssa Scott.
The girl who has endured Lengard for two years, eight months and seven days.
I am not a monster.
But I am a survivor.
And I will survive this.
With a renewed burst of adrenaline born from terror and desperation, I push against my bonds with all my might. I kick, I wrestle, I shove my pelvis off the table, straining against my restraints. I call forth all the physical training I’ve mastered with Enzo and try — try — to make it worth something. It’s all useless. But as long as I’m moving, Vanik won’t risk using the scalpel on me; he won’t risk causing irreversible damage. I have to believe that. It’s the only thing that keeps me moving when I have so little energy — and so much agony.
“Will. You. Stop. That.” Vanik enunciates every word, trying to still my fighting body. “Alvin, leave the recruits and come hold her steady. Bring Camelot to help.”
No. No, no, no.
Only a handful of seconds pass before Manning presses his body weight against my lower half, restraining my legs and hips, while Cami, enforced by a Spoken command, holds my torso down. Tears well as I look up at her, so close, yet so far away. Her eyes are like those of a stranger. She doesn’t even see me.
“Cami,” I try to whisper, but it sounds like a strangled gurgle against the material in my mouth. She doesn’t so much as blink, and I know I’m lost to her.
I renew my struggle with all I have left in me. My body is pinned, but I wiggle my head as much as my neck brace w
ill allow. It hurts — everything hurts — and it makes me so light-headed that I want to throw up, but I don’t stop. Not until Vanik curses at me and tightens the strap securing my neck. He takes it in so far that I can barely draw breath. I make a wheezing sound in the back of my throat, and black spots assail my vision again. I’m now unable to move, trapped and defenseless. I’m at his mercy, though I know I will receive none.
Kael, I need you! I cry out in my mind, certain he would know exactly how to get himself out of this mess.
And then I think of someone else who would know what to do. Ward, you promised to protect me! Where are you?
Protector and Destroyer, both so different, neither of whom I should trust, yet either of whom I would give every Spoken word in the world to have in the room with me right now. But I’m on my own.
With nothing else left, I try to take comfort in looking up at Cami, hoping to draw strength from the face of my friend, even if she’s not really here right now.
But then, just as I feel Vanik press the razor up against my scalp, I hear the door slide open and the slapping sound of footsteps moving toward us, fast.
Vanik’s head jerks up. “You’re not allowed to be —”
“You don’t want to hurt her.”
I instantly recognize Keeda’s voice, and at her hypnotic words, light flares, hitting Vanik in the chest.
His face blanks, and his hands drop from my head as he repeats the command in a dull monotone. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“No, Kendall, don’t —” Manning growls, releasing my lower half and rushing toward Vanik.
But before the therapist can finish his own Spoken command, Keeda intervenes.
From my restricted position, I can’t see what happens next. All I know is that my rescuer doesn’t bother wasting energy on words. Instead, I hear sounds of a brief struggle, followed by a thump and a groan, and then Manning crumbles to the ground.
The tussle allows enough time for Vanik to fight himself free of Keeda’s trance, and he spits out, “What the —”
He doesn’t finish before I hear the clatter of metal and a crash when the tray falls to the ground, followed by a muttered oath from Vanik, another thump and then … silence.
