“Home?” I stare at his face, but unlike the two others, I have no sense of familiarity with this guy. We’ve never met.
Since he doesn’t bother to elaborate, I switch tactics, shifting my gaze from him, to the SUV with its engine running, to the man at my side. Calculations and maneuvers arrange themselves behind my eyes. I’m aware of some of them, the thoughts accessible. Others are beyond my reach, not quite subconscious, but as if they’re so complex I can’t consciously follow them either, or how they go together—the number of steps between me and the gun, me and the SUV, me and the car to my right. The number of seconds required to close those distances. The number of rounds the gunman is packing. Angles. Odds.
Kyle.
Oh, and I apparently once killed a man in a hotel room. What is wrong with me?
“What?” I lose track of my brain’s calculations but am vaguely aware of them continuing without me.
“The boy you were with at South Station,” the guy I’ve started thinking of as Tail Two says. “Where is he?”
“Who is he?” asks Tail One from behind me. He shifts, pinching the skin on my wrists as he does.
I struggle for a more comfortable position. The garage floor is cold through my jeans. “I don’t know. Some guy I met there. I ditched him.”
“He was with you in the hospital,” Tail Two says.
I glare at him. “Which goes to show he was harder to lose than you are. Does someone actually pay you for this sloppy work?”
The guy’s arm twitches as if he wants to strike me, but he controls himself. I don’t care if he does. I’m just glad my attempt to divert the conversation from Kyle appears to have worked.
“Let the boy go,” says the gunman. “He’s not important. But you…” he lowers the gun, “…Malone will be worried about you.”
“Malone?” I shake my head, half hoping that will knock one of those memories in place. The name is vaguely familiar. I must know a Malone, but that’s all I know of him. Judging by this happy scene, he must be one of the bad guys. So what exactly is “worried about you” code for? Can’t be anything good.
Wait—I killed a man in a hotel room?
Yes, the memory is quite clear. I killed a man in a hotel room. Holy shit.
My conscience struggles to keep up with current events. Who am I to judge good and bad? I’d be sick except I’m too busy trying not to die myself.
Gunman presses his lips together, assessing me. “Looks like you got a bump on the head. That explains a few things. Let her go, and leave,” he says to the others. “Your job is finished.”
Tail Two scowls, but Tail One releases my arms, and they stalk back into the hospital.
That’s it? No longer outnumbered, I return to calculating escape scenarios, but it must show on my face. The gunman raises his weapon slightly. “Don’t. Just get in the car.”
“Not a chance.”
He sighs and walks toward me. On the other side of the garage, an engine starts. I debate screaming again, then dismiss the idea as useless. Through the far row of cars, a shadow shifts on an upper-level ramp. Tires crunch over the concrete. The other car is on the move. Soon, it’ll be down by us.
A new plan begins in my mind. If that car can get by the idling SUV…
Casually, so I hope, I step toward the gunman, trying to make it appear as though I’m cooperating. My heartbeat quickens, readying me to do something that’s quite likely incredibly stupid.
“You’re going to cooperate?” the gunman asks, looking amused. He’s almost to me, and he’s tucked the gun under his jacket. Even if he’s fast to draw, I have all the time I need.
I nod at him, but my gaze darts to the oncoming car. In that second, I feel a pinch in my neck, then my knees give out. Everything blurs as I sink toward the ground, but my captor catches me under the arms and gently lowers me to the floor. From the corner of my eye, I see him cap a needle and put it in his pocket. Then I can’t hold my head up any longer. My brain panics, thoughts race, but my body doesn’t follow. It’s like I’ve been disconnected.
As everything around me begins to blur, all I can think is that this man just did to me what I did to that guy in the hotel all those weeks ago. Damn you, irony.
At the time, I wanted the hotel guy to understand why he was a target. Now I think I understand why I am. There must be something horribly, awfully wrong with me to do what I’ve done. Maybe I deserve to die.
He’ll get to you too.
Read Harris.
My murderer’s words are the last thing I hear as he picks me up. “Malone called you Sophia, but I know what you really are.”
Part Two
If you do not tell the truth about yourself,
you cannot tell it about other people.
~Virginia Woolf~
Chapter Twelve
Eighteen Weeks Ago: Summer Before RTC
I stifle a yawn as I watch Lev attempt to dismantle a bomb. He has two minutes to do it without blowing himself up. If he succeeds, he gets full marks on the assignment. If he fails, Eight, who designed the bomb, gets them. It’s tough grading, making us compete against each other this way, but it’s better than what would happen if this weren’t a simulation.
If that were the case, we’d already be dead thanks to Two.
Our instructor, a half-deaf, ancient Ukrainian whose name is Bondar—but who we like to call Bomb-ar when he’s not around—is always doing this sort of thing to us. He seems to despise the fact that our unit is close. To be fair, he’s not the only one. As we got older, most of our instructors aim for newer and cleverer ways to pit us against each other.
Only Fitzpatrick continues to preach about unit cohesion and loyalty. It’s the one thing I like about her. But it’s no secret—though it’s supposed to be—that our unit’s behavior bothers those in charge. We hear them speaking about us when they think we can’t.
We’re too emotional. Too empathetic. Too human. They made a mistake with us that they can’t afford to repeat, and that’s why they’ve held us back. Some people around here would like to hold us back permanently. Turn us into analysts or something boring like that instead of the field agents we were born to be.
I doubt that will happen, but I’m also pretty sure they haven’t repeated the mistakes they made with us, either. When I watch the HY2s, who are four years younger, I think they’ve improved upon us in that way. Instead of jealousy though, I feel sadness. For the HY2s.
At the front of the room, Bondar directs our attention to the timer that’s counting down. Lev has thirty-four seconds left. His face is taut as he picks up the wire cutters, and his black hair stands on end because he keeps running sweaty hands through it. For the first minute he did nothing but study Eight’s design. Watching him is not the most exciting thing, and between that and the oppressive heat—Bondar keeps his rooms sweltering—it’s hard to stay awake.
I don’t have a good a view of Eight’s handiwork because we all stand far back to give Lev plenty of light. But from where I wait, Eight’s design appears tricky. Silently, I compare what little I can see to various schematics we’ve studied. I’m glad I’m not Lev.
Then Bondar’s phone buzzes, breaking the hot silence. We all jump, including Lev. His hand twitches over the wire cutters, and a blue wire snaps in two. As the device flashes red, Eight whoops in triumph. Lev is dead. She wins.
Lev throws down the wire cutters. “That’s not fair. I wasn’t going to cut that one. I was startled.”
Bondar glares at him. “You startle. You die. There is no room for startled here.” While Lev continues to grumble and Eight continues to gloat, Bondar checks his message. He curses in Ukrainian as he puts the phone down. “Seven, you are to go to Malone’s office.”
I’d been surging forward with the others to check out Eight’s bomb, and I look up in shock. “What? Now?”
Malon
e? Me?
Class isn’t over for another twenty minutes. Five is supposed to try to disarm my bomb next.
“Now. We’ll do yours tomorrow.” He doesn’t sound pleased. Bondar hates interruptions in class, convinced his subject requires greater concentration than anything else we do.
Of course, all of our instructors think that, which can be rather annoying.
I keep my face carefully neutral as I leave the room, but my stomach ties itself in knots. One gives my arm a reassuring shake, and I flash him a smile that’s supposed to hide my nerves. But it’s impossible to hide that sort of thing from One. No doubt that’s why he tried to reassure me.
It doesn’t help. Why does Malone, of all people, want to see me? This is not normal. I don’t like it.
At least I have plenty of time to compose myself as I head toward his office. The camp, which is how everyone refers to the RedZone complex, is laid out like a wheel with the main administrative building in the center. To the north, directly across from the academy’s buildings, are the labs. To the west are the storage units. And to the east are living quarters and training fields. Around the entire perimeter is security layer upon security layer. Even I don’t know half of the systems, and even I—with all my training—am convinced that attempting to break in or out would be suicide.
It’s a nice, summer day, so I head outside into the breeze. The entire camp is connected underground. In fact, many of the buildings, including all the labs, exist only underground. It’s convenient in the winter, but during the rest of the year, I can’t get enough of the sun. Also, once you get past the drab buildings and the barbed wire and the armed guards, the area is pretty. Mountains fill the view to the south, and we’re surrounded by woods and rolling, rocky hills.
Malone’s office is in the central-most building, the only building with a second floor. I’ve never been up there. Malone runs the entire camp, so he doesn’t usually have much direct interaction with us. Sometimes he observes our lessons, and he sits in on our annual progress reviews with Fitzpatrick, but he never says much. He comes and goes a lot, sometimes taking off from the helipad on top of his building, other times in his armored black car through the central gate.
Outside Building One, as it’s uninspiringly called, I brace myself. Logically, I know I’ve done nothing wrong, but Three’s and Nine’s borderline treasonous whispers echo in my head. I hope this summons has nothing to do with them.
Jaw set, I swipe my thumb against the lock and enter the building. The AC hits me as I step inside, and I shiver. I’d taken my uniform jacket off earlier, but I put it back on now.
The entryway is empty except for two people. One of those people is security, and he ignores me. I used my print to get in, and he’d have seen that on one of his monitors. Therefore, he has no interest in me.
The other person is Malone’s assistant. I’ve never spoken to her, but I’ve seen her accompany him on his trips. She has a face like a porcelain doll, pretty but every bit as hard, and ringlets to match. I also know she’s not a half-bad shot because I’ve seen her practicing at the indoor range.
She assesses me now with an expression of mingled disdain and something else. Fear possibly. “He’s expecting you.”
She enters a combination on the keypad to her left, and the elevator opens. Growing ever the more curious, I detangle my hair as the elevator takes me up one flight. When it stops, the doors on the opposite side open, and I face a hallway that shocks me almost as much as this summons.
Everything about the camp is utilitarian, but not this place. Sculptures in glass and stone line the hallway. The walls are painted with murals, and the lights are trained to shine on interesting sections. Intrigued, I slow my steps to take in this rare glimpse of warmth and humanity. Above, a camera follows me down the stone-tiled floor. When I’ve made it halfway, doors open on my left.
Malone gets up from his desk, smiling. With the wrinkles around his eyes, it almost seems genuine. “HY1-Seven, please have a seat. Care for some tea?”
The inside of Malone’s office mirrors the hall. It’s bright and modern with cheerful abstract art. An electric kettle clicks off as he approaches the sideboard. He motions to the selection of tea canisters beside it.
“No, thank you.”
“Water then?”
I nod because it seems polite, and he pours me a glass from a silver pitcher. This whole deal is getting weirder by the second.
“You’re no doubt wondering why I called you here.” Malone returns to his desk, teacup and water glass in hand. “You may not realize it because our paths don’t often cross, but I keep a close watch on all our children. You show remarkable progress. HY1-One, in particular, thinks highly of your potential.”
Internally, I bristle at being referred to as a child. Malone has always called us that, and when I was a child, it didn’t bother me much. I’m not a child anymore though, and like the rest of my unit, I’m tired of being treated like one. I’m tired of being stuck at the camp and denied the missions we’ve trained our whole lives for.
I can’t let any of that show, however, so I sip the water, grateful that it gives me something to keep my hands busy.
“To be honest,” Malone continues, “I’ve had my eye on you for a while. I know none of you are technically children anymore, but I will always think of every one of you, all the HYs, as my children. It’s what parents do. You’re all special, and you all have your particular strengths. But a few of you show something more than that—a dedication and a loyalty that makes me proud. This is why I’m particularly pleased to have a mission that’s suited for you.”
“A mission?” I’m so surprised the words slip out even though I haven’t been given permission to speak.
“A very important mission. You’re wondering why you and not One?”
That’s exactly what I’m wondering. That, and twenty other things, beginning with why it’s taken so damn long for this day to come.
Malone taps his fingers against his teacup. “As you know, you each have unique traits which better suit different types of assignments. Sometimes those traits will be irrelevant. This time, they’re not. I’ll be more explicit later, but I think you’ll figure it out for yourself.”
He unfolds an e-sheet and pushes it toward me. It glows purple briefly around the edges as it boots, then a single file folder appears on the clear screen. I’ve been trained to wait for instructions, so I don’t ask, although I wish Malone would hurry up. I’m bursting with questions and biting my tongue to keep quiet.
“Ready?” he asks.
The e-sheet must be connected to Malone’s computer because he taps a couple keys and a woman’s image appears in front of me. She has brown hair and eyes; a pale, narrow face; and is in every way unremarkable. I’ve never seen her before.
“Her name was Sarah Fisher,” Malone says. “That photo is twenty-two years old. She was a bioengineer who studied the body’s response to injury, and who put her considerable talent to use for the wrong people. Unknowingly, we suspect. Her research was funded in part by a known terrorist organization.”
Malone presses another key and a new photo of Sarah Fisher appears. In this one, she’s clearly pregnant. “Seven months into her pregnancy, Fisher disappeared. We don’t know why, but my suspicion is that she figured out her research was successful, and she didn’t want her funders to get hold of it. She destroyed all her lab records—made a very thorough job of it. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t do as thorough a job of covering her own tracks. She was murdered five months later. Her child was presumed dead at the time. Any questions so far?”
“What terrorist organization?”
Malone makes an apologetic face. “I’m afraid you’re not cleared for that, but don’t worry. It’s not important for what we need you to do.”
Maybe, maybe not. But if I’m not cleared for the intel, arguing the point isn’t
going to do me any good. “Why was her baby presumed dead then? She wasn’t found for three months after she’d have given birth.”
“Ah, that’s the most relevant question you could ask.” Malone hits another key, and the e-sheet goes blank once more. “Six months into her pregnancy, an ultrasound revealed that Dr. Fisher’s fetus had anencephaly. I don’t suppose that’s covered in your biology lessons?”
“No.”
Malone transfers a new file onto the e-sheet. “You can research it more later, but it’s a neural tube defect. Basically it means the fetus’s skull doesn’t fully form, and the cerebrum never develops. The few children with it that survive until birth are deaf, blind and have no hope of ever gaining consciousness. They die within days, if not hours. It is one hundred percent fatal and incurable. So that’s where things get interesting.”
He pauses, clearly waiting for a response. So I give him one. “Interesting how?”
“We’ve recently discovered that Fisher’s child is alive, which is nothing short of a medical miracle. Only because of her research, we suspect it’s less miracle and more science. At six months into term, this child—let’s call him or her X—didn’t even have a functioning brain. And now, at nineteen, he or she is alive and, we have every reason to believe, completely normal and healthy.”
I blink at him. The camp’s labs have been working for as long as I can recall on bolstering healing and strengthening our immune functions. They’ve had some success, but what Malone’s talking about sounds way more advanced. “You think Dr. Fisher cured anencephaly?”
“No. While that would be a noble pursuit, no terrorist organization would have funded her to research that. We believe Fisher altered X’s DNA somehow. Before she died, she was working on ways to significantly speed up the body’s natural healing processes. If she succeeded, that’s a reason why she would have been desperate to hide her findings.”
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