MILA 2.0

by Debra Driza

  “Holland won’t give the word to bring her in until he sees you. So no stalling,” my escort said.

  I was led down a narrow cement-floored hallway, past a small open room featuring only eight cubicles. Four men and two women typed on computers.

  We rounded a corner, where the hallway dead-ended in a large door.

  Another plain metal door, the sight of which made my entire body balk. I knew that door. I knew it.

  The man yanked on my arm, forcing me to follow him inside, into a stark white room, the floors reflecting a glare from the forty-two unnaturally bright lights crisscrossing the ceiling. Yet for all the illumination, the room felt sterile and cold. Embedded computer screens glowed from the back wall, and high above them sprawled a huge window, framing a group of six men.

  Spectators, I realized.

  Their heavy stares sent a shiver through me. I’d been here before. This exact room.

  I scanned the enclosure again, this time focusing on the left wall, where a low-backed chair was tucked under a massive steel worktable. Twelve toolboxes were stacked on top in two identical rows of six. The toolboxes whispered of something ominous, but it was what I saw behind them that made my legs go still. A pile of thick metal chains on the floor, gleaming under the artificial lighting.

  Chains . . .

  The memory rushed up on me. Being chained in this room. My hair whipping side to side as the lab-coated man smashed my face with the gun.

  The harsh rasp of the drill, raised high over my head.

  My scream, pinging through the room. Like it was clawing at the walls to escape.

  My head . . . jerking back, as if dancing to the deafening gunshot.

  I staggered backward and gasped in a compulsive bid for air, an action that couldn’t possibly dim my horror because my body didn’t require oxygen in the first place. Only one thought blazed through my head.

  Get out. Get out now.

  I whirled for the door, desperate to escape, ready to mow down whoever stood in my way regardless of the consequences. Terrible things happened in this room, and I wasn’t about to stick around and wait for them to happen again.

  Only . . . the door had just closed. Closed, sealing in a tall, steely-eyed man with silver threaded through his dark hair. A man whose broad face might have been pleasant if it hadn’t been for the harsh mouth, or the possessive gleam in his gray eyes as they pored over me.

  “Welcome back, Mila.”

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t think of running now, because I recognized that Southern drawl instantly from the iPod.

  Finally I was face-to-face with my other creator.

  General Holland.

  Twenty-Three

  I waited, still as a rock as Holland approached, absorbing every aspect of his appearance and trying to find a match in my memory. Nothing. His long-legged gait flowed smoothly, leisurely, and his boots were quiet when they touched the floor. It was the walk of a man in a control; a leader unconcerned by making others wait.

  His mouth curved upward into a smile that didn’t crease the skin near his eyes. He pulled up in front of me, itemizing me. He inspected me the way Kaylee used to inspect her favorite boots—the way you inspected something you owned. And then he was actually circling me, like I was a horse for sale and he was a potential buyer.

  Control yourself. Don’t move.

  I felt his warm, wet breath near my neck, and then, oh, god, he was touching me with thick, firm fingers. They prodded my scalp, ran along the back of my neck, lifting my shirt, and when he reached my right arm, they probed at my wrist, feeling the slick line of my memory card port. I didn’t think I could bear it, and yet I did, even though his touch felt like it killed something inside me. It wasn’t perverted but clinical, and yet that was almost worse. Because to him, it was clear I was nothing more than an inanimate object. A car in a showroom. As good as dead.

  With every slow, booted step he took, the basement walls felt more and more impenetrable, and despite the lack of desire in his hands, I wanted to scrub an imaginary layer of dirt from my skin.

  “You’ve caused me one hell of a headache, you know that?” he said when he finally finished his exam, in that booming drawl of his. Tall, broad across the shoulders, and fit, he exuded an initial impression of youthfulness that faded the closer he got. His thick hair was liberally streaked with gray, and the sagging skin beneath his chin was fighting a losing battle with gravity. His black shirt had no traces of lint, and the perfect crease down the front of his tan cargo pants made me aware of how unbelievably rumpled I was in my day-old outfit.

  He brought an unexpected sharp odor with him. Rubbing alcohol mixed with peppermint, both astringent and sweet, a combination that gave me a strange sense of déjà vu.

  The scent dredged up a deep uneasiness that made me desperate to retreat, but instinct told me that was the wrong move. That I should never show this man a sign of intimidation. “General Holland,” I said with forced ease.

  After a rise of his bushy eyebrows, the fake smile widened. “Well, I almost think I should be insulted. Since you’ve been calling Nicole ‘Mom,’ surely that makes me Dad?”

  My desire to scrub intensified. Dad. Coming out of his mouth, the word sounded all kinds of wrong.

  His jaw continued moving in between words, and I caught a glimpse of green between his teeth. Gum. That explained the peppermint. “Hell, I searched harder for you than most parents search for their runaway brats.”

  A perfect clip of the man I’d thought was my dad, the man in Philly, played through my head. A Christmas memory. Opening presents and roasting marshmallows, building a snowman in the front yard and getting in trouble for decorating it with Mom’s favorite silk scarf. Dad’s boisterous laughter as we pegged him with snowballs, and leaving cookies out for Santa.

  Lies, all lies, I knew that now. Like it or not, Holland was right. He had more claim on the title of father than the programmed version who didn’t exist.

  Holland continued his inspection, and I wished I could lash out. Punch that expression right off his face.

  But Mom’s warning was clear.

  I settled on words instead. “That doesn’t make you my dad, it makes you my keeper,” I said, careful to keep an even tone. “All I am to you is a liability—don’t pretend otherwise.”

  Holland frowned. “Mila, you are the result of years and years of research, of hundreds of millions of dollars. Of course you’re not just a liability. You’re an important part of the U.S. military’s defense system. A masterpiece, really.”

  Quick as a snake, his long, thick fingers whipped out to touch my bare arm. His skin barely grazed mine, but this time, I was unprepared. I jerked away in revulsion, causing his mouth to sag even more.

  “Now, there’s no need for that.” From his right pants pocket, he produced a damp square of paper. A sharp scent wafted toward me as he wiped off each finger on both hands before replacing it.

  I guess that explained the rubbing alcohol I’d smelled.

  “Now then. Let’s get a good look at you.”

  He crossed his arms, bringing one finger up to tap his clean-shaven jaw. “Mind you, it’s not that I’m unsympathetic to the . . . situation. But Nicole took unconscionable risks. Can you imagine the damage you might have caused if one of our enemies had found you?” His eyes narrowed. “We have a duty here, Mila—one that Nicole should understand. And the honest-to-god truth is, no matter what she told you—you’re not human. You never will be.”

  His voice wasn’t harsh, or cruel, or even angry. Just matter-of-fact, like he was discussing the components of the lights above us. Which made what he was saying so much worse.

  Not human. Not human. Not human. It was like his words tried to burrow under my expertly manufactured skin, tried to wrap around my very core and extinguish any remaining spark of hope that I had left. Darkness swamped me, and I pulled up the one image I knew could help.

  Hunter’s pale blue eyes, his lopsided smile, blazed to life
in my mind, photograph perfect and so, so real, it almost felt as if I should be able to conjure him into the room with us. The warmth stirred in my chest, the floating, slightly light-headed sensation I experienced when he touched my hand or leaned close, and I let it soak in, surround me, rekindle the hope Holland had tried to crush.

  He wouldn’t win. Not that easily.

  I lifted my chin and glared. “You don’t know anything about me. Not anymore.”

  Holland’s thick lips tightened briefly and then relaxed, allowing a raspy chuckle to escape. Clasping his hands behind him, he strode even closer. “Still feisty, I see. But did you really think that Nicole could make you human, just by tampering with your memory banks and enrolling you in high school?” He shook his head before continuing. “She did you a disservice. It’s cruel, really—giving you false hope, making you believe things that just aren’t true.”

  He squatted a little so he could meet my shorter frame at eye level. “It doesn’t do you any good to cling to these illusions. Unlike Nicole, I would never lie to you. You have my word on that.”

  At my mutinous expression, he sighed and rose, shaking his head. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. Now that we’ve got you back, we’ll make the best possible use of you—or parts of you—that we can.”

  Parts of me? An image of me, screaming while Holland sawed a giant seam down the middle of my body, then tore pieces from deep inside and dropped them into the outstretched hands of waiting soldiers, filled my head. I fought back a shudder as I studied the narrowed, cool gray eyes that were now completely devoid of humor. How had Mom ended up working with this man? Sure, she’d lied to me, but out of kindness and concern. Whereas Andrew Holland . . . well, figuratively speaking, he had less heart than I did.

  Mom. If only I could talk to her, see her, just for a minute. Just to make sure she was okay.

  “Can I see my mom? Please?” I said through gritted teeth, while the urge to lash out grew stronger. In an attempt to curb it, my fingers clenched into fists, tighter and tighter.

  Maximum force: 300 lbs. per square inch.

  The red words in my head startled me, and I loosened my hands instantly, shaking them out like I could shake away the reality of the words, the voice. That amount of pressure could be deadly.

  Holland shook his head, his slight smile lingering. “I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.”

  “Why not? What have you done with her?” Terrible thoughts attacked me—images of Mom unconscious in a dark cell somewhere in the depths of this place, blood trickling onto the floor from where they’d tortured her for information.

  “Nothing. I assure you, Nicole is just fine. Do you really think I’d do anything to harm her? Especially when I know she’s the best way of ensuring your cooperation.”

  His words sounded innocuous enough, but I detected their hidden meaning. So long as I did whatever Holland asked, Mom would be safe. But if not . . .

  “When, then? When will it be possible?” My complete lack of power, Mom’s absence, they both hit me at once. Whether or not I ever saw Mom again was completely dependent on this cold, hard man’s whim, and despite my efforts to push them away, that realization made my eyes flood with helpless tears.

  Holland heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. “Damn,” he said softly. Out came the wipe again, the pungent bite of alcohol, while he carefully cleaned his hands. “I’d prayed that your emotional responses had neutralized during your time away, but I can see that’s not the case. Still, that’s exactly why we made sure to have an alternate—and improved—version.”

  An alternate version. Words that even my superbrain needed a split second longer to process.

  “What do you mean?” But I was very, very afraid I knew exactly what he meant.

  “We didn’t just trunk all our research because of a few glitches. We created another MILA.” Holland slid the wipe back into his pocket before smiling, the first genuine smile I’d seen from him.

  A smile that seemed to suck all the warmth from my body. “Are you saying there’s another version of . . . of me?” My voice fell into a whisper.

  Holland’s smile grew broader, balling up his beefy cheeks and deepening the four creases that branched out from his eyes to his temples. “Exactly. Want to meet her? A version without your overreactive emotional garbage.”

  He glanced up at the rectangular spectator window and gave a nod. Then he turned to face the door I’d originally entered.

  I stared at it, still fumbling to grasp the implications of what he’d just said. In a few moments, something was going to walk through that door. Another MILA.

  Another girl formed using the exact same research that had created me.

  Well, not exactly the same. This MILA wouldn’t have my “overreactive emotional garbage,” as Holland had so tactfully put it.

  My simulated heart accelerated, pounding frantically, like it was trying to escape my body. I lifted a hand to my chest, trying to take comfort in the very human thumping while fighting off the feeling that everything about it was a mockery. Muffled footsteps came from outside the door, followed by the beep that signaled a code had been entered successfully. Then the metallic click of the locking mechanism disengaging.

  Finally the door slid open, and a girl entered.

  Her attire was normal enough—charcoal-gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved white tee. Okay, so maybe her gait was a little too fluid. So graceful, her sneakered footsteps barely made a sound on the concrete floor.

  But that wasn’t what filled me with mounting horror. It was her mouth, with the extra-wide lower lip. Her strong build—more quarter horse than thoroughbred. The precise, round shape of her large eyes, the same green as mine. Holland had said “an alternate version,” when apparently what he really meant was “identical twin.”

  I stood frozen, unable to run, to turn away, even though part of me pleaded to do just that. I couldn’t even swallow as she sauntered toward us. I searched for some distinguishing mark, characteristic, anything that might tell us apart. She couldn’t be exactly the same as me. She couldn’t.

  Except she was. In every way that I could see, barring her hair. Mine was still all choppy and black and punker wannabe from my futile disguise attempt. My fingers crept to my neck, suddenly even more fiercely attached to my new look. At least it kept me from being a complete clone. I forced my attention back to Other Mila. There had to be something there, something different about her that I could pick out. I just needed to look carefully enough.

  After one brief glance at the girl, Holland’s cunning gaze remained focused on my face, savoring every nuance of my reaction. “Mila, allow me to introduce you to your sister, if you will. This is MILA 3.0.”

  Other Mila, my twin, came to life then, with a polite smile and an extended hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said in a pleasant tone.

  Only it was like I’d said it. Because her voice . . . her voice was mine, too.

  I flinched, stumbled a step back from this gruesome thing. Staring at her—it made it that much harder for me to cling to the hope that I was real. If I were, then she never would have been possible. Besides, if we looked exactly the same, who knew what else we shared? I mean, we’d been created in the same lab. Did that mean we shared the same exact thoughts, the same exact way of looking at the world? Was she reading my mind, right now?

  Even after discovering the truth of my origins, I’d never thought to question my individuality. I’d just always known I was unique, original—my own creation, just like any other human being. Now Holland was trying to rip that facade away with his latest handiwork . . . rip away everything that made me believe I was more than just a mass-manufactured machine, no more special than the next one on the assembly line.

  She glided a step closer to compensate for my retreat, her overly familiar hand still looming in front of me, waiting for me to shake it. The idea of touching her skin repulsed me. Would it feel like touching me?

  Cognizant of
Holland’s watchful eyes, I hesitantly reached out and clasped her fingers in mine. Her skin was smooth, lukewarm, neutral. All that concern, and I felt . . . nothing. No connection, no disgust.

  It was just like touching anyone else.

  Other Mila didn’t act perturbed in the slightest over my appearance. Our appearance. She just stepped back to stand at Holland’s side, a slight frown drawing her brows downward as she glanced at her creator. “Why isn’t she happy to see me?”

  Holland patted her head, the way you might pat a dog. “Don’t worry, you did well.”

  Three’s lips—I would not think of her as Other Mila, I couldn’t—launched into a bright smile. My lips. I stared with a sick fascination. I’d never realized my eyes looked so squinty when I smiled like that.

  Her grin vanished an instant later. Three just stood, face placid, arms dangling loosely at her sides. As if awaiting her next command.

  My skin felt like tiny insects were crawling on it when Holland patted her again. “Amazing, isn’t she? It took three tries, but I think we finally got it right.”

  Three tries . . . . “There was another version?” I asked. Unsure that I really wanted to know the answer.

  Three smiled, bouncing up on her toes in her eagerness to respond. “The first MILA prototype was embedded with one thousand more pain receptors per square inch than the subsequent versions.”

  Subsequent versions—meaning her and me. I guess that was one way to depersonalize us.

  “While the extra receptors ensured that version 1.0 wouldn’t be detected via lack of pain response, they also caused her to fail the torture tests.”

  “Torture tests?”

  Three blinked at me, once. “Replications of torture scenarios in the lab to see how easily the participants might give up information if they’re captured.”

  The memory flashed in my head again, and reality crashed over me. Wrong, all wrong. Tests, torture. The drill, the gun. Screaming. But it hadn’t been my screaming after all; the girl in the room hadn’t been me.

  Instead of soothing me somehow, that knowledge made me feel one thousand times worse. Because that girl could experience way more pain, serious pain, and they’d tortured her to test her limits.