by Dan Krokos
“Wait,” I say. “Tell me what this place is all about. Tell me what I’m for. Really.”
He studies me while he considers his words. “You’re part of an experiment. To attain peace through chaos. You are the hope for a better tomorrow.”
“Sounds kind of cliché, Doctor.”
He nods. “Very. But that’s one of the sacrifices we make.”
He finally stands up and leaves the cell, which is now just a room.
The door stays open.
6
It’s raining. No, pouring. Sheets of rain. A dark alley. Behind me, a sharp twang. I throw myself to the ground and feel something pass over me, tugging at my hair. A spiderweb made of wire is plastered on a brick wall twenty feet away. They’re shooting nets at me.
I’m on my feet again and running. Another twang. Throw myself left. The net passes me, still coiled. It unfurls in midair and catches a window. The window shatters and glass bites at my clothes.
I open my eyes.
The alley is gone, replaced by an underground corridor.
The door to our quarters is just ahead.
I stand there for a moment, bracing myself on the wall with outstretched fingertips. A memory? Tycast didn’t say it was impossible for them to return. I’m almost mad it couldn’t have been a quieter moment, about the people in my life. It had to be some stupid training mission.
A training mission that felt real. Or at least the fear was real. But I guess that’s the point of training.
The images have faded by the time I reach the big steel door, which is painted with a large rose, fully four feet tall. At the bottom, Olive signed her name in overblown, swirling script.
I open the door to find the room from the video. A chessboard sits on the big round table, the white pieces tipped over, but otherwise it’s the same, just a reverse perspective. At the far end are a refrigerator and four small dressers, and an open door leads to what I assume is the bathroom.
The camera is mounted high above the fridge, pointed right at me. Only now does it really hit me that it recorded me and Noah kissing. Or making out, or whatever. I guess we just... didn’t care.
In the bottom bunk on the left, Peter is passed out on his back, one arm draped over his eyes. I watch him for a while, feeling the carpet under my feet. It’s smooth, not coarse. Peter has a tiny scar on his chin, a little white line. I stop myself from reaching over to touch it. Part of me wants to wake him up and ask about the nets. The dark alley and the rain.
I shake my head and climb into my own bed a few steps away. I pull the sheets over my face and wait for sleep.
When I sleep I dream. Noah is in my bunk and we’re quiet because the others are asleep and we both know this is against the rules. Our hands move over each other and explore the places we only get glimpses of in daylight. His breath is hot in my ear and he asks if we can but of course the answer is no. He gives a disappointed groan and kisses the soft spot under my ear.
“How long are you going to make me wait?” he says.
The room changes before I can answer. Now I’m playing chess with Olive. She leans over her pieces, biting her lip. Noah and Peter spar halfheartedly in the space between our beds.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say to Olive. Although I don’t know what I’m specifically talking about.
“It was a stupid mistake,” Olive says. “No wonder I’m always fourth place.”
“Hey, I’m always third. That’s one from four.”
Olive scrunches her face. “You’re always second. Don’t act like Noah is faster than you. Or smarter.”
I grin, moving my bishop into her half of the board. “Well, he cries if I don’t let him win.”
“I heard that,” Noah says, ducking under one of Peter’s kicks. “And of course our fabulous leader has to be the best at everything.” It’s a joke, but there’s an edge to it. Some hint of accusation.
Peter chuckles. The room changes again, morphing into one of the stone corridors. The four of us round a corner and pull up short. Phil stands there, arms folded over his barrel chest. He has a red goatee but his head is shiny and smooth.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he says.
Olive steps in front of us. She always had the most pull with Phil. She isn’t the strongest fighter, but she’s the best listener. “We were going for a walk, Sifu.” Only Olive calls him Sifu regularly. Chinese for master, or teacher.
“It’s midnight,” Phil says.
“We just want to go outside,” Olive says, giving her most dazzling smile.
Phil tries to hold the hard look, but he steps aside. “Be back before the sun comes up, or Tycast will have my ass in a cast.” Phil always uses that phrase, which summons a disturbing mental image. “We have a mission tomorrow morning, so no sleepy faces.”
Missionmakes us groan in unison, but really we’re excited about it. We train nonstop, or have class, but every once in a while Phil has us go on scavenger hunts in or around the city. I love getting out, stretching my legs, seeing the sky.
Noah pats Phil on the chest. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the good Dr. Tycast.”
Phil shakes his head and grins. “The man is terrifying.”
The corridor changes. We’re in a train yard, later in the same night, running alongside a moving train. We jump onto the end of the last car. Climb to the top and stand up, riding through the muggy night, lit only by the white moon. Pure exhilaration.
The scene changes again. I’m in a classroom. The four of us are learning calculus, then history, then economics. Phil is our teacher. There are four chairs, four desks, four students. It’s always this way. Class is about learning the material fast, so we can get back to physical training. There is no talking, just lecture and tests. Phil horrifies us by saying civilians go to school for more than seven hours each day, and learn less. We get it done in three hours.
Suddenly I’m in a gym. Phil demonstrates a throw on Olive, then we practice on each other until our breath is short.
Another change. I’m in an all-night diner. The four of us in a booth. Noah and I hold hands under the table. It’s the same night we rode the train just for fun.
A couple kids eat burgers and fries in the booth across from us. One whispers a joke and they all laugh and steal glances at us, until I make eye contact with one of them. They stop.
“You ever wish you were normal?” Olive says, popping a fry into her mouth.
“What’s normal?” I say.
Olive shrugs, elbows Peter in the ribs. “What’s normal, Fearless Leader?”
Peter laughs, shaking his head. “I wish you guys would stop calling me that. I didn’t ask for anything.”
Noah drinks until he hits the bottom of his Coke. “No, you just can’t help being the strongest and fastest.”
Peter grins. “Do you want to arm-wrestle again?”
Noah makes a low moan in his throat. “No thanks.” He rubs his arm. “My shoulder still hurts.”
It’s not even funny, but we’re all loopy with the rush of sneaking out, so we laugh. Although Phil saw us, so it doesn’t really count as sneaking. Noah squeezes my thigh under the table.
“You guys ready to go back?” Peter says. “It’s almost dawn.”
“Maybe a little longer,” I say.
I never see what comes next.
When I wake, I feel empty and full at the same time; the memories fade but remain inside me. The little glimpse of my past leaves me wanting more.
So I grab at one again, the last memory in the diner. I’m there in the booth, but I can’t remember how I felt. I see Noah and Peter and Olive, but they’re just people. Noah holding my hand, I liked that. I’m sure I did.
It doesn’t answer the question of who I am, but I have a better idea now. And I guess that’s something.
But at the same time it’s nothing. The fragments didn’t come with an understanding of the people within them. They came and went, too fast to truly experience, or to truly keep
as my own. It was just a movie of someone else’s life. How much can I learn from a few snapshots? If only the memories would stick; anything I feel seems to get eaten up right after I feel it. I can’t own it.
Maybe if more pieces come, I’ll get a better picture. If enough pieces come, maybe I’ll be able to claim them.
I sigh. Toss the covers off and sit up in bed. Getting a few memories back was supposed to make everything better, but all it does is confirm there was most definitely a life here that used to belong to me.
My sweaty T-shirt sticks to my stomach and back. I swipe some of the hair off my face and tie it into a loose ponytail, then realize I’m dying of thirst. My eyes adjust to the near pitchblack room by the time I’m in the bathroom.
A light flicks on. Peter leans against one of the stall doors, wearing jeans and nothing else.
He startled me, so I’m a little demanding when I say, “What are you doing in here?”
He shrugs, which is awkward with his shoulder against the stall.
“Just brooding in the dark?” I say.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He tries hard not to, but his eyes cut over my bare legs before settling back on my face. My greater willpower allows me to hold his eyes, not the lines of his hips disappearing behind the waist of his jeans. He scrubs at his black hair with one hand. I try to remember how I looked at him in the dream, if I felt anything when I did, but I can’t.
“I had a dream. A memory of Noah—of all of us. It was a memory.”
“A phantom,” he says. “You might have a few.”
“Could they come back clearer?”
He looks away. “No.”
“But earlier you said you weren’t sure.”
He shrugs. “You’re right, I’m not.”
“Then why did you—”
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.” There’s something off about the way he says it, like he’s leaving something out.
Maybe more will come, in time. And maybe they won’t come attached with borrowed emotions.
Maybe.
We stand there barefoot on the cold tile. Neither of us knows what to say. I fill the silence with something.
“Don’t worry about where my hopes are.” I pause. “Or I’ll put your ass in a cast.”
Peter’s mouth drops open. “You remember Phil.”
I nod. “A little.”
“He’s around. I don’t know why he hasn’t come to see you yet.”
“Maybe he’s afraid I won’t recognize him.” It’s a joke, but then I think about what this must be like for everyone else. They know me, even if I don’t.
My arms are folded. I feel weird standing in the middle of the bathroom, so I walk to the stall and lean against it too.
“You were really just standing here in the dark?”
“I was stretching. It helps me sleep when I have nightmares.”
“What kind of nightmares?”
He walks to the sink and fills a glass with water, totally ignoring me. Two sinks side by side, two mirrors, four toothbrushes. His back is to me. A thick red scar runs horizontal from shoulder to shoulder; it bulges when he lifts his arm to drink. I wonder how he got it, then realize I probably knew, just a few days ago, I knew.
Nightmares are a sore subject. Check. I try something else.
“I’m taking this pretty well, don’t you think?” Or I’m faking it well. I still feel like I could crack at any minute, like I’m being held together with brittle glue.
“Like I said, you’re trained. You adapt. And as much as you’ve forgotten, you still remember our way of life. We’ve been here for years. Just a few days ago we played chess out there, me and you. I won but I think you let me. And you never let anyone win.”
When he turns around, his eyes are red. It must be the light; he didn’t sound upset at all.
“We’ve been friends for a long time,” he says.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but it does, and we both know it. “We’ll make new memories.”
I watch him leave, wishing I had something better to say, something to show him I’m the same girl he remembers, even if I don’t remember her myself.
He left his cup on the counter, half full. I finish it and go back to sleep.
7
We wake to knocking on our door. Dr. Tycast comes in with a little pushcart. Two trays on top carry our breakfast—an unlabeled protein bar, egg
whites, and orange juice. And two syringes filled with the flaxen liquid.
“I thought I’d brief you here, so you can leave as soon as you finish eating,” Dr. Tycast says.
We sit at the big table, the chessboard between us and the doctor. I was able to sleep, and I feel better. The bed felt and smelled familiar. Even though I don’t recognize the things around me, it feels right, and that’s enough to get by for now.
Dr. Tycast folds his hands together and leans on the table. “We’re working on a timetable here. It’s not my usual practice to keep things from you, but with Miranda’s recent, ah—”
“Let’s call it an incident,” Peter says, elbowing me. Heat pricks the back of my neck—how can he joke about it? But then I realize he’s trying to make me comfortable, to make it how it was. Assuming we joked around before.
Dr. Tycast sees my reaction isn’t negative. “All right, incident. As I was saying...” He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. He still has sleep bags under his eyes. “I know you have secrets. I know Sifu Phil trained you differently, Peter, as leader. He’s not here right now, but if you have a way to track Noah and Olive, I want you to do it. Can you?”
“Yes,” Peter says, chewing on a bit of protein bar. While Tycast was talking, Peter uncapped both syringes and administered both shots. No alcohol swab, just a quick sting in my arm and it was done. I didn’t complain because I didn’t want to seem like a baby. He slid the other needle into his forearm, pressed the plunger, then set both syringes on the tray and picked up his protein bar again. Total elapsed time—six seconds.
“Then find them,” Tycast says. “Keep Miranda on a tight leash.”
“Hey,” I say. He said it casually, but that doesn’t mean I want to think of myself as a liability. Plus, I’m not a dog.
Dr. Tycast holds up a hand. “Were you yourself, young lady, you would agree with me. You are...unreliable. For the time being, at least. I’m keeping you in play because we need you. Understood?”
“What about all those guys with guns?” I say. They seem reliable.
He smiles. “They haven’t spent over a decade training with Peter. Peter knows you. And we need to see what you can and can’t do. So you go.”
“Yes, sir,” I say automatically, no smart-ass undertone.
He claps his hands together. Eyes flitting from me to Peter and back again. “Good. Fantastic. Please return them home. Don’t come back until you do.”
He leaves us alone. The door shuts as I take my last bite.
Peter stands up, all business, wiping the corners of his mouth. “Get dressed.”
At first I’m confused because I’m already wearing clothes. Then I open my dresser and see what he’s talking about.
My uniform is made of two parts.
The first layer is body armor. A black one-piece that reminds me of a wet suit with scales. The fabric is woven with something Peter doesn’t want to elaborate on. He just wants me to put the suit on so we can get moving. So I do. In the bathroom. I slide my limbs into the stiff but still flexible fabric, feeling somewhat like a cyborg. It covers my feet and ends at the top of my neck, leaving my hands exposed. The suit contracts slightly, hugging my bare skin.
That’s the first layer.
The second is a pair of regular jeans and a black longsleeved T-shirt. Once they’re on, it’s impossible to see the suit underneath. I have a pair of soft black leather boots under my bed, with socks stuffed in them. I slip them over my armored feet w
hile Peter grabs a shirt like mine, only dark blue.
“Weapons?” I stop. Putting on the armor made my thoughts go there automatically. Suddenly I’m excited about weapons.
Peter tugs the shirt over his head, smiling. “You remember something?”
“No, I... This is weird.”
“Good weird?” He sits on his bunk and laces up his boots.
“I think so.”
“Just wait,” he says.
We enter the corridor and follow the glowing ceiling back to the elevator, passing no one. The place feels empty, like a crypt. I’m giddy by the time we’re in the elevator. I don’t know what comes next, and it excites me. I feel like I was made for this.
“I hope you remember how to ride a bike,” Peter says, once we reach the garage.
Two motorcycles sit in the corner, tucked behind a massive olive-green Humvee. They follow the black motif. The labels have been removed, but somehow I know they’re Ducati Superbikes. I fight the urge to share with Peter every time I remember something.
Faint rubber marks stain the concrete next to the bikes. Two are missing.
Peter passes me a helmet. “If not,” he says, “you can always ride with me.” He doesn’t look at me when he offers.
“I’m sure I remember.” Not that the idea of riding behind him is completely repulsive, or repulsive at all, just...I don’t know. I can ride my own bike.
I pull my hair back into a quick ponytail and push the helmet over my head. Peter starts his bike and its growl fills the small building. He pulls a chunky watch out of his pocket and buckles it on his left wrist, then messes with it while the bikes fill the garage with the sharp tang of exhaust. Finally, he puts it in gear and I do the same.
I follow him into the gray morning, down the bumpy path to the main road. The ground is uneven but I dart around the depressions easily; apparently I was really good at this too.
Peter turns right, to the south. He talks to me through a speaker in my helmet. “I’ve been tracking Noah and Olive. They rode west for a while, to Indiana, but they stopped in Indianapolis. Should take less than five hours to get there.”
