by Debra Driza
The whites around Mom’s blue eyes showed. The tape turned her words into muffled noises, but I was pretty sure she was trying to say, “Mila, run!” as the guy with the wrench rushed at me, swift and sure.
But not as swift and sure as me. I ran, just like Mom wanted.
Right in her direction.
I reached the Windbreaker guy at the same time he lifted the wrench. Despite having her arms tethered, Mom kicked for his knee, right when my hand lashed out at his nose. Our combined forces knocked him back a step. He crashed into boxes, and all of them toppled to the ground.
Rough arms grabbed me from behind. My head whipped back, and bam! I heard a sharp crackle of cartilage crumpling under my skull. His harsh cry didn’t stop me. I spun—and rammed an elbow into the short man’s left kidney, making him stagger. All it took was one swift kick to the same spot to send him crashing onto a pile of discarded garden tools. His shriek rang out when his head smashed the back of a shovel.
I raced to Mom before the last two guys could reach me, freeing her from the rope and tape with two powerful yanks of my hand.
Mom lashed out, her elbow catching a nose. She ducked away, but he didn’t try to grab her. No, both men were now completely focused on me.
They came at once. One lifted a sleek metal Taser and took aim. And it was like someone flipped a switch inside me, triggering me into total fight mode.
The moves flew through my head first, and I executed with perfect synchronicity.
Drop to ground, foot sweep to target’s ankles.
The Taser’s prongs flashed and ripped through the air, hitting the ceiling as the man stumbled back.
Target: Vulnerable.
Spin.
One hand to his wrist, other on his Taser. Snap backward. Ignore crunch and scream, continue to incapacitate.
Block target’s attack with right arm.
Left hand, slice to crichoid cartilage. Right knee to left kidney. A final chop, to back of target’s neck.
Target: Immobilized.
“Mila, behind you!” Mom yelled.
But I was already on it. Like I was performing a carefully choreographed dance, I swooped down, scooped up the discarded Taser, and whirled, all in one continuous motion. I aimed just as the fourth man was reaching for his holster. One flick of the switch, and the white light shot out like an electrical tongue. His entire body convulsed, the coppery smell of burned metal searing the air.
Target: Immobilized.
I turned to do a quick inventory. Four men down. And I wasn’t even winded. Maybe it was impossible for me to be winded. It was like I was a fighting machine.
Reality crashed over me. A fighting machine.
“Mila?”
I looked over to see Mom still staring at the fourth target, the one I’d stunned. He hadn’t moved. I knew what she was asking, and the truth was . . . I didn’t know. I didn’t know, and I was afraid of the answer. Because the Taser hadn’t been set to bring down a human; it’d been set much higher. It’d been set to bring me down.
She shook her head as if to clear it. And that was all it took to spring her back into action. “The car!”
I staggered back, horrified at the damage I might have done, but Mom grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. “Let’s go. Now.”
I stumbled along in her wake, in a daze.
Mom didn’t stop once, just vaulted boxes, pulling me along until we’d made it outside and were rushing for the SUV.
I slowed before we jumped off the porch. “Wait, what about our stuff? The iPod?”
She yanked. “Out here.” Before we made it to the end of the dirt path, she swerved, toward the line of stepping-stones that ran along the side of the house and the driveway. She squatted down and, with a strain of her shoulders, pushed the third one to the side. Underneath wasn’t dirt, like you’d expect, but a hole. And inside that hole was a small metal lockbox.
She grabbed it and started for the SUV once more. “Suitcase is in the car.”
And with a stab of realization, I understood. The dark-blue suitcase that was always in the back of the SUV, it wasn’t part of some weird grieving process for Dad. How could it be, when that person didn’t exist? No, all along, Mom had been ready for this moment.
And now it was here.
Mom wrenched open the door and vaulted into the driver’s seat, jamming the keys into the ignition.
“Move over.” I jumped into the car after she scrambled over to the passenger side. I pulled the door closed and gunned the gas pedal into reverse. The SUV shot out of the driveway backward.
As the familiar sight of Greenwood Ranch faded in the rearview mirror, the same thought whirled through my head, around and around like the tires below us.
A fighting machine.
The voice on the recording, my mom’s outlandish story—all of it was real.
My fingers squeezed the wheel, so tightly that I felt the metal underneath the padding start to yield. No matter what, I wouldn’t let anyone change me. I wouldn’t let them strip away whatever tiny parts of me were human.
. . . a fighting machine . . .
Assuming I had any humanity to lose.
It wasn’t until we’d driven through the residential streets and onto eastbound 94 that I realized I hadn’t turned on the headlights. No headlights to pierce the streetlamp-devoid Clearwater country roads, and yet I could still see perfectly. I’d noticed every slight curve of the road, every leaf on the trees swaying lightly in the breeze, even the license plate numbers on the old trucks and cars parked at the far ends of long driveways. I could see all of it, clear as day.
I shook my head as I snapped on the lights so we wouldn’t get pulled over. I’d been out at night before but had stumbled in the dark just like anyone else.
Up until yesterday.
Something suctioned at my stomach, leaving a strange emptiness to creep into its place. Night vision wasn’t the only thing I’d acquired over the last twenty-four hours. There was also the way I’d calculated the precise distance to the targets at the carnival and shot them without a single deviation. How I’d taken down five armed men with minimal exertion. The “Target: Down” and “Target: Immobilized.” Glowing red evidence behind my eyes.
I drove on, trying to push the thoughts away, trying to erase the dawning, awful certainty of what must have happened. I’d always been different, part of me argued—the part that still desperately needed to believe in the woman sitting beside me, despite everything that had happened. After all, I’d heard Hunter speak all the way across the Dairy Queen, picked up the thump of Maisey’s bucket from an impossible distance. I’d hurt Kaylee when I could have sworn I barely touched her. All those things had occurred before the accident.
But the bigger part of me, the more certain part, rejected that rationale as bogus. Those things were minor. Too minor, when compared to combat fighting and gun handling. It was almost like . . .
My throat constricted as I allowed the realization to fully surface.
. . . like someone had switched me into a different mode.
I remembered Mom, back at the house after the accident. Tinkering with my arm, my neck, all while a stranger chipped away pieces of my life with every brutal word.
Tinkering with my neck. When my arm had been the only part damaged.
The crunch of plastic under my hands alerted me to how hard I clutched the steering wheel. I relaxed my grip. I needed the truth before I permanently maimed the car.
“What did you do to me? Press some kind of activation switch after you stitched me up?”
I felt that same tiny flare of hope from before, when I’d first shown her my arm. That same rise of breathless anticipation that maybe, just maybe, I’d come to the wrong conclusion, even though I knew better.
“I’m sorry, Mila.”
Three words, I realized with a choked sob. That’s all it took for hope to die.
When her hand settled on my shoulder, I shook it off, making the Tahoe swerve
. “Don’t,” I said. “Just tell me what you did.”
Despite my resolve to stay focused on the twin glow of taillights ahead, I caught the way she deflated against the seat and the weary drag of her hand down the back of her neck. “I kept your hardwired defense system inactivated until you injured your arm . . . at which time I worried we’d find ourselves in a situation exactly like this.”
I flinched, repulsed by what I knew was coming next but still needing to hear her admit to the details. “So, what? You turned me into some kind of psycho killer without telling me? And I’m supposed to be okay with it?”
“No.”
At that unexpected reply, my head whipped toward her. “No, what?”
“No, you’re not a psycho killer, and I didn’t expect you to be okay with it. But I did reactivate your defense mode. You should be fully functional after forty-eight hours.”
So there it was, plain as day. Another betrayal in a whole string of them. One thing became blindingly, painfully clear: there was no one I could trust.
A single tear slid down my cheek. I dashed it away, angered by my weakness.
Mom sighed. “I know you’re upset, but I was trying to keep you safe. You have to realize: that wasn’t the regular military after us—that isn’t their MO. They would have come after us en masse, guns blazing, no sneaking in the middle of the night. No, this reeks of Andrew Holland.”
“Who?”
“General Holland, the cocreator of the MILA project—the man you heard on the iPod. He’s in charge of SMART Ops.”
“SMART Ops?”
“Secure Military Android Research and Testing, a clandestine military operation run by Holland. And there’s a reason for that. The man is a coldhearted megalomaniac. I didn’t see it at first, but—”
“Stop!” A general? SMART Ops? A clandestine military operation? Was this all for real? I shook my head before another question could tumble out. “I don’t want to know.”
“But—”
“I mean it!” I flung my open palm at Mom, hoping the visual cue might silence her if words couldn’t. “I can’t take any more, not tonight.”
I felt her gaze search my face but refused to acknowledge it. I couldn’t. I was too afraid that even a single trace of concern would push me over the edge. Turn me into either a screaming lunatic or a bawling wreck.
Besides, as far as I was concerned, this was all her fault. Nothing she could tell me about this mysterious SMART Ops would change anything. Not our course of action, or our inability to turn around and return to our old life in Clearwater. Return to Hunter. It wouldn’t magically enable the man stored in my memory to really become my father.
It wouldn’t make me real.
Beside me, Mom’s blond head bowed over her hands.
“Where are we headed?” I snapped.
“Toronto,” she said. “Pearson Airport. Holland will have us flagged at every U.S. airport. Our chances are much better in Canada, and from there, we’ll head abroad.”
I heard her explanation, but all I could think was Canada. We were going to Canada, and then boarding an airplane to some other foreign country. At this point, it didn’t really matter where. All that mattered was that Clearwater, even the U.S., would be out of reach for good.
Loss clawed at my chest as an image of Hunter’s blue eyes flashed before me. His quirky smile. I’d known we were leaving the state, but another country? That seemed so final. Now I’d never have another chance to make the fairy tale real.
Desperately needing the distraction, I reached over to plug the information into the Tahoe’s GPS system. Mom stopped me.
“Wait, they might be able to track the car’s GPS system. But—” She broke off and turned toward the passenger window. The struggle back at the house had caused blond strands to escape her ponytail and hang haphazardly down her neck, ruining her usual illusion of perfection.
“But what?”
After a large sigh and one more glance at the dead night streets of rural Minnesota, she swung back around to face me. “You have built-in GPS. And yours has stealth mode.”
My lips parted, but no words came out, just a strangled gasp. Compliments of the rocklike lump stuck in my throat. GPS. Stealth mode.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, Mom shattered any chances I had of being human. Over and over again.
“Mila—”
I flashed her my palm again. “Later. Please,” I whispered. The ache in my chest expanded, stretched, until I was sure it would distort my skin beyond repair.
I’d lost Hunter, I’d lost my family, and now, with every new ability that revealed itself, I was losing me.
Fifteen
It wasn’t until we’d left Minneapolis far behind that I was ready to broach the topic again. “So how do I make the GPS work?”
Mom shifted in the seat, her eyes never moving from the rearview window. She must have been really stressed, if even the idea of explaining my GPS feature didn’t perk her up.
My hands tensed.
“Now that I reinitialized all your functions, it will update wirelessly, so you’re always current. As far as activating it . . . you just issue the GPS command.”
The GPS command. Right. I liked how she made it sound so everyday, like toast and orange juice in the morning.
Feeling like the biggest fool in Minnesota, I muttered, “GPS.”
“Not out loud. In your head,” she said, with a hint of a smile in her voice this time.
Her amusement made me grit my teeth. I unclenched my jaw while passing a slow-moving Buick on my left, then concentrated.
GPS.
Deep down, I didn’t really expect it to work—okay, maybe a little piece of me hoped it wouldn’t work—so I jerked in my seat when the word blinked red behind my eyes.
Like magic, a glowing green map unfurled before me, unleashing a detailed schematic of Minnesota. And there we were, a tiny, blinking orange dot.
I waited, waited for the world to quit swaying under our car, for my mind to quit fighting itself. It was disconcerting, because half of my brain was trying to spit the image out like it was a sour swig of milk, while the other half held on tightly, refusing to budge. And despite my very human desire to get rid of the monstrosity, the thing that marked me as different, the android side was winning. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t make the map disappear.
“Turn it off. How do I turn it off?”
My voice sounded weak, faint, even to my own ears. I felt rather than saw Mom’s concern as she turned toward me. My hands clenched the wheel to keep the Tahoe from swerving.
“GPS off.”
I latched onto the phrase with a gulp of desperation.
GPS off.
The war in my head ended the instant the map vanished.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
If you could be okay with a throbbing brain, then sure. I was fine. “I just . . . don’t want to look at it right now.”
“Okay.”
Silence stretched between us, awkward, heavy. Full of lies and betrayals. But underneath all the anger, the hurt, I had to admit I was grateful for her presence. And despite wanting to call her, to think of her as, Nicole, I couldn’t quite overcome the programming in my brain that made me think of her as Mom.
I stared glumly ahead. I had a long trip to work on that, though.
Once again I felt her focus on me. A moment later she said, “I think we should pull over for the night soon. It’s a little risky, but I need to be fresh for tomorrow, at the airport. One mistake, and . . .”
She didn’t finish, and I didn’t ask.
“Anyway, we need to change our appearances, too. To match our new passports.”
New passports?
Digging into her purse, she pulled out two blue laminated folders and handed one to me.
Two laminated folders that held brand-new futures—futures I wasn’t sure I wanted. I flipped open the passport and gave the information a cursory glance.
&nbs
p; Just yesterday, I’d discovered I wasn’t Mila the girl, but Mila the android. Now I no longer got to be Mila at all. My new persona was Stephanie, a Photoshopped image of me with short, jagged black hair.
At the rate I was going, I’d never figure out my true identity.
“You didn’t even ask,” I muttered under my breath. It was a tiny thing, given the events that had transpired. So tiny. Yet, just for once, I would have liked some input into my own future, even if that only meant picking out a phony name and hairstyle.
“What?”
“Nothing. Where should I pull off?”
Mom drummed her fingers against her leg, apparently lost in thought. Finally she said, “Doesn’t matter. Anywhere between here and Chicago. We’ll try to find a motel that looks a little run-down, where they’re more likely to let us have a room without asking for ID.”
A run-down motel, a run for the border. I’d appreciate it if sometime soon, things would start looking up.
At the next decently sized exit that advertised gas-food-lodging, I pulled off the freeway. A couple of nicer-looking chain motels hovered near the off ramp, but Mom shooed me past them. I drove farther down the street until we came to one that satisfied her, one with only three cars in the parking lot, a beaten-down two-story with a neon sign advertising VACANCY.
After accepting the key card from the sleepy old woman behind the desk, we drove around to our motel room. The fresh coat of tan paint on the door looked hopeful, as did the shiny brass 33 centered just above a tiny peephole. But the inside didn’t follow through. The door swung open, revealing two dated and dingy double beds with orange-and-brown comforters, tan carpet that had seen better days, and an old-fashioned big square TV bolted to a table. As if anyone would want to steal that dinosaur. Pine-scented air freshener couldn’t mask the musty reek of mold, nor could the plaid pattern on the comforters hide the five dark stains scattered between them. I didn’t even want to think about what had caused them.
I tossed the suitcase on the squat chair in the corner—the cleanest-looking spot in the room—and carefully perched on a stain-free edge of the bed. Despite the fatigue tugging at her eyes, Mom completed an efficient sweep of the room, checking under beds and the bathroom before returning to hover by the door, purse in hand.
