by Deven Kane
Jane dared to dip her finger into the Don’s pot, nodding with approval after she tasted the sauce. The big man waved his spatula at her with an indignant protest, and she ducked her head as she dodged out of his reach.
“Just checking.” Jane laughed as she edged between Garr and Doc. “Had to be sure Don isn’t trying to poison us.”
She joined Amos in the hallway, and they set off at a brisk jog, their footsteps lighter than usual.
Doc chuckled again, observing the camaraderie from the doorway. She lowered her voice, glancing up at Garr. “This is one of your better ideas, Colonel. They’ve been under so much pressure lately. They needed an excuse to unwind.”
Garr shrugged, grateful to hear the cooking crew’s good-humored teasing. “It’s the calm before the storm, and they know it. But you’re right—they need this.” He laughed quietly. “Who am I kidding? I need this as much as they do.”
Doc eyed him with concern. “I won’t ask whether you trust this Darcy character or not, because that’s not the right question. Judging by everything I heard this afternoon, he’s a predatory sociopath. Once he gets what he wants, he’ll discard you without a second thought. And I shudder to think what ‘discard’ might mean to someone like him.”
She shook her head. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Colonel.”
Garr didn’t argue.
“It’s like dancing with a scorpion,” he admitted, a faraway look in his eye. “But he’s our only chance to get to the Givers. We have to strike quickly, before the Hoarders activate the Anodyne Initiative. If we wait too long, we won’t be able to move around the Enclave undetected. Darcy needs our help. He can’t afford to jeopardize the alliance.”
“That’s what I mean.” Doc faced him, hands on her hips. “Right now, Darcy needs you. But if you succeed, none of you will be necessary anymore. Win or lose, it might not make much difference.”
“No more Givers means no more Trackers. Or Implants,” Garr replied, meeting her gaze with steady resolve. “No more innocent people kidnapped by the Hoarders as raw material for their private war. We’ve been their expendable pawns far too long. I’ve buried too many good people . . .”
He caught himself, looking away for a moment. “Doc, this is a risk we have to take. Don’t worry. I’m not going to let my guard down.’
He inclined his head to indicate the cooking crew. “And I promise you, I’ll bring them back. This won’t be the last time we celebrate together.”
Doc nodded, breaking eye contact with a sigh.
“I’ll hold you to that, Garr,” she said, a brief smile lighting up her face. “I might even risk some of Don’s cooking.”
Garr chuckled, and then became serious again. “Actually, Doc, I was asked to bring you to the infirmary. Mateo has an idea he wants to run past you.”
He performed an about-face, striding down the corridor. After a final look at the cheerful company in the mess hall, Doc hastened to follow him.
“Mateo,” she muttered under her breath, shoving her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “Still not sure what I think of him, either.”
Thirty-Four
THUNDER RUMBLED, ADDING its ominous soundtrack to the scene. The gray clouds contributed their part, brooding over the weathered buildings next to the Mission. A chilly breeze gusted now and then, warning of the impending storm.
Despite the threatening weather, the market area was filled with people, wandering in and out of the variety of shops. Amos waited with as much patience as he could muster next to the open door of a clothing merchant.
Jane was buying something. He could hear her haggling over the price.
Hurry up, Jane. Amos fidgeted, unsettled. If a storm hits now, everyone will scatter, and “hidden in plain sight” won’t mean a thing. Even now, protocol demanded they not stand out from the crowd.
Moments later, she rejoined him on the sidewalk. She held up the cap she’d purchased, looking pleased.
“It was your idea to get myself one of these,” she reminded him, molding the cap in her hands before donning it. “This, combined with my hoodie, and I’ll be practically unrecognizable.”
“The Enclave has security cameras everywhere,” Amos replied as they resumed their roundabout route to the drop-box. “The cap and hoodie will help, but you can’t rely on that. You’ll still need to be extra-vigilant.”
“This isn’t my first time in the field.” Some of Jane’s old fire flared. She nodded in the direction of an alley—just ahead and to their right. “Follow my lead. There’s something I want to check out before the drop-box.”
Amos navigated the turn with her, curious in spite of his unease. His inner voice fought to make itself heard, but he stifled it. His mouth felt dry, and he kept a diligent eye on their surroundings.
The narrow alley was almost indistinguishable to the one where the drop-box was hidden. The aging bricks crumbled at the edges, and the few doors and windows were boarded up or nailed shut.
A corroded garbage dumpster squatted in an intersection between backstreet alleys. Jane ducked behind it, shielding herself behind its rusty bulk as she peered around the corner. Amos followed suit, dropping to one knee to look over her shoulder, wondering what had piqued her curiosity.
Rancid odors stung his nostrils. Regular garbage collection had ceased in the Old City not long after the Enclaves were built. Despite the intervening years of disuse, the dumpster had managed to retain its foul aura.
It took him less than a second to spot the anomaly—a Hoarder truck parked in the alley. No, two trucks—Amos spied a second vehicle further down the backstreet.
He felt for the knife under his jacket. This won’t be much use against Hoarder weapons.
“I saw something black and shiny through the back door of the shop,” Jane whispered, taking stock of the scene. “And my guess was right. Hoarders—but what are they up to? They usually avoid this part of the City. They certainly don’t park in the back alleys.”
Amos opened his jacket, revealing the binoculars he’d slung around his neck before leaving the Hub. He focused on the rear of the nearest truck. The tailgate was open, and there was something odd about the cargo area . . .
“They’re coming out.” Jane elbowed him. Two Hoarders exited the nondescript back entrance opposite their position. They braced an unconscious woman between them, her limp arms slung over their shoulders.
They lifted her flaccid body into the rear of the truck, shoved her further in, and closed the tailgate. One of the Hoarders wiped his palms on his breeches and they shared a laugh.
Amos lowered his binoculars, sickened. He stuffed the lenses inside the front of his jacket and zipped it up.
Jane watched him through narrowed eyes. “See anyone you know?”
Amos shook his head. “Looks like Darcy’s not the only Hoarder collecting ‘cannon fodder.’ They’ve got three prisoners stowed in that truck.”
Jane’s face hardened, and she spat on the ground.
The Hoarder trucks slipped into motion, creeping down the back street with minimal speed—and noise—until they reached the next side alley. Bumper-to-bumper, the vehicles executed the turn and disappeared from view.
Amos counted under his breath. Three seconds elapsed before they heard the roaring engines and squealing tires that marked the return of typical Hoarder driving habits.
Jane turned her head, eyes wide. “Maybe it’s the Givers.”
Amos pictured the crude sketch Megan had drawn, their first clue to the Givers’ alien origin. “What makes you think that? Darcy probably has a team of Hoarders.”
Jane shook her head, an emphatic no. “This may have nothing to do with Darcy. These Hoarders . . . what if the Givers sent them? They lost a lot of Trackers during the attack. What if the Hoarders were here to collect replacements?”
Amos remembered the Hoarder convoy Aubrey had told them about. “If you’re right, the Hoarders stepping things up. Collecting raw material for the Trackers in broad day
light . . . that’s risky. They must be getting desperate.”
Jane rose to her feet, dusting her hands on her pants. “The drop-box.” She glared daggers after the Hoarders. “And then back to the Hub. Garr needs to hear about this.”
They made their way back to the street, blending in with the pedestrian traffic. Another low rumble of thunder underlined their need to hurry. Amos glanced at the clouds, trying to estimate how much time remained before another downpour.
“Watch where you’re going.” Jane’s brusque warning coincided with his near-collision with an elderly couple as they exited a grocer shop. Amos mumbled an apology and skirted around the nervous couple.
He glanced ahead and spotted a glint of red light. It winked out a fraction of a second later, restoring its owner’s benign, human appearance. He was about the same height and build as Amos, perhaps within a year or two of his age.
He was heading straight for them.
Amos felt Jane’s wiry fingers close in a punishing grip on his hand. She’d seen it, too. His heart raced, and adrenaline spiked as his flight-or-fight instincts took hold.
He clutched Jane’s hand with equal fierceness, guiding her subtly closer to the curb. He kept his breathing normal, his steps unhurried and steady. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done.
My Implant’s long gone. Jane’s never had an Implant. It’s not scanning for us. It’s not scanning for us . . .
The Tracker passed by without a glance in their direction, weaving his way through the human traffic. Amos didn’t dare turn to see where the creature went.
He maintained the same pace, and Jane matched his steps.
The drop-box will have to wait.
Thirty-Five
MEGAN LEARNED A GREAT deal during their extended debrief. There was very little she could add to the discussion, even if she wanted to.
Her inability to communicate was an increasing source of exasperation. When she was questioned, she answered as best as she could.
The three Hoarders they’d met—did she know who they were? Did she have any recollection of the one called Connor, who appeared to recognize her?
Megan shook her head in response. No words were needed to augment her simple gesture, so she bottled her frustration and kept her mouth shut.
And listened.
Now, seated on the gurney—once her prison—she watched as Mateo poked and prodded at the deactivated Implant on Doc’s workbench. The same Implant she’d stolen in hopes of currying favor with the Givers, later returning it after a partial re-awakening of her human side.
“A remarkable piece of reverse engineering.” Mateo held the Implant up between them, admiring it. Megan had no reaction. “Whatever else one might think of the Councilor, his ability to use the Givers’ technology against them is extraordinary.”
“Tracker kill,” Megan said, her words clear enough. She clenched her hands into fists, twisting handfuls of the blanket between her fingers.
The animals on the hillside, near Amos’s cave—they died after feeding on the dead Tracker’s body.
She managed to force her uncooperative lips to form the words. “Animals. In the blood. Now dead.”
Mateo leaned against the workbench, setting the Implant down with care. He crossed his arms over his chest as he studied her. “I concur. The creatures were incapable of assimilating what our blood carries. It was too much for them.”
“What was too much?”
Megan hadn’t heard Garr and Doc approaching until the door swung open. The Colonel’s question hung in the air between them. Doc crossed to her workbench, casting a protective look over her instruments.
Mateo obliged her unspoken hint, stepping a respectful distance away. “Have you observed the unique properties of Tracker-enhanced blood, Doctor Simon?”
Megan saw the instant recognition on Doc’s face. Before she could answer, Megan made a guttural noise, a prelude to actual speech.
“Not for animals.” She choked the words out, resentment blossoming anew.
How can I explain myself when I can only grunt like a cavewoman? Frustrated, she gestured to Mateo, pantomiming her desire to write. Doc must have pencil and paper around here somewhere.
Mateo caught her meaning, and explained on her behalf. “Megan deduced a new aspect of the Givers’ enhancements. Simply put, they’re part of the larger process of becoming a Tracker. The wildlife we found near Amos’s hiding place died because they were unable to assimilate the enhanced blood. The results were, I’m afraid, rather grotesque.”
“What’s that got to do with your asking me to bring Doc here?” Garr interrupted, standing just inside the door. “This is all very interesting, Mateo, but if you’ve got something more practical, I’d like to hear it.”
Mateo lifted his chin. “My apologies, Colonel, but I assure you—my brief explanation for the scavenger casualties is very much connected to my request.”
Doc scooped up the Implant, using it as a pointer.
“Connected to this, in some way?” she asked, watching him closely. “A moment ago, you seemed quite interested in it.”
“All Giver technology is connected, Doctor,” Mateo replied without hesitation. “Darcy’s invention of the Implants, however distasteful we may find it, is just an extrapolation of existing Giver technology. Crude when compared with the originals, but effective.”
He eyed the Colonel as the latter approached the gurney. “Allow me to answer your earlier query. The freakish demise of the scavengers got me thinking. And I realized there’s an element Implants and a Tracker’s enhancements have in common. Specifically, the delivery system.”
“You mean blood.” Doc looked from the Implant in her hand to Megan, and back again. Her eyes widened, and she stared at Mateo. “What are you suggesting?”
Unperturbed, Mateo straightened, stepping away from the workbench. “You said it yourself, Doctor Simon. Much of the physical damage to Megan’s body has been repaired by her enhancements, but in sporadic—I think your phrase was ‘fits and starts.’ Megan would not have survived otherwise.”
He crossed the limited space to stand beside his fellow Tracker. “I’m proposing a simple experiment. Transfer some of my enhanced blood to Megan. Perhaps we can stimulate her enhancements to function as they were intended.”
Megan felt a stab of apprehension as the implications of his proposal sank in. The Givers had violated her with their technology. Now that she was free of them, she was reluctant to take any unnecessary risks. At the very least, I’d like some time to think about it.
She saw the resolve in Mateo’s eyes and knew he had no intention of waiting. She shivered, lowering her gaze to the scuffed floor.
Gar rubbed his jaw, frowning. “What if kick-starting her enhancements back-fires? Megan’s free of the Givers’ control for the first time in who-knows-how-long. Why risk that, based on just your hunch?”
Megan gasped, her eyes widening as a single snippet of memory resurfaced. “Five years . . .”
Mateo remained impassive. “Darcy and Connor may have recognized her, but she has no memory of them. We’ve focused on Connor, since he spoke her name. But there’s little doubt: Darcy knows who Megan is. Understanding that may give us a tactical advantage. We would be foolish to ignore it.”
Doc bristled with indignation.
“Megan’s not a tactical advantage.” Her fist tightened on the Implant. “She’s a part of this Hub, part of our family.”
Megan placed a hand on Doc’s shoulder, interrupting her tirade. She addressed Mateo with a plaintive look.
“My. Talk?” The words emerged in a jerky fashion.
Mateo studied her for a moment, his expression evasive. “I can’t promise that. As I indicated, it’s an experiment. But one I feel is worth the attempt.”
Doc stepped between them, her back to Mateo. She took Megan’s hands in her own.
“Are you sure you want this?” Doc spaced the words out as if she thought Megan was slow-witted. Mega
n felt a flash of resentment, but then relaxed.
No, Doc just wants to make sure I understand. But if there’s even a chance of regaining my speech, or my memory . . .
Garr intervened, addressing Mateo. “Is there any danger of the Givers taking control again?”
Mateo shook his head. “The technological center for the Givers’ control is located directly behind a Tracker’s scanning eye. Young Aubrey’s impetuous use of her prod—admittedly in self-defense—rendered Megan’s mental processors useless and irreparable. You need have no concern.”
He angled his neck to the right, pointing to a spot just under his left collarbone, near the shoulder joint. “There are numerous places where the enhancements can be accessed, Doctor Simon. This area will suffice.”
Doc produced a standard hypodermic needle, withdrawing a full syringe of Mateo’s blood from the area he indicated. “Would I be right in assuming I should inject Megan in the same spot?”
Megan tugged at her shirt collar, exposing her shoulder in anticipation of his reply.
Mateo held out a hand. “Not necessary. Any blood vessel in her arm will do.”
Megan shoved her left sleeve up, as high as the sturdy fabric would allow. Doc swabbed the area with disinfectant. She hesitated, lips pursed, before injecting the needle into a vein at Megan’s elbow.
Megan held her breath as Doc depressed the plunger and the dark liquid disappeared into her vein. She met Doc’s gaze, wondering how long she’d have to wait.
The reaction hit hard, and fast. A burning sensation raced up her arm, like a cascading wave of acidic insects.
Megan gasped out loud, lurching forward, clinging with desperate fists to the edge of the gurney. The insects encircled her ribcage, racing through her torso, spreading fire and agony in their wake. Up her spinal column, into her neck, and then . . .
Megan threw her head back, screaming as they invaded her skull. It was as if scalding needles pierced her brain, over and over. She sucked in desperate gulps of air, and as her eyesight cleared, she saw Mateo’s impassive face.
