The Trials

Why? Why? Why? The question beat in my head in time with the throbbing of my accelerated pulse.

  The obvious answer was that introducing Zane as a candidate in the trials was designed to throw me. If St. John had somehow gotten wind of our…closeness, then Zane might be an excellent tool for distracting and disorienting me, keeping me from winning the trials.

  But following that idea to its logical conclusion, St. John would also be forced to assume that I would want to save Zane, get him back. Which presumably might interfere with his winning of the trials.

  Unless St. John was just hoping that I’d go all Victorian fainting female and have to be removed, too overcome by all my untidy human emotions?

  Sorry, wrong girl, wrong species. Yes, I’d been shocked to see Zane alive, but that had lasted less than a minute before my training and instincts kicked in. I wasn’t as frail as I looked, an assumption St. John wouldn’t likely live long enough to regret.

  But even that logic was flawed. It assumed that I was the leading contender, when even I, under normal circumstances, would have put my money on Ford.

  Ford would not be swayed by Zane’s presence. If anything, it would give her a clearer path to victory. Kill Zane—an easier target because, no matter what St. John’s formula had done, it couldn’t make up for the instincts and skills honed over years—which would then compromise me emotionally, far more than discovering him alive. A two-for-one special. Witnessing Zane’s death (again) would, at the very least, make me sloppy, slow to react, and Ford knew that. It would create the opening she needed.

  After that, hunting down the provided target would be no problem; Ford would have all the time in the world and no distractions. It’s not hard to win when there’s literally no competition.

  And that was the problem. Since St. John presumably wasn’t (a) an idiot or (b) in league with Dr. Laughlin to give him the easy win, none of this made sense.

  I was missing something.

  I bit my lip. Like…perhaps the answers to my two questions—Was Zane still Zane? And why was he here?—were related.

  Maybe Zane was here because he wanted to be. Not the old Zane I’d known, but the new one. The idea settled in my stomach like a rock with razor-sharp edges.

  I didn’t know how St. John’s formula had changed Zane. But considering what I’d observed—Zane’s nonreaction to my presence, his obvious willingness to participate (there’d been no guards pushing him in the door, as far as I’d seen), and his driving belief that he’d never be good/fast/strong enough as he was, thanks to his father—a very different Zane seemed like a distinct possibility.

  I pulled my knees closer to my chest, against the chasm I could feel opening beneath my ribs. There was only one way to know for sure: talk to Zane.

  And possibly be killed in the process, thereby answering all my questions.

  TOMORROW MORNING. WEST ENTRANCE.

  Was it worth giving up my last opportunity to do what I’d come here for just for answers I wasn’t sure I wanted?

  Before I came to a conclusion, the hotel room door banged open.

  The guards jumped, and I moved my hand up automatically in defense against their guns. Never startle edgy people with weapons. That had not been one of my father’s Rules, but, considering it now, it seemed to be a worthy addition.

  The guards parted when Jacobs charged toward them, a battered file folder and a large envelope in one hand.

  “Wait outside,” he said to them over his shoulder with a dismissive and impatient wave. Which was good, because this space was not meant to hold four large men, one medium-sized scientist, and a smaller-than-average alien/human hybrid. (As if there were enough of us for there to be an average.) It was starting to feel claustrophobic.

  “They’re allowing him to continue,” Jacobs spat at me as soon as the door closed behind the guards.

  I sat up straighter, finally feeling safe enough to put my feet on the floor. I wasn’t sure whether the “him” Jacobs was referring to was Zane or St. John, but either way, it amounted to the same thing.

  “St. John lobbied that his death, and his subsequent recovery and alteration, should qualify him for entry. And they agreed,” he said, his voice trembling with outrage. “It’s a mockery of the entire process.” He paced in front of the dresser, as if making his case before an invisible jury. “Completely unacceptable!”

  “Right. Because the purity of the sport is your top priority,” I said, unable to help myself.

  Jacobs spun around and glared at me. “You think this is funny?”

  I didn’t care for the method or how St. John had chosen to execute it, but it was kind of amusing—in a really dark, depressing way—to see Jacobs being out-Jacobs-ed and how much it rattled him.

  “Welcome to the other side of manipulation, Dr. J.” I gave him an icy smile.

  “Careful, 107,” he said, flecks of spit flying outward in a spray. “Don’t enjoy this moment too much. You’re valuable to me only as a competitor. You’re lucky they didn’t disqualify you based on your behavior. What was that display?”

  I stiffened. He was not going to pin this mess on me. “If you don’t want me to react poorly to the sudden resurrection of loved ones, perhaps you should try to avoid killing them.”

  He made a sound of disgust. “Do better, 107. Laughlin’s products are the only ones that made a decent impression today. Between St. John’s ridiculous showboating”—yep, he was definitely jealous of what St. John had accomplished—“and your emotional outburst, we are at a disadvantage.”

  He paused long enough to chuck the bulky manila envelope at me. Acting on instinct, I stopped it before it hit my face, forcing it to float down into my hand instead.

  It was a testament to the level of his distraction that he didn’t even notice or pause to admire his own work, as he perceived it.

  I pulled the envelope open and tilted it so the contents would spill out onto the desk. Five crisp twenty-dollar bills clipped together. A smartphone, fully charged. An unidentifiable triangle of black plastic about the size of my fist, with a removable paper backing. A sheaf of pages, all surveillance photos of a girl. Not much older than me, if the pictures of her wandering what appeared to be a college campus were accurate.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  His eyes bulged such that I thought one of them might pop out and roll on the floor. “Were you not listening at all to the—”

  “Yes,” I snapped. “The target. Follow, confirm identity, await further instructions.” I held up the sheet of photos. “You’re telling me this is the target?” She was distinctly younger, and less…grizzled than I’d expected. In all the training scenarios I’d been given over the years, the targets had been hardened and elusive criminals. Warlords, fellow spies, drug kingpins, dictators, anyone who threatened the safety of the country.

  Not a girl who looked like she should be rushing a sorority or protesting the use of Styrofoam in the cafeteria.

  Jacobs glared at me. “You waste time questioning the facts while your competitors are no doubt using them to develop a plan of attack.”

  Please. Unless this girl was something more than her photos revealed, Ford would eat her for breakfast and still have time to grab a latte. Assuming Ford knew what a latte was.

  “You want to obsess over something, how about this? It makes no sense for St. John to allow Zane to compete as his candidate,” I said, lobbing the words out there like a grenade, one I would not be able to escape if it blew up in my face.

  Jacobs threw his hands in the air. “Of course it does. You’re distracted, which keeps you from performing at your optimum—”

  “And allows Ford to take the lead,” I added.

  The good doctor stopped, his mouth open in anticipatory protest. Then he snapped it closed and looked at me with a grudging glimmer of respect.

  “The other one, Adam, would give St. John a far better chance,” he said slowly, thinking it through for the first time.

  “Yeah,” I said.
>
  He grunted, but the outrage in his voice had died down into something that sounded like reluctant curiosity.

  “There were rumors a while ago that Emerson St. John was a ringer,” he said, more to himself than to me.

  I raised my eyebrows in question.

  “Someone with connections to another government or organization,” he explained. He was pacing again, the file folder tucked under his arm, but in a contemplative manner. He looked more professorial than ever. “It’s the only explanation for how he was able to advance his formula in less than ten years and at half the cost, according to financials submitted to the Committee.”

  That, or maybe St. John’s method was just more viable than, I don’t know, growing and raising your own alien/human hybrids in a secret and expensive lab.

  “Be on your guard and stay away from the boy. Kill him if he opposes you; otherwise, avoid him. It’s possible that St. John sent him in simply for recruitment or sabotage.” He frowned. “Until we know what his objective is, it’s better to prevent a confrontation.”

  I nodded. Not great, but better than being ordered to kill Zane on first sight.

  “We’ll be monitoring your positions through the GPS in your phones,” Jacobs warned.

  I swallowed a sigh. That would make the Zane encounter more difficult to pull off, though not impossible. “What, no tracking chips?” I muttered.

  “And give the Committee the idea that there’s cause to doubt your obedience?” Jacobs asked sharply. “No. A well-trained dog requires no leash, electronic or otherwise. But they will have monitors on you for your vitals.”

  Ah, that explained the little black plastic triangle in the envelope. They wanted to know when to cross off names of the dead. Lovely.

  “But should you require additional motivation…” He dropped the folder he’d been carrying on the desk, and it landed with a loud slap.

  I flinched at the noise, and then felt a flash of my anger returning. Honestly, who was left for him to hold out as a potential punching bag? My father was gone, and Zane might as well be.

  I set my jaw and made no move to open the folder. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  But Jacobs, as always, wasn’t particularly keen on what I wanted to give.

  He flipped open the folder and held it up in front of my face. Short of closing my eyes, which would have only proved to him that he was on the right track, I had to look.

  On the right side, several sheets of paper covered in charts, numbers, and medical information. On the left was a photo, the old-fashioned kind, a Polaroid, with the thick white border at the bottom. I’d seen similar ones in the photo albums Mark had had of his daughter, the original Ariane Tucker, the one for whom I’d been named in the elaborate scheme that had first introduced me into the world outside of GTX. The developing fluid had left strange streaks across the surface of this photo, but the figure in the center was still plainly visible.

  The woman was blond and thin, sickly thin if the stick-like arms emerging from her sleeves were any indication. The voluminous dress she wore—dark blue with white polka dots—only made her look smaller, lost within the fabric. Her delicate features—a long, thin nose; high brows and cheekbones—seemed even finer with the strain of weariness obvious on her face, though she was smiling.

  That smile…it set off a twinge of recognition, a feeling of familiarity even though I couldn’t place it.

  “Do you know her?” Jacobs prompted, watching me carefully.

  My mouth was dry, and it took me a second to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth and make it work. I could think of only one woman who’d have relevance in this conversation, not to mention features I might recognize. “No.”

  He shook the folder in front of my face, moving it even closer. “Are you sure?” he asked with a hint of ugly eagerness. He was enjoying himself.

  The desire to reach up and break his neck swelled in me. A simple solution to a complicated problem. Except it wouldn’t really solve anything.

  “She looks familiar,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “She should,” he said with satisfaction.

  “Who is she?” I asked, hating myself for giving him that advantage but needing the confirmation.

  “This? This is the surrogate who carried you. Six months, from implantation to full term. Or, one of your DNA contributors, if you prefer,” he said with a shrug, as if that were irrelevant.

  My mother. Dizziness swirled in my head.

  I sat forward in my chair. “Is she still alive?” It hadn’t escaped my notice that the photo was old. What’s her name? That question I managed to keep to myself. He’d never share that information; it would give away his bargaining position. If I had her name, I could find her and ask her all the questions that were suddenly bubbling up in my brain. I wasn’t musical in the slightest—was that a deficit from my human side, or something I’d inherited from alien ancestors? Were my long, thin fingers hers? How about the annoying tendency to get the hiccups after a meal with too much sugar?

  When you’re created in a lab, it’s like existing in a void, no sense of connection to a larger world or family. I liked the color green because…I liked green. There was no one to tell me that perhaps that my affection for that hue had come from an early incident in childhood or even a genetic predisposition.

  I wanted to snatch the folder from Dr. Jacobs’s hand and examine every detail of the photo, but I restrained myself. It would only give him more leverage if he knew how badly I wanted information.

  “107, I generally don’t make it my business to keep track of former employees who behave themselves and obey their nondisclosure agreements,” he said with exaggerated patience.

  I relaxed slightly, even though the ramifications of his words were still sinking in, leaving behind a dull hurt. My mother, then, had been a willing participant. And she had walked away from me. Why? Had she been sorry? Or was she more concerned about how quickly GTX’s check would clear?

  I hated how much I wanted, no, needed to know.

  “But making an exception this time seemed prudent,” Jacobs added with a glint in his eye that I recognized too well.

  So she was alive and he knew where she was. “You’re threatening her,” I said flatly.

  “You think so little of me,” he said, and tsked at me. “I could certainly find and threaten her, but I prefer to think of it as an inducement. The carrot instead of the stick. Behave yourself and perhaps I will tell you more about her. Maybe even set up a meeting, a chance encounter, of course. She could never know who you are,” he added with a casual dismissive wave.

  The corollary, then, would be what would happen if I didn’t “behave.”

  I felt sick, my head swimming from the picture, the threats, and the roller coaster of my own emotions from the last few hours.

  “I just want to make sure you’re very clear on what’s at stake, 107,” he said almost gently, the blustering furor of a few minutes ago gone. “Not just for me or for the company. If you follow my instructions and do your best tomorrow, it’ll be beneficial for others besides yourself.”

  If one could consider “beneficial” to be defined as surviving, unharassed and untortured, I suppose that were true. I knew nothing of this woman. Maybe she deserved everything Jacobs could rain down on her. She’d left her child to a laboratory and a lifetime of experimentation. But…how much had she actually known about what she was doing? Jacobs lied as easily as he breathed. And even if she’d been aware of the truth, who was I to argue with her actions when I knew exactly how manipulative this man could be when it came to getting what he wanted?

  Either way, I owed her the benefit of the doubt. All I knew for certain was that this woman had participated in an experiment almost two decades ago. She’d probably moved on long ago. Maybe she had other children of her own. A garden. A job. A life. And I’d be the one who, indirectly, would destroy all of that.

  Dr. Jacobs was such an asshole. Unfortunately, in the
way of this world, that did not also make him wrong.

  “I understand,” I said, my voice thick.

  And I did. My choices were as ugly as ever. To win the trials, I’d have to kill the target, a girl who might very well be as innocent as she looked. It was, after all, a test, not just of my capabilities but also of my obedience. And if I didn’t do as I was ordered, I’d lose the slim chance to stop the Project Paper Doll program, and the woman who was my mother, for better or worse, would feel the repercussions of my rebellion.

  “I knew you would,” Dr. Jacobs said with a smug smile as he closed the folder and stepped back, and my fury, long held in restraint, slipped its leash.

  I lifted my hand and stopped him dead. My power wrapped around him from the knees down, holding him in place.

  Even with his knowledge of my capabilities, Jacobs reacted as most humans did: looking down at his legs as if they’d suddenly been removed from his ownership, which they had, in effect.

  Then he glared at me, his jaw clenched tight. “I could call for the guards.” But his face was pale. He didn’t like me holding him. Too damn bad.

  I cocked my head, letting him get the full effect of my stare, which most humans found unnerving. “You could,” I agreed. “But remember, I’m valuable only as a competitor.”

  I stood and inched closer to him, watching with gritty pleasure as sweat beaded on his forehead. “It would be unfortunate if something happened to me the night before the big event, right? Or, if word got out that your ‘product’ wasn’t as compliant as you claimed?” I smiled, feeling it stretch my face into something harsh.

  “What do you want?” he asked, anger bubbling in his voice, but he couldn’t quite meet my gaze.

  “Just for you to remember what you made,” I said, deliberately choosing the word he would use for me, “what” not “who.”

  His upper body jerked as if I’d slapped him. “And you’d do well to remember that if I made you, I can destroy you,” he snapped.

  Except he couldn’t, not yet. And we both knew it.

  I held him for a moment longer, just long enough for him to truly feel the start of panic and for one of those beads of sweat to trickle down the side of his face.