Julius turns his chin toward the cracked glass beside us. Behind his ear is a thick bandage. He turns the other way, revealing another one. His movements tax his happy expression.
“What happened?” I ask, shocked.
“Clawed them out.” He holds up wiggling fingers. “Couldn’t take them throwing me in the box again. Not after last time.” He shudders involuntarily then leans in. “I’m toast now, V.”
Behind us, people trickle away. Julius notices the movement and straightens, picking up our previous conversation. “So, Val, you have green eyes and all that. But I wasn’t asking if you remembered your name or your face. I meant the memory. Your memory. The one we did before. The reason we got boxed.”
Out of the ocean of memories surging in my mind, I know the one he’s talking about, the one I just glimpsed a moment ago. “Yes. It was a memory of you actually.” My neck muscles lock up as I remember more. “We were blocking my sensors.”
“Yes!”
Jergen, who’s been standing silent in the dwindling circle of Order members, lets out a sigh. “They will make you do it all over again.”
My eyes still on Julius, who looks elated, I state the most horrifying part: “But all I remember from that is your face watching me, a memory of Marcus, and a glimpse of my research. None of that helped me remember who I am after the box. None of that was me.” Angry, I recall the Director’s words. “There was nothing there that defined me, because I was—am—defined by …” But I can’t say his name aloud, it makes it too real, too condemning. “The Director was right,” I whisper, staring hard at the floor.
Valeria is a box filled with someone else’s things. And all because of these incorrigible streams. All because of the Director himself.
Twelve
In the morning, my wristband sends an acute electric shock up my arm, wrenching me from my dreams.
“Ouch!”
A message flashes on my wrist.
Now that you’ve had your beauty sleep, it’s time for round two. – Wynn
Jergen was right.
The door to my bedroom slides open, revealing a tired-looking blond boy.
“Hello, Jergen.” I peel myself out of the bed, stretching, assuring him I care very little about the punishment headed my way.
“I told you they’d make you do it again.”
I follow Jergen back down to the basement, this time taking the elevators. The entire time, I stare boldly at Jergen’s face in the reflection, making him squirm like an amoeba.
Wynn waits with a hand on her hip outside my torture chamber.
“Welcome back,” she mutters. “That was stupid, you know, looking in the mirror—which has been replaced—and ruining everything. You brought this on yourself.” She shuffles me into the room and jerks a hand at the reclining streaming chair, which I crawl onto with shaking limbs.
“You know this won’t work, so why do it again?” I lay my head against the cold curved surface, fear clawing at my stomach. I hate this so much.
Wynn purses her lips. “Something’s got to be done about you.” She reaches behind my head and clicks a button. A tiny pang announces the sedating needle has entered my neck.
Darkness.
This time, however, the darkness lasts longer than usual. I feel my body moving, or being moved, but no images accompany the stream, like they forgot to plug in my brain all the way or something.
Then it begins. Marcus’ face is what I see first. He is bruised on both cheeks and his mouth is stained with dried blood. He’s in a room like mine, but entirely empty. A dark smear stands out on the wall, dark splatters on the white floor.
“Marcus!” I run to his body stretched out across the floor. His hands are hot, his forehead sweating. No response. “Marcus!” Again, nothing. But he’s breathing.
“How did you get in here?” an oily voice wonders. Just inside the closing door, a man stands, gloves on, wearing black instead of navy. A suit instead of scrubs. Mr. Crowne.
“No matter. I like this better with you in here.” His hair is black, like his suit, but streaked with grey. Broad shouldered, but thin, this man has overseen all of my punishments for as long as I can remember. Today, his eyes—my neck quivers—are full of wasps, ready to sting. There is movement and groaning behind me.
“V! What are you doing?” Marcus pushes himself up, taking a second to gain his balance.
“I don’t know, I … I’m not sure how I got here.” I try to think back to what I was doing before this room, but nothing. Nothing, nothing. My mind has been flushed.
“Come now, Valeria and Marcus the Fifth. This will be fun. What an appropriate way to train you two, with both of you here. You must learn to feel nothing for one another, nothing more than the friendly competitive spirit we thrive on in this facility.” He tugs on his gloves. “Shall we?”
Before Crowne moves, Marcus steps in front of me, one strong arm pushing me behind him. “Marcus, don’t!”
“Hush, Val.” A command.
In a flash, the black-suited man swings at Marcus, who stops the motion with his forearm, sending a blow into the man’s stomach. I feel like cheering at this, but too soon a gloved hand connects with Marcus’ left ear. At nearly the same time, Crowne knocks his leg into Marcus’ knees, sending him to the floor with a clack as his elbow hits the tile.
“Marcus!” My scream pierces my own eardrums as Crowne’s knee sinks into Marcus’ chest, another fist pummels his already bruised face. More blood spews out of his mouth. I lunge at the fight, ready to rip into the black-suited man.
Smack! Marcus lands a blow to the underside of the man’s chin. Now it’s Crowne’s turn to spit blood. Marcus pushes himself up and with a stiff hand, shoves me in the chest to keep me out of Mr. Crowne’s reach. I lose my balance and bounce clumsily on my rear.
“You can kill me first,” Marcus growls at Crowne, reeling back for a thunderous punch. “But I won’t let you hurt her.”
But as Marcus’ arm moves back, it’s as if the energy building within his fury dies at once and his fist drops. His head dips and his hands grip his knees as he tries not to fall.
A brain flash takes him.
“No!” I scream, watching the smile spread on the man’s face as he sees his victory materializing. I scramble, but I am too late.
A sickening thunk as this horrible man again knocks Marcus off his feet. Marcus’ skull hits the tile and he is still, quiet.
No …
“Valiant,” says Crowne to Marcus’ body, “but unnecessary. He put in a nice effort with you here.” He straightens his suit jacket then wipes his mouth with the back of his glove. “It really isn’t fair to fight someone who’s had no experience. But he picked some things up rather quickly, I’d say.”
“Monsters,” I whisper, sinking to my knees. “You’re all monsters.”
For some reason, he laughs. “Oh! I thought you all were the monsters. The gen-eng monsters of The World Research Center! At least that’s what everyone calls you.”
“We are the ones trapped here.” I place a hand on Marcus’ chest, which still rises and falls.
“Ah, don’t forget what a privilege it is to live here! To be an Order member! To whom much is given, remember?”
I hiss at him. “Much is taken, is more like it.”
He chuckles. “Think you deserve more? You are of use to us; that is all.” Here, he tilts his head. “You are of great use to the planet, indeed. The way our water filtration systems are of use. Expensive, and highly specialized, but replaceable. Why do you think we hatch a new Order every three years?” He turns his head a bit, looking over his shoulder at nothing in particular. “We are done here.”
Beep, click! The door to the room slides open. Wynn and Jergen and another man file in. As soon as I see them, I remember. A stream! This was all just a stream! Wynn pulls me up by my armpit. Then why isn’t it ending now?
I look back at Marcus, relieved to know it wasn’t real. But now the anger starts. “Hey!”
I begin to struggle against my captor. Jergen jumps in for my other arm. “Let go!” I’m wriggling like a fish. “Stop this stream or I will lose my mind!” I’m waiting now for the syringe to retract, for the call to make this memory stop.
Wynn’s voice comes out in jerks as she resists me. “Stream? Honey, this is no stream.”
Behind me, as Wynn hustles me out the door, Mr. Crowne mutters, “Clean up the blood and get him to Eight. No one sees.”
“What?” I’m bucking and kicking and twitching. “You beat him up! What are you trying to do? And you call me a monster!”
“Mr. Crowne beat him up, not me. Don’t be hollering at me about it.” Wynn’s grip tightens on my arm.
“I thought your goal was to make me want to obey Codex! You think this works?”
“Mr. Crowne thought a little old-fashioned corporal punishment might do the trick, since you seem to have figured out a way around our usual treatment.”
“That’s lunacy!”
Tired from little sleep and so much exertion, I decide to let my captors drag me. This is insanity. And all because we blocked my sensors for one lousy minute. It dawns on me that the beating Marcus just took was probably a direct result of my actions. And Julius! What are they doing to him? To Pru? The sinking feeling gathering in my gut turns sour.
Beside me, Wynn touches her ear with her free hand—this woman is strong enough to hold half my weight with one arm—and answer softly, “On our way.”
“On our way where?” I feel stupid as soon as it is out of my mouth.
“You’ll see.”
Of course.
Just a few turns down sanitized hallways and then a surprise. The walls are no longer monochrome grey or white, but instead a warm green, like a lichen. Hanging on the walls are black-and-white photographs of the construction of this Center, of the First Order, and, I notice as we continue walking, of each subsequent Order doing everything from gardening as children to laboratory work as adults. In the photos, we look happy. Bizarre. Where in the Center are we?
At the end of the hallway, we reach a wooden door—I’ve never seen one before—with inlaid panels. Who would want a door like this? So heavy and … Oh.
Beside the door, a square of light appears where Wynn has placed her palm. Above it, the words Abel Ebner, MD, PhD. Lots of letters there, Daddy-o. Inside me, an arctic wind blows.
“Access Granted,” chimes a woman’s voice from the lit panel beside the door. A faint click signals the door has unlocked. Wynn no longer needs to hold me; I stiffen, curious, and white-faced.
“Let’s go.”
Do not look afraid. I lift my chin, swallow, and step forward. Breathe. Jergen closes the door behind me and my teeth bite down on the inside of my lip. The room is small, a kind of waiting room complete with two short couches and a pair of old lamps with triangular shades. More photos on the walls.
“We’ll wait for you here.” Wynn says, sinking down onto a couch with a sigh. Jergen steps to the opposite couch and looks at me a moment before taking his seat. “Well, in you go!”
Another wooden door—this place is stuffy and old-fashioned—and then a cavernous office spanning what must be two floors opens before me. The air is frigid; the only light comes from the far wall, which is one large window. A desk sits in front of the window and at the desk, a man, silhouetted against the bright sky.
“Valeria V, come in.” It is the Director’s voice, to be sure. I take a few steps, hesitant. The Director stands, moves around his desk. “Valeria, come,” he beckons. “There are some things I want to discuss with you.”
As if approaching a vortex, I fear that what is before me will utterly destroy me. He wants to shake my hand? Is he crazy? I stand before his outstretched palm, considering my options. Marcus’ bloody face swims in my mind and my hand feels a warm, firm grip.
“Do sit.” He follows suit.
His dark hair and shadowy features are obscured by the light behind him, but I can see his teeth as he smiles. “You have come to me, finally. I must admit it took some time, and an unfortunate string of events.” He nods. “What happened to Marcus was the most unfortunate. But he will recover quickly under our care.”
“Recover? You beat him to a pulp! And now you plan on doing who-knows-what to me because I haven’t learned my lesson yet on how to act perfect all the time. Well, Daddy, your behavior mods don’t seem to work on me. But wait, you know that because you pilfer through my thoughts like they’re some book you like to read!” I’ve nearly scooted off my chair. Did I just call him Daddy to his face?
The Director pauses, one elbow coming up to rest on his desk. A faint smile flickers across his dark face. “Is that what they’re calling me these days?”
“No, just me.” I do not mask the derision in my words.
“Interesting.” His floating hand recedes. He leans back. “About your thoughts, I have seen all that you and dear Julius have been up to.” He’s downright evil. “Funny, that what I told you in the gardens mere days ago seems to have caused all this odd behavior from you. So, I consider it partially my fault.” He grins like this amuses him. “And about the behavior modifications, I knew they wouldn’t work. I knew you’d never fully be able to control your anger or your feelings for Marcus.”
“You what?” I reel my chin back in. Control yourself, think of what they did to Marcus. “Pardon?”
“I know your genes well, Valeria. Remember, I created you.”
This is not happening. I stare blankly, waiting for someone to wake me up and tell me this is a stream, something! It is not possible for one man to be this heartless.
He brings his face forward, leans over the desk. “I know everything about you, Valeria. I know because I planned it all. From your amber skin to your soft black hair—your hair would be so beautiful long. Your personality, your propensities. All of it, my design.”
I’m gaping now at this man’s childlike excitement. My chair screeches as I stand. “So you did make me faulty on purpose! You helped write part of the Codex and you made me so that I’d break it! You’re sick! You’re downright disturbed.” Get me out of here. I jump to my feet at the same time the door behind me opens.
My body freezes as I stare at the figure of Mr. Crowne approaching.
“Sir, I need to speak with you.”
The Director stands. “Excuse me, Valeria.” He keeps his eyes on Mr. Crowne and steps around his broad, thin desk, the outline of warm fingerprints disappearing on the glass.
Confused, I back toward the opposite wall, the wall of windows, afraid that Mr. Crowne has brought his fists here to punish me this time.
The Director steps in front of the man, obscuring his face. The two men speak in hushed tones for a moment, then Mr. Crowne’s nose slides into view as he eyes me with disdain.
“Perhaps it would suit you to speak in my quarters?” The Director raises a hand toward a door I had not noticed set within the wall to my right.
“Do you trust this one?” The man in the black suit asks.
The Director nods at me. “She knows I have ways of discovering her secrets.” He walks toward the door to his rooms, tells it to open, and the two men disappear, leaving me alone in this vast office.
An opportunity has presented itself.
Hot with guilty pleasure and a sheen of sudden sweat, I step around the Director’s desk, eyes raking for anything of value. He steals from me, after all. Who cares if he finds out? The satisfaction of this will be worth it.
Nothing but the dock for his t-screen and two slits in the glass that indicate dormant computer screens. A button somewhere will activate these screens, but I know it is coded only for his fingerprint. What else? Frantic that I’ll be discovered in an instant, I keep stabbing glances at the door to the Director’s quarters. My hands begin sliding all around the desk, looking for any sort of access point to reach this man’s secrets.
Finally, my fingers trace across a small circle that glows at my warmth. I watch, waiting for o
ne of the screens to materialize, but nothing happens. After a few seconds, a thin drawer reaches out from under the desk. Without discrimination, I plunge my hand in, close my fingers around two small items. In a flash, I’m back at my seat, the drawer sliding slowly back into oblivion.
What do we have here?
In one hand is a two-inch square with a tiny hole in the middle. The plastic around the hole seems to contain its own light. Below the hole, a name has been scrawled: Abel Ebner. I recognize the card as money. Even though I live my life excluded from the need for money, I at least know what makes the world go round. And what funds our research here. The tiny glowing circle in this card is a money chip. An external one. Most people keep them in their forearms these days, in an effort to avoid identity theft, but the traditionalists still keep external ones. This is the Director’s personal money chip.
The second item is more unusual: a solid silvery circle roughly the size of my palm that shimmers faintly in the light from the windows behind me. In the center, the letters S and I appear and disappear as I turn the coin in my hand.
Temporarily distracted, I let my awareness of the second door falter.
The door beeps faintly before it slides, as do all the doors in this facility, save the ones at the front entrance to this office.
Revved into a panic, I stuff both items into my pocket and look up. The two men are still in deep consultation, Mr. Crowne’s gaze directed behind him as he enters the room. My wristband is blinking madly. The Director’s eyes land on me just as I cross my arms to try to hide the guilt flashing on my wrist. Please tell me he didn’t notice.
Mr. Crowne frowns as the men turn their attention to me. “Little rat,” Mr. Crowne barks at me. “All your rule breaking is about to end.”
“Hanner, not now.” The Director’s tone is sharp. “Valeria. Perhaps we will continue our conversation some other time.” He motions toward the door. “Hanner will escort you from here.”
Thirteen
Entering the Senate chamber from below gives me the impression of an animal being led out to slaughter. Mr. Crowne—power hungry leech!—holds my arm at an uncomfortable angle as we walk out on to the raised platform. The members of the Senate sit arranged in their chairs that curve along the edge of the stage. I’ve never been present for a Senate meeting; the chairs have been perpetually empty in my memories and the memories of my Order.
The Veritas Project Page 10
