Revive

by Tracey Martin

  I don’t mind dying for my country, but I kind of mind the way I’m living for it.

  Yet Cole’s words dissolve the last of my anger. “You’re dodging the issue. You still treat me differently than anyone else.”

  He traces the lines painted on the lot with his boot. “I can’t help it. We’re emotionally flawed. You are different, always have been. And I will always have your back, HY1-Seven. Even if you don’t like it.”

  Warm blood trickles down my face and onto my lips. I’ve tasted too much of it in my life and can’t stand its sickly metallic flavor. I don’t move to wipe it up though. I’d rather bleed all over the mat, leave it behind like I’m marking my territory.

  Cole offers me a hand, but I ignore it. The rest of our unit has stopped pretending to practice. All eyes are on me. Again. I’m getting tired of being the center of attention.

  Fitzpatrick snaps at them. “Back to work.”

  Blood works its way down my chin, tickling me, so I finally wipe it on my arm. I’m aware of every breath, every rise and fall of my chest, because it’s either concentrate on that and why I’m here, or lose my temper. Losing my temper would be bad.

  So instead, I engage in a silent pissing contest with Fitzpatrick. The words if you want to fight me, then do it bounce on my tongue. It kills me how much I want to yell them, but that’s the sort of reaction she’d like.

  Cole shuffles next to me. He might break first in his usual rush to defend me. I’m waiting for it but hoping it doesn’t happen. Having my back sometimes means letting me fight my own battles.

  Before either Cole or I can do something I’ll regret, Bitchpatrick’s phone beeps. All the principle staff have phones that double as walkie-talkies. I can’t hear what the voice on the other end says as she puts it to her ear, but her face hardens.

  I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.

  Fitzpatrick clips the phone back to her belt. “You’re wanted in medical. I suppose you need a guide to show you how to get there.”

  “No, thanks. I can remember yesterday.”

  Cole moves toward me, and I nod at him as if to say stay back. If he argues with Fitzpatrick after I’m gone, so be it. At least I won’t have to witness it.

  Halfway up the stairs to ground level, I wet my lips and taste the dried blood. I consider washing it off before showing up in medical like this, then decide I don’t care. I’m not sure where I can go to wash around here anyway.

  And why medical? Did the doctors think of some new tests they can run on me? Much as I’m glad for an excuse to get away from Fitzpatrick, that doesn’t sound fun either.

  I jog to the medical building, thinking it might have been smart to travel underground because of the cold. But whether I’d have been able to find my way underground is another question, and I couldn’t give Fitzpatrick the satisfaction of admitting that yes, a guide might be handy. Besides, I’m fairly confident I’ll recognize the building I emerged from last night.

  I do after a moment’s hesitation, and head underground into the warmth. Above, the clouds keep spreading, forming a gray blanket over the sky and blocking the sun. It’s no warmer now than it was a couple hours ago.

  The elevator returns me to the level I was on when I woke up yesterday, but beyond that I discover a problem. Faced with long corridors and lots of doors, I haven’t any clue where to go.

  “They’re looking for you that way,” a white-coated woman tells me as she passes.

  “Thanks.” I head in the direction she pointed and stop outside a door where I hear Malone speaking. The doctor with him beckons me in.

  Malone frowns at me. He’s wearing another jacket, another blue shirt, another snazzy tie. Apparently he’s the only one around here who dresses up. “What happened to your nose?”

  “Fitzpatrick.” It might be reckless to tell him the truth, but it was also reckless speaking up to Fitzpatrick this morning. Guess I’m in that sort of mood. What did Cole call it? I’m emotionally flawed.

  I’m also curious what Malone thinks of her training style. Another thing I’m sure about: I never had this many opportunities to speak to him before my mission.

  “One was supposed to be helping me figure out how much I remember, and she decided to double up on me.”

  “Is it broken?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Malone motions to the doctor. “Check it out and take care of it if it is.” Turning to me, he stands and adjusts his shirt sleeves. “I told Fitzpatrick to go easy on you. I’m confident we figured out what happened, and we need to not tax your brain right now.”

  I try not to fidget as the doctor inspects my nose, but Malone’s words make me antsy. “You figured it out? What is it? Am I going to be okay?”

  “I’d like confirmation before I say anything else, which is why you’re here. As for your other questions, we have reason to hope. Well?”

  The doctor hands me a wet towel to wipe my face. “Not broken.”

  “Good.” Malone gestures toward the new set of medical clothes on the chair. “You’ll need those. And meanwhile I’ll speak with Fitzpatrick again.”

  “She’s always done this sort of thing to me.”

  To my bewilderment, Malone smiles in a fatherly way. “Yes, I’ve heard. I’ve also heard you’ve responded extremely well under the pressure. Self-control and the ability to keep one’s head are two very important traits I need in my agents. The entire HY1 line came out with too much emotional instability, but in spite of that, some of you continue to impress me. It’s one of the reasons you were selected for the RTC mission.”

  He gives my shoulder a friendly shake then leaves. The doctor follows. I’m left staring at the medical gown and trying to sort through my confusion.

  Screw it. Something else to think about later. Let’s get this over with so I can have some answers.

  A few minutes later I’m changed and staring at the white ceiling.

  “You need to be utterly still during the scan,” the tech says. “This equipment has all the sensitivity of an elephant, but with the chips in your brain we can’t use anything better. So it’s going to be a while.”

  “Great.” Bad enough to be stretched out on this table like a slab of meat, listening to the machine buzz around me. But to have to stay this way for a while? How long is a while?

  To add to the indignity, the tech straps my legs and torso to the table, then slides several padded objects around my head. From my position, I can’t see them well, but I sense them. My head’s being trapped in a cage. Then the tech lowers the scanners over me, and I’m not only caged, but buried in a metal coffin. I’d rather they cut open my wrist and plug me in like yesterday. After all, the wound is hardly healed. But I suppose Malone wants some other type of information. He’d better have good news for me when this is over.

  “Relax and close your eyes,” the tech says.

  Relax. Easy for her to suggest.

  I do close my eyes though. It’s better than staring up at the blinking blue coffin lights. As they swirl above me like water, Malone’s words run through my head. “Self-control and the ability to keep one’s head are two very important traits I need in my agents. The entire HY1 line came out with too much emotional instability.”

  So I used to impress Malone in spite of my potential flaws. Would he still be impressed if he knew what I’ve been thinking recently? Somehow, I doubt it, and that doesn’t bode well.

  If I’m thinking these things now, I have to wonder what I’ll be thinking if I get the rest of my memories back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Six Weeks Ago

  Protecting the world from bad guys might be noble, but it means sacrificing sleep. The Sunday morning after my secondary assignment, I’m not as awake as I’d like. I don’t need much sleep to function, but it’s sure nice to have.

  “You okay?” Audrey as
ks as we get dressed.

  “Tired.”

  “You were scowling.”

  I turn my back to her, ostensibly to apply lip balm. “Oh. Just thinking about my philosophy paper.”

  She drops it. I drop it, or try to. The thing is, something is bothering me. Specifically, what I did last night. Whatever I’m feeling must be some sort of delayed reaction, but as I stared at the ceiling at three a.m., I kept remembering the feel of that guy’s skin against my hand, how the needle sank into the soft spot of his neck, the expressionless way he looked at me—as if he knew this would be how his life would end. Not via me exactly, but violently. Anyone could have done it. No doubt lots of people wanted him dead. But I was the tool someone used.

  I think that’s what’s bothering me. I’ve killed people before. We’ve all been “field tested” as they say back at the camp, and I’ve never felt anything but pride for knowing I’m serving my country and saving the world.

  This is the first time it’s occurred to me, though, that I’m just a tool. A weapon. I was created to be nothing more than a gun or knife or a syringe filled with neurotoxin. Part of me feels like this is good; it gives me purpose that others lack. But the rest of me feels used, and more than ever, I feel like an imposter around this place. Here, where the political science department has courses devoted to nonviolent conflict resolution, and students attend lectures criticizing foreign wars, and there are even people who object to eating meat because it’s violence against animals. I’d never heard of such things before I came here. I can only imagine Audrey’s horror if I told her what I’d been up to. That horror would be normal.

  I feel no horror. I’m not normal. For some reason, this bothers me too.

  Also for the first time.

  I don’t want to dwell on these unsettling thoughts, so I crave a distraction. Audrey, Kyle and I are in the library, along with a good chunk of the school, or so it seems. I’m supposed to be studying for a philosophy exam, but I read the book, the CliffsNotes and our class notes. All the information I need is stored in my head. Whether I can discuss themes and relate them to current events and the like is up to fate at this point. I hate this sort of exam. Unlike last night, this is a test I will struggle with.

  While everyone else is deep in last-minute cramming, I go online and check the major news sites for information about the bio bomb in New York. It’s exactly the distraction I’m looking for, one that makes me believe in my greater purpose.

  Sunlight streams through the windows, and the scent of musty books makes me relax in spite of the terrible headlines that dominate the news. All the coverage that’s given to the event is frustratingly vague, and article after article regurgitate the same old facts. The government is developing a response to the demands. The comatose children are stable and being treated. The weapon, which is unidentified, appears to be harmless to everyone else and there’s no need for mass panic.

  Naturally, there’s been mass panic.

  Also naturally, people are divided over whether the government should cede to the bombers’ demands. We do not negotiate with terrorists, the president assures the country. But we do, occasionally, cut deals, which is apparently not the same thing. Based on what I learned at the camp, negotiation is public and bad for the country’s image. Deals are private and useful—if distasteful—tools for keeping business as usual flowing.

  I read everything that’s available in a couple minutes. Everything verifiable, that is. Then I turn to the websites and blogs devoted to speculation and conspiracies. On one that’s focused on science and technology news, PhDs and wannabes debate how such a weapon could work when the science behind it is strictly theoretical and decades away from being implemented.

  An anonymous commenter writes in to say it isn’t.

  I worked at a bioengineering lab doing classified research on something called Project Pinpoint. Over the summer, someone broke into the lab and stole blueprints we’d been designing for targeted viral genetic manipulation. When the break-in was discovered, the CIA or NSA (or whoever, cause they were some seriously scary crazy people) came in. They closed up shop and took over the investigation. We were told to keep our mouths shut or else. One thing I did hear by accident was that the blueprints were stolen by some terrorist organization called The Four. I’m posting this through anonymizing routers because I don’t want to know what that “or else” means. But the world needs to hear this. Peace out.

  There are no other messages from the commenter, but plenty of responses. How could the government hush something like this up? Who are The Four?

  People call the guy a crackpot or his post a joke. No one takes him seriously.

  I do.

  I’ve heard of The Four. The name’s never been mentioned in front of me, but not everyone who comes and goes through the camp realizes how good my hearing is. I don’t know anything about The Four, but knowing they exist is enough to fuel my curiosity. Plus, I remember hearing the words “Project Pinpoint”. Malone got a call about it the day he gave me the RTC assignment.

  Since searching Kyle’s computer doesn’t take long each day and has so far failed to produce the damning evidence I’m looking for, I decide to pick up a second snooping hobby: researching The Four.

  Before I get myself in trouble, I take a cue from the mystery commenter and route my Internet search through anonymizing networks. The only hit I get on Project Pinpoint, though, is that person’s mention.

  Clearly, I need fresh air. Audrey painted her nails in the room earlier, and the place reeks.

  I crack the window an inch so she doesn’t freak on me when she returns from class, and I grab the bag of potato chips from inside my closet. Ripping into them, I sit back at the desk. Then I search for The Four.

  That throws me a ton of links, but they range from the completely unrelated to the mostly useless. I sift through pages and pages of information and finally narrow down The Four to this: it’s an international criminal organization with known operational arms in the U.S., China, France and Russia. Hence, why it’s called The Four. They deal in sophisticated weaponry, dangerous and unethical research, and politically sensitive information. They profess no ideology other than money. Some people aren’t even sure they actually exist.

  I’m licking salty grease from my fingers when a name in one of those links catches my eye: Doctor Earnest Wilson, my former security systems instructor at the camp. I sit up so fast I knock my chip bag to the floor.

  It was a rainy Tuesday in August when I learned Dr. Wilson had died. RedZone had sent him on some business trip, and he never returned. No one knew why at first, just that our security systems class was canceled two days in a row.

  On the third day, Fitzpatrick told us he was killed in a car accident. Our questions were met with a stern “none of your business” that was hardly satisfying. Dr. Wilson had seemed like a nice old man. He cracked inappropriate jokes and devised hilarious scenarios as teaching tools.

  And, if what I’m reading is true, it was all a lie. There was no car crash, though it’s no wonder Fitzpatrick told us there was. Because if what I’m reading is true, Dr. Wilson was a traitor.

  This news devastates me far more than his death did. It also infuriates me because I liked him and he duped me. My interest in The Four is personal now.

  I dig deeper.

  Friday night I fake being sick and hide in the room while Audrey and others head to an off-campus party. When I’m certain she won’t be returning for a jacket or a pack of gum or anything else she forgot, I lock the door and get out my pocket knife.

  Fast as I can type, directly connecting to my computer is easier. Translating ideas into conscious thought and conscious thought into code and code into finger movements takes time. If I’m plugged in, my brain given direct access to the computer, I can save the time it takes to type and to think. I can reduce my conscious awareness and the language barrier tha
t comes with it.

  As Octavia likes to say, “Become one with the code.”

  I slice into my arm, retrieve the cable end I need, take off the cap and connect. It’s such a pain—literally—that I can’t do this another way, but RedZone isn’t about to stick a wireless transmitter in my head for security reasons. The last thing I need is some terrorist trying to remotely hack into my implants. Besides, the connection is much faster this way, and I can block out the pain. It’s just an annoyance that I have to keep a stash of bandages on hand.

  Jacked in, I close my eyes and set my internal timer so I’ll know to leave plenty of time to clean up before Audrey returns. Then I get to work. With Dr. Wilson’s instruction, I’ve cracked and hacked my way into all kinds of servers.

  I expect the CIA’s are going to be my biggest challenge yet. But it’s early November. I have time, and damn it, I’m going to get my answers. I wonder if Dr. Wilson would appreciate the irony in this.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Four Weeks Ago

  There are no lights down here, but the city’s hazy glow is plenty bright for me. In the dark, every other sense is sharper. That’s why Fitzpatrick used to make us drill blindfolded. Shoot blindfolded. Swim blindfolded.

  Each sound is more meaningful. Each smell more potent. Even in so built up an area as this town outside Boston, the night reveals more mysteries than the day. From here, I can hear the ripples in the Charles River. And I can smell the alcohol on my companion. That was a bad idea of his—drinking before this confrontation.

  “We had a deal.” My voice echoes off the concrete walls surrounding us. They’re covered in graffiti and river slime. Broken glass glimmers by my feet, and plastic bottles mingle with fast food wrappers. Beer and orange soda and probably piss mix with the fishy river reek and stench of refineries.

  I feel like I’m in a bad movie, the kind Chase watches, in which terrible things happen to good people, and smart people act stupid so the movie can claim a plot, and stuff blows up when physics is quite clear that such an explosion would never happen in real life. They’re the kind of movies I never got to watch at the camp, and I’m okay with that. I don’t really like them.