by Ellery Kane
I heard the rumble of a vehicle in the distance. The greenhorn stood, wiping his hands across his uniform. He turned back toward the bridge—where the bridge should’ve been. The massive structure once again had vanished in the fog. Gone. Just like Emma.
Finally, he looked at me. He already seemed older, hardened. “Who was that girl?” he demanded. “Where is she going?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. At least part of that was true. When he glared back at me with obvious disbelief, I felt grateful to hear the roar of the approaching engine. It wasn’t a police car or an ambulance as I’d expected, but a military jeep that barreled out from the fog, pulling to a stop just short of the checkpoint. Four soldiers emerged from inside it. After a hushed conversation with the greenhorn, they surrounded the commander’s body, cocooned him in black plastic, and carried him away, sliding the corpse into the back of the jeep.
One of the soldiers—a tall, dark-skinned woman with thick, black eyebrows—scoured the scene, collecting and bagging a spent shell casing and our discarded EAM test strips. She walked through the commander’s blood without pause, leaving a trail of macabre footprints behind her as she approached the greenhorn.
“Where is it?” she asked him. Though her voice was almost robotic, she managed to sound threatening. It was a relief she didn’t acknowledge my presence.
“It’s here. Somewhere.” He gestured around him. “I saw her throw it before she drove away.”
She considered him with contempt. “What were you thinking letting her leave like that?” I pretended not to hear her.
The greenhorn opened his mouth to respond, but stopped and turned to me instead. “You have it, don’t you?” He stalked toward me and grabbed my wrist, pulling me up from the ground.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what.” Leading me by my forearm, he shoved me against the jeep, his hands pulling and prodding at my jacket pockets.
“Get off me!” I shrugged out of his clutches in a huff.
“Stand down, Greenhorn.” The female soldier stepped in between us. Her face seemed to soften with a promise of understanding, but I didn’t trust it. “Young lady, we are looking for something very important.” She spoke to me like a child. “It’s essential that we get it back. It looks like a needle, the kind a doctor would use to give you a shot.”
I nodded at her, playing along. “I saw it,” I told her. “The girl … she rode off with it still stuck in her leg.” The woman scowled at the greenhorn.
“She’s lying,” he said.
“Go ahead. Search me.” I reached into my jacket pockets, pulled them inside out, then spread my arms wide.
As the greenhorn eyed me eagerly, a methodical voice from their walkie-talkies broke the silence. “Incoming vehicle with civilians. Looks like a news van. Eyes on the Bay.” Dad! I knew he would be disappointed in me, but the thought of him was an undeniable comfort.
The female soldier shook her head disapprovingly at the greenhorn and walked toward him. She didn’t seem nervous, but her pace was quick. Before she began her staccato march to the jeep, she passed him a plastic container with several cylindrical slots. I pretended not to see her, but I knew exactly what it was. Quin had called it a field pack.
From the door, she tossed him a camouflage raincoat to cover his bloodstained uniform. “Put this on. And get back to work.” As the jeep accelerated, heading in Emma’s direction, she leaned out the window. “We’ll find her. Just make sure this one gets home safely.” I heard the greenhorn mutter to himself, but he said nothing to me. He assumed his position, guarding the checkpoint like a concrete pillar, his face just as stony as the rest of him.
My feelings were a strange contradiction—uneasy, but elated—like I’d been standing just out of the path of a tornado, opening my eyes to see the world flattened on either side of me. What just happened? Letting out a long, slow breath, I tucked my pockets back into my jacket, composed myself, and waited.
First came the yellow glow from the headlights, like twin halos submerged in the clouds. When the nose of the Eyes on the Bay news van broke through the last layer of whiteness, I was grateful to see only my father inside. “That’s my dad,” I told the soldier. “He can give me a ride.”
My father blinked a few times at the sight of me, but kept his what-must’ve-been utter shock muffled. As the soldier approached the van’s open window, he flashed his press pass, one of the few credentials allowed an exemption to the curfew.
“Good evening, sir.” There was nothing pleasant about the greenhorn’s pleasantries. “Do you know this young lady?”
“She’s my daughter.” My father raised his eyebrows at me. “Is she in some sort of trouble?”
The soldier didn’t answer. He signaled me toward the van with a quick nod. “Coming,” I called out to him. I wanted to run, but I forced myself to fast walk instead.
“Are we free to go?” my father asked when I was buckled into the passenger seat. I finally removed Emma’s helmet from my head and tucked it between my feet.
“Make sure I don’t see you again,” the soldier warned me. “Or your friend.”
“She’s not my friend.” I stared straight ahead. If eyes were windows, I didn’t want him looking inside mine. “And you won’t.”
My stern-faced father quietly seethed until all we could see of the checkpoint were its tiny flashing red lights. “Alexandra Grace Knightley, I don’t even know where to start with you. What happened back there? I thought you were getting a ride with your friends. And—”
I stopped him. “Dad, I know you’re angry.”
“Angry? Angry?” His voice grew louder with repetition. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Okay, furious then. But you can yell at me later. There’s something I have to show you first.” I slipped my fingers inside the lining of the motorcycle helmet, carefully palming its contents. I opened my hand and displayed the syringe—still filled with clear liquid—to my father.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure. But I think it’s important.” I pointed to the base of the plunger. It was marked with a small metallic Z.
CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR
PEACE OFFERING
MY FATHER SAT ACROSS from me at the kitchen table, the syringe encased in a plastic bag between us. It was like a bomb rigged for explosion. Since Emma fled into the fog, time had run together, night blurring into day, into night again. Outside, it was nearly dark. The promise of sleep tugged at my eyelids as I watched my father’s head droop—down, down, down—then snap back up again. He slept right through a text from Elana asking if I’d made it home alright. Sort of, I answered. Will explain later.
“Are you still mad at me?” I finally said aloud. My father’s head in mid-droop, he didn’t answer. “Dad?”
“Huh? Is she here?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. It’s at least a six-hour drive from L.A.” I glanced at my watch. “Soon though.”
“Was I sleeping?” He wiped a spot of drool from the corner of his mouth.
“A little.” I pointed to the cup of coffee on the table, long since cooled. “I made that for you.” A peace offering. I was encouraged when he smiled a little.
“Have you been online yet?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’ve been checking all day. There’s nothing. Like it never happened.”
“And the interview?”
My stomach flip-flopped, thinking of my exchange with Quin. “Almost a million views. They’re calling Xander a marketing genius.”
“Hmph. I could think of a few other things to call him.”
I chuckled. “Dad, I know I’ve already said it a hundred times, but—”
“I know.” His tone was harsh. “You’re sorry.” Still mad, apparently. “I’ve just never seen you act so reckless. First the interview, then the bridge. Then, you confess that you’ve teamed up with Augustus!” He made the name sound vulgar. Even so, it was a relief not to have that secret anymore.
“I always thought you were more like me, rational, with a good head on your shoulders, but this … ” He finished the sentence with a disappointed shake of his head.
I rolled my eyes, rankled by what he didn’t say. “I know I disappointed you, but I’m not perfect. And I’m not Mom. You don’t know everything about me. You missed a lot—remember?” His jaw hardened, but he said nothing, leaving an irritated silence buzzing between us.
Ten minutes later, the slam of a car door abruptly ended his brooding. I jumped to my feet. “She’s here,” I announced. My father was already out the door. I hung back in the foyer, suddenly anxious, but Carrie’s wave to me from the driveway compelled me outside.
“Lex! Bill!” Her cheeks flushed when she smiled, but there was no mistaking the melancholy in her eyes. She wiped tears from under her wire-rimmed glasses and sighed. “It’s been too long.” A year and a half to be exact. The last time I saw Carrie she was newly hired as a consultant for the government-sponsored Guardian Force Rehabilitation Program, designed to help the recruits displaced after our assault on Alcatraz. Since then, all my texts went unanswered. It felt strange seeing her here at my house again. Familiar and strange, a ghost from a past life. She looked exactly the same though—mousy brown hair, petite frame, kind eyes. I was the one who had changed.
When I hugged her, I thought only of my mother. For a moment, the weight of memory pressed hard and heavy against my chest, squeezing me with the sudden ferocity I still hadn’t grown accustomed to. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I managed to say.
“Me too. I can’t believe you found me.”
I pulled away from her, finding my breath again. “Blame the nosy reporter.” I gestured to my father with an ironic smile. It had taken all of his persuasive powers to convince Carrie to make the drive. They’re using a new drug—a scientist to her core, that’s what finally got her. But even then, she hung up, still uncertain, only to call back an hour later and give her reluctant promise.
“Ahem.” My father straightened up tall and pulled his shoulders back. “Journalist,” he corrected. “Ms. Donovan, it’s nice to see you again. Thank you for coming all this way.”
Carrie shrugged. “Of course. I must admit our discussion left me intrigued.” She lowered her voice. “Intrigued but nervous. I’ve been trying to stay as far away from EAMs as possible since…” Her eyes scanned the empty, shadowed street.
“Maybe we should talk inside,” I suggested.
“Good idea,” she agreed. As we followed my father into the house, Carrie put an arm around my shoulder and whispered. “You look so … ” Tired. Confused. Overwhelmed. “Grown up,” she whispered. “Your mother would be proud.”
The syringe was empty now—what was left of its contents in a glass vial pressed between Carrie’s careful fingers. We sat next to her on adjacent stools at the long table in the garage, all my mother’s lab equipment humming with purpose again.
“What do you think?” my father asked. “Is it Onyx?” He hovered over her shoulder, impatient as a schoolboy.
“Umm … ” Carried turned the vial over and over again in her hand, sending the clear liquid rushing back and forth. “I don’t know what it is, but I can tell you what it’s not.” My father and I both nodded eagerly. “It’s not Onyx. It’s not Emovere, and it’s not Agitor.”
“Eupho?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, but it’s not entirely dissimilar. Euphoractamine contains a high dose of phenylethylamine, a chemical that enhances dopamine production. There are traces of that in here, but there’s also something else.” Carrie pointed to a beaker containing a small sample of the unknown substance she had analyzed. “I’ll need to do more tests, but it has the properties of oxytocin.”
My father raised his eyebrows. “Oxy-who?”
Carrie and I both snickered. “C’mon, Dad. You’ve heard of it. The love hormone.”
His blank face reddened slightly. “Clearly, I’m not the scientist in the family.”
“Lex is right. But oxytocin isn’t just about love. It promotes relaxation and trust—and inhibits aggressive behaviors.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Emma definitely needed a good dose of that.” In my head, I saw the commander stagger, clutch at his chest, then fall. All morning, I couldn’t stop seeing it.
“Emma?” Carrie asked.
I nodded. “She’s the one we told you about, the girl on the bridge.”
“Emma Markum,” my father offered. “You may have heard of her. She was in the news a few months ago during the McAllister trial.” McAllister trial. To me, the words were jarring and cruel, like ripping up a favorite photograph. But my father sounded detached. Maybe it was the journalist in him.
Carrie returned the vial to a small rack on the table. Drumming her fingers against its surface, she twisted her mouth uncomfortably, as if the words inside it were stinging ants. “Emma Markum,” she finally repeated, her fingers now silent. “I know Emma Markum. She’s the reason I quit the rehab program. She’s the reason I’ve been in hiding.”
CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE
DAMAGED
MY FATHER AND I stayed still, waiting for her to continue. Next to me, Carrie’s wavering was almost tangible. “I’m not sure I should tell you anything more,” she said, giving my father a weak smile. “Am I off the record here?”
“Of course.”
Carrie removed a folder from her bag and pushed it toward us. “I wanted you to see this.” Inside was a stack of printed computer screen shots. The bottom of every page was marked United States Government, Guardian Force Rehabilitation Program and stamped with their not-so-subtle logo, a phoenix.
“What are these?” I asked.
Carrie leafed through the folder and withdrew a single page. “Evidence,” she answered.
“Of what?” I studied the page carefully, with my father reading along. It was titled: Recovery Analysis.
Carrie pointed to the first column, where hundreds of names were circled in red. “These are the recruits I evaluated six months post-Alcatraz. The government asked me to determine the extent to which their brains recovered from EAMs.” She traced her finger down, then stopped at Legacy 413. Red circle. “This is Emma.” She scanned the page and tapped another name, Greenhorn 387. “And this is Peter Radley.” Another red circle.
“Why are their names marked?” my father asked. Carrie frowned at his question. Whatever the reason, I knew it wasn’t good.
“The red circle indicates an incomplete recovery. Essentially, a damaged brain.” My stomach churned at the familiarity of her words, the day she showed me Elliot’s brain, the shrunken mass of coils irreversibly damaged by Emovere.
“Is it permanent?” I could guess at the answer, but I wanted to hear her say it.
“Probably. We administered repeated trials of Resilire, but your mother always knew it wouldn’t work on everyone.”
“You said Emma was the reason you quit.”
“Mm-hmm.” The reluctance in her voice convinced me that she had shared this with no one else.
“Why?” I asked.
Carrie paged through the file and handed me a letter dated December 28, 2041. Her signature was at the bottom. “It was happening again,” she said. “And I couldn’t stop it.”
“It? What do you mean?” Carrie said nothing, so I looked to her letter for my answer.
Dear General Maze,
As we discussed, I have grave concerns about your recommendation for Legacy 413. Returning to military service in any capacity would be a serious risk to her and the public. Legacy 413 has not responded favorably to psychopharmacological treatment. Even with the highest doses of Resilire, the changes observed in her brain, specifically a diminished frontal lobe and supramarginal gyrus, have persisted. At this time, she remains particularly susceptible to EAM dependence. She is more likely to engage in risk-taking behavior, to display minimal empathy and concern for others, and to be at increased risk for violence. Legacy 413 shares my conce
rns and has asked to be dismissed from further consideration.
“So Emma wanted out?” Carrie gave a solemn nod. I tried to ignore the pesky worm of sympathy that was already busy burrowing its way into my heart.
“Out of what exactly?” my father asked.
“I can’t say for sure, but Emma told me that she was approached about joining a special military unit, one where the damage to her brain wouldn’t matter—and could even be an asset. Emma wasn’t the only one they wanted.”
I pointed to the red-circled Greenhorn 387. “Radley?”
“Yes and all the others. All the damaged ones. Against our recommendation, most of them left rehab early to join after they were recruited.”
When I looked at my father—his eyes wide with an amalgam of fear and outrage—I saw everything I felt. “It sounds a lot like … ” I couldn’t say it, but my father could.
“The Guardian Force.”
Carrie didn’t say yes or no. She didn’t have to.
“And Emma? What happened with her?” I asked.
Still quiet, Carrie hung her head. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” she lamented. “But now … ”
I patted her arm. “I’m sure you did the best you could. You couldn’t have known what would happen.”
Carrie produced another paper from her bag, her letter of resignation, dated January 1, 2042. In it, there was no mention of her concerns, only her admission she had acted inappropriately with a recruit, Legacy 413. “It was written for me,” she explained. “I was forced out. And I’ve been running from them ever since.” I had convinced myself that Carrie didn’t want to be found, that she wanted to forget me, my mother, and everything that happened here. But somehow, hearing the truth was even worse. I could feel my father twitching on the stool next to me, desperate to ask the question, so I did it for him.
