by Driza, Debra
M Drop.
M Drop, M Drop . . . what could that mean?
Probably nothing, but I checked just in case.
Store file remotely?
I frowned. Remotely. As in, files were being held at another location?
This was new and different. But then I felt the whoosh of warmth, of energy, that always preceded my connection to another machine or digital entity. The android part of me, taking over again. Before I knew it, I was leaning forward, urging the information into my head. My mind felt open, ready. Eager.
Request permission: Enter M Data cloud?
Permission into M Data cloud: Granted
A moment later, the attic disappeared, to be replaced by shimmering red.
I blinked, entranced with spinning spheres of crimson. Like before, they encased me from all directions, but not in a square. This time, it was as if I stood in the center of a vortex, and they formed the circling tornado around me. The spheres rotated midair, moving in a chaotic pattern, from waist-high up to eye-level. This time, I could see thin, wispy multicolored threads extending away from the files, veering off in multiple directions. No, not threads. Data strings. Indicating which user had added each particular file.
I shut my eyes, momentarily disoriented by all the movement. Just when I thought I’d gotten one of my android functions under control, they had to go and change things on me. But I was mastering the other abilities. I could do this, too.
Stop.
The spheres—files—obeyed instantly, freezing in space as if their batteries had suddenly run out. But I could sense the desire for motion beneath that stillness. Almost like tiny hearts pulsed under each one. I forced the command out with way more power than normal, to keep them from returning to their spinning state.
Open file.
I opened the first file, scanned the contents, and discarded it as irrelevant before moving onto the next.
Open.
Open.
Open.
Faster and faster, the files rotated before me, each discarded one moving to the left as a new one filled its position from the right. They were beautiful, in their continuous dance. Graceful. And in some primal way, disconcerting and slightly sinister.
This process was starting to drain me, and a foreign chill seeped under my skin.
But the next file left me shivering, in a whole new way.
MWPP, Case number 50435
Re: Daniel Lusk
In exchange for services rendered, Daniel Lusk, previously of Philadelphia, PA, shall be granted entry into the military-funded witness protection program (MWPP).
As a condition of gaining admission to MWPP, Mr. Lusk will be required to provide information on the organization of interest, Vita Obscura. As a former member of this organization, Mr. Lusk is in a unique position to provide the U.S. Military with details that could save us millions of dollars in espionage and also prevent weapons from falling into terrorists’ hands.
Mr. Lusk’s alias will not be provided in this document, as to prevent security breaches that might endanger him.
Any information Mr. Lusk provides on the Vita Obscura will also be documented separately.
That was it, the file in its entirety. But it was enough to send me reeling back. As I moved, the red spheres followed me, and for an instant, I braced myself for an attack.
Clutching to my remaining sanity, I focused on forcing my breathing back to a slower, more sustainable rate. Daniel Lusk. Steve Jensen. The man in the photo. My fictitious dad.
All of them, one and the same.
All of them, former members of the one group that possibly made even life with Holland sound good.
The Vita Obscura.
Why on earth had Mom sent me to this man?
Confusion pounded through me, and betrayal. I tried to push them both away, to make sense of what I’d just learned. I went to rub my forehead. My arms were heavy, cumbersome. Not only had the contents sent me reeling—the act of reading the file itself had been draining.
I fought to remain calm and give myself time to recover, spinning through possibilities. There was only one reason Mom would have sent me to Jensen—he had to be good now. Obviously he’d left the V.O. if the military was courting him for information, if they needed to hide him to keep him safe. Although my experience with the military thus far had been less than stellar, I knew that most of our soldiers—outside of SMART—weren’t like Holland, sadistic and power-hungry.
As I pondered this and more, I realized that the spheres had begun pulsing in a furious manner: harder, brighter. Then, like someone had wrenched the volume up to full blast, a noxious screech pierced my ears—high-pitched and deafening. I gritted my teeth, and that’s when realization struck. My ears. They actually hurt. Burned, with a searing pain that felt like my flesh was being stripped from my bone.
As I tried to process that, I noticed words, hovering before my eyes. Not a prompt. Not coming from me.
Alarm. Unauthorized user.
I doubled over with my palms on my ears, fighting off the overwhelming noise. Through the chaos, I managed to issue a single command.
Stop.
No response.
The crescendo rose, and the spheres grew larger, brighter, more sinister-looking. Then, in a shattering explosion of light, they disappeared. I remained hunched over for an indefinite amount of time, my ears registering a low, staticky buzz as they adjusted to the abrupt cessation of sound.
But wait. Not a cessation of sound.
Because within the quiet, I heard noises. A man’s voice. A grunt. The scuffle of shoes against a wood floor. Followed by a yell.
Hunter’s.
I went to burst into a run and—nothing. I couldn’t budge. The noise had vanished, but once again I had no ability to move. However, unlike my previous blips of paralysis, this felt different. I wasn’t void of energy and life: it was the exact opposite, like someone had tapped into my power source and created some kind of electrical surge that was rendering me immobile.
Every piece of me began to feel this kinetic burning sensation, as if I were a matchbook that had been dropped into a pool of gasoline. Petrified of what was happening downstairs, I struggled to break free. Hunter needed me. But nothing happened. Nothing.
Another crash downstairs, a man’s voice. Older, gruff. Familiar, yet not. Hunter’s voice, low and quick. I could only catch a few words.
“No, don’t move. Stay back—let me talk—wait—”
A gunshot. The sound of glass breaking. Then a cry. And then . . . silence.
Panic urged me to drink in quick, labored breaths, but I couldn’t even do that. I couldn’t even pretend to breathe, and although I didn’t need to, the inability only fed the terror more.
No, no, no. Calm down. I forced myself to push away the growing whirlwind that clouded my head. This surge had to be linked to the M Cloud, to being discovered as unauthorized. Some kind of electrical current, a trap, overwhelming my power source.
My power source.
I groped inside my head, feeling my way through the darkness, through pathways, through images and visions of the past, stored data, until I found it. But what now? I felt my way around it, the tiny orange cell. Blinking faintly, like the surge had blown it out. I surrounded the cell with every bit of strength I had left, issued the command with force.
Recalibration process: Initiated.
Recharging . . .
The cell blink, blink, blinked, like it had all the time in the world. Maybe it did, but Hunter didn’t.
Hurry, I urged.
The little entity gave one big pulse, as if to acknowledge my request. Then, the orange began to brighten at a dizzying rate.
20%
30%
50%
80%
100%
Orange exploded into brightness and I rose, stamping out the inertia that had held me hostage. I spun, raced for the opening, dropping out of the attic into a crouch. I flew down the stairs like Holland hi
mself was on my heels, as a loud thud emitted from the kitchen—the sound a body would make, hitting the tile floor.
Less than a second later I was lunging into the room, taking everything in with a single glance.
Lusk/Jensen, still upright. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring down while wielding a bloody knife. A hole in the window above the sink, glass fragments on the countertop.
And on the floor, oh god—Hunter. Slumped on his back, eyes closed. While, over his right shoulder, a lake of vibrant red lapped away at his white shirt. A lake that grew steadily larger.
And Grady’s gun, lying near Hunter’s hand. He must have run back to his Jeep and gotten it when I was upstairs in the attic, prying information out of Jensen’s computer, or my sensors would have alerted me earlier. He’d wanted to protect us, to protect me.
Visions of my dying mom assaulted me, shattered my frantic thoughts into a kaleidoscope of chaos. All of them, threatening to tear my heart right out of my chest. Mom had died in a pool of blood, and now Hunter was bleeding.
Because of me.
A motion caught my attention, and I glanced up. I saw Jensen stepping toward me, the knife still gleaming in his hand. Blood drops marred its shiny silver surface.
I saw the knife, and all of my thoughts streamlined into one, simple purpose.
He would pay. He would pay, now.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
FIFTEEN
In the next heartbeat, I lunged. Before Jensen could even look up, my foot whipped out, catching him the chest. He crashed into a stainless steel skillet that dangled from a shiny hook, sending the metal pan clattering to the tile floor, narrowly missing Hunter’s head. I started forward, but Jensen was already straightening, gathering himself. And then he was airborne.
I lurched back, but the kitchen was too tiny to avoid him. We collided, with his brawny hands grasping for my neck, and hit the pantry as one. My head exploded against wood with a deafening thud, but nothing could deter me, could quell the enraged thunder of my faux pulse. This man had hurt Hunter, and I would take him down.
His feet scrabbled for purchase on the tile floor, and I waited, let him get his balance. I waited while his hands circled my throat and tightened. While he lifted his head, his eyes bright with victory. He thought he’d won.
No. Way.
My lip curled and with fierce eagerness, I lifted my hands and pried his from my throat, like they were a child’s. Then, I jammed my knee hard into his gut, and as he started to double over, head-butted him. But I saw something, just before my knee connected. I saw Jensen’s victory expression morph into wide eyes, numb lips. He looked like he’d spotted a ghost, and as he fell to the floor, he mouthed a name.
“Sarah.”
A sharp twist; a flicker of memory that vanished the instant it appeared. Then, I shoved past him. I had no time for that now. Not when Hunter could be bleeding to death all over the kitchen floor.
I yanked a clean-looking dishtowel off the counter before dropping to my knees by Hunter’s side. I pressed the fabric to his shoulder. The blood seeped through the thin material almost immediately, warm and wet and oh my god, Hunter was bleeding out, just like my mom, and nothing I could do would save him. . . .
A knot formed in my throat, practically swelling it shut, while ice splintered in my chest, sending tiny shards stabbing into my heart. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. But it was. It was. It—
Body scan: Initiated.
My robotic voice interrupted, and I latched on to it like a parachute on a crashing plane. Too much emotion, when I needed logic. Logic could help me save him. Emotion would only help me cry while he died.
A glimmering 3-D replica of Hunter appeared, midair. Green letters flashed a constant stream of information:
Tearing to epidermal and dermal layers: Consistent with knife wound.
Muscles: Medial and anterior deltoid, severed from origin.. Surgical repair required for maximal function.
Brachial artery: Nicked.
Critical blood loss: Possible.
Disorientation: Possible.
Shock: Possible.
Vital signs: Stable.
Heart rate slightly high: 100 bpm.
Conflicting thoughts bombarded me in a dizzying torrent.
Hunter’s vitals are good—he might be okay.
But he could bleed to death.
Just like Mom.
No. NO.
I heard a scuffling on the floor behind me, followed by a low groan. I craned my head and watched Jensen stumble to his feet and grab for the counter to keep his shaky balance. He had picked up the knife, but when I met his eyes, his face drained of color again. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. His nostrils flared, his eyes widened, and he stood motionless.
Once again, his lips moved, but nothing came out.
Holding his wide-eyed gaze with mine, I pushed to my feet. A spark burst through the fear, and I stoked the flame, urged it into a full-fledged fire. Anything to keep my worry over Hunter at bay. I shot toward him while he stared, stared, stared, continuing to mouth the name like the very sight of me had snatched his vocal cords and rendered him mute.
Sarah.
I covered the distance between us swiftly as an image of my face swam before me, only with brown eyes. Just like in the photo hanging on the fridge. Again, a tingle of perception pushed around the edges of my consciousness.
Sarah. I’d heard her name before Mom had ever uttered it, I knew I had.
More visions flashed, one after another, creating a disjointed video in my head. Waves. A sandy beach. A woman’s laugh. Then, a sensation of overwhelming heat. Smoke, clogging my lungs. Pain.
I doubled over, hands going to my throat, gasping for breath. Air. My lungs burned like fire. I needed air.
Overhead, I swear I heard something crack. A man’s voice, calling my name.
“Sarah!”
Memory banks compromised, defragment.
Image recall.
I blinked, and just like that, poof! Everything disappeared, completely. Like the scenes had never existed in the first place. No sand. No laughter. No fire. I was in a kitchen, still clutching my throat, staring as a tear-streaked man—Jensen—lifted a hesitant hand toward me, as if to touch my cheek.
And on the floor, to my right, was Hunter. His blood splashed across the white tile floor.
My gaze returned to Jensen, and deep inside me, something dangerous burst free.
Engage?
Human loss: Acceptable.
The sound that escaped my mouth was low and guttural.
Surprise yanked him upright, snapping him out of his semicatatonic state. But I was already on him. I shoved him hard in the chest. He staggered back into the cupboards and I followed, pinning him in place when my hands shot out to wrap around his throat.
Target: Immobilized.
Eliminate target?
My hands clamped down. Squeezing against rising resistance.
His strangled gurgle made me pause. I relaxed my grip, just enough for him to wheeze air into his trachea, and put my mouth right next to his ear.
“Listen to me,” I whispered, anger still pouring through my limbs, my head, in a smoldering, lavalike concoction. This man had hurt Hunter. This man was involved with the Vita Obscura.
This man was another Holland.
I willed my hands not to clench in response at the thought of Holland’s name, while Jensen writhed against me, gasping for air.
Control. I had to retain control.
“You will fix Hunter’s arm, and you’ll do it now. If you don’t, I’ll squeeze the life right out of you . . . and enjoy every second of it.”
And in that moment, I meant it. Jensen was going to help me save Hunter. He would help me . . . or he would die, too.
With one final, hard squeeze, I relaxed
my grasp completely. Jensen was already nodding his head. He tried to respond but wheezed again, then barked a weak cough. Five seconds, that’s all I gave him to regain his breath. Then I picked up the gun on the floor and shoved it in my back waistband. As angry and homicidal as I was feeling, for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to aim it at Jensen.
Not that it would have done any good.
Ammo inventory: Last bullet fired.
So all I could do was order Jensen, through gritted teeth, to “Fix. His. Arm.”
“Okay,” he finally managed. “I’ll help.”
I staggered back a step, recognition tingling along my skin like electricity. That voice. It was raspy from the number I’d done on his throat, but even so, the tone, the cadence, the deep pitch—I’d heard them all before. Many, many times. Because that same voice had played, over and over again, in my memories. That voice had soothed childhood injuries, cheered at Phillies’ games, laughed at the beach.
That voice matched the face, exactly—the face that belonged to my “dad.”
He straightened and turned to stride to a cabinet. “But I’ll have to do it here. We can’t take him to a hospital. It’d be far too risky—for you,” he added. His hands shook while he gathered some clean cloths and a bottle of alcohol. “The rest of my supplies are in the garage.”
He shoved the items he held toward me. “Hold these, and I’ll pick him up—”
“No!” I whirled and squatted beside Hunter. His eyelashes fluttered open to reveal pain-glazed eyes, and his moan made me sick to my stomach. “Mi—?” he started, but I was already shaking my head, gently touching my finger to his lips. They were uncharacteristically pale—and chilled to the touch.
“Shhhh, save your strength.”
“I’m s-sorry. He surprised me and I . . . drew the gun.”
Then Hunter shuddered, gasped, and went completely still in my arms.
“Hunter?” I cried as panic surged through me.
“He’s just passed out,” Jensen said calmly.
Even though I could read Hunter’s vitals in a split second and figure that out for myself, I was so filled with rage that my capabilities seemed completely insignificant and useless. I stood and faced Jensen. “If he dies—” I started, fury wrenching my throat closed.
