To make things weirder, Kyle also has a folder on Dr. Long, who is a Spanish professor, and a man in a custodial uniform. Why?
I open the file marked “notes” and read on. Kyle has our schedules, and by that I don’t just mean our classes. He has notes about where we are at various times of day, what nonacademic activities we participate in—like intramurals, jobs, teams or marching band—and more, although it’s clear he hasn’t gotten very far with some of the people. His so-called friends—me, Chase and Alanna—have the most detailed profiles. He also has information about where we’re from, our families and anything he calls “unusual stuff”. For the nonstudents, he has notes on where they live, their spouses and even a copy of Dr. Long’s curriculum vitae.
I’m afraid to see what he thinks is unusual about me, but it doesn’t matter much. All that matters is I now have proof that Kyle really is more than he claims. He’s also looking for someone, and he’s gotten a lot further in his search than I have.
Of course, he’s suspicious of me, so maybe his searching skills aren’t so good. Or maybe he suspects about me what I suspect about him. It sure looks that way. Otherwise why would he be keeping notes on Dr. Long and a custodian? He can’t believe they’re X, so he must suspect they might also be agents.
And what of Chase, Alanna and the other students? How did Kyle narrow down his search so much? What does he know that I don’t?
I rub my eyes, no longer feeling quite so sketchy for spying on Kyle but sick with disappointment instead. This is worse than the guilt over spying on an innocent friend. Far worse. Now I have to worry about what to do next.
My program has finished uploading, so I yank out my data stick. In the hallway, the main door slams, and voices drift toward me.
“They couldn’t have called it off half an hour earlier?” Chase says, and several other voices join in the complaining.
My heart catches. They’re back? They’re back. They’re fucking back. I’m so screwed.
I stuff the data stick in my pocket, shut down Kyle’s laptop and try not to panic. Never enter any compromising situation without planning an escape route—two-hundred-fifty-three repetitions.
The voices are getting louder. They’re right outside the door.
“Oh, shit,” Chase says. “I still don’t know where I left my keys. Kyle, hurry up!”
There’s no room under the beds; they both have junk crammed in there. That leaves the ceiling tiles or the window ledge.
I chuck Chase’s keys on his bed as Kyle yells back, “I’m coming, you dumbass.”
Kyle, who is up to no good. Kyle, my likely enemy. I ignore the unpleasantness of that as I reach for the window. All the more reason I can’t get caught.
My legs are dangling outside when I hear the key enter the lock.
Chapter Eight
Saturday Morning: Present
The men from South Station are heading up the main road, almost to the corner where we are. My breath catches in my throat. I grab Kyle’s arm and pull him down the street with me, moving slowly so not to draw suspicion. Kyle checks over his shoulder and swears. Heads down, we keep retreating.
Given the memories that are returning, more than ever I’m sure I shouldn’t trust Kyle, but those men saw us together earlier. If they see him again, they’ll know I’m likely to be nearby. So with me he goes.
“Have you figured out who they are?” he asks.
“Nope.” Bad—that’s the only association I have with those men. Bad men who want to destroy Sophia. Me.
Are they the same bad people I believed were coming to RTC, or am I confusing these guys with this vague enemy in my memories?
I have no idea. No clue who else they might be, just like I have no idea how they found me. All I can think of is bad, and that has to be enough.
Unless Kyle…? But no. I’ve been with him the whole time. When would he have had a chance to call them?
When he got us coffee. It’s possible. Kyle was definitely up to no good at RTC.
But he also helped me escape last time.
Or maybe Kyle has some kind of tracking device on him. He might not even know it.
Shit. I do not have time to debate this. Maybe Kyle’s the enemy. Maybe he’s the person I was sent to find. Maybe he’s nothing more than the hot guy I went to a dance with last night who has a perfectly logical explanation for what I found on his computer, and we left campus today for a completely unrelated reason.
Unlikely, but two out of three options say I should keep him at my side.
I sweat under my jacket, and it has nothing to do with the brisk pace we’re moving uphill. I think I hear footsteps behind us, but I can’t be sure because of all the distant street noise. The sun is in the wrong direction to cast useful shadows, and all the other tricks about tailing that I know—without remembering when I learned them—require a reflective surface, which I don’t have. I can only move and hope.
Another intersection is coming up. All we have to do is turn the corner and disappear down a new street. I think we’re going to make it, then my phone goes off. Though the city rumbles around us, the noise is ear-shattering. Kyle and I both stutter to a stop, stupidly surprised by sound in my pocket.
It chimes again, and it’s not a coincidence.
“There she is!”
I don’t have to look to know it’s the men. Somehow, they have my phone number and used it to flush me out. How stupid am I not to have thought of such a thing?
But there’s no time to curse my idiocy. Kyle and I are off, charging around the corner, dodging trees, feet smacking the uneven bricks. As we run, I shut off the phone. In case I lose them, I’m not going to get caught that easily a second time.
We have a reasonable start on the men, and my heartbeat steadies after my burst of panic. I can run for a while. I’m good at running. For my muscles, this is familiar territory. It’s Kyle I’m worried about. I expect him to have fallen behind, but he’s keeping pace with me down the street.
Well, according to my latest memory, he’s on the track team. Makes sense.
“Where to?” Kyle asks, gulping for air as we reach the next intersection.
I check both ways. We need to lose them before they call for backup. There’s got to be backup.
“Left,” I say, taking off. Back to the more crowded streets and the stores and restaurants.
We weave through pedestrians and dogs on leashes. We dart across intersections and around delivery trucks futilely trying to make left turns. Up ahead is the largest intersection yet. A steady stream of cars race by, and a group of people stand around waiting for the cross light.
“There’s a T station.” Kyle points as we push our way through the crowd.
I glance up at the tracks over the street. No train, not that we’d make one if it were there. It’s tempting, but once we got up to track level, we’d have no place to run if a train didn’t show in time. We’d be trapped worse than we were at South Station.
“Too risky.” I look behind and discover the men have halved the distance. Right? Left? Or straight? I take Kyle’s hand. Straight. “Get ready.”
Dashing in front of traffic would be suicide unless timed perfectly. But I can time it. I know what to do—trust my instincts.
“Go!” I yank on Kyle, pulling forward with a burst of speed. If he hesitates…
He doesn’t. Kyle has good instincts too, apparently, and he stays tight to my heels.
A cab honks as it flies past, missing us by mere inches. But whatever. We’re across, and the men will have to wait for the light to change.
We do the same thing one more time, leaping onto the sidewalk by the Charles-MGH T stop. My adrenaline’s really flowing now. I feel alive. As long as I’m moving, my anxiety retreats. It feels good, like I was born to do this.
I pause a second, checking for the men, who haven
’t been able to follow, and listening for an approaching train, but none arrives. “Keep going.”
Kyle doesn’t question anymore. Several people with scrubs peeking out from beneath their winter coats head toward the large glass building in front of us. We hurry by them. This must be the hospital Kyle mentioned. It’s the perfect place to lose someone.
Before we push through the rotating doors, I glance over my shoulder. The men are running across the intersections. I’ve bought us some time, but not a lot.
Inside, the lobby is large with high ceilings. We race past an information desk and discover a line at the elevators and more doors leading back outside. Swearing, I pull Kyle back to the escalators that were by the first set of doors. We have to get out of sight as fast as possible.
Kyle follows, and we run up the stairs, landing on a balcony lounge above the lobby. I scan the signs by the office doors, trying to guess our best direction.
“This way,” Kyle says, tugging on my arm. “Mass General’s huge. We need to get into the main hospital.”
Down below, the rotating doors disgorge my thugs. I back away from the balcony’s edge, but I’m too late. One of them spots me.
I take off with Kyle down the hallway. “You know where you’re going?”
“Not really. When Mickey got hit by a car last year, we came here to visit him. We got lost.” Kyle pauses for breath as we reach an intersection. “So which way? You’re the one who’s good at strategy.”
I am? This no longer surprises me, although my mind is currently blank. “This way. Keep moving.” When bad people are chasing you, you can’t get much more brilliant at strategy than that.
We jog down the hallway, dodging too many people. Obstacles—that’s what I used to call them. There are enemies, targets and obstacles. Obstacles get in the way and get hurt.
The memory comes back to me at once—the boy, David, who collapsed because of the AnChlor. It bothered me at the time, but when I recall it now, I don’t feel like it bothered me enough. What I felt then was more of a disturbance. It should have been horror—a punch in the gut, vomit-inducing revulsion that I could have killed someone.
What is wrong with me? What was wrong with me? This training of mine and this mission—the more that comes back, the less I’m certain I want to remember.
More things I know: once, I believed X’s life was important, more important than anyone else’s, including David’s or Kyle’s.
Bad people are coming.
They will destroy me.
Will they destroy X too?
Maybe I deserve to be destroyed.
I ignore that thought because it’s more than I can deal with right now. Whatever I was doing, whatever it is that makes X so damn special, he or she better be worth the pain and inconvenience. I need to know my actions were important and for a good cause.
“What happened to David Cohen?” I ask as we turn a corner.
Kyle gives me a weird look, and I hope that’s just because of the out-of-the-blue nature of my question. “You’re thinking about that now? I don’t know exactly. He’s okay, I think, but he was in the hospital for a while. Why?”
I shrug. “We’re in a hospital. Random memories are returning.”
Kyle nods, but he seems skeptical. And who are you really, I want to ask next. But with those men on our tail, this doesn’t seem like the best time to confront him any more than it seems like a good time to question my previous incarnation’s ethics.
“There.” We reach a T-shaped intersection, and an elevator is open. Rushing inside, I slam my finger on a button. Any button.
Kyle hits it again. “Come on!”
I’m starting to think I made a huge tactical mistake when the doors finally close. Kyle sighs in relief, but I frown. Taking the elevator was a mistake; that bit of tactical info returns now, a little too late. What other useful knowledge am I forgetting?
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Macbeth, Act V, Scene 3—I read that play when I was eight. Didn’t understand it, but read it. If I want to, I could recite the whole thing. That’s how much useful—and useless—knowledge I’m carrying around. I could read something once and recite it hours, days or years later. Even if I wished I couldn’t.
That’s not weird at all. Oh no.
What is up with me? By comparison, the idea that I was some kind of specially trained agent on a mission to find this mysterious Student X is weird, but it makes sense. Sort of. This other stuff? No sense. Who has perfect recall like that? It’s not possible.
I shut my eyes, willing this craziness to go away, and warm fingers close around my hand. They jumpstart my heart, and my eyes fly open.
“You okay?” Kyle asks. “More coming back?”
“Yeah, but nothing useful.” That’s a stretch, although I wouldn’t classify my memories about AnChlor or Kyle’s weird snooping as useful so much as revealing. Mostly of things I’m not sure I want to know.
Part of me is tempted once more to confront Kyle, but something stills my tongue. Another training instinct, I think. Kyle doesn’t realize that I know something about him. It might be useful to keep that memory to myself.
“Something’s got to be better than nothing,” he says.
The elevator dings and the doors open, depositing us on a random floor. The décor in this part of the building is very different. Instead of warm earth tones, the walls are white and sterile. I can’t help but think they give off an unfriendly vibe—lab-like. I don’t care for this section at all.
“Are you still angry at me?” Kyle asks.
We back up against the wall as a technician comes through. She pushes some kind of machine on wheels, and I wait for her to pass before answering. Her purple scrubs look totally cheery and out of place.
Although I’m fairly sure I shouldn’t trust him, I offer Kyle a weak smile. “I’m not angry. Just frustrated, and I’m sorry I snapped at you. I remember when you asked me out. You had a leaf in your hair. Did you know that?”
I didn’t. Not until the words came out of my mouth. Why aren’t the pleasant memories returning in as much detail as the unpleasant? Life is so unfair.
“I did?” Kyle runs his hand through his hair, then seems to realize what he’s doing. “That’s humiliating.”
“I liked the leaf. It was a souvenir of rolling on the grass together.” My brain doesn’t remember that either, not consciously. But whoa—my body sure does.
“Yeah? Well, I liked rolling on the grass together.” He takes my hands, tentatively, like he’s afraid I’ll twist his arms again. Then suddenly he’s standing so close. And getting closer. My back hits the wall, and I’m glad it’s there, supporting me.
Is it wrong that, in this moment, I don’t care if Kyle is this nameless enemy of mine? I want to pull him against me the rest of the way. Press my lips into his and his body into mine. Make myself forget all the unpleasant things I’m starting to remember and create newer, better memories. I’m burning up in my clothes and don’t care about anything else.
His nose touches mine. The gap between us is narrower than ever. Yet as I hold my breath, it’s achingly wide.
Then a door opens down the hall, and my eyes open.
Run.
My lips brush Kyle’s for a split second, and it’s enough to set my nerves dancing. Then instinct kicks in. I push Kyle away and take off. Kyle mutters all the curses I’m thinking.
The men turned the wrong way at first, but they quickly catch their error. I hear them behind us as we reach a new intersection. Kyle pulls me around an empty gurney and open
s the door next to it. I have just enough time to read the letters overheard—Neural-Technology Unit—before we slip through and lower ourselves to the floor so we can’t be seen through the waiting room windows.
“How did they find us?” Kyle whispers.
“They must have seen us get in the elevator before the doors closed, and watched what floor it stopped at.”
As Kyle frowns, I become aware that a couple people in a waiting area are looking at us. Fortunately, the check-in desk is deserted for the moment, and most of the patients or their families aren’t paying us any attention. Trying to appear normal, I wander over to a rack of pamphlets and pretend to browse their titles as I keep watch out the window.
Neural-Tech and ALS. Neural-Tech and Muscular Dystrophy. Neural-Tech and Parkinson’s Disease. Can Neural-Technology Help With Alzheimer’s Disease? Caring For Family Members With Neurological Implants.
The corridor seems clear, and I let my hand fall over one of the pamphlets as I relax. They’re all produced by a company called Promethean 3.
That name sparks something like an itch in my brain, and I inadvertently scratch the back of my neck. Apparently, I have another cut back there, also bandaged, like the one on my forehead. What did I do to myself earlier?
Ignoring the wound, which is still tender when touched, I flip open one of the pamphlets.
Neural-Tech was pioneered and patented by scientists at Promethean 3 Biotechnologies. A breakthrough in medical technology, Neural-Tech combines cutting-edge techniques in brain research and computer science.
The brain and nervous system operate via electrochemical signals sent from cell to cell. Neural-Tech implants work along those same electrical signals. This means a Neural-Tech implant can stimulate normal brain functioning when natural biological processes fail. Thanks to neural-technology, exciting new treatments are now available for patients suffering from a variety of neurological conditions.
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