He presses back a smile. “Sounds familiar.”
When we discussed my idea, Julius said he could do it. I just hope it works.
“You work on it while we’re getting Pru,” I say. “Julius, you have to make sure you reach them before M gives me to the Reds. I’m trusting—”
The car screeches into a halting slide and my face smashes the back of Ty’s seat. Smoke rolls off our tires out the window.
“What the—”
But ahead of me, I see what made Ty slam on the breaks. Standing in the middle of the street, flanked by a line of people, is the Director.
Thirty-One
The car’s screeching tires, initiated when the car sensed an obstacle, drown out Oscar’s string of curse words. No one else speaks.
By the time we slam backward to a dead stop, I can see the Director’s smug smile. I start scanning the faces beside him. I don’t recognize a single one of them. But they are all armed, and all the weapons are pointing at us.
“What do we do?” Oscar whispers, glancing at Ty.
Out the front windshield, I stare at the Director, who continues to stand with his arms crossed. None of the people with him have moved. It’s a standoff.
“Let me talk to him,” I say, nodding at the Director, my blood hot as all my old hatred simmers to the surface. Everyone shouts their disapproval. “No, no, listen!” I wave my hands for silence. What I’m about to do is foolish, and it might be the end of me, but I have reason to believe it will work. “Maybe if he knows what we’re up against. Maybe if he knows what M is planning, he won’t just kill us. Maybe he can help us.”
Julius’ jaw dangles open. “But we’ve spent these last two months running from him.”
Nodding, I pop the car door open. “Yes, but I’ve also spent these last two months learning a lot about bargaining.”
Climbing out onto the sunset-painted street, I swallow and look up. I can do this. I can face him.
I leave the door open and walk toward the Director. Toward the man who started it all when he altered my genetic code to make me his own little creation. What do I owe this man? My life? My death? Surely he will kill me. But maybe he will listen to me and stop M. Then at least my death will have been meaningful.
“Valeria,” his voice fills the silent street, making my bones shake. The two people closest to him train their weapons on me.
“How did you find us?”
“Ah. That was tricky. Julius is a phenomenal hacker. He kept your sensors undetectable. The help came from your friend Oscar.”
I glance back at the car. “What? Oscar?”
“One of my friends in the city overheard him talking about a man named M streaming with a girl named V. Took some time to track down where you’d be tonight, but some of my hackers are quite talented as well.”
Shaking my head, I want to punch Oscar. Later, though. I steel my expression. Whatever he wants from me, I will make him hear me first. Then, we can escape from him again.
“Listen to me.” I force my hands to stay loose at my sides.
For the moment, he appears to be waiting for me to continue, so I launch into what M’s planning. He listens with a curious expression, head tilting this way and that.
“Interesting,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “I feared as much.” He drops his hand. “O, my Valeria, why did you run from me?”
My chin jerks back in disgust. I open my mouth to retort, but I remember that I need this man’s help. “Help us stop him.”
The Director looks right and left at the men and women beside him, raising his arms. “My friends.”
Judging by the metal in these people’s hands, he’s brought them here to murder us all. Why did I bother asking for his help? My last act, begging for the help of the man who wants me dead.
“Lower your weapons,” he shouts.
What?
Every gun drops.
“Are you—?”
“Going to help? Of course I am. But we need a plan.”
“Got one.”
“Do you?” He smiles. “Let’s hear it.”
The building was never finished. Tarps drape down from the ceiling, sectioning off areas with unfinished flooring or table saws covered in wood shavings. Wind rattles the tarps and water drips into puddles on the concrete floor. Our hideout.
So far, we are the first ones here, as we hoped. After our run-in with the Director, we detoured and collected a few more people we could count on for this. If it gets ugly, we won’t go down without a fight.
Of the Director and his fellows, he and three of his men are with us, the other seven slipped away at his orders and are, hopefully, scattered about the adjacent streets, sentinels for the coming fight. Oscar recruited a pair of rusty-looking guys he says are his brothers, but I doubt it. And there’s Gab, the white-blond bodyguard I saw that night in Ty’s apartment. Also, Ty’s friend, Dig, the one who got himself pummeled at the fight, is here along with another of his other cronies, busting at the seams with guns. On one of the tables set up for the architects, we’ve laid out all our weapons. Five 9 mms, three .45s, a pair of AK-47s, and a handful of pocket-sized .22s. And Gab’s AR-15, which she won’t let go of.
A crash course in pistols and a few magazines later, I prefer the 9 mm. It feels heavy enough to be dangerous—unlike the tiny .22s—but not too intimidating like the others. The kick is enough to remind me I could—and might have to—kill someone, but not so much that I want to drop the gun. Though I do, in fact, want to drop it and never have to use it.
Tommy, currently positioned with his Uzi pointed out the window at the street below, said M would meet us here. I wonder what he will do when he finds out M is a traitor. Will he turn on him or on us? Who will he believe? Ty, at least, believes me. His feelings for Pru must be stronger than a passing interest.
Ty paces the dark space, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck from time to time. We know they will come; the only questions are when and how many. M chose this place for the supposed exchange because if things get out of hand, which is likely when two gangs meet up, the remoteness of this place will serve our purpose well. We want no distractions and no possibilities for stray bullets making this fight bigger than it has to be. I hate to think of all these guns going off, and what the consequences could be, but Ty and Tommy and everyone else seem to think there’s no way around it. Once the Reds are mad, there’s no stopping them.
All we can hope is that our plan will work, the plan M, hopefully, has no knowledge of. If Julius can’t hold up his end, I’ll be delivered to the Reds and sacrificed like an offering. Cozy thoughts.
And above it all, I still can’t believe the Director is here, pacing the floor just like the rest of us. On our side. At least for now. We’ve worked out no details about the after. No point, I guess, considering we have no way of knowing who will survive this.
Sitting on the concrete floor, my body still lethargic from the time-released sedative I was given earlier, I watch the Director chatting with one of his men over by a window. I still seethe with hatred for him. He’s the reason we’re facing this shootout. He’s the reason for all this.
What happens after the shootout … we’ll just have to see if we get that far.
The waiting is the worst part. We’re camped out at the edge of the city, the new industrial district. The Reds will have to come out of their way to get here. It’s not part of either gang’s territory, and few people wander this way after dark. We cleared a few squatters out of the way when we arrived, told them they didn’t want to hang around for this. One look at our guns and they bolted. In the thick silence, my thoughts wander and my head swims with memories of Marcus, M, the Center, and what I’ve done since leaving that place. Julius, between tapping furiously on his tablet, keeps running his hands through his hair so that now it stands up of its own accord. Ty paces in and out of view beside me.
“Anything yet?” Oscar calls to Tommy from where he sits in a folding chair, his knee
bouncing on high speed.
A shake of the head is all he gets in answer. Tommy has been watching the street like a sniper, gun barrel lifted just over the open window ledge. We’re on the second floor, a little height advantage, but not so high that we could get trapped in here. There are four stairwells, one on each corner of the building. We’re stationed halfway in between two of them, looking out the north window at the darkening streets below. They’ll be here soon with Pru.
Ty stops pacing and squats next to where I’m sitting on the floor.
“You all right?” I ask.
“Hanging in there. You?”
Ignoring his question, I spout what’s been brewing in my head. “In two short months, two very powerful men have wanted me dead. What does that say about me?”
Ty presses his fingers into the floor to steady himself. His brown eyes search my face, but he says nothing.
Finally, Julius chimes in. “That your existence is powerful. It means something.”
“Whatever. My existence doesn’t mean anything. I still don’t really know anything about myself.”
“Going all esoteric on us?” Julius says, a crooked smile playing on his bright face. He plops down heavily on the concrete, then makes a face and rubs his backside from where he crash-landed. “You said you don’t know who you are?” He slaps his free hand on his knee and looks at me with raised eyebrows, his tablet forgotten momentarily.
“Yeah. For sixteen years I’ve lived in a box, and for ten of those years, I shared my mind with other people. I was given orders and I obeyed them. Until one day I just couldn’t obey them anymore. Then I get out here, hoping I’ll figure out who this is”—I wave a hand across my body—“and I get beat up, snatched up, and immediately find myself taking orders again. At least this time I thought it meant something. This time, I thought I’d do enough for M that he’d find someone to take out my sensors. But here I am, waiting for someone to try to kill me again.” I fiddle with my shoelace, avoiding the eyes on me.
“We’re with you, V,” Julius says. “And don’t get all wishy-washy saying you don’t know who you are. Pru and I are in the same boat as you, and I feel pretty good about myself. When we get Pru back, we’ll ask her how she feels.”
I look up at Julius’ freckled face. How can he say that? He’s been sharing his brain with others for years, too.
“Self-identity—such an interesting concept.” The Director’s voice slips into our conversation as he walks over to where I sit.
The Director, a man I’ve hated for as long as I can remember, is now casually chatting with me and my friends as if it makes no difference that he controlled my mind for ten whole years. His dark hair is just as tidy as always, swept back over his intense brow, giving him an air of pompousness. Perhaps now that I’ve bowed my knee to him and begged for his help, he feels victorious after having finally made me submit. Well, if it weren’t for M and his madness, I never would have asked for the Director’s help. I loathe him no less just because he may help us out of this snag.
“Valeria, I must say, scowling at me like that has nearly made me forget how beautiful you are.” He chuckles, as if he’s told some joke, and slides his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “There’s a lot I never got the chance to say to you before you—er—ran away.”
I stand in one motion, blood boiling. “Ran away! You were sending me to have my brain wiped! What more could you possibly have to say to me other than the fact that you planned my imperfections when you tampered with my genes?”
He tips his chin as all eyes in the room now flicker between the two of us.
“No, my dear, I think you have it backwards.” He looks firmly at me, and though I want to look away, I simply cannot. “I oversaw the creation of your genetic code, yes. I planned every detail of who you are, yes. But what I did not do was force you to break any rules. That was all you.”
I want to smack him. My chest heaves up and down, but I do not move.
“Did I suspect you were going to reach a breaking point? Of course I did.”
“Ah! I hate you! I hate—”
He holds up a hand. “I am well aware of your hatred for me. Now, as I was saying, eighteen years ago, when I began the task of editing your genetic code, I had a thought, and a rather ingenious one, if I do say so myself.” He half smiles, his eyes still on me. “I realized that as I was the one selected to become the Director of the Center, I was in a position of advantage. Not only was I going to have a large amount of control over what happened in the Center, I was going to have input on one of the individuals of the Fifth Order.
“What a marvelous opportunity!” He takes a few steps toward the window. “I knew I had the key at last. I was going to write an Order member who I hoped would, ultimately, bring about the end of human intelligence engineering.”
My eyes blink slowly. “What?”
Thirty-Two
Ty loses his balance against the edge of the table. Everyone is silent, eyeing the Director.
He looks out the window now, his face silhouetted against the evening sky. “The Center must not continue, as it has for the past several decades, crafting prodigies like yourselves. The place is strangling this nation, and, as you’ve seen for yourself, using technology more like a rod than a staff.” He looks back at me now. “We must open the Center to the public, grant access to our research to anyone who wants it—schools! businesses!—and most of all, stop streaming and stop producing genetically engineered humans.”
A beat passes.
Then, “But I’m gen-eng. You made me,” I say with poison on my tongue. Hypocrite!
The Director smiles again, but this time it is not a pompous or victorious smile, it is an apologetic smile. “No, you are not. I used my own genetic code as the basis for yours. Other than the fact that you were born in a laboratory, you are as natural, genetically speaking, as Prudentia. You are not gen-eng, my dearest Valeria. You are a genius, yes, but as natural as they come.”
For a moment, I feel like a brain flash is taking over. Then I realize it is just the tide of this information slamming into my brain.
“It can’t be … true,” I mumble.
The Director nods once. “It is the truth, Valeria. And even though you were raised to think yourself superior to others, I think in time, you’ll come to appreciate the fact that you are one hundred percent unenhanced genetically. Yet at the same time, you are still capable of all that the others are capable of, except, perhaps, that the streams were a little tougher on you than they were for some. For that I am sorry.” He blinked once, slowly. “You, as well as Prudentia and Marcus and the other transfers we’ve brought in, are the evidence that humanity doesn’t need to be enhanced to be all it needs to be.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Ty shuffles on his feet, staring at the concrete. Julius still sits on the floor, puppy eyes looking up at us. For a moment, I stand there, mouth gaping, heart racing, groping for a reply.
But I am spared the opportunity to speak when Tommy shouts over his shoulder, “They’re here!”
Chaos erupts as everyone scrambles out of their temporary reverie, checking for ammo, cocking pistols, and scurrying to their positions. I ignore the Director and shuffle, bent low, over to the window where Oscar’s friend, Ryker, and Tommy are taking aim.
Below us, I count twenty-one people—twenty-one!—heading this way, spread out in lines across the dim road, guns held high. In the center of the group is a girl with her arms behind her back. Pru! Took them longer than I figured to arrive. Perhaps they wanted darkness on their heels.
Ty crouches beside me. “Ready?” he mouths to me. He sticks two earpieces in.
I shake my head, plugging my ears with the microphoned gelatin balls that will convey our words to one another amid gunfire.
Ty jerks his forehead toward the window, then peeks up over the wall. No sooner does his head rise above the cement than a bullet blasts into the ceiling above us.
Instantly, so much
gunfire erupts that I panic and drop my weapon. Even with the earplugs, my ears hurt from all the noise. Tommy’s Uzi thunders down onto the street below.
They weren’t supposed to shoot! This is supposed to be a peaceful exchange!
In a matter of seconds, it is silent again.
Tommy’s voice in my ear says, “They’re headed up!”
Sweat pours down my back, my neck. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Shaking furiously, I cannot move from my spot by the window. I am frozen, glued, petrified.
“V, get up!” Oscar yells in my ear. He’s waving me over to the other side of the building, where everyone is running. Holstering his gun, he sprints for me, his arms pumping madly.
“Get up!”
He swoops down on me and, with one arm, jerks me to my feet. Bullets fly past our heads as he shoves me away from the window. Through the earplugs, I can hear shouts and hammering footsteps getting nearer. The stairwell to my right is flashing with moving target lights. I crank my speed up as high as I can, but my limbs are made of iron, my chest heaving like I’m asphyxiating. Stupid sedative!
We’re almost to the opposite stair, but then more shots fire. Oscar pushes me into the stairwell, turning around and sending a stream of bullets back behind us just as people start spilling out onto the opposite end of the second floor.
Ahead of us, blood is splattered on the concrete, and a man sprawls sloppily over the railing. A rifle dangles from his neck. My stomach lurches and I dry heave against the wall. Oscar hurries me, nearly knocking me down the stairs. As we pass the dead man, Oscar slips the gun off of his neck and slings it over his own.
We descend, spilling out onto the darkening street in a spray of gunfire. Another dead body—this time I don’t look—nearly trips me as we leave the building. I know my gun is useless—I’m shaking too hard to even attempt to aim, but I pull it up with straight arms and squeeze the trigger a few times at nothing. I can’t see who’s shooting at us anyway. We take cover behind an enormous scrap dumpster, check our ammo, reload.
The Veritas Project Page 25
