by Debra Driza
While I crossed the length of the room to obey Holland’s command, all I could think was I bet I’m not going to win test two by singing a song.
Twenty-Seven
As we stepped into the hallway, Holland clasped his hands behind his back, like this was just a lazy stroll. The pungent alcohol smell of him made my head pound, but I didn’t dare move farther away. Any show of intimidation on my part would give this man way too much satisfaction.
We took one step, then two, while I waited for him to speak. I knew he must have wanted me alone for a reason, and I wasn’t disappointed.
“Now, I realize that Nicole probably painted me like some kind of monster, and I wanted to set the record straight.”
My lips parted, and I spared him a sideways glance. A small frown tugged at his mouth.
Seriously? If this was his master plan—to convince me he was misunderstood or something—then he should have saved his breath.
And why on earth did he care?
His low, rumbling laugh rebounded all around us, echoing like multiple Hollands walked the hall, surrounding me from all sides.
I stifled a shudder at that horrendous thought and waited for him to speak. “Oh, I know you’re thinking I’m full of BS, but honest to god, it’s true. Do you know I’ve got a wife at home, two great kids? Girls, like you.”
I tried to picture Holland with a daughter, no, two of them—bouncing them on his knee, playing hide-and-seek. Wiping them down at ten-minute intervals with disinfectant.
A tiny snort escaped me, and just like that, Holland shed his amiable mask and pounced.
His burly hands shot out and grabbed my upper arm, whipping me around to face him. My pulse thundered while my mind cleared.
Human threat: Located.
Engage?
More than anything, I wished I could answer yes. But he’d hidden Mom somewhere in this place, and if I wanted her back, I had to play his stupid game.
So, despite the overpowering urge to grab his arms, squeeze, and see how he liked it, I forced myself to go limp. To keep my face expressionless as I stared into his sneer.
His grip tightened. “Nicole, busting you out of here—you think she was doing that all for you?” His derisive grunt loosened a sliver of doubt, deep within my core. “Let me tell you something—at least I wouldn’t risk letting the Vita Obscura get their hands on you.”
I couldn’t help but repeat the unfamiliar name. “Vita Obscura?”
His gray eyes gleamed. “That’s right, you’d better listen up. You think our plans for you were bad? At least we’ve got the nation’s safety at heart. The Vita Obscura? Why, they’re just a bunch of money-hungry thieves—they steal technology and sell it to the highest bidder. And if they got their hands on you, well . . .” He let out a low, peppermint-scented whistle. “Let’s just say you’d be thinking this place was a dream come true. But don’t worry, you’ll find out more soon enough.”
Abruptly, he released me and started striding forward again, and I hurried to catch up, my mind whirling.
Vita Obscura. We finally had a name for the men who’d come after us at the ranch and the motel.
I didn’t have long to dwell on it, because we were back in front of the original testing room’s door. Holland reached out to punch in his code before pausing.
“Want to know a little secret?”
The renewed cheer in his voice was answer enough. No, no thank you. But of course I didn’t really have a choice.
Even though there wasn’t another soul in the hall, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m a terrible loser, and I hate being wrong even more. But I’m thinking that’s not going to be a problem here. No sir, not at all.”
Then he finished punching in the code. And while the door slid open, I wondered—Mom should have warned me. Because not only was Holland dangerous, but his mercurial, bizarre moods hinted at something far more disturbing: the man was clearly insane.
We’d barely entered the original testing room when the door slid open behind us, and Lucas walked in.
In his right hand he held a small black box.
“That doesn’t look like files.”
Lucas smiled weakly, his gaze wavering between the two of us. Holland, then me. Holland, then me. Finally Holland waved his hand. “Go ahead, proceed.”
But his mere presence in the room made the tension ratchet up, and I knew Lucas felt it too. I rubbed my palms on my pants. Steady. Don’t look at him.
Lucas stepped away from me, his casualness from the repair room replaced by a stiffness that jerked his lanky frame upright. “You have exactly ten minutes to analyze the contents of these files.”
He released the latch and opened the box, lowering it to reveal a red memory card tucked into an indent in the gold interior. Nothing inherently dangerous in its appearance. Except—my last experience, in the hotel room, hadn’t been all that stellar.
Lucas closed his fist, blocking the card from view. “These files contain information on a group of interest to the U.S. military, known as the Vita Obscura. When you study them, don’t just memorize and store the facts. Focus on patterns, on any insight into the minds and motivations of this group. As well as on any information that might be missing.”
That last line lacked any basic logic. “How can I focus on information that’s not there?” I said, acutely aware of Holland watching me.
Holland cleared his throat once again, making Lucas flinch. “I’m not at liberty to answer questions. The timer activates as soon as you insert the card.”
I waited for more. There had to be more. “And then what?” I finally asked, desperation swelling into my voice, prompting my hand to reach for his sleeve. I caught myself just before I made contact and forced the hand back to my side, closed my eyes, and drew in a shallow breath. Steady, I had to remain steady.
“And then . . . you start analyzing.”
Lucas opened his hand, exposing the small red square, a bright splash of color against his pale palm. An image flashed in my head, the image of my mom holding the iPod out to me back in Clearwater in a very similar fashion. A warning that even the simplest of items could turn out to be devastating.
My hand didn’t want to move, didn’t want to reach out and touch that hard piece of plastic. Out of nowhere, a deviant thought pulsed through my mind. I could refuse. Refuse to do this test, refuse whatever awful thing awaited me on that card.
Thereby condemning both my mom and myself to whatever the military had in store if I failed.
I licked my lips, surprised when they didn’t feel dry. Just another phantom sensation, an illusion like all the rest. A tiny tremor raced over me, so small I didn’t think there was any way someone would catch it. But Lucas did. I knew from the quick hiss of his startled inhalation.
I had to be more careful.
His gold-tipped eyelashes swept down as he stared at the square with a clenched jaw, and for a moment, I got the insane impression he was going to chuck it, Holland or not. But of course he didn’t; that had just been my inner hope projecting onto him. Me seeing things that weren’t there.
Still, when my fingers curled around the card, Lucas’s fingers curled around mine.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so softly that Holland, from his sentry post ten feet away, would never catch it.
While I was still processing that, he released my hand and retreated for the door.
Seeing me looking, Holland gave a small salute that I could only imagine was some kind of mockery. Then he pivoted and slowed his usually brisk pace to keep abreast of Lucas. The last image I had was of Holland’s contemplative expression contrasting with Lucas’s pale face as the metal barrier slid between us, Lucas’s hazel eyes looking stricken.
And then I was alone. Grateful for Holland’s absence, yet inexplicably missing Lucas.
The card was still nestled in my palm, a minuscule .15 ounces that somehow felt heavy enough to anchor me to the floor.
The test, I reminded myself, w
hen my hand refused to cooperate and insert the square into my wrist. I was wasting valuable time preparing for the next test, and if I didn’t pass that test, I lost everything.
With that thought spurring me on, I held out my right arm and shoved the card into the crease of my wrist.
Input: Accepted.
A faint buzz of electrical current preceded the data, and my wrist hummed. Warmth raced up my arm, shot through my shoulder, and swept into my head.
Once again, my body tried to rebel, and my legs quivered under me while my upper body tensed in a knee-jerk reaction to force the data out. I concentrated on relaxing my hands, my arms, on opening my mind and accepting the data rush.
An instant later, the information whooshed into my head, file upon file upon file. I was ready this time, though, and now the process didn’t feel quite so fish-out-of-water overwhelming. Lucas’s warning surfaced.
When you study it, don’t just memorize and store the facts.
Which meant I really needed to analyze the data. According to Mom, something that might be more challenging to do from inside my head. I bet Three could assess everything internally, whereas, in human fashion, I still utilized my senses for optimal information processing. Not something Holland was likely to reward.
A quick glance confirmed that Lucas had resumed his sentinel spot behind the spectator window. Solo. Holland had probably realized that watching an android inspect data wouldn’t be the most fascinating way to pass the time.
I studied Lucas, debating if I should chance viewing the data outside my head. It might lead to a lower score.
Then again, if viewing the data the wrong way helped me score higher on the actual challenge, it’d be all worthwhile, right?
As I weighed my decision, Lucas’s mouth formed a word.
“Project.”
Decision made.
In my head, I repeated him.
Project.
The information rush paused on a heartbeat and, a millisecond later, changed direction and swept the opposite way. I felt the zap of the current shift, and one blink later, the glowing square enveloped me. Each “wall” was two feet away from the midpoint of my body, where small folder icons blinked green in midair. Waiting for my command.
When the square first surrounded me, my first urge was to escape. To eject the card like I had back at the motel and toss it across the floor. But the time for hiding from my abilities was over. This was what I’d been created for. There was no reason for me to be afraid. At least, that was the mantra I whispered to myself in hopes that maybe I’d actually start to believe it.
One thing at a time. Start small.
I focused on the icons. My hands started to lift, until I remembered the spectator window. I shoved them into my jeans instead, determined to manipulate the icons with my mind. I couldn’t afford to squander any points.
Concentrating on the folder that said BACKGROUND, I glided through my head to hunt down the command.
The entire process was smoother, less clunky than the first time I’d performed it in the motel. A confirmation that with every computerlike act I performed, I became a more efficient machine.
Open file.
The folder unlocked, unleashing page after page of information, all of it hovering in the air before me.
Before I realized what was happening, that I even knew how to work so fast, pages had shifted to the side, some of them gliding around to the opposite walls of my information enclosure. The thing masquerading as my heart crashed under my ribs as a heady blend of exhilaration and terror radiated through my chest. The first page arranged itself directly in front of my eyes, green words gleaming. And at the very top of the page was a name. One that meant nothing to me.
Trenton Blane.
Aware that seconds were ticking by, I scanned the rest.
White male, born forty-two years ago in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Five feet eight inches tall and 165 pounds, dark-brown hair, and no known scars.
Father: Harvey Blane, deceased from neurological trauma and cancer consistent with Agent Orange exposure during his tour of duty in the Vietnam War.
Mother: Gloria Blane. Resides in Happy Sunrises Assisted Living Home in Jacksonville, Florida. Dementia patient.
Occupation: Computer programmer at Leusta Enterprises, a legitimate IT company.
Suspected secondary occupation: Founding member of the Vita Obscura.
A group that wasn’t picky, I discovered. Apparently Holland had been telling the truth, at least about that. The Vita Obscura stole any technology they could find—especially military and defense—and then sold it to anyone who handed over the cash. Terrorists included. I pictured the two men from the motel and shivered. Had that been their plan, to sell me to some terrorist organization? So they could use me for . . . what?
As disturbing as all of this was, I still didn’t understand what the Vita Obscura had to do with my test.
When I finished gleaning the background file for any tips, I sent the pages shooting back into their folder. I barely thought the command before the photo folder whipped up to replace it.
Open file.
The first photos that popped out were all of posed shots of Trenton. Besides the description before, he was pale and square jawed, with a mustache.
Then surveillance photos. Lots of them. In an office, jogging outdoors, eating in restaurants, by a silver Lincoln Navigator, in front of a tall, narrow house with a red door. Outside a sign for Tommy’s Executive Three-Hole Golf Course, Fit! Gym, and Reynaurd’s grocery store.
A whirlwind of images, many of them with other faces besides Blane’s. Several over plates of burgers with an older, balding man, with a young, uniformed male trainer at the gym. A young brunette, helping him with his golf swing. A couple of different men getting into his car.
I sifted through more icons, more files, and discovered that they’d just about had enough on Trenton to seize him, when Poof! He vanished, like he’d known they were coming.
When I read the title of the next file, I thought I knew why.
VITA OBSCURA MOLE.
Apparently Holland was convinced that someone had infiltrated SMART Ops, just a few weeks before Mom left. His suspected goal?
Me.
There was no name associated with the mole, which I found odd, but they did have one photo. Not his military one—apparently he’d erased that off the computer before he’d escaped. No, this was a casual shot, taken with two other soldiers. I recognized one as the mustached soldier from the car—the one who’d touched my face, and the other a stocky blond I hadn’t seen. They were identified as Mitchell Jennings and Ray Haynes.
The mole was wearing sunglasses, but I memorized the shape of his nose, his chin, his hairline. That way, if Mom and I ever did escape, we’d know who to look for.
I closed my eyes, blocking out the glowing square so I could analyze what I’d learned so far. I still had no idea how this information played into my test, and time was almost up.
Reopening my eyes, I sifted through the files faster.
But there was no specific information to extract. Desperation steered my fingers as the files shifted in front of me again. I had to have missed a connection somewhere. I went to flip a folder open for the third time when beyond the glimmering green enclosure that formed my temporary world, I heard footsteps. Beeps. The whoosh of a door opening. People were entering the room.
Holland was one of those people, and he was smiling.
Twenty-Eight
I gritted my teeth, hoping the action would stop my hands from trembling. I kept sifting through the data as five people approached, four of them on surprisingly quiet feet, the fifth one with footsteps that weren’t quite even. Lucas was with them.
They drew closer, and closer, until I felt Holland towering just a few inches behind me, until I could feel their collective breath fluttering my hair.
My heart stuttered as their nearness burned into my skin, begging me to step forward to a safer spot, but I
held my ground.
Determinedly, I waved my hand and commanded another glowing file to open and spill its documents along the virtual wall before me. I could do this. I could tune them out and finish my assigned task. This was just another part of the test, an attempt to unnerve me.
I’d almost convinced myself of that when two sets of rough hands latched on to my upper arms and yanked me backward. I tried to break free, but something cold and sleek molded itself to my wrists. Handcuffs. Chains.
With a flicker, the glowing files in front of me vanished as I jerked my arms against the restraints.
Tensile strength: 1000 lbs.
These were no normal handcuffs.
An icy knot formed in my chest as a sharp jab in the back pushed me forward. If they’d been trying to unnerve me, then they’d succeeded.
Hopefully, I hid it well.
I was silent for the first part of the march across the room, then finally blurted, “Is this part of the test?”
No response, other than a hard shove to propel me forward. I stumbled once, regained my footing, then continued walking. No talking. Check.
Good thing Holland couldn’t look into my brain right now. If so, he’d probably fail me right then and there, based on the elaborate revenge scenarios I was plotting.
Two steps later, when I realized exactly where we were headed, my artificial veins went frigid, my legs turned to stone.
No emotions. No emotions. No. Emotions.
My mental chant was the only thing that kept me from gasping.
A few steps and harsh pushes later, and they’d shoved me over the chains in the floor and secured my hands.
The same chains they’d used on One when they’d put her through the torture test.
And there, on the table beside me, in the middle of the artful fan of tools, was the drill Holland had used to bore a hole in her chest—while her screams lingered on.
“Surprise,” Holland drawled softly as he reached across and picked up the drill. “So here’s how this test goes. You know all that intel you just studied in the files? It’s all classified. If you give me even one tiny piece of information, you fail.”
