I try to get a word in edgewise through the whole monologue, but I don’t have a hope until she runs out of steam. Then I finally blurt out, “I’m not taking the lenses. I want Lach—my friend to have them.” I realized just in time that I probably shouldn’t give his name.
She doesn’t even stop walking. “Nope. Not gonna happen.”
I trot to catch up. “But I don’t want them. And he needs them.”
She dramatically pantomimes blocking her ears. “I don’t want to hear it. I got paid enough to move Serpentine three rings in, and that’s the only social issue that matters to me. You go fight the Center or turn yourself into a turtle or feed the hungry or uplift the poor—it’s all the same to me. Just don’t tell me.”
“You don’t need to know why,” I try again. “Just give them to him, not me.”
“Kid, don’t you understand? These are your lenses. Yours, no one else’s.”
“I know my mom paid, but . . .”
“This isn’t about money.” She gives a mirthless chuckle. “First and last time those words will ever pass my lips. Do you realize that no one outside the Center has even successfully made lenses that will bond to the individual? That will feed into the EcoPan like these do? This is my masterpiece! Me, with all my training and degrees, who spends her life implanting horns and scales onto Bestials, finally came up with something brilliant. These are not just any lenses. Your mom gave me scans of your eyes, your brain, a personality assessment, basal temperature readings, metabolic data . . . These are custom-made for you. They won’t work in anyone else.”
I’m stunned. I don’t know what to think. At one point I was desperate for a normal life, but when that became impossible I decided I absolutely didn’t want the lenses. I want to stay me. My eyes, my identity, even if I have to hide it all my life. Even if I have to die for it.
I’m about to say Forget it, destroy them, we’re leaving . . . when Lachlan grips my shoulder. I don’t think he means to, but he’s clutching me so hard it hurts.
“You have to get the lenses,” he says between clenched teeth. “You have to take my place.”
I start to shake my head. “No . . .” I begin. But he pulls me out of the room, muttering “Excuse us” while the cybersurgeon shrugs and makes a gesture of aggravated dismissal.
“This is our only chance,” he hisses at me the second we’re alone. He’s pulled me so close. I suddenly feel uncomfortably warm. “There’s a very narrow window. And the way I’ve set it up, a very narrow age range. Someone our age has to infiltrate the school, the inner circle families, or this entire operation is shot to hell.”
“I . . . I’m not like you. I hardly even know what’s going on!”
“You’re more like me than you realize. I know you have a sense of justice. I know you want fair treatment for second children, and all children of Eden.”
“But I can’t! You’re . . .”
“I’m what? What can I do that you can’t do, or learn? I’m nothing special. A kid who was kicked around, kept down, until he decided to fight. You’re a fighter, Rowan.” He rubs his cheek where I punched him. But that was different.
I shake my head. “I’m just . . . me.”
“Never think that ‘just you’ isn’t enough. Rowan, listen to me! Everything is riding on this. I’ve prepared for this, trained for this, thought about nothing else for the past year.”
“But I haven’t! I don’t even know what to do. I don’t want—”
I was going to say I don’t want to, but he cuts me off, and probably thinks I’m going to say something noble, like I don’t want to let you down. But that’s not it. I was just getting used to the idea of peace, underground. Of companions, safety. A new family.
“I’ll help you. I’ll be with you all the way—or as close as I can get. I’ll be your handler.” As if to illustrate, he links his fingers through mine. I feel a strange mix of elation and trepidation. My handler? As if I’m a puppet, with him pulling the strings.
“It will be easy. All you have to do at first is go to school, make friends, act normal.”
A laugh bursts out of me, uncontrollable. “That’s easy? Until a few days ago, I knew three people, of which only two liked me. Make friends? Act normal? If you put me in, your mission will fail in the first five minutes!”
He smiles gently and squeezes my fingers in his. “You’re more charming than you imagine,” he says softly. “I believe in you, Rowan. Believe in yourself and you can do it. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you could. The mission is too important to trust to someone incompetent.” He strokes one of my knuckles with his thumb. “And your life is too important to risk if I didn’t think you’d succeed.”
“Why?” I ask. I’m not fishing for compliments, not asking out of vanity. I really want to know why he values my life so much.
He flushes, actually turns pink. His eyes drop to my fingers, our fingers.
“I’ll just pick one reason,” he says, lifting his gaze to mine again, but not releasing my hands. The small room feels warmer than ever. “The way you fight for people you care about. For Lark when she was in danger. For your brother. You forget yourself, and think only of the person you love. That makes you extraordinary.” He sighs, and there’s a tremor in that sigh so deeply sad. “I only wish once in my life someone had fought for me like that.”
I only have one question for him. “If I say no, will you still help me rescue Ash?”
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation.
And because he says yes, I say yes.
Within minutes I’m in a brightly lit room, being prepped for surgery. A few breaths later, I slip into blackness . . .
. . . AND AWAKE to gunfire. Only, I’m not really awake. I can’t be, because even though my eyes are open I’m still seeing dreamlike images. My eyeballs tingle. Not just sensation, but movement, a rapid vibration that is maddening. I see . . . I don’t know. People, in a chrome room sickly with a green glow that seems to emanate from above. Small animals, hairless and pink, helpless in cages. Wires protruding from tubs of bubbling gel. The images dance incoherently, but I can’t tell if I’m seeing them with my eyes or my imagination. There’s shouting, too, and another bang. Another gunshot? Real or imagined?
No, it’s the sound of my own body crashing to the floor, jarring every bone. Except my skull. A hand holds my head, saving it from the hard ground. I sense a warm pressure on me, and feel unaccountably safe.
Finally my vision comes into focus, and I see Lachlan. He’s pressed against me, holding me down on the floor. I smile. I don’t know which parts are real, but this feels right.
“We have to get you out of here,” Lachlan says. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell? The hand that’s not cupping my head begins to feel along my body. I giggle when he brushes my ribs. The strange look he gives me when I do suddenly cues me in to what’s real, what’s not.
Gunfire. I had my lens implant surgery. We’re under attack.
I look around wildly from my prone position. I’m practically under the operating table. Strange, sharp instruments are scattered on the floor around me. I try to get up, but Lachlan holds me down.
“They’re at the front. Two, maybe three Greenshirts. Luckily your talented cybersurgeon is also a skilled hacker, and seems to have modified a couple of securitybots to do her bidding, and they’re keeping the Greenshirts at bay. Can you stand?”
“I was trying to,” I say testily, afterimages of some strange room haunting me, stamped on the back of my eyelids.
“There’s no sign of Flame.” There’s a gun in his hand. I don’t even know where he wore it. I didn’t seen a trace of it on his body.
“We have to get out of here.” He’s looking at me strangely, and my hand creeps to my eyes. I want to see them, but it isn’t exactly an opportune time to find a mirror. They’re puffy and tender, but the world looks the same as ever through them now. Those other images must have been a hangover from my anesthesia.
“
The shots are coming from the front,” I mumble, trying to piece together the layout of Serpentine from the small amount I’ve seen. “Can we get out the back?”
“Maybe. But the fence is electrified again.”
We’re kept prisoner by the thing that is supposed to keep people out.
“Can you turn it off?”
“There should be a control box somewhere, but . . .”
I follow the direction of his gaze.
“It’s probably in the front,” I conclude dismally. “What are we going to do?”
“You are going to stay here. I’m going to give those ally securitybots a little help.”
“But . . .”
He flashes me a wry look. “You’re really arguing with me at a time like this?” I draw breath to protest again, but he places his fingers on my lips. “Hush. Stay.”
And because I’m afraid I’ll just get in his way (and may-be afraid in general, too), I stay, while he crouches, his gun held low and ready, and opens the door a crack. The shooting has stopped for now, and I can’t hear any movement. Have the Greenshirts been defeated, or the securitybots disabled? If the Greenshirts are down, I want to be glad. But then I picture Rook in his uniform, sprawled and bleeding. I don’t want anyone else to die, not even someone who wants to kill me.
Lachlan is looking through the crack, listening intently. His body is still and tense, so much power held in check. He can only see a sliver of the next room, but I can tell he’s using every sense to search for danger. After a long moment, though, I can see the tightness in his shoulders relax a bit.
He turns to me with a reassuring smile. “Looks clear. But stay down.”
I see his mistake in slow motion, though it takes place in a fraction of a second. He starts to push the door open just an instant before he turns his smiling face away from me, having lingered for a fatal moment. Is it my fault? Did I hold him with my gaze, releasing him too late?
His guard is down, just for a moment. But it is the wrong moment. There’s a shot, close and deafeningly loud, and he staggers back. I see a fine spray of blood fly through the air, but I can’t see the wound itself. He stumbles over a low stool and goes down, but he has the presence of mind to kick at the door as he falls.
For a second I hope . . . then a black boot jams itself against the frame and the door bounces open again. The Greenshirt shoulders it open and points his much, much larger gun—a rifle—at Lachlan. I don’t know if size matters in these things, but suddenly Lachlan’s weapon looks like a toy.
The Greenshirt doesn’t see me, on the ground concealed by the operating table. Not yet.
“Get up,” he barks at Lachlan.
Lachlan moans and rolls to his injured side. The Greenshirt kicks him, and it is all I can do not to cry out as Lachlan flinches and curls into a ball. I can’t tell how much blood there is, how badly he’s hurt. Is it worse than I thought? I think he was hit in the arm—bad enough—but had it gone through his chest and exited his arm? Why isn’t he fighting? He’s just lying there now, not moving at all. I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep quiet.
The Greenshirt screams at Lachlan to get up, then, with sneering mouth and a growl of disgust, slings his rifle over his shoulder, takes a pair of handcuffs from his belt, and kneels beside the apparently unconscious Lachlan.
Do something, Lachlan, I silently beg. But he doesn’t move. The Greenshirt clamps one handcuff on with a click that echoes in the room.
Instantly Lachlan comes alive, using his handcuffed arm—his uninjured one—to pull the Greenshirt on top of him. The Greenshirt, surprised, doesn’t let go of the cuffs in time and sprawls. Lachlan lets out a groan as his wounded arm grinds into the ground . . . but he never stops fighting for an instant. He jerks the handcuffs out of the Greenshirt’s grasp, flips the dangling end up so that it covers his knuckles, and punches the Greenshirt in the side of the head once, twice . . .
But the Greenshirt shifts his weight and pins Lachlan’s arm. Oh, great Earth, there is so much blood! They’re slipping in it as they struggle, their boots trying to get a grip on the slick floor as they grapple for position. Lachlan rolls the Greenshirt, and for a moment he’s on top. Then the Greenshirt reaches up and tears at Lachlan’s bullet wound with clawed fingers. Lachlan’s face drains white, and I think he’s going to pass out as the Greenshirt flips him, punches him in the face, and finally remembers his rifle.
He’s straddling Lachlan, a knee on either side keeping him pinned down. The Greenshirt takes his time now. He’s that confident he’s won. Easily, as if there’s nothing at all urgent about the situation, he unslings his rifle and points it at Lachlan’s face.
“Second child, huh?” The Greenshirt uses the rifle muzzle to turn Lachlan’s face so he can examine his eyes. The length of the weapon makes for an awkward angle, and the Greenshirt has to lean back to give himself room to maneuver the weapon. “Do you know what they’re going to do to you at the Center?” He laughs, an ugly sound. “I’d be doing you a favor to shoot you now.” He presses the barrel to Lachlan’s forehead, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Lachlan, please do something!
Then my eyes fly open. Why am I waiting for Lachlan to act?
The Greenshirt doesn’t know I’m here. And right beside me, scattered when Lachlan hauled me to the ground as bullets started flying, is a scalpel. The blade is small, but deadly sharp.
The Greenshirt is talking, loudly, gloating about the horrors that await Lachlan. What he’s saying turns my stomach . . . but strengthens my resolution. Silently, I slide my feet under me, picking up the scalpel. It feels so slender in my grasp, too delicate for violence.
But sharp enough for the threat of violence.
The Greenshirt, so intent on his taunts, doesn’t hear me as I creep up behind him and lay the edge of the scalpel against the side of his throat. I have my threat all ready: Drop your weapon, stand up slowly, or I’ll open your veins. We’ll tie him up. We’ll escape.
But the second my blade touches his throat, Lachlan bucks upward, and the scalpel slides in without resistance, as if the Greenshirt’s skin is the finest silk.
I pull away—throw myself backward—but it is too late. A gush of blood sprays from his throat, pulsing in time to his heartbeat. As Lachlan grips the rifle and wrestles it away, the Greenshirt tuns to me with a look of surprise that breaks my heart. His eyes are big, he looks like he’s about to say something . . . then he slumps, almost gracefully. The blood pulses more slowly now from his slashed throat, pooling in a crimson lake around his body. Once more. And then both the Greenshirt and his flowing blood are still.
Lachlan twists out from under him and stands unsteadily. I can’t take my eyes off the dead Greenshirt. I did that. I ended a life . . .
There isn’t even blood on my hands.
Lachlan is tugging on my arm. “Come on, we have to go.”
I can’t move.
“We need to get out of here, get you someplace safe.” He drapes one of my arms over his shoulder and hauls me bodily toward the door. It should be the other way around. I should be supporting him. My legs don’t seem to be working right. My feet drag.
“I can’t . . .” I begin. But I know I have to.
The world begins to blur, the edges dissolving. Images like the ones I saw when I first regained consciousness threaten to barge into my sight, or my mind. Figures in white coats. A monitor tracking someone’s pulse and other vital signs. And, wonderfully, in a vision I don’t want to fight, a forest so real I can smell the damp Earth.
But I push it all back, and I see Flame in the doorway, beckoning. Lachlan trains the rifle, liberated from the Greenshirt, on her, but she ignores it. “Thanks a whole bikking lot!” she snaps. “There I was, all set to upgrade Serpentine and relocate to a posh ring, and now—this!” She squints at me, at my eyes. “You shouldn’t be standing.”
“Not much choice,” Lachlan says between clenched teeth. “Where were you?”
“Had to do an emergency override of
my securitybots’ safety protocols. Thought a little judicious lethality might be called for here. My bots took care of the other one. Bikk bikk bikk!” She rubs her forehead and paces. “Can I come up with any kind of story to cover this up? I can melt the bodies, of course. We get rid of lots of unwanted bio bits here.” She keeps up a monologue as she strides, kinetic and intense, and I have the strangest feeling that despite all her cursing, this disaster is no more than a setback. She looks up, and there’s the strangest little smile on her lips.
“Do you kids have a place to go?”
Lachlan nods. “And you?”
“Think I’ve spent my life on the black market fringe without having a bolt-hole or two? But you go on. I’ve got this covered.” She frowns down at the dead Greenshirt. “I think.” Then she shrugs, and shakes her finger at Lachlan, other troubles apparently forgotten. I’m realizing she may be slightly insane. “You get her someplace she can rest, for at least a day. She needs to be lying down so the pressure doesn’t build up behind her eyes. Don’t want to go pop, do we? And her neural network will be confused for a while. After all, you’re linked—more or less—into the EcoPan now.”
I blink, my eyes burning. So many implications.
“I linked you with the identity your friend provided, instead of the one your mother had arranged. This boy has some connections!” She sounds impressed. “The identity your mother set up for you was compromised, I’m sure, since they were on to you. But this guy has the specs of another identity all set up.” She gives him a significant look. “Almost as if he’s planned all this for a long, long time. Had to fiddle with the details. Gender, for example. But now EcoPan will officially recognize you as Yarrow. It will take a while to gel, so there will be glitches for a few months. Some bots might not be able to get a read on you. But just to be safe, don’t go anywhere you don’t want the EcoPan knowing about.”
I gasp. I can’t go back to the Underground? Where else can I go? I can’t go home. I feel panic rising. I’m alone, homeless, adrift.