Immunity

by Erin Bowman

  He rested his hands atop the desk. Across the way, Thea mirrored him, just as she had the previous night with her palm against the glass. She’d removed her hand quickly, though. It was there, then gone too soon. Coen knew it hadn’t been true contact, that the glass wall had divided them, and yet it had been the first human touch he’d experienced since . . . He racked his brain. He’d sparred with her yesterday, but that was different. Full of energy and tension. Last night had been calm, quiet. She had stared at their hands, hovering centimeters apart, and he’d stared at her lips, slightly parted, just as they’d been that day he revived her on Achlys.

  He found himself staring at them again now.

  What? she said from across the room.

  Nothing.

  You were thinking about something. I didn’t hear it, but I could . . . feel it.

  He was a mess. He needed to get it together, guard his thoughts.

  It was sort of like when a word is on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t place it, she continued.

  It was nothing, he said again firmly. Coen didn’t want to think about tongues. That was almost worse than lips. He stared at the top of the desk because it seemed the only safe thing in the room.

  “Communication test today,” Dr. Farraday said, positioning himself between Coen and Thea. “We will give one of you a message, and you’ll have to communicate it to the other host without speaking.”

  “How is that possible?” Coen said carefully.

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “We have reason to believe you may be able to communicate telepathically.”

  Don’t confirm it, Thea shouted in his ear.

  Obviously. Coen didn’t look at her when he responded, didn’t let his gaze so much as flit from Farraday when he said aloud, “I think if we could do something like that, I’d know.”

  “Perhaps the skill is repressed,” the doctor said with a smug smile. “Let’s just give it a try.” He walked to Coen’s desk and set his Tab on the surface. A giant number 4 filled the screen. “Please pass this information to Thea.”

  Don’t, Thea whispered in his ear. Once they know we can do this, they’ll fear every second of silence between us. Even if we’re talking about the weather, they’ll think we’re plotting an escape.

  We are.

  They might separate us if they know we can talk like this, Coen. Do you want to be separated? Do you want to be completely alone again? I don’t.

  “Any day, Mr. Rivli,” the doctor prompted.

  Coen put his elbow on the desk and folded his thumb into his palm, wiggling the other four fingers in the air.

  “Four?” Thea said from across the room.

  Dr. Farraday snatched up the Tab. “We’ll try again, and this time: follow directions.”

  “I did. You said not to talk.”

  “No hand signals or eye blinking or anything of the sort. I want you to use your mind.” He set the Tab back on the desk. It now read 14. “Focus, Coen. You can do this.”

  Well, I don’t have enough fingers for this one, he thought.

  What is it? Thea asked. Tell me, and I’ll guess something else.

  It was a good plan. The doctor would have no way to disprove that Coen hadn’t cooperated. He squinted his eyes, made a show of really truly focusing as he stared at Thea. He even gripped the edge of the desk as he passed the number to Thea.

  Now you’re just being creepy, she said, before adding out loud, “Ten?”

  “No,” Coen said.

  “Twelve then, maybe? I don’t know.” Thea slumped against her chair. “Maybe I’m imagining things.”

  “See, I told you we couldn’t do this. Can we move on to whatever’s next?”

  The doctor’s brow wrinkled as he consulted with the medics. They were watching a recording of the communication test on the Tab. Coen could hear Thea make her first guess and him reject it.

  “Strange,” Dr. Farraday said, lowering the Tab. “Your caps picked up increased brain activity on both of you just before Thea made her guess. Almost as if you were speaking.”

  Coen’s heart plummeted. If the caps were monitoring their brain activity, it would have picked up multiple abnormalities. Like yesterday, when their sparring session had included a private lesson, whispered just between the two of them.

  “Maybe because Coen was trying to do something he can’t and I was trying to hear something that wasn’t there,” Thea said.

  The doors slid open and Lieutenant Burke slipped through. The air in the room seemed to thin. The medics stood straighter as the lieutenant marched toward them and plucked the Tab from Dr. Farraday. “We’ll try one last time,” Burke said. He placed the device on Coen’s desk. It still read 14. “Pass this number to Miss Sadik.”

  “I would if I knew how,” Coen said.

  “Oh, I know you know how.” The lieutenant leaned forward, bracing his weight on Coen’s desk and blocking Thea from view. His upper lip curled with annoyance, and his pulse was calm and steady. He wasn’t afraid of Coen—because of the collar and the cap—but there was something more. A smugness to his confidence. Like he knew he’d already won.

  “You said you were more or less done, so I turned around,” Burke recited. “Is that not what Thea said to you last night in your cell? After you’d both changed clothes?”

  Dread filled Coen’s chest.

  “It’s funny, because when we checked the footage, you never said anything even resembling that line. In fact, Thea’s comment was the first thing either of you said aloud since entering your cells. So please. Pass her the number. Now.”

  They know we can do it, Coen said.

  But they can’t prove it. There’s no way to prove it unless we confirm it.

  “Another spike in brain activity for both of them just now,” Farraday said, reading from the Tab.

  Burke grabbed the lip of Coen’s desk and heaved upward. Coen’s instincts were a split second ahead, and he was on his feet in a flash, kicking his chair backward and ducking to the ground as the desk flew over him.

  “Pass her the number!” Burke roared. When Coen hesitated, the lieutenant unbuttoned his uniform jacket and extracted a folding knife from a pocket within.

  “You just confirmed yesterday that I heal faster than a military-grade regenerative bed. That blade doesn’t scare me.”

  Burke walked away from Coen, closing in on Thea. He grabbed her right wrist. She fought briefly, until a shock warning was sent through the cap and she yelped, folding in defeat. Burke slammed her palm against the desk, spread out her fingers.

  He pressed the blade against her pinkie.

  “Healing is one thing. Do you think she can regrow a limb?”

  It’s fourteen still, Coen told her immediately. It’s fourteen, just say it.

  She shook her head. If it grows back, great. If it doesn’t, that’s fine. But if I let him take it, they’ll think we’re being honest. They’ll believe we can’t talk like this.

  Thea, it’s not worth it! Just tell him!

  “Perhaps I should find out which hospital is holding Gina Rivli,” Burke continued, “and have a Radical loyalist pay her a visit. Might be best to just pull the plug on her, yes? Spare her some pain?”

  “Thea, give him the damn number!” Coen screamed. If she withheld this—if Gina suffered any more than she already had because of Thea—Coen would never forgive her. Thea would be as good as dead to him. He’d take being alone again, the only of his kind, a perpetual prisoner in this facility, before spending another day with Althea Sadik if she doomed his sister.

  Thea’s eyes softened across the way. Her lips fell open.

  She’d heard it all. Every last thought.

  He’d been so angry he hadn’t bothered to protect them.

  “Fourteen,” she said softly. “The number is fourteen.”

  Burke’s smile was thin and wicked. He shared a knowing look with Dr. Farraday, then pressed the knife down, severing Thea’s pinkie from her hand.

  Thea didn’t re
gister the pain at first. The knife cut like butter, at least until it hit bone and protested momentarily. Then the blade connected with the desk and she was staring at her finger, no longer attached to her hand. She blinked, certain she’d seen it wrong. But it was still sitting there, severed. Her blood flowed freely.

  Coen was shouting obscenities across the way, his anger a wave that swelled and crashed, sending static through the room. He ran at Burke, but was brought to the ground by a shock wave long before he could tackle the lieutenant.

  “Now you know how serious I am,” Burke snarled. “Do not try to fight me again, or the consequences will be worse.”

  Thea felt the pain suddenly, a throbbing sensation where her finger used to be.

  “Get it on ice so it can be reattached,” Dr. Farraday was saying to a medic. But Thea could already see it would be no use. The blood had begun clotting.

  “There’s no point, sir,” a medic said. “The wound’s already healing. There are no nerves to reattach.”

  “Your assumption was correct, Lieutenant,” Dr. Farraday said. “Incredible healing capabilities, but no regenerative limb growth. I hope you’re happy.”

  The lieutenant dropped the knife into a container with a biohazard label. “Regeneration would have been nice, but we can’t get everything we want, can we? A solider like this is still immensely valuable. They can heal minor injuries in seconds and carry on with the fight, all while communicating without tech. It will be like a giant hive mind. Put them in exoskeleton body armor, and even injuries are unlikely.” He shot Farraday a pointed look. “Continue this test. See how far their range stretches. Do they need to be within eyesight of each other? In the same room? What happens when there’s walls and floors between them? How about a whole kilometer? More? I expect a report on my Tab by this evening.”

  Burke left, and the testing continued. Thea and Coen complied because there was nothing to hide anymore, and they quickly learned that their capabilities didn’t extend beyond a room or two of separation.

  Thea had to be able to sense Coen’s presence to make a connection. If she could see him, communication was effortless. If she could hear his pulse, it took a bit more effort, but was manageable. And if she only had a hunch that he might be nearby, passing just a single word between them was exhausting.

  All the while he kept apologizing to her, asking if she was okay. Eventually her patience snapped.

  Of course I’m okay, Coen; it’s my finger, not my head. And I never asked to be the object of your obsessive protection. You’ve got Gina for that.

  It was a cruel blow, but it shut him up. And she needed to think, because they’d likely be separated now, moved to a distance at which they couldn’t talk or plan or plot. A distance greater than several rooms.

  She’d need to act as soon as possible. There was no point hanging her prayers on Amber Burke. It was more likely she ignored Thea’s message than responded to it.

  Thea repeated the path from her cell to the elevator in her mind, praying her room would be hers for one more evening.

  Nova weathered another draining day of physical therapy, and Amber remained distant through it all. When Nova blinked sweat from her eyes and asked about Thea and Coen, Amber merely said, “Sorry. Don’t know anything.” When Nova reminded the medic that she’d agreed to ask after them, Amber shrugged and said, “It’s like I told you; I only have access to a few levels. I haven’t seen them since we left the Paramount.”

  Now, as Amber helped her into bed, Nova couldn’t stand it any longer. She needed answers. “You know, I thought you’d have more backbone. But this won’t be the first time I’ve been wrong about someone.”

  “Like always, call if you need anything.” Amber folded the blanket over Nova’s lap as though she hadn’t just been insulted. “Oh, and let me help with that pillow before I leave.”

  The pillow was fine. Nova nearly said as much, but Amber had already leaned in to fluff it. Head beside Nova’s and lips brushing her ear, Amber whispered, “There’s a message on the Tab. Keep it angled away from the cameras.” The medic straightened, smiling blithely as she asked loudly, “Better?”

  Nova nodded, praying she didn’t look shocked. The surveillance camera was mounted in the corner of the room. Anyone watching would have a nice view of the bed right now: Nova reclined on the pillow, Amber with her back to the lens. The Tab—currently propped up at the foot of the bed—had its rear to the camera, too.

  “The Tab is locked to patient settings, but that breathing app should be accessible if you need it. I’ll be back tomorrow for more PT. Maybe we can get you moving on your own a little.” Amber winked. Nova didn’t know if it was meant to be encouraging or if it was a nod to the words she’d just whispered in Nova’s ear. It counted, nonetheless.

  One wink.

  Same as yesterday. A sad but legitimate record.

  Amber left and didn’t look back. Nova waited a few minutes. Then she grabbed the Tab, using care to keep it angled only at herself as she brought it to life.

  A message filled the screen.

  There are too many surveillance cameras in the PT room; had to wait for now to talk.

  I made contact with your friend Thea. Communications are slow: once a day, via the locker room. She asked about you, and I updated her. I’m still waiting on her next response. It looks like she’s being tested—Coen, too—but I’m not sure for what. The research lab has glass windows, but they’re fogged, so I can’t see anything. Will talk to my dad tonight and try to learn more. I’ll update you when I can.

  Delete this after reading and do not respond. We can’t risk another medic seeing these correspondences.

  Nova read the note several times before scrubbing it from the Tab.

  Her heart beat wildly—not from anxiety, but with hope. She’d misjudged the medic. Sometimes, Nova loved being proven wrong.

  She set the Tab at the foot of the bed and practiced her breathing for the cameras.

  Amber took the central elevator down to the research lab. She’d called for a dinner tray to be sent to Nova’s room within the hour. By then, the pilot should have read and deleted the note Amber had left on the Tab. Now it was time for answers.

  She found her father holed up in one of the genetics labs, which was only accessible through a clean room that her key card didn’t open. She lingered at the door, anxious, waiting for someone to pass by.

  Finally, she had an opportunity: Cyra. The woman was strutting up the hall, one hand in the pocket of her lab coat and the other carrying a Tab.

  “Cyra?” The woman looked up from the device, and Amber quickly pressed the Radical salute to her chest. Cyra saluted back. “Can you let me in?” Amber motioned to the clean room.

  “Not if your card doesn’t.”

  “My father told me to meet him down here.”

  Cyra looked over her shoulder, then peered through the clean room. Dr. Farraday was barely visible through the hallway’s fogged glass windows. “I really shouldn’t, but if he said to come see him . . .” Cyra flashed her key card before the sensor. The clean room door clicked.

  “Thanks,” Amber said, and ducked inside.

  Sterile air rushed over her shoulders. She scrubbed at the wash station, then pulled on a spare clean suit. The material puckered and rippled beneath the moving air. Now in the clean room, the windows looking onto the lab were clear, transparent glass. Beyond, in the lab itself, a series of Hevetz scientists were huddled together, chattering as they reviewed data and tapped notes into Tabs. A DNA helix spun on a screen on the far wall. When a light above the door flashed green, signaling it was clear for her to enter the lab, Amber toed the door open and crossed the threshold.

  “So you’re convinced youth is a factor?” her father was saying. His back was to Amber, and another scientist was showing him something on their tablet.

  A bright orange backpack on a counter caught Amber’s eye. Beside it, tubes of blood were arranged on racks. The wall screen refreshed, showing
a looping animation of brain activity. It seemed inhuman, too much activity at once, as though every last section of the brain was working overtime. In the corner, she could make out the words Subject: Sadik, Althea and a time stamp from just earlier in the day.

  “We think so,” the Hevetz scientist answered. “Successful injections are nonexistent in the mature rats, and newborn rats are unable to host it as well. But there’s a window. Here, look at the numbers. In the youthful rats well out of infancy but not yet fully matured . . . These are your compatible hosts. Chances are it has to do with bodily changes, a flexibility of the host that is only accessible during a small window in time. Rats aren’t humans, of course, and the best way to test the hypothesis would be on a person.”

  “Continue with the rats. If this hypothesis continues to prove sound, then move on to the rabbits. From there, we can discuss a human test.”

  It was then that Amber saw what had captured the rest of the scientists’ attention. Set atop the center counters were three different glass containers, each filled with several rats. In the first container, the rodents were healthy, nibbling at food, suckling from a water feeder, milling about. But in the others . . .

  One receptacle was filled with dead specimens, their bodies clustered in a corner, fur matted and wet with blood. In the third, several rats twitched and hissed, surrounding a healthy rodent. There was a flash of fur. Squeals and cries. Blood spattered the glass.

  Amber staggered backward, knocking into the door to the clean room.

  Her father looked up, spotting her at last. The scientist he’d been talking to hugged the Tab to his chest, covering up the Hevetz logo stitched there.

  “What the hell is this?” she muttered.

  “Amber, you’re not supposed to be down here.”

  “What the hell is going on?!”

  Host, youth, successful injection. Amber stared at the incredible brain activity on the vidscreen, an image of Thea and Coen being dragged through Paramount’s halls seared into her mind. Well out of infancy, but not yet fully matured. These are your compatible hosts.

  Tests on rats. Then rabbits. Then humans.