by Dan Krokos
I go to her, slinging my rifle on to my back. Noah stops
next to me, keeping an eye and gun on the door. I lift the band off her head slowly. Pull back the sheet to see she’s naked underneath.
“Miranda,” Noah says to me.
“They have my template,” I say. To my right, Rhys plants a whole brick on the wall. He sets a timer on it. The numbers flash red, then disappear, an invisible countdown. I look back at the other me.
Her eyes open.
She sits up, inhaling sharply. I step away and lift my rifle automatically.
She clutches her chest, which is bare because the sheet has fallen away. But she isn’t covering herself; it’s like she’s in pain. “I was shot. There was blood,” she says. She looks at me like I have two heads. Then she sees everyone else. “Noah?
Olive?” she says. “You left me.”
Noah looks at her, then at me. “Oh my God,” he says.
“What do you remember?” Rhys says. He finds a balled-up gown on the next bed and unfurls it. He slides it over her head and forces her arms through.
She still clutches her chest. “I was shot. Noah, why did you leave me?” She doesn’t cry, but tears fill her eyes. Rhys helps her off the bed. Noah stares at her with his mouth open, remembering something I can’t. He left me. But how would she know that? Is this some kind of awful trick to distract us?
“Noah!” I scream.
Two more soldiers burst into the room, helmeted, assault rifles out and blazing. A bullet ricochets off Noah’s suit. I fire and crumple the left one’s helmet while it’s still on his head.
Olive’s handguns crack a few times, lighting up on my right. Noah checks his suit. “Dammit, that. That really hurt.”
He’s staring at my clone again.
The other Miranda is off the bed, shivering, dressed in the flimsy gown. Olive takes her hand and pulls her to the rear. She tells Rhys, “I’ll watch her. Keep moving. We can’t stop now.”
The alarm shuts off. The lights stop flashing on the floor below.
Rhys nods and readies the next brick, keeping his revolver out. We leave the operating room behind, heavy one Rose.
We move to the next room, and the next. Rhys doesn’t say how much time we have left. Some of the rooms resemble offices. Some are laboratories. Each one gets a brick of H9, not a sliver. All of their timers synced.
Rhys holds the final two bricks. He lifts one to me— Want it? I nod and he tosses it. I stuff it into the satchel strapped to my lower back, below my chute.
One thing is becoming very clear to me.
Peter is not here.
“We have a few minutes,” Rhys says, breathing heavy. My skin itches because it shouldn’t be this easy.
And it isn’t.
We round a corner, coming out of a hallway. Tobias and Nicole stand in front of the elevator. They have us cold. We freeze in the hallway entrance, not bothering to raise our weapons because we know they won’t give us the chance. Tobias and Nicole have their rifles pointed at us, center mass. In my peripheral vision, I see Noah back into the hallway slowly; since we stopped at the corner, the angle hid him from sight.
“Drop your weapons,” Tobias says.
I kneel slowly, lifting the strap of my rifle over my head and placing it on the floor. Wondering if they know we have just minutes left before this building does its best impression of a volcano. I pull my sword and toss it on the floor too.
Nicole grins. She has malice in her eyes I’ve never seen in Olive. I wonder what they did to make Beta team different; it can’t all be the tattoo. Or maybe the malice is just a twisted form of joy—they won, after all.
“Where is Peter?” I say as steadily as I can.
“In the basement,” Tobias says, grinning behind his rifle. “We knew you were coming, so Mrs. North decided to keep him down below.” His eyes narrow. “Where’s Noah?”
He’s creeping up behind you. Noah puts a finger to his lips. He must’ve run up some parallel hallway to get behind them.
“Just kill them,” Nicole says. “Too dangerous.”
“You’re right about that,” I say. Noah slips into the space next to Tobias, knocking his rifle toward the ceiling. I dive into a shoulder roll and scoop up my own rifle. Rhys is faster than all of us, kicking his revolver so it pops straight up. He snatches it out of the air as Noah breaks Tobias’s neck with a wet snap, just like Joshua’s. Nicole opens fire. The flash from her gun blinds me. Rhys fires too, once. Nicole falls to the floor. I run over and kick her weapon away, even though she’s already dead.
“How much time?” I say.
Rhys checks his watch. “Six minutes.”
The other Miranda cries out behind me.
I whirl.
Olive is sprawled on her back, arms out.
There’s enough blood for me to know right away some of Nicole’s bullets found their mark. Still I go to her, falling to my knees, lifting her up and holding her to me while the others stand around, helpless.
There is nothing they can say or do.
Olive is dead.
I don’t know how much time passes before Rhys grips my shoulder. “We need to go. The clock is ticking.”
My tears have dried and the only thing inside me is fire. I thought I knew what rage was, but I was wrong. I feel rage for our creators. For the other versions of us. For the mutated brains that give us these strange powers. Rage for our purpose as weapons. For the people who want to use us. For all of it. It surges through me and gives me strength.
I lay Olive down and stand up, shrugging out of my parachute.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Noah says.
Rhys fashions his final brick of H9 to the wall. Our escape.
Their escape. Not mine.
“I’m going to the basement,” I say.
Noah’s eyes flare, and he thinks he can stop me. I hold my hand up to silence him, then spread my arms for a hug. He can’t resist. He moves forward as the H9 burns a hole to the outside. The air pressure changes and a gust of wind blows my hair around. I grab Noah’s arm and jerk him off balance, stepping behind him and wrapping an arm around his neck. He struggles at first, but is unwilling to hurt me. Rhys watches me choke him into unconsciousness, a dead look on his face. I set Noah down gently, next to Olive. Then I push the button on the elevator.
Rhys watches me, framed by a jagged black hole.
“Get the chute on him, get him awake. Get out of here. I’ll meet you outside.”
He wants to argue, but there’s no time. He nods once. I step into the elevator.
“North,” he says.
I look up from the buttons. There are only two—one labeled B and one R.
He tosses me his revolver. I pluck it from the air. His sword comes next—it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever held. Solid, light, and straight, with just enough give in the blade.
“I call it Beacon,” Rhys says, nodding at the sword.
I feel like I should say something more to Rhys, some kind of good-bye. There’s a bond between us I can’t explain, his memories ever-present in my mind. But I don’t need to say good-bye, because I’ll see them again. I’m getting Peter out.
“Keep them safe,” I say. I press the B button.
I hold his gaze while the doors close between us. The car descends.
31
I check the load on the revolver—six shots. He must have reloaded between shooting Nicole and pulling me away from Olive. The rifle I left behind might be high-tech, but it was cumbersome. I see why Rhys chose this combination of weapons; it feels elegant just holding them. Maybe if I live long enough, I’ll adopt it.
The elevator doesn’t travel faster than normal. I feel the lightness in my stomach and watch the floors wind down on a tiny readout above the two buttons. I thumb back the hammer on the revolver and point it at the door.
The car stops hard enough to bend my knees. The doors open.
A near pitch-black tunnel leads to a strange bl
ue-green glow. I step out, gun leveled straight, Beacon in a reverse grip, tucked flat against my arm. The doors hiss shut behind me, and cables twang as the car ascends.
I walk the whole way like that. One step, then another. The only sounds my shallow breath and the light crunching of grit beneath my feet. The gun grows heavy, but I can handle it.
A hundred feet later I enter a room with a black ceiling that could be a thousand feet high. A steady hum fills the air, a soothing hum, peaceful. It comes from the four rows of tanks lined up in the room, each three feet taller than I am. Nothing else is here. Four rows, ten deep. All of them glow blue-green. All of them illuminate the person suspended inside them. Each row has a name branded on top of the tanks—
peter.
noah.
miranda.
olive.
Rhys is absent.
The Miranda row is the third from the left. Two of the tanks are empty and dark. Each tank seems to hold a different aged version of us. Some are children, and some appear our age.
I came from here. This is where I was born. There are no thoughts beyond that. Just a general lack of understanding. A question, maybe—How is this real?
Staring at the field of tanks, I let my gun drop toward my side. It snaps back up when I see two figures at the other end of the field, in between the second row—Noah—and the third row—Miranda.
It’s Mrs. North, the origin of me. Whatever you want to call her. Peter is on his knees next to her, arms bound behind him, mouth gagged with a white cloth. He has a black eye, blood crusted around the gag.
I don’t waste time. I simply squeeze the trigger and the revolver crashes in my hand, scraping the skin on my palm. The endless ceiling swallows the noise. Smoke curls from the barrel, but Mrs. North is gone. Peter is still there, on his knees, screaming something behind his gag. I take a few steps into the field, hating how the tanks illuminate my suit with eerie light.
To my right, a flash of black scales amid seafoam. I fire again and hit one of the tanks. There’s the snap of plastic followed by a stream of blue-green goo that arcs out and splatters on the floor. She’s baiting me. She wants to draw my fire until I click empty. Movement again, closer. I look up—Mrs. North stands on one of my tanks. I raise Beacon just as her blade crashes down. She wanted me to see her; she could’ve just dropped down behind me.
My creator is toying with me.
She leaps over my head to the row of Noahs. I raise the revolver and she slashes it out of my hand before I can aim. It fires, a flash of orange light between us. The gun tumbles away, barrel to grip, and stops in the spreading pool. Mrs. North jumps down, and I move forward with a flurry of slashes. She doesn’t bother to parry them, instead walking backward into the goo, ducking her torso when needed. Her feet splash in the liquid and I stop. She looks exactly like me, just aged, fine lines around her eyes. Same reddish-brown hair. Same red eyes from the memory band.
Her breathing is smooth. “You’re better than the last Miranda. I’m impressed.”
The revolver is half-submerged in the liquid between us. “The Miranda from the original Alpha team,” I say. “The one Rhys killed...”
Mrs. North laughs. She’s standing near the two empty tanks in my row. One for the Miranda we found in the operating room upstairs.
And one for...
“No,” Mrs. North says. “The one your Noah stole and left in Columbus.” She raps her knuckles on the empty tank. “Go on, you remember. I left some of the memories intact. Buried, but intact.”
“No.” I shake my head, fighting to stay in the room. I can’t let a memory take me, not now.
“Yes. Remember.” She lowers her voice and speaks a string of numbers. Too fast to decipher individually, but hearing them tugs at my brain. The code dredges up another memory, buried deep.
Finally I can’t help it anymore.
I remember.
I don’t know where I am. It’s a city. Tall, unfamiliar buildings. I’m in a small park, one of those dingy ones they set down on an empty lot and then forget about. A boy stands in front of me. The pain in his eyes almost rips me in two.
“You won’t understand this for a while,” he says. “I don’t know how long.”
“Why can’t I remember anything?” I say.
He takes my hands and I let him, even though he’s a stranger to me. He rubs his thumbs over the backs of my knuckles. “I hope you can forgive me one day. I’m trying to keep you safe. It’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.” He gives a short, helpless laugh. “I would take it back if I could, but I can’t.”
Behind me, a girl with black hair stands in the street. She’s watching us. “Noah, hurry,” she says.
Noah holds up a finger. “I’m doing this because I love you. When I figure how to keep us safe, I will come back. I will find you. Just stay here. You’re resourceful. Don’t get in trouble, Miranda, okay? Just lie low.”
“Why can’t I come?” I say.
“Because I don’t think we can win.” He hands me a folded up piece of paper. “This has instructions. If you’re still alone on the date I wrote down, call this number. Ask for Peter. It tells you what to say.”
I take it from him, not really understanding.
“But it won’t come to that,” he says. “I swear I’ll find you.”
He leans in and we kiss. It’s automatic. Do I normally kiss strangers? What did he say about loving me? It feels like I’m dreaming.
I sit down on the park bench and watch the boy leave with the girl. They don’t look back.
I’m running. I don’t know where I am. I’m in a city with tall buildings I don’t recognize. It’s raining and my clothes are soaked. Night has fallen, and I don’t know where I’m running to or what I’m running from.
Wait. Yes I do. People are trying to shoot nets at me. Something is wrong with my head; it’s too hot. I think I have a fever. Pressure builds behind my eyes.
I turn down the next alley and slip on a piece of wet cardboard. My shoulder hits the slimy brick wall and I stumble forward. It’s a dead end. I turn around to see a woman standing a few feet away. She has pretty red hair and bright eyes. I feel like I know her.
“Mom?” I say.
“Hey, honey. What are you doing?”
“I don’t know. I think people are chasing me.” Mom waves me over. “C’mere sweetheart.”
I can’t remember how I got here. I was running and people
were chasing me. A man steps out from behind her. His short brown hair sparkles with rainwater. He looks familiar, like a boy I saw earlier. Like that boy but grown up. Like I went to sleep for a very long time and woke up to find he is much older now.
This isn’t right. Someone told me to run, to stay free. That isn’t my mom. Names flicker and fade in my head—Peter Noah Olive—and I bend down to pick up a rusted piece of pipe. It feels gritty and solid in my palm.
“Let me through,” I say.
The woman says, “Miranda, let us take you home.” “You’re not my mother. Get out of my way.”
“No, Miranda. Put down the pipe.”
I charge them, raising the pipe above my head. I jump.
They’re frozen with surprise, and I’m going to hit them. Something yellow flashes on one of the rooftops lining the alley, and something punches me in the chest. I hit the ground and skid on my knees before toppling over. The pipe rolls into a puddle.
“NO!” The woman shrieks. “Who fired? Who fired?”
“Jesus,” the man says next to her. A radio crackles and he says, “We had it under control.”
On my belly it feels like the water under me is growing hotter, and spreading out. I can’t breathe. I can’t take a single breath.
Mom kneels and rolls me onto my back. Blood bubbles out of my chest, mixing with the rain. She smoothes the hair off my face. I look into her eyes, thinking, Please give me comfort. Please tell me what all this means.
“I’m hurt,” I say. Or at least I think I say. I might
just mouth the words.
“I know. I’m sorry, baby. It was an accident.”
My mind catches up. That flash on the rooftop was a gunshot. Of course it was. They shot me and now I’m bleeding.
“You won’t die for good,” my mom says. “I promise.”
I try to say something but my mouth doesn’t work. She looks up at the man. “Do we have another body ready?”
“Two, actually. They’re already prepping one.”
“We need to hurry,” Mom says.
She bends over to plant a kiss on my wet forehead, but my eyes close before she reaches me.
I open my eyes. Bright white light above me. Something beeps steadily in the background. I lift my head and see I’m naked. I remember the alleyway, the water and blood and pressure in my chest. But there are no wounds. A nightmare, then. I sit upright, pulling on the sensors and needles plugged all over my body. I have to get out of here. I don’t know why, but I know it’s true.
“Relax. Easy, Miranda. Easy.”
On the operating table to my left is a girl with reddish brown hair. She’s naked like me, with a gaping red hole between her breasts. On a table between us is a thick black hoop of metal with wires running off it, and an empty syringe with a wide-gauged needle.
“How do you feel?” the voice says again. Mom steps out of the darkness.
“I’m dead,” I say, not knowing what it means, but knowing it’s true.
Mom stops between the two tables. She puts a hand on my leg, and a hand on the leg of the dead girl. She looks at the dead girl’s toes, sees they’re painted a dusky red, almost identical to the girl’s hair. “Dammit, I have to paint your toes,” she says to herself.
I point at the corpse. “That’s what happened to me. Something hit my chest. I’m dead.”
Mom shakes her head. “You were just born, sweetie.” She sees I don’t understand and sighs. “Do you remember anything from home?”
I don’t even know where home is.
She hands me a pair of jeans and a black tank top. “Put these on. You won’t remember this, but you’ll get to go home.” From the rolling table in the middle, she picks up the syringe. It’s not empty. There’s a little pill-shaped object inside. She holds my foot still and sticks the needle into the soft skin behind my ankle. I hear a blast of compressed air, and the little pill thing disappears. I don’t even feel it.
