“I doubt that,” he replies. He grabs his gun. I launch myself forward, over the fallen guard. He fires, but my hands are wrapped around his wrist, so he doesn’t fire straight.
My ears ring, and my feet scramble for stability on the dead guard’s back.
Christina punches over my head. Her knuckles connect with Edward’s nose. I can’t balance on top of the body; I fall to my knees, digging my fingernails into his wrist. He wrenches me to the side and fires again, hitting Christina in the leg.
Gasping, Christina draws her gun and shoots. The bullet hits him in the side. Edward screams and drops the gun, pitching forward. He falls on top of me, and I smack my head against one of the cement steps. The dead guard’s arm is jammed into my spine.
Marcus picks up Edward’s gun and trains it on both of us.
“Get up, Tris,” he says. And to Edward: “You. Don’t move.”
My hand searches for the corner of a step, and I squeeze from between Edward and the dead guard. Edward pushes himself to a sitting position on top of the guard—like he’s some kind of cushion—clutching his side with both hands.
“You okay?” I ask Christina.
Her face contorts. “Ahh. Yeah. It hit the side, not the bone.”
I reach for her, to help her up.
“Beatrice,” Marcus says. “We have to leave her.”
“What do you mean leave?” I demand. “We can’t leave! Something terrible could happen!”
Marcus presses his index finger to my sternum, in the gap between my collarbones, and leans over me.
“Listen to me,” he says. “Jeanine Matthews will have retreated to her laboratory at the first sign of attack, because it is the safest room in this building. And at any moment, she will decide that Erudite is lost and it is better to delete the data than risk anyone else finding it, and this mission of ours will be useless.”
And I will have lost everyone: my parents, Caleb, and finally, Tobias, who will never forgive me for working with his father, especially if I have no way to prove that it was worthwhile.
“We are going to leave your friend here.” His breath smells stale. “And move on, unless you would rather me go on alone.”
“He’s right,” says Christina. “There’s no time. I’ll stay here and keep Ed from coming after you.”
I nod. Marcus removes his finger, leaving an aching circle behind. I rub the pain away and open the door at the top of the landing. I look back before I walk through it, and Christina gives me a pained smile, her hand pressed to her thigh.
Chapter Forty-Four
THE NEXT ROOM is more like a hallway: it is wide, but not deep, with blue tile, blue walls, and a blue ceiling, all the same shade. Everything glows, but I can’t tell where the light is coming from.
At first I don’t see any doors, but once my eyes adjust to the shock of color, I see a rectangle in the wall to my left, and another one in the wall to my right. Just two doors.
“We have to split up,” I say. “We don’t have time to try each one together.”
“Which one do you want?” Marcus says.
“Right,” I say. “Wait, no. Left.”
“Fine. I will go right.”
“If I’m the one who finds the computer,” I say, “what should I look for?”
“If you find the computer, you will find Jeanine. I assume you know a few ways to coerce her into doing what you want. She is not, after all, accustomed to pain,” he says.
I nod. We walk at the same pace toward our respective doors. A moment ago I would have said that separating from Marcus would be a relief. But going on alone is its own burden. What if I can’t get through the security measures Jeanine undoubtedly has in place to keep out intruders? What if, if I somehow manage to get through them, I can’t find the right file?
I put my hand on the door handle. There doesn’t seem to be a lock. When Tori said there were insane security measures, I thought she meant eye scanners and passwords and locks, but so far, everything has been open.
Why does that worry me?
I open my door, and Marcus opens his. We share a look. I walk into the next room.
The room, like the hallway outside, is blue, though here it is clear where the light is coming from. It glows from the center of every panel, ceiling, floor, and walls.
Once the door closes behind me, I hear a thud like a dead bolt shifting into place. I grab the door handle again and push down as hard as I can, but it doesn’t budge. I am trapped.
Small, piercing lights come at me from all angles. My eyelids aren’t enough to block them, so I have to press my palms over my eye sockets.
I hear a calm, feminine voice:
“Beatrice Prior, second generation. Faction of origin: Abnegation. Selected faction: Dauntless. Confirmed Divergent.”
How does this room know who I am?
And what does “second generation” mean?
“Status: Intruder.”
I hear a click, and pull my fingers apart just enough to see if the lights are gone. They aren’t, but fixtures in the ceiling spray tinted vapor. Instinctively I clap my hand over my mouth. In seconds I stare through a blue fog. And then I stare at nothing.
I now stand in darkness so complete that when I hold my hand in front of my nose, I can’t even see its silhouette. I should walk forward and search for a door on the other side of the room, but I am afraid to move—who knows what would happen to me here if I did?
Then the lights lift, and I stand in the Dauntless training room, in the circle in which we used to spar. I have so many mixed memories of this circle, some triumphant, like beating Molly, and some haunting—Peter punching me until I fell unconscious. I sniff, and the air smells the same, like sweat and dust.
Across the circle is a blue door that doesn’t belong there. I frown at it.
“Intruder,” the voice says, and now it sounds like Jeanine, but that could be my imagination. “You have five minutes to reach the blue door before the poison will kick in.”
“What?”
But I know what she said. Poison. Five minutes. I shouldn’t be surprised; this is Jeanine’s work, just as empty of conscience as she is. My body shudders, and I wonder if that is the poison, if the poison is already shutting down my brain.
Focus. I can’t get out; I have to move forward, or . . .
Or nothing. I have to move forward.
I start toward the door, and someone appears in my path. She is short, thin, and blond, with dark circles under her eyes. She is me.
A reflection? I wave at her to see if she will mirror me. She doesn’t.
“Hello,” I say. She doesn’t answer. I didn’t really think she would.
What is this? I swallow hard to pop my ears, which feel like they are stuffed with cotton. If Jeanine designed this, it is probably a test of intelligence or logic, which means I will have to think clearly, which means I will have to calm down. I clasp my hands over my chest and press down, hoping the pressure will make me feel safe, like an embrace.
It doesn’t.
I step to the right to get a better angle on the door, and my double hops to the side, her shoes scraping the dirt, to block my way again.
I think I know what will happen if I start toward the door, but I have to try. I break into a run, intending to swerve around her, but she is ready for me: she grabs my wounded shoulder and wrenches me to the side. I scream so loud it scrapes my throat; I feel like knives are stabbing deeper and deeper into my right side. As I begin to sink to my knees, she kicks me in the stomach and I sprawl across the floor, inhaling dust.
That, I realize as I clutch my stomach, is exactly what I would have done if I had been in her position. Which means that in order to defeat her, I have to think of a way to defeat myself. And how can I be a better fighter than myself, if she knows the same strategies I know, and is exactly as resourceful and clever as I am?
She starts toward me again, so I scramble to my feet and try to put aside the pain in my shoulder. My heart b
eats faster. I want to punch her, but she gets there first. I duck at the last second, and her fist hits my ear, knocking me off balance.
I back up a few steps, hoping that she won’t pursue me, but she does. She comes at me again, this time seizing my shoulders and pulling me down, toward her bent knee.
I put my hands up, between my stomach and her knee, and push as hard as I can. She was not expecting that; she stumbles back, but doesn’t fall.
I run at her, and as the desire to kick her slips into my mind, I realize that it is also her desire. I twist away from her foot.
The second I want something, she also wants it. She and I can only be, at best, at a standstill—but I need to beat her to get through the door. To survive.
I try to think it through, but she is coming at me again, her forehead tightened into a scowl of concentration. She grabs my arm, and I grab hers, so that we are clutched forearm to forearm.
At the same time, we yank our elbows back and thrust them forward. I lean in at the last second, and my elbow smashes into her teeth.
Both of us cry out. Blood spills over her lip, and runs down my forearm. She grits her teeth and yells, diving at me, stronger than I anticipated.
Her weight knocks me down. She pins me to the floor with her knees and tries to punch my face, but I cross my arms in front of me. Her fists hit my arms instead, each one like a stone striking my skin.
With a heavy exhale, I grab at one of her wrists, and I notice that spots are dancing at the corners of my eyes. Poison.
Focus.
As she struggles to free herself, I bring my knee up to my chest. Then I push her back, grunting with effort, until I can press my foot to her stomach. I kick her, my face boiling hot.
The logical puzzle: In a fight between two perfect equals, how can one win?
The answer: One can’t.
She pushes herself to her feet and wipes the blood from her lip.
Therefore: we must not be perfectly equal. So what is different about us?
She walks toward me again, but I need more time to think, so for every step she takes forward, I take back. The room sways, and then twists, and I lurch to the side, brushing my fingertips on the ground to steady myself.
What is different about us? We have the same mass, skill level, patterns of thinking . . .
I see the door over her shoulder, and I realize: We have different goals. I have to get through that door. She has to protect it. But even in a simulation, there is no way she is as desperate as I am.
I sprint toward the edge of the circle, where there is a table. A moment ago, it was empty, but I know the rules of simulations and how to control them. A gun appears on it as soon as I think it.
I slam into the table, the spots crowding my view of it. I don’t even feel pain when I collide with it. I feel my heartbeat in my face, like my heart has detached from its moorings in my chest and begun to migrate to my brain.
Across the room, a gun appears on the ground before my double. We both reach for our weapons.
I feel the weight of the gun, and its smoothness, and I forget about her; I forget about the poison; I forget about everything.
My throat constricts, and I feel like there is a hand around it, tightening. My head throbs from the sudden loss of air, and I feel my heartbeat everywhere, everywhere.
Across the room, it’s no longer my double who stands between me and my goal; it’s Will. No, no. It can’t be Will. I force myself to breathe in. The poison is cutting off oxygen to my brain. He is just a hallucination within a simulation. I exhale in a sob.
For a moment I see my double again, holding the gun but visibly shuddering, the weapon as far out from her body as she can possibly hold it. She is as weak as I am. No, not as weak, because she is not going blind and losing air, but almost as weak, almost.
Then Will is back, his eyes simulation-dead, his hair a yellow halo around his head. Brick buildings loom from each side, but behind him is the door, the door that separates me from my father and brother.
No, no, it is the door that separates me from Jeanine and my goal.
I have to get through that door. I have to.
I lift the gun, though it hurts my shoulder to do it, and wrap one hand around the other to steady it.
“I . . .” I choke, and tears smear my cheeks, run into my mouth. I taste salt. “I’m sorry.”
And I do the one thing my double is unable to do, because she is not desperate enough:
I fire.
Chapter Forty-Five
I DON’T SEE him die again.
I close my eyes at the moment the trigger presses back, and when I open them, it is the other Tris who lies on the ground between the dark patches in my vision; it is me.
I drop the gun and sprint toward the door, almost tripping over her. I throw my body against the door, twist the handle, and fall through. My hands numb, I press it closed behind me, and shake them to regain feeling.
The next room is twice as big as the first one, and it, too, is blue-lit, but paler. A large table stands in the middle, and taped to the walls are photographs, diagrams, and lists.
I take deep breaths, and my vision begins to clear, my heart rate returning to normal. Among the photographs on the walls, I recognize my own face, and Tobias’s, and Marcus’s, and Uriah’s. A long list of what appear to be chemicals is posted on the wall beside our pictures. Each one is crossed out with red marker. This must be where Jeanine develops the simulation serums.
I hear voices somewhere ahead of me, and scold myself. What are you doing? Hurry!
“My brother’s name,” I hear. “I want to hear you say it.”
Tori’s voice.
How did she get through that simulation? Is she Divergent too?
“I didn’t kill him.” Jeanine’s voice.
“Do you think that exonerates you? Do you think that means you don’t deserve to die?”
Tori is not screaming, but wailing, the whole of her grief escaping through her mouth. I start toward the door. Too quickly, though, because my hip slams into the corner of the table in the middle of the room, and I have to stop, wincing.
“The reasons for my actions are beyond your understanding,” Jeanine says. “I was willing to make a sacrifice for the greater good, something you have never understood, not even when we were classmates!”
I limp toward the door, which is a pane of frosted glass. It slides back to admit me, and I see Jeanine, pressed against a wall, with Tori standing a few feet away, her gun high.
Behind them is a glass table with a silver box on it—a computer—and a keyboard. The entire far wall is covered with a computer screen.
Jeanine stares at me, but Tori doesn’t move an inch; doesn’t seem to hear me. Her face is red and tear-streaked, her hand shaking.
I have no confidence that I can find the video file on my own. If Jeanine is here, I can get her to find it for me, but if she’s dead . . .
“No!” I scream. “Tori, don’t!”
But her finger is already over the trigger. I launch myself at her as hard as I can, my arms slamming into her side. The gun goes off, and I hear a scream.
My head hits the tile. I ignore the stars in my eyes and throw myself across Tori. I shove the gun forward and it slides away from us.
Why didn’t you grab it, you idiot?!
Tori’s fist connects with the side of my throat. I choke, and she uses the opportunity to throw me off, to crawl toward the gun.
Jeanine is slumped against the wall, blood soaking her leg. Leg! I remember, and punch Tori hard near the bullet wound in her thigh. She yells, and I find my feet.
I step toward the fallen weapon, but Tori is too quick. She wraps her arms around my legs and pulls them out from under me. My knees slam into the ground, but I am still above her; I punch down, at her rib cage.
She groans, but it doesn’t stop her; as I drag myself toward the gun, she sinks her teeth into my hand. It is a different pain than any blow I’ve ever received, different ev
en from a bullet wound. I scream louder than I thought possible, tears blurring my vision.
I have not come this far to let Tori shoot Jeanine before I’ve gotten what I need.
I yank my hand from between her teeth, my vision going black at the edges, and with a lurch, smack my hand around the handle of the gun. I twist, and point it at Tori.
My hand. My hand is covered in blood, and so is Tori’s chin. I hide my hand from view so that it’s easier to ignore the pain and get up, still pointing the gun at her.
“I didn’t take you for a traitor, Tris,” she says, and it sounds like a snarl, not a sound any human can make.
“I’m not,” I say. I blink the tears down my cheeks so that I can see her better. “I can’t explain it right now, but . . . all I’m asking is for you to trust me, please. There’s something important, something only she knows the location of—”
“That’s right!” says Jeanine. “It is on that computer, Beatrice, and only I can locate it. If you don’t help me survive this, it will die with me.”
“She is a liar,” says Tori. “A liar, and if you believe her, you are both an idiot and a traitor, Tris!”
“I do believe her,” I say. “I believe her because it makes perfect sense! The most sensitive information that exists and it’s hidden on that computer, Tori!” I take a deep breath, and lower my voice. “Please listen to me. I hate her as much as you do. I have no reason to defend her. I’m telling you the truth. This is important.”
Tori is silent. I think, for a moment, that I’ve won, that I’ve persuaded her. But then she says, “Nothing is more important than her death.”
“If that’s what you insist upon believing,” I say, “I can’t help you. But I’m also not going to let you kill her.”
Tori pushes herself to her knees, and wipes my blood from her chin. She looks up into my eyes.
“I am a Dauntless leader,” she says. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”
And before I can think—
Before I can even think about firing the gun I’m holding—
She draws a long knife from the side of her boot, lunges, and stabs Jeanine in the stomach.
The Divergent Library: Divergent; Insurgent; Allegiant; Four: The Transfer, The Initiate, The Son, and The Traitor (Divergent Series) Page 63
