by Deven Kane
The sole memory she possessed of the wilderness was her recent escape from the Hub. She’d stolen an Implant from the infirmary, intent on finding the Givers and regaining their favor. Her ill-advised plan now seemed foreign to her, illogical.
Her memories had begun to resurface, sporadic and unconnected, during her trek through the tunnels. The Givers’ silence took on a new significance: She wasn’t cut off from the aliens—she was free of them. She was becoming human again.
She pondered the mechanic’s cryptic warning. It hadn’t taken her long to realize her verbal handicap was often misread. People tended to assume she was hard of hearing, or too stupid to comprehend what was said.
She resented it at first, but discovered she could learn a great deal if she stayed quiet and listened.
Enrico doesn’t trust Mateo, and he’s not sure what to make of me. Megan tried to interpret his words and nonverbal cues. Words are only one part of their communication. The sound of his voice, the look on his face, the way he stands—all of these combined tell the whole story.
“Amos came back here?” Jane’s skeptical question intruded into Megan’s thoughtful reverie. “The same place where he hid his Implant?”
They crested the hill, and drove at a modest pace along a high ridge. The road narrowed to a single lane, little more than a beaten-down track between rows of fall-yellowed maples, interspersed with dark evergreens.
“The last time I guessed where Amos went, I was right.” Don flashed a confident grin. The words were no sooner out of his mouth when his expression turned somber. “Amos hates this place, but it’s a hidey-hole he’s familiar with. I’m gambling he’s there now.”
Jane opened her mouth, but thought better of whatever question was on her mind. Megan scooted forward on her seat as Don decelerated. He scrutinized the trees to his left as if seeking a landmark.
“It’s a long way from the Hub,” Jane muttered, as if trying to convince herself. “Amos knows the routine as well as any of us—stay low and wait. The sewer’s a good hiding place, but next time, I think I’ll head out this way. If there is a next time, I mean. I don’t mind a good hike.”
Don braked and the truck skidded to a stop. There was no need to pull off the dirt path, even if the overgrown underbrush would have permitted it. No other vehicles competed for the use of the winding road. They were alone.
Don shut the engine down, and they waited in the cab an additional moment. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees, a reassuring sound outside Don’s open window.
“You’re right. It’s a stiff trek,” Don said to Jane. “But this is where Amos comes when he’s out of options.”
He clamped his mouth shut, his lips forming a thin, hard line. Megan had learned enough by observing Don to know further questioning would be futile.
Jane’s eyes looked haunted. Megan suspected she wanted to question Don’s cryptic remark, but something held her back. Megan wondered what and why.
“Let’s go,” Don said, opening his door and stepping out of the vehicle. “It’s a short walk into the bush, and then downslope about a hundred meters. It’s a lot harder to climb up from the valley below, believe me. Amos will be tired and hungry by now.”
He led the way as they pushed into the forest adjacent to the neglected road, weaving their way through the thick underbrush. There was no conversation. Megan felt the tension mount as they neared the brink of their descent.
Don paused near the edge of the precipice. He knelt down behind a fallen tree, surveying the ground ahead with a worried look on his face. The terrain below was rocky and uneven, with a thick covering of pines, but less undergrowth than on the ridge.
“What is it, Don?” Jane crouched beside him, squinting downhill. “What do you see?”
Don shook his head, pulling out a pair of binoculars to scan the terrain below in a wide, slow arc. “We’ve been here before, remember. We came to retrieve the Implant Amos buried out here. And it was activated.”
Jane glanced at him, uneasy. “I haven’t forgotten. Aubrey’s Implant was activated at the same time.”
Megan stood beside her, imitating Jane’s careful scrutiny of their position. She wished, not for the first time, that her scanning eye still functioned.
“Last time, a Tracker managed to trail us this far,” Don said, continuing his visual inspection. “We got lucky. If we hadn’t used the prod to deactivate the Implant, it might’ve found us.”
Jane nudged Don in the ribs with a sharp elbow. He looked at her in surprise, and she jerked her head in Megan’s direction.
Shut up, her eyes flashed at him. Don fell silent. Megan pretended she hadn’t noticed their interaction.
“Trackers have been too near this place before,” Don said, in an obvious attempt to cover his verbal misstep. “But I don’t see any sign they’re patrolling now. Just the same, let’s not waste time. This is a quick sortie—either Amos is there, or he’s not. Then we head back.”
He rose to his feet, stowing the binoculars as he led the way downslope. Megan and Jane followed close behind, picking a cautious path over the rocky ground. A broken ankle, or even a serious sprain, would put everyone at risk.
Don’s familiarity with Amos’s hiding place made for an uneventful, if strenuous, trek down the steep incline. Within minutes, he halted near an outcropping of rocks, dropping to one knee to peer inside a dark hole.
Megan didn’t need to hear his muttered comment to know Amos wasn’t inside.
Jane crouched next to him, digging into a jacket pocket and producing a battery-powered torch. Leaning forward as far as she could, she shone the pencil of light into the recesses of the cave.
The small opening belied the depth of the cavern below, and Jane flashed the light into every nook and cranny. The brief inspection confirmed what they’d already suspected.
“If he was here, he didn’t stay long,” Jane said, putting their thoughts into words. “And he couldn’t have taken the sewer route back. We’d have met him on our way to Enrico’s place.”
“Or I guessed wrong, and he was never here,” Don said heavily. “If that’s the case, I have no idea where to look. He’ll have to find us.”
Megan gasped aloud, her sharp inhalation diverting their attention to her. She pointed a shaky hand at a dark mound about thirty meters downslope. A tight cluster of bodies lay scattered in haphazard fashion at the foot of one of the towering pines.
One of the corpses was clearly human.
Fourteen
DON CROSSED THE DISTANCE with long strides, a sickened look on his face. Jane and Megan caught up, flanking him on either side. They stared at the vermin-ravaged carcasses sprawled at the base of the tree.
Jane ducked her head. Megan sensed her light-headed relief. The body at their feet wasn’t Amos.
“Tracker,” Don growled under his breath. He dropped to one knee, examining the damage on the left side of the Tracker’s head. The creature’s skull had been split open, exposing the alien technology embedded in its brain.
Don pointed to a fist-sized rock next to the corpse, a rust-colored stain marring most of its surface. “Looks like Amos had a visitor. That might explain why he’s not here.”
Jane circled the base of the tree, examining the scattered corpses. “What happened here? Look, a coyote—dead. It looks like it went into convulsions or something.”
Don kicked another small object away. “Rats. Also dead.”
He examined the Tracker, frowning. “Scavengers usually pick a carcass clean, but this time—for some reason—there’s almost no damage.” He gestured at the head wound. “Aside from the obvious.”
Megan crouched beside the Tracker, taking shallow breaths through her mouth, one hand covering her nose. The pattern of destruction was familiar to her.
“Tracker kill,” she said. This is how I killed the unit who interfered with my Quest. She felt her insides lurch. “This one. Killed by another.”
Don raised his eyebrows. “Mateo? He’s in
tervened before.”
Megan didn’t answer. She stared at the hints of alien technology in the Tracker’s brain tissue, laid bare by the head trauma which had deactivated it. She couldn’t see the entire device, but she knew exactly what it looked like.
Memories—half-formed and incomplete—danced before her eyes, overlaying the graceless body sprawled awkwardly at her feet. She saw a hand, two devices cupped in its palm, larger than the Implants but similar in design. She tried to see more than the single image, but to no avail.
Her breathing became ragged as the hand, and the sleek metallic objects, grew in size until they filled her vision. She recognized the twin devices. They were the mental processors which allowed the Givers to communicate with, and control, the Trackers.
Unbidden, emotions erupted inside her. A flashback—to a similar emotional reaction, experienced the first time she’d seen that hand.
Stark, unreasoning terror flooded her, as real as if she'd been transported back to that fateful day. Processors—no. Don’t do this. Don’t turn me one into of Them!
She heard a piercing shriek echo through her mind, a last desperate cry born of horror and betrayal. The scream was her own. Please, no! Why are you doing this to me?
The mental image vanished like a mist, and her senses came into focus. She heard the alarm in Jane’s voice, felt Don’s hand on her shoulder. She saw the rotting corpse, inhaled its rancid stench.
She vomited convulsively, collapsing to her hands and knees beside the dead Tracker.
Fifteen
“PEOPLE WILL BELIEVE just about anything, if they see it on the Infomedia.”
Connor couldn’t help overhearing the sarcastic comment as he exited the café.
The patio table nearest the café’s exit was crowded. The young patrons had pulled up extra chairs, and their lively banter caught his attention. He recognized a few of them from university. Not friends, or even acquaintances, but faces he knew by sight if not by name.
He couldn’t explain why he’d returned to this spot when there were dozens of other options available. Madison and Reagan’s deaths hung heavy over the area, although the rest of the bustling crowd seemed to have already forgotten. The Café Espresso had re-opened a few days earlier, under a new name—Elemental Coffee. The proprietors appeared eager to rebrand their establishment’s reputation after the previous month’s terrorist attack.
Connor hoped the students wouldn’t notice him, but his desire was short-lived. Several saw him glance their way when he’d overheard their conversation, and called out to him.
“Let me guess—the new security measures?” He raised his voice, feigning nonchalance. “It’s all the Infomedia talks about, all day, every day. It’s a little over the top, if you ask me.”
One of the students pulled out an empty chair, gesturing for him to join them. Connor shook his head, scrambling for a plausible excuse. “Thanks, but I have to keep moving. Mid-term exams aren’t that far off.”
“They’ve started implanting people already.” The breathless comment came from a girl on the opposite side of the table. Connor almost dropped his latte. He didn’t recognize her, but her barely-contained enthusiasm was jarring. “The Council’s implementing the new security measures. It’s about time—the threat from the savages is getting worse.”
Connor hid his reaction behind a hasty gulp. He winced as the hot liquid burned his tongue.
Mateo’s right: it IS ironic. Darcy created the Implants to use against the collaborators, and now the Enclave’s Council is going to implant all of us in the name of “security.”
There was a murmur of assent around the table, sprinkled with affirming comments about the latest Infomedia reports. Connor knew what they were referring to. He’d seen the news: patriotic Citizens lining up to volunteer for the new security chips. It had been the lead story all morning.
The consensus of the Infomedia’s panel of self-appointed experts was an enthusiastic endorsement of the new security measures. Every Citizen, district by district, would receive a security chip, implanted in their right forearm. For the good of the Enclave.
“Have you heard the new label they’re giving the security chips?” The guy who’d offered Connor a chair laughed as he shared his tidbit of knowledge. “They’re calling them ‘anodynes.’ Or nodes, for short.”
He leaned back in his chair, laughing again. “I guess they thought ‘security tracking chip’ sounded too clinical, or something. So now the Council’s promoting it as the Anodyne Initiative. It’s all just a marketing ploy.”
“What’s wrong with that?” The first girl was ready to take up the challenge. “Anodyne means soothing or relaxing. It’s a reminder we don’t have to live in constant fear of savages sneaking into the Enclave. The nodes are for our protection.”
“Doesn’t it also mean bland?” Connor felt his blood boil at her unquestioning acceptance of Council propaganda. He tried, but couldn’t disguise his sarcasm. “As in: ‘Hey, no big deal, but we’re going to monitor you wherever you go’?”
“It’s for the good of the Enclave.” Chair Guy glowered at him, all traces of friendliness gone. His body language was angry and combative, ready to rise to the Council’s defense.
Connor struggled to control himself. The patio was under video surveillance, as was much of the Enclave. He clenched his teeth and managed to bite back an angry retort.
Another student across the table—Connor had never seen him before—bolted forward, spoiling for a fight. “Citizens have the right to be safe inside the Enclave. The savages would jump at the chance if we let our guard down. They’re getting through our borders far too often, as it is.”
“Are you a Citizen of the Enclave, or not?” The ultimatum came from the girl, who was beginning to eye Connor with suspicion. “Everyone has a responsibility to protect our way of life. Complying with the Anodyne Initiative is our civic duty. It’s a simple as that.”
Connor took a deep breath, clamping down hard on his racing thoughts. Don’t make a scene. The eyes of the Givers are everywhere. He managed, with effort, to keep his voice light and conversational.
“You’re absolutely right.” he said, hoping to distract from his earlier gaffe. “The savages need to learn their place. That’s outside the Enclave.”
You’re gullible about the Givers, but at least we’re on the same page about the savages. “If that means getting a node for the good of the Enclave, then so be it.”
He saluted the group with his latte. “I do have to go. Sorry if anything I said came across wrong . . .”
His apology was lame and insincere, and he knew it, but several heads nodded around the table. They were bored with the topic already. Chair Guy was the lone exception, his shrewd look of appraisal unchanged.
Connor turned his back on them and strolled toward the nearest travelator, feigning an interest in his latte. There was a brief pause, and then the students resumed their animated conversation. He could still pick out the girl’s eager voice.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea. Tomorrow—why don’t we all meet here? We can downtown and get our nodes together.”
Sixteen
HIS LATTE WAS COOLING off, but Connor knew better than to drink while riding on a travelator. The problem wasn’t with the travelators—the moving sidewalks had been designed with meticulous attention to detail.
No, the problem was other Citizens jostling each another as they crowded on and off. The most annoying were those who insisted on using their wrist-coms, more focused on their petty chats than their fellow Citizens.
His conversation with the students had thrown him off balance, more than he wanted to admit. It had been a mistake to visit the former Café Espresso—the memories were too raw.
He needed a neutral space to think, to sort out this “alliance” with the savages. And Megan—
His eyes felt hot, and he realized tears were welling up. He ducked his head, drawing one deep breath after another until his emotions were under control.
The people around him didn’t seem to notice. They were too absorbed in their own private worlds.
Connor edged his way to the travelator’s outside boundary, eager to remove himself from the moving thread of humanity. He was still several blocks from his destination—the Museum of Science, Technology and History—but walking the remaining distance was more appealing.
He stepped off the travelator, adjusting his gait as he made the transition from the moving surface to stationary concrete. The Museum was within sight, its massive walls as impressive as a mini-Enclave.
He quickened his pace, anticipating some peace and quiet in the familiar surroundings. He could lose himself among the exhibits, finish his latte, and think.
Memories of his last meeting with Darcy crowded into his conscious thought. It hadn’t been much of a conversation.
Over the years, Connor learned to view Darcy with a complicated mixture of respect, admiration, and fear. He was grateful Darcy adopted him after the savages slaughtered his family, and nothing would ever change that.
At the same time, Darcy’s chronic outbursts of rage were getting worse. The pressure of leading their clandestine rebellion against the alien invaders and their human stooges was taking its toll.
And Darcy’s streak of ruthlessness was no longer confined to the collaborators. Connor learned his lesson the hard way after his foster father decided Madison was a liability and ordered her execution.
Darcy pulled no punches when he threatened Connor with a similar fate if he jeopardized their cause with another careless mistake.
Connor jogged up the Museum’s front staircase. His hand was on the door handle when he read the words etched into the tempered glass: “No Food or Drink.” He looked from the door’s prohibition to his latte, thwarted.
He retraced his steps to the sidewalk, choosing a bench at the foot of the staircase. He sat down, his back to the Museum, and sipped his lukewarm beverage.
