BROKEN SYMMETRY: A Young Adult Science Fiction Thriller

by Dan Rix

  “Well, it wasn’t.” He took a seat at a computer terminal, plugged in a pocket external hard drive, and began typing codes.

  “I know you can stop crossing over,” I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper. “I know you’re strong enough.”

  The rhythm of his typing cut off, and he swiveled toward me. “And do what, Blaire? Live a normal life? Live like them?” He nodded to the unconscious guards. “I’m way too far gone for that.”

  “Have you even tried?”

  “You think I like what it does to me?” he said. “You think I enjoy this? I’m not like you, Blaire; I don’t get to choose a happy ending.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “If you wanted me to stop crossing over, you should have left me in jail. Now quit pestering me.”

  “You know, it’s normal to care about someone,” I said, face hot.

  Damian wrung his hands through his hair. “All I ever do is push you away,” he said. “Since I met you, that’s all I’ve ever done . . .” His black eyes swung to mine, and a bemused smirk crossed his lips. “I don’t understand why you’re still trying to save me.”

  His words stung, way more that I was prepared for. I turned away from him, biting my lip.

  His jaw muscles tightened and he faced the screen again. “There’s two cameras inside the artifact chamber. I’m downloading everything from both.” He finished typing a string of commands and pressed enter. A progress bar started inching across the screen. He opened his mouth to say something—

  A rattle of the doorknob spun both our heads, and I just had time to flatten myself out of view behind the door as a security guard stepped into the room. His eyes froze on Damian at the terminal, and the mug of coffee in his hand dropped. His hand flicked to his holster, and he had his weapon trained on Damian’s forehead before the mug hit the ground.

  Damian’s eyes darted to his own firearm, lying on the desk a foot from his hand.

  “Don’t even think—”

  I leapt out from behind the door and shoved the guard with all my weight. I might as well have tackled a marble statue.

  He squeezed the trigger, and the gunshot rattled my brain. But the impact of my body had nudged his arm off target; behind Damian’s head, the CRT monitor popped in a shower of sparks and glass.

  The guard yanked his arm around and leveled the barrel between my eyes. I stared, frozen, down its black throat, as his finger whitened on the trigger—

  The explosion jolted my body, spiked my system with adrenaline. In slow motion, the guard’s knees buckled and he sank to the floor, a splatter of blood and brains dripping from the wall where his head had been.

  Damian lowered his gun, still smoking, and yanked the flash drive out of the terminal. “We got enough. Let’s go.”

  ***

  Damian squealed to a stop in the alley behind ISDI, and we brooded in silence while the garage door swung open with an electric hum. The cops were still far behind us, their sirens a distant wail. I needed air.

  I yanked the handle and clambered out, slamming the door behind me. I heard the driver’s side open and shut, and a moment later, Damian grabbed my wrist.

  “Let go of me.” I tugged my hand free and stormed away from him, toward the street. Behind me, he got back in, and the Mustang revved up. Tires squealed, and the car roared past me and skidded sideways, blocking my exit out of the alley. The vehicle’s turbulence whipped my hair across my face and where it passed two yellow streaks lingered in my retinas.

  Damian stepped out and leaned against his car, arms crossed, directly in my path.

  I stopped right in front of him. “Move.”

  He pointed over my shoulder. “Source is that way.”

  “I’m staying down here. Where you aren’t.”

  The whine of sirens approached our block. He raised an eyebrow. “Do I have to drag you back?”

  “Or you stay and I’ll go back. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Even better than death.” I spun and marched back toward the garage.

  He grabbed my elbow and whipped me around. “Not yet.” He pushed off the car and closed the gap between us, inch by inch, until our bodies touched. I kept my eyes locked on his, but up close his scent invaded my mind, drugged me.

  “If I was a reflection, would you have shot me in the head like that—without even flinching?” I asked.

  “I know you’re not okay with the killing,” he said.

  “Damian, I’m not okay with what you’re doing to yourself.”

  “I know.”

  “And what you said to me,” I whispered. “Say you’re sorry.”

  “I’m not sorry for trying to protect you,” he said, his palms enfolding my waist. His eyes held me captive, blacker than the midnight above him. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.” The heat of his breath brushed my lips, made my heart quiver, and I felt my own hands instinctively tracing up the side of his torso, clasping his back. “Oh, and Blaire, this is the real me.” And he kissed me.

  ***

  A police cruiser rolled past the alley, sirens muted, and a spotlight swung over us. For a moment the peaks of Damian’s gelled hair blazed in the glare before the light moved on. The car slowed, and the spotlight jerked back to us.

  I pulled away from Damian and had to squint my eyes. “What was that for?” I said, still dazed by his kiss.

  “So when I die, you know how I really feel,” he said.

  I smiled. “I already knew how you really felt.”

  The squad car lurched over the curb and drove into the alley, right up to Damian’s Mustang. Two officers jumped out, guns trained at us.

  “Get on the ground, now!” one shouted. “SDPD.”

  I blew the officers a kiss, and we slipped into the shadows. While they clicked on their flashlights, we darted into the garage and up the stairs.

  Damian plugged in the external and started the file transfer, and we crossed back into the source. I immediately pushed him up against the wall and stood on my tiptoes to kiss him again. His fingers caressed my hair and brushed the bare skin of my neck, shooting chills down my spine.

  The weight of him pushed me backwards, and his hands dropped to my lower back and squeezed me even closer. I inhaled sharply, and the smell of his sweat burned in my lungs.

  I leapt and wrapped my legs around his hips, crossed my ankles behind him. He gripped the underside of my legs to hold me airborne, and his palms slowly ascended the length of my toned hamstrings . . . going where? His fingers brushed my inner thigh, setting fire to the sensitive nerves—I gasped and snaked up his torso, coiled my arms around his neck and dug my nails into his scalp, biting and exploring every inch of his lips with mine. I felt his hand readjust under my butt, one thumb hooked over the waistband of my low rise jeans, now slung dangerously low on the small of my back.

  We slumped against the opposite wall, and the soundproof paneling pressed against my back, forcing my pelvis against his lower abs before I had time to tighten my legs. The shockwave jerked my body taut and turned everything in between into a quivering mass of throbbing nerve-endings. I melted into his chest, breathless—and my nails must have drawn blood because he jerked back, suddenly tense.

  “Hang on.” He set me down, eyebrows knotted. No, it wasn’t my fingernails.

  I followed his gaze to the mirror, still an open portal. The muted footsteps of police officers now climbing the stairs in the reflection. The beams of their flashlights crisscrossed the ceiling.

  “This is the San Diego PD,” they shouted up the stairwell. “Come out with your hands behind your head.”

  My God, they were quick this time.

  I scampered to the red button.

  “Blaire, hang on,” said Damian, kneeling at the laptop. “Something’s wrong. The file�
�s not transferring . . . it’s not picking up the infra red.”

  He reached both hands back into the reflection.

  ***

  I watched the doorway through the mirror, my palm poised over the button while Damian typed something on the laptop. “It’s not even recognizing the port.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Give me a sec,” He dragged the reflected stool and laptop closer so he could type better.

  “Just grab the whole laptop, we’re out of time—”

  “Not an option. We lose the data.”

  I felt shame rising in my cheeks. We’d spent the last few minutes making out when we could have been solving this problem. “Damian, it’s too late,” I warned. “They’re here.”

  The first officer darted into the room, his back hugging the wall. He gripped a flashlight in one hand and leveled his gun arm on the back of his wrist. His eye narrowed behind the sight.

  The second officer rushed in. “Hands where we can see them!”

  Damian ignored them, his eyes glued to the screen on the other side of the mirror. “Blaire, don’t press it yet,” he said, and he jiggled the external’s USB cable.

  I could feel the button’s plastic under my palm, now moist with my sweat.

  A bullet would crack the mirror.

  “Don’t press it,” he said calmly. “Let me pull my hands back”

  “Son, take your hands off the computer and step into this room,” the first cop ordered.

  A door. They thought it was a door.

  Damian inched his hands onto the keyboard and began tapping buttons again.

  “Damian, hurry!” I moaned.

  “Just wait. I can fix it—”

  “This is your last warning,” said the first cop. “Hands off the computer.” His index finger edged onto the trigger. “I’ll count to three . . . one.”

  They had been ordered to use deadly force if we didn’t comply . . . because of what Damian had done to the security guards at the Institute. They would shoot him right between the eyes, like he’d shot them.

  “Two—”

  “I’m pressing it,” I said.

  “Blaire, listen to me . . . just wait—”

  I could see the officer’s skin paling under his fingernail. How many pounds of pressure before the gun fired?

  “Three!” the officer shouted.

  “No!” I flinched and slammed the button, and the shrill ultrasound tore into my ear drums. The mirror vibrated, but he was still in the reflection, fiddling with the external hard drive, trying to get it loose. I clawed at the button, but I couldn’t stop it. Horrified, I swiveled around to see it happen, fear driving needles through my heart. “Damian—”

  “Got it!” he yelled, jerking his hand back just as the mirror shattered and stumbling backwards. Relief flooded through me.

  I hadn’t orphaned him.

  It was only after I knelt beside him, my insides feeling like uncorked champagne, that I realized something was wrong, that he was twitching . . . holding his arm funny.

  And then I glimpsed the blood pooling around him, staining his jeans, and the grimace twisting his face. I peered over his shoulder, and my heart stopped. His right hand was gone, perfectly severed off at the wrist.

  My hand shot over my mouth. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t—” I couldn’t finish. I couldn’t breathe.

  “Get Charles,” he whispered through his teeth, tears wetting his eyes, and when I didn’t budge, he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Get Charles!”

  His voice echoed inside me and ripped my heart in two.

  Chapter 18

  Charles knew what happened, that I had done it. The button was too far from the mirror for Damian to push himself. It had been designed that way as a safety precaution, to prevent exactly this.

  To prevent slicing.

  I shivered in the hospital waiting room while they treated him in the emergency room. All they could do was seal the wound and wrap him up. Reattaching the hand wasn’t an option; it no longer existed.

  “I’m so sorry, Damian,” I whispered to myself, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth to dull the ache in my chest. I had just severed the hand of the boy who had my heart. “I’m so sorry.”

  He wanted Charles in there with him. He wanted me out of his sight. I clutched my legs tighter, teeth chattering, and suffered the guilt leaching into me.

  Later, Damian appeared in the doorway, his arm bandaged where it ended in a stump at his wrist. He stormed past me without meeting my eyes and kicked open the door.

  Charles came out after him and tugged my sleeve. “Get up,” he said, an icy edge to his voice. “Time to go.”

  I had maimed his most talented carrier, and he wouldn’t forget that.

  ***

  “So . . . no footage,” Charles said the moment I took a seat in front of his desk the following afternoon. “Nothing.”

  “It didn’t upload across the mirror.”

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes, dislodging his glasses. “It’s every single time with him. He cuts it so close . . . it wouldn’t have taken two minutes to fix.”

  I nodded. The two minutes we had spent making out. “I’ll run the mission again. I’ll do it myself this time.”

  “I admire your courage, Blaire. I do. But I have to be honest with you—I don’t think you can handle the responsibility of crossing over right now. I’m going to pull you for a while.”

  “Charles, I know this mission inside and out, and Damian’s not fit to do it. I’m asking your permission to recover the footage myself. If I screw it up or get myself killed, then you can send Damian in after me.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Charles. “You getting yourself killed. Yes, Damian is my best carrier—at the moment. But in the long run, you’ll be much more valuable to us than he is. With your two chromosomes, you’re the perfect carrier.”

  Perfect. Valuable. I hated those words; I wasn’t valuable. I was worthless. “He’s been lying to you,” I said. “He’s addicted to crossing over. To the rush. His MRI was worse this time—Dr. Johnson said it was killing him.”

  Charles gave a sad smile. “She told me,” he said. “I can’t stop him from crossing over, Blaire. I’ve tried. When I pull him from the missions, he just crosses over somewhere else. At least here in the office it’s safe.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “Safer than the alternative. We have a system, here. Organization. Stability.”

  “It’s killing him.”

  “He just crosses over somewhere else, Blaire,” he said more forcefully.

  “Just this time,” I said. “Please. Let me go instead of him. I don’t want to hurt him anymore.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve already made up my mind. I was pushing you too fast. I’m sending someone else who’s better trained.”

  “Someone else? Who else is there?”

  For a while he didn’t answer. Then he lowered his eyes. “Recovering the artifact is the most important thing right now. I’m sending Amy instead of you.”

  “Amy?” My jaw hung open. “But she’s expired.”

  “They’re running the mission again next Wednesday. I’ve already discussed it with both of them . . . Blaire, I can’t risk sending you again until you’re fully trained.”

  “I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “We can’t afford to make mistakes, Blaire. Not in this business . . . not with crossover.”

  Before I could answer, the door burst open and Damian strode inside.

  ***

  “Replantation,” he said, slapping a stapled packet of paper on the desk in Charles’s office, where I had just been suspended from crossover until further notice
. “Reattachment of a severed body part. Doctor Johnson emailed me instructions for transporting the limb.”

  “Go home,” said Charles. “You need to be getting rest. I’m dealing with Blaire right now.”

  “Did you hear what I just said?” said Damian, still ignoring me. “I want to reattach my hand.”

  “What hand?” said Charles.

  I couldn’t help but stare at the gauze over Damian’s wrist, now spotted with blood . . . the part of him that was missing.

  The hand that had lifted me into the air while he kissed me.

  “I’m a perfect candidate,” he said. “Microsurgery is most effective when the amputation is clean, and there’s nothing cleaner than a sever—right, Charles?”

  That word. Sever.

  Charles locked eyes with him. “Is there something you’d care to explain to me?” he said. “Because last I checked, that hand is floating off in la-la land. It’s gone. Finito. End of story.”

  “I’ll nab it from my reflection.”

  “Won’t have it either.”

  “The failsafe.”

  “No. I need the failsafe intact.”

  Failsafe. Another word I didn’t know, another entry in the long list of things they hadn’t told me. The calmness of Damian’s voice raised hairs on the back of my neck. “I’ll nest the crossover.”

  “And multiply the damage?” said Charles. “What would you do, anyway? Kill your own reflection? You overlap, for God’s sake.”

  My eyes darted between them as I listened, horrified. What have I done?

  Damian held up his severed wrist. “I’m not going to live like this, Charles—either reprogram the fingerprint scanners for my left hand or give me the master keys.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Fine.” Damian stood up straight and stepped toward the exit. “You win.”