Unforgotten

  There’s another loud screech as the train approaches the station, and the crowd dissipates.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I chide him in a huffed whisper. “I could have handled it myself.”

  He watches the bright headlights of the train grow nearer. “It didn’t look that way.”

  “Your reaction was inappropriate,” I go on, frustrated.

  “That’s how I was designed to react.”

  Evidently he didn’t get the flight-over-fight instinct that I was given.

  “I’m like you … Only better.”

  “Well,” I hiss, “that’s exactly the kind of attention-drawing behavior I warned you about.”

  But he doesn’t seem to be listening anymore. His eyeballs are darting rapidly back and forth as the train barrels through the station and he carefully scans each passing car.

  By the time it pulls to a stop, he seems to have found what he’s looking for and starts walking briskly toward the front of the train. As we approach the door three compartments down, I finally see what he was looking for.

  A man stands in the center of the car. His skin is covered in wrinkles and caked with dirt. His aging body is rickety, hunched over. One of his hands grips the steel pole for balance while the other holds a tattered cardboard sign.

  On it one word is sketched in shaky black letters:

  HUNGRY.

  And I immediately know that this is the right train.

  A friendly male voice echoes from somewhere above our heads. “This is a Bronx-bound 6 train. The next stop is Spring Street. Please stand clear of the closing doors.”

  Kaelen and I share a quick glance before simultaneously hopping off the platform, into the train, just as the heavy slabs of steel slide shut.

  29

  MASKED

  The train is even more suffocating than the station. I fight to keep my composure. But it certainly doesn’t help that the scene on the platform is playing over and over in my mind.

  Kaelen could have killed that man.

  He said he was designed to react that way.

  Well, of course he was. He was sent here for me. He said so himself. He was sent to follow the map in my head and then, without a doubt, to bring me back. So obviously he would do whatever it took to protect me. To safeguard Diotech’s investment.

  Kaelen is facing away from me, watching out the dirty, smudged window. We haven’t spoken since we boarded the train. We ride in silence, both listening carefully to the announcement of each stop. Waiting for the one from my memory. Fifty-Ninth Street.

  And then what?

  What will I see?

  What will happen to me?

  Will that same excruciating pain erupt in my head again? Is that what happens every time a memory is triggered? Given my experience of agonizing torture in my prison cell and in the Chinese man’s shop, it would certainly seem that pain is the protocol.

  I cringe at the idea of having to go through it again.

  Of possibly passing out here, surrounded by all these people.

  The train pulls to a stop at the Fifty-First Street station—one stop away from our destination—and I feel a quick jab on my arm. The small zap of electricity that accompanies it jolts me into alertness. Kaelen is pointing alarmingly toward the doors. I peer over to see what the problem is.

  The man, the one with the cardboard sign, who has been shuffling back and forth through this car, stretching his hand out to every passenger for the past nine stops, is preparing to get off.

  “What do we do?” I whisper.

  “He’s definitely in the memory at Fifty-Ninth Street, right?” I’m grateful to hear that this time he’s wise enough to speak in a hushed tone instead of announcing it for everyone on board to hear.

  I nod.

  “Then we follow him,” Kaelen resolves.

  “Okay.”

  The train comes to a full stop and the doors open. Kaelen and I stay a diligent five paces behind the man as he hobbles across the platform. He stops between cars and, apparently in no hurry to go anywhere else, leans casually against one of the many thick metal beams that populate the station.

  I look urgently to Kaelen, who just shrugs in return.

  “This is a Bronx-bound 6 train. The next stop is Fifty-Ninth Street,” the voice announces. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

  This seems to capture the old man’s attention and he quickly shuffles away from his beam and boards the nearest car. Kaelen and I leap in after him, barely managing to avoid being crushed by the closing doors.

  The train rumbles off again and I immediately notice the screen on the wall, to my left.

  The familiar beautiful woman is peering back at me. Her skin painted a shade of creamy smooth ivory. Her lips glinting pink. She smiles seductively.

  I catch Kaelen’s eye and jut my chin in her direction. He nods, understanding.

  It’s almost time.

  I didn’t notice it when the memory was invading my mind but I now see that the woman is part of an advertisement for a brand of makeup. I watch her softly caress her own face, before the image shifts and a logo appears.

  After that, everything happens exactly as I remember it.

  The now-familiar voice repeats the announcement: “This is a Bronx-bound 6 train. The next stop is Fifty-Ninth Street.”

  Then I feel a tap on my back. Unlike in the memory, I don’t jump. I anticipate it. I turn around to see the man we followed holding up his cardboard sign:

  HUNGRY.

  His dirty fingers unfurl in front of me. I offer him a quick, kind smile and shake my head. I want to help—I want to give him food—but like in the memory, I don’t have any to give.

  I turn back to the screen and see the image shift to the newscast. Just as I remembered it, the reporter is standing in front of a building. This time, however, I take a moment to read some of the transcript of his speech below.

  “The CDC has issued an official statement this morning reporting that they are sadly no closer to creating a successful vaccine for the white fever, which has already claimed nearly one thousand lives nationwide and confined five thousand more to hospital quarantines. They have assured us that they are working hard to perfect a vaccine but have asked us to remind everyone to seek medical help immediately if you are showing any of the symptoms listed on your screen.”

  My eyes narrow as I watch the list appear alongside the reporter’s face.

  Fever. Chills. Weakness and fatigue. Muscle soreness.

  A tremor shudders through me.

  Those are Zen’s symptoms.

  But that’s impossible. He can’t have whatever it is they’re talking about. He got sick before we even came here. How could he have contracted a twenty-first-century disease while living in 1609?

  My thoughts are distracted by the screech of the brakes as the train lurches to a stop and the doors open, letting more people off and on.

  Kaelen shoots me a stern look, reminding me to pay attention. This is the stop from my memory. This is where the memory ended. Which means any minute now I’m going to see something that—

  My gaze lands on a small child in a heavy coat, hat, and gloves entering the train. One of his hands is firmly clasped inside his mother’s. And the other is holding a tiny toy sailboat.

  The throbbing begins, alerting me to the incoming memory.

  I struggle to keep my eyes open. I look at Kaelen. He’s distracted, peering curiously around the train. He’s searching for a possible trigger. He doesn’t know that I’ve already found it.

  And suddenly I realize that this is it.

  My only chance to move one step ahead.

  If I can somehow manage to stay conscious, to keep the pain from registering on my face, then I can hide the memory from him. I can stop Diotech from getting what they want.

  The throbbing continues, growing more intense by the second. The creature inside is threatening to rip my skull open. I grip the pole tightly, attempting to channel all t
he pain into my hands, into this piece of metal.

  You can do this, I tell myself.

  Control it.

  Contain it.

  Conceal it.

  I close my eyes, taking deep breaths, fighting back a scream of agony that’s brimming in my throat, pushing against my lips, begging to be released.

  When I force my eyes open, I notice that Kaelen is watching me. Studying me. He tilts his head. “Are you okay? Did you see something?”

  I force a tight smile and shake my head, keeping my lips firmly pressed together in fear that if I try to speak, the scream will escape.

  “Are you sure?” he presses, taking a step toward me, his hand reaching out to my forehead.

  The train jerks into motion, sending Kaelen staggering back.

  I swallow hard as the memory tears at my brain with sharp claws. Slicing into the backs of my eyeballs.

  I open my mouth slowly, finally managing to croak out, “I’m sure.”

  “Well, the trigger has to be here somewhere.” Kaelen continues to peer eagerly around the train.

  Meanwhile, the memory has broken free, raided my mind. Preparing to show itself. I’m feeling woozy, the floor is vibrating much more than it should. The darkened walls of the subway tunnels are passing by the windows much faster than they are supposed to.

  Don’t pass out, I command myself.

  Don’t pass out!

  My knees are wobbling. I press into the metal pole with my entire body, keeping myself upright. I bite the inside of my cheek, drawing blood. The pain behind my temples has reached an epic climax.

  “Find me,” comes the delicate, misty voice.

  And then suddenly I’m …

  Standing in the middle of a long, empty hallway lined with doors.

  Everything is clean, sparkling with artificial light cast from above.

  I take a step, falling into a quiet shadow between the overhead lamps. I note the numbers on the doors.

  408

  409

  410

  I know that I’m being led somewhere. That one of these doors will call to me. Reach out and wrap a long, bony finger around my spine, sending shivers everywhere.

  It’s just a matter of which one.

  411

  412

  413

  The hallway is deserted. Devoid of life. Every door closed.

  I pass by a window. It’s dark outside. The sidewalk below is mostly empty, indicating it must be late at night. Or very early in the morning.

  414

  415

  416

  I feel my blood start to warm. I’m getting closer. I know it.

  But closer to what?

  Part of me is scared to find out. No … all of me.

  A large flat screen is embedded in the wall on my right but no image is displayed. Just a blank canvas of bright blue. A flashing message says No Signal. And a date. In the bottom right-hand corner.

  February 12, 2:13 a.m.

  417

  418

  419

  I freeze. This is it. This is the door. I can feel it. Every cell in my body is alerting me to it.

  My hand reaches out, trembling. I can barely grasp the handle. I turn it and push.

  Inside there is a long, sleek, metal countertop with various computers and scientific instruments sprawled across it.

  I look up from the countertop and see a man. Alone. Hunched over a computer. His wavy blond hair sprouts in all different directions. His face is tired, covered in stubble. He is tall. Lanky. Wearing a long, crumpled white coat.

  I study him for a moment, my gaze unmistakably drawn to his fingers tapping a series of numbers that I can’t see into a keyboard.

  For some reason, I am aware that these numbers are important, but I don’t know why.

  I take a step toward him to get a better look, and he startles, sensing me for the first time. His weary blue eyes dart toward the door.

  Toward me.

  He looks familiar. Painfully familiar. And yet I can’t place him.

  Not until my gaze falls to the breast pocket of his coat. Not until I see the small digital badge pinned to his lapel, illuminated with text like a tiny screen.

  Not until I read his name, which appears just below the words GenZone Research Laboratory.

  And then my entire world goes fuzzy.

  No.

  It can’t be. It’s not him. He can’t be a part of this.

  He looks me up and down. His expression matches mine perfectly. We are twins of disbelief.

  Unable to accept the fact that we have found each other here. Now. In this strange, uncertain future.

  I open my mouth to speak. But no sound comes out.

  “You…” he croaks, his voice low. Too low. Too old. Too mature. It sends dizzying vibrations through my brain.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

  I shake my head, feeling frost drift over me. I try to speak again but my voice is still lost in some deep abyss. I can’t tell him what I want to tell him. I can’t respond with the only thought that’s running through my mind right now.

  Neither should you.

  30

  MOTIVATIONS

  “Where would you like to go?” the disembodied female voice asks us as we get into a cab outside the Pelham Bay Park subway station.

  “I don’t understand,” Kaelen says. “How could there not be a trigger? We went exactly where the memory directed you.”

  He hasn’t stopped complaining about this since we left the train after riding it for another twenty-six stops, all the way to the end of the line, at which time we were forced to disembark. The whole time he stood there, staring at me, waiting for something to happen. And the whole time, I convincingly insisted that nothing had.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that destination,” the cab replies, referring to Kaelen’s rant.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him, refusing to look him in the eye for fear that he’ll be able to read the lie. “Perhaps it’s been triggered but will take some time to activate. You said yourself that TDRs are activated by physical triggers or after a certain amount of time has passed. Maybe this is one of the time-triggered ones.”

  He ponders this, his expression neutral with just a hint of aggravation.

  “I’m sorry,” the cab repeats. “I’m not familiar with that destination either. Where would you like to go?”

  I look at Kaelen. “Maybe we should just go back to the apartment and wait.” I silently pray that he’ll agree. The rest of my plan will only work if he agrees.

  I hold my breath.

  He sighs sharply. “I suppose that is an acceptable proposal.”

  Exhale.

  Relief.

  Kaelen fishes the two forged DIP cards out of his pocket and waves them in front of the scanner. “173 East Seventy-Second Street.”

  A ding sounds from the screen in front of us, flashing our pictures side by side again.

  “Thank you,” the female voice replies. “Your account has been debited. Would you like to watch TV during your journey?”

  “No,” we reply in unison.

  I can’t have any distractions. I need all my strength and concentration to pull this off.

  The car drives away from the curb. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Kaelen relax against the seat, looking fatigued.

  Good, I think. That will certainly help.

  We ride in silence, watching the busy New York streets pass by out the window.

  “Based on current traffic conditions, we should arrive at your destination in approximately twenty minutes,” the cab announces.

  Twenty minutes, I think. That should give me enough time.

  Kaelen is seemingly lost in thought. He’s probably running back through the download of the memory he stole from my mind, trying to figure out what might have gone wrong. What we might have missed.

  A flick of my gaze and I see the small lump in his left pants pocket.

  The Mod
ifier.

  I remember him putting it in that pocket at the apartment before we left. If I can just get my hands on it, my plan might actually work. But since Kaelen is clearly stronger and faster than I am, the element of surprise is my only real chance.

  My fingers tingle in anticipation. My legs burn with heat. I prepare my body to spring, mentally bracing myself for the current that will undoubtedly charge through my body the moment we touch.

  And we will touch.

  It’s inevitable.

  Our skin will make contact. That mysterious pulse of energy will illuminate me from the inside. The relentless magnetism will suck me in like a gravitational field.

  That warmth will wash over me. Spread everywhere. Erase everything …

  Focus, I command myself.

  I think about Zen. Dying in that bed only twenty minutes from here. I have to help him. I can’t trust Diotech to do it. They’ll never hold up their end of the agreement. As soon as they follow this map inside my head and get their hands on whatever it is that’s waiting at the end of it, all promises will be discarded.

  I’ll be back at the Diotech compound, strapped to a chair while they rewire my brain and turn me into someone incapable of questioning anything.

  Someone like him.

  I eye the bulge of the Modifier in his pocket again and curl my fists into tight balls, preparing to strike. I suck in a courageous breath and spring toward him, one arm outstretched, aimed for his face, while the other veers toward his pocket.

  Kaelen turns his head just as I’m starting to move and I crash to a halt. I quickly settle back into the seat, pretending that I was simply shifting my weight to get more comfortable and scratch an itch on my head.

  His head tilts for a moment as he studies me, seemingly deciding what to make of my strange maneuver. He opens his mouth to say something and I’m positive he’s going to scold me for trying to attack him while his back was turned.

  “Why did you run away from the Diotech compound?” he says at last.

  I stare at him, completely baffled by this unexpected question. “What?”

  “The intelligence I received before I was sent to apprehend you. It informed me that you had escaped from the compound with the son of a Diotech scientist. But it didn’t clarify your reason for departing. What would motivate you to do that?”