by Mira Grant
“Mom.” Nathan sounded more impatient this time. His interruption was accompanied by a glance at the old analog clock on the wall, where the second hand was busily ticking off our window of opportunity.
“Sorry,” said Dr. Cale again. “As I was getting around to saying, Sal, people today carry expensive pieces of medical equipment with them at all times, and there’s a black market for that sort of thing. It’s rare, but not unheard-of, for someone to go in for a minor surgical process and wake up with their implant missing—especially if they have one of the extremely tailored varieties. SymboGen has done an excellent job of controlling supply and demand, making sure supply never manages to outstrip demand. Unfortunately, that means that if you need a new insulin source right this minute, or a worm that supplies anti-rejection medication, theft may start looking like your best option.”
I stared at her. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
“Thanks for freaking out my girlfriend, Mom, that was swell of you,” said Nathan. He stood, offering me his arm. “Come on, Sal. Let’s get you to the ambulance.”
“I don’t have any clothes,” I protested. Pushing away the covers had revealed that I was wearing nothing but a plain white hospital gown, the kind that tied in the back and left virtually nothing to the imagination. I didn’t mind that much—I’ve never been shy about nudity—but I had been told over and over that it wasn’t socially acceptable to run around half clothed in front of strangers. Fang and Daisy counted.
“We’re going to a hospital,” said Nathan. “Not having any clothes is a good thing.”
“You’ll be fine,” said Dr. Cale. “Just tell anyone who asks you that you have problems with the veins in your head, and that Dr. Chu and Dr. Lee are going to fix it for you. If they press, tell them you don’t know how to pronounce what’s wrong. Daisy or Fang can take things from there.”
“What’s Nathan going to do?”
“Stand there being quiet and trying not to be recognized, while he remembers that I didn’t want him to go with you in the first place,” said Dr. Cale coolly, shooting a look at Nathan.
Nathan ignored her. “All right, Sal. Time for us to go.” He took hold of my IVs, wheeling them along. I was glad he was taking charge of that part of the trip. I would have snarled the tubes on something before we’d gone more than five feet.
Dr. Cale didn’t say anything as we walked away. She just watched us go, expression unreadable, hands still knotted white-knuckled in her lap. Then the curtain fell closed again behind us, and she was gone.
I leaned heavily on Nathan’s arm as we walked out of the semiprivate room and back into the main bowling alley. Most of the terminals were abandoned at this hour—it had to be almost midnight, and I wondered briefly whether that would make our “borrow a hospital operating theater” plan more dangerous. Probably not. My condition wasn’t immediately life-threatening, and if Dr. Cale was sending us to the hospital now, she had to have a reason. Maybe it was just “we’ll have more luck finding an empty room at this hour of the night.” Whatever her logic, I had made the decision to trust her, and now it was the only thing I could do.
Fang was waiting just outside the interior door, in the dark room where I had lost consciousness before. He looked me thoughtfully up and down, from my bare feet to my tousled hair, and finally said, “You’d look good as a redhead. Consider that for when we’re done at the hospital.” He had a faint accent, although I couldn’t have said from where. “Come on, both of you. Daisy is outside with the ambulance, and we should move before someone stops to make sure that she’s all right. This would be like Al Capone being busted for tax evasion.” His smile was swift and tight, like he had just made a very funny joke but didn’t want to be the first one to laugh.
“You never talked this much at SymboGen,” I said. Now that I was up and moving, the sedatives in my IV were starting to hit me harder, making the world seem just a little out of focus, like a movie played on late night TV.
Fang smiled. “I needed to keep a low profile. Not so much an issue, now that I’ve been extracted.” He turned and walked toward the door to the outside, clearly expecting that we would follow. Nathan still had my arm, and Nathan did follow, leaving me with no choice but to do the same.
Normally I would have objected to being pulled toward a destination I had little to no say in, but normally I wasn’t under the influence of a really impressive assortment of pharmaceuticals. “Your mom is good at drugging people,” I said dreamily. My lips felt numb. That was sort of funny. They weren’t my lips—I’d stolen them from Sally Mitchell—so why could I feel them? I giggled. That was even funnier; it required the use of so many purloined body parts that I couldn’t even name them all.
I was still laughing when we walked out of the bowling alley and into the parking lot. An ambulance was parked right outside the doors, and a short, solid-looking woman with broad shoulders and buzz-cut brown hair shot through with ribbons of gray was waiting for us, one hand resting on a gurney.
“About time you guys got out here,” she said, casting a nervous look back at the ambulance. Its doors were standing open, revealing the clean white interior. “We have about an hour before someone notices that the GPS chip on this baby’s been jiggered, so let’s get a move on, okay?”
“You must be Daisy,” I said, swallowing the last of my giggles. “I’m Sal.”
“Nice to meet you, Sal,” she said genially. “I need you to lie down on this gurney. Do you think you can do that, or do we need to pick you up?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Honesty seemed like the best policy, at least when it kept me from falling on my face. “I’m a little woozy right now.”
“That’s to be expected.” She looked to my left. “Fang?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He moved faster than I expected, somehow scooping me off my feet without tangling my IV cords, and deposited me on my back on the gurney before I could do more than squeak. I blinked bemusedly up at the starry suburban sky, feeling like I’d just been part of an involuntary magic trick.
“All right, Sal, I’m going to strap you down now,” said Daisy, all efficiency. “I know you probably won’t like that, but it’s necessary if we’re going to keep you from getting knocked around during the ride. Also, if your balance is anything to go by, those sedatives are going to knock you out any minute now, and you’ll be a lot more comfortable this way.”
“I don’t mind being tied down.” My eyelids fluttered shut, seemingly of their own accord, and no amount of coaxing would get them to open again. Maybe they were tired. The rest of me was. “Tight is good. Nathan, you should tie me down sometime. I think I’d like that.”
“We’ll talk about it later, honey.” He sounded oddly strained, like he didn’t want to talk about it at all. Oh, well. I could ask him about that after I’d had my nap.
Daisy started strapping me down with quick efficiency. I lay perfectly still, figuring that was the best thing I could do to help—and besides, moving just seemed like so much work. I dimly realized that I was drifting off to sleep, but staying awake would have been even more work than moving. I was already gone by the time they started loading my gurney into the back of the ambulance; the shaking and thumping that would inevitably accompany that kind of transfer was entirely absent, not even making a dent in my slow fade into unconsciousness.
It was sort of nice to go down like this, falling slowly instead of flipped off like a switch. I settled deeper into my own body, letting the hot warm dark wash over me, and listened to the quiet sound of drums.
The drive to John Muir could have taken thirty seconds or thirty years: I wouldn’t have noticed either way. A few times I was pulled back toward wakefulness by a sudden turn, but those disruptions were brief and quickly obscured by the simple comforts of the dark. My pulse seemed to be radiating from the points of my body, feet, hands, head, and crotch, bouncing in to the center of me and then flowing outward like a wave. It didn’t make a sound, exactly, but I thought t
hat if it did, the sound would have been meditative and sweet, so I tried to listen for it, focusing as best I could through the pounding of the drums and the thumping of my heart.
I don’t like this, thought the small corner of my mind that was still clear and unaffected by whatever Dr. Cale had put in my IV. I want this to be over now. Can this be over now? Please?
My silent pleas didn’t do any good. The tidal motion of my pulse continued, and the darkness deepened, if anything, becoming absolute.
The gurney was lifted down from the ambulance. The wheels thumped hard against the concrete in the hospital parking lot. That did register with me, breaking through the haze for a few seconds. I tried to convince my eyes to open. They didn’t listen, remaining stubbornly closed, and the darkness closed in again.
Motion. The gurney was being pushed somewhere, and I was going with it, helpless to do anything to control my destination. This was what it was like to be just a part of Sally, said the clear corner of my mind, and the part of me that was aware suddenly flooded with both terror and relief. Terror at the accuracy of that comparison, and relief that this wasn’t my existence anymore. This had been me, once, but it wasn’t me now. I was just visiting the land of people who could neither move nor speak. I didn’t have to live there.
Dr. Cale had said the implants weren’t sapient until they integrated with a human brain, that they did all the things they did based on instinct and the desire to control their environments. I was glad for them. Nothing capable of thought should ever be trapped like this, helpless and marooned in the dark. Although I did wonder, just a little, whether she was right: whether they really were just reacting until they latched on to a human mind. Because if they had any shred of intelligence, they were taking over their hosts for two reasons she hadn’t considered: because they were desperate, and because they wanted revenge on the creatures that had given them life and then locked them in the dark.
Something moaned. A voice shouted—Nathan—and then the gurney was moving faster, pushed ahead of some unseen attacker. I struggled to control my body, and failed again. Terror lanced through me, cold and sharp as a razor blade. I didn’t mind going along with the people around me; they often knew more than I did, and I was all too aware that I was still learning to be a person. But the thought of being helpless with a sleepwalker closing in was enough to make my skin grow tight with involuntary terror.
The gurney moved faster. The sound of moaning dropped away, replaced by silence and the rattle of wheels. My sense of time seemed broken by the isolation. Finally, voices drifted through the gloom, unfamiliar ones first, and then Nathan and a woman I thought might be Daisy answering them in calm, professional tones. The motion had stopped. I tried again to pull myself out of the darkness, and succeeded only in driving myself further down. The voices went away.
Motion, and then no motion, and then motion again. A door slamming. The sound of voices. Pressure receding as the straps that held me to the gurney were undone. Hands moving me to a new surface. Something being fitted over my face, covering my nose and mouth, like the rebreather I used to wear for the gel MRIs. Maybe I was having a gel MRI. Maybe I was back at SymboGen, and everything that had happened since my last checkup was a dream, and when they flushed the tank and let me breathe again, Sherman would be there, and he wouldn’t be a tapeworm, and he wouldn’t be the enemy, and everything would be all right. I could go home. My parents would be my parents, because I would be their daughter, and they would love me, and everything would be fine forever and ever.
“—start the feed—”
“—all data has been—”
“—careful, the risk of compromising her structural integrity—”
The voices were only ghosts; they came and went without making any impact on the world. The mask that covered my mouth and nose began to emit a strange-smelling gas. I breathed it in anyway. There was nothing else I could have done. So I just breathed, until even the ghosts went away, and there was nothing. I was nothing.
I was alone.
When I was born, I was the size of a pinhead: an egg, expressed from the corpse of a tapeworm that had been intended as nothing but a breeder for more tapeworms. It had been my biological mother, and my biological father had been a syringe full of DNA and modified instructions for my growth. The actual process was probably more complicated than that, but I didn’t understand the science: when I tried to hold on to it, I just kept seeing a loop of film from an old cartoon about talking rats. The rats were normal rats until the scientists came along and poked them with needles. Then they got bigger, and stronger, and smarter, and started wanting more for themselves than cages and captivity. They started wanting to be free.
Dr. Banks and his team could have learned a lot from watching The Secret of NIMH a few times. Maybe it would have convinced them that modifying the genetic code of living organisms wasn’t as much fun as they thought it was. But Dr. Banks had wanted to make a lot of money, and he’d succeeded, hadn’t he? Whatever else my siblings and I might have done, we’d managed to make him a lot of money. He was probably still making money, even as the foundations started giving way beneath him.
Memories flickered against the edges of my mind. Waking up in the hospital with Sally’s grieving family standing next to my bed, staring up at the ceiling and not knowing what it was, or who I was, or what I was doing there. I’d been so eager to believe them when they called me their daughter, and why shouldn’t I have been? They were offering me an identity. They were offering me a home. I’d never had either of those things before. So I took them, because I was still a tapeworm at heart, still greedy for whatever I could grab, and I kept them, and when they stopped being enough for me, I’d gone looking for more.
This was all my fault.
No, no, no, I scolded myself, trying to swim through the black that had taken me, trying to pull all the splintered pieces of my mind back together. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do this. You didn’t make this. You’re just here, but you didn’t do anything.
If you really believe that, why are we having this argument? The question came from another corner of my mind, and I didn’t have an answer for it. So I did what felt right, and let it fall away from me as I sank deeper down into the dark. The dark didn’t demand that I do anything but exist. I could do that. I could do that very well.
So I did.
There was only one thing I really remembered from the operation after it was over: light. Bright white light that hurt my eyes so much it was almost like someone had stabbed me, lancing down from above and searing me. But my eyes were closed; the light had to be getting in through some other channel. It didn’t make any sense at the time. It was one more mystery piled onto the endless heap of them that had been coming together since I’d seen myself in the MRI film.
It was thinking of the film that gave me my answer. The light hadn’t been hurting my eyes, because I didn’t have eyes where the light was shining: it had been hurting my body, shining in through the opening in my skull and lancing through the waxy, ghost-white skin of my true, segmented form. I would have screamed if I could have, both from the pain and from the realization. But I had no voice, and so all I could do was sink back into the dark, away from awareness, away from sapience, and wait for it to be over.
Light.
This time, it didn’t hurt. It entered through the usual channel, flowing in as I opened my eyes and blinked, slowly, up at the distant ceiling. It probably helped that someone had dimmed the lights in this little room, which was—I turned my head slightly to the left, confirming—which was not at the bowling alley. The walls were painted white, but they were solid, rather than being made from hanging sheets and negative space. A machine was attached to my arm, beeping softly to itself. That was probably what had woken me up. It was the only noise in the room. As I realized that, I also realized that I could barely hear the drums. They had gone from a near-constant pounding in the background of my life to a soft tapping, almost inaudible, the w
ay they used to be. This was how the inside of my head was supposed to sound, when I wasn’t so stressed out that my heart was racing all the time, and when the blood vessels in my brain weren’t threatening to give way at any moment.
“Are you awake, or just moving your head?” Nathan’s voice was barely louder than the beeping.
I rolled my head to the right, bringing him into view, and smiled. It was always nice to see my boyfriend first thing upon waking up. It reminded me of how handsome he was, for one thing, and of how much I loved him. No matter how much I enjoyed sleeping, the Nathan in my dreams was never as good as the real thing. “I think I’m awake,” I said. My throat was dry, and the words felt scratchy leaving my lips. “Are we still at the hospital?”
He nodded, faint smile fading into a much grimmer expression. He looked like his mother in that moment, and it worried me. Nathan and Dr. Cale had a similar bone structure, but they really only looked alike when they were upset about something. “We are,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“The drums are softer now. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I waited for Nathan to nod before I continued, saying, “Nothing hurts. Am I on a lot of painkillers?”
“Not as many as you might think,” he said. “We’ve already sealed the surgical incisions, and numbed the skin around the wound enough that it shouldn’t hurt for an hour or more, by which point the skin bonds should have started taking effect. You’ll be completely healed inside of the week.”
“So the operation…?”
“Was successful.” Nathan raked his hands back through his hair, and for the first time I realized how worried he looked, and how exhausted. As hard as this day had been on me, I’d been dealing with my own medical problems, and I hadn’t had a lot of energy to look outward. Nathan had been handling everything I couldn’t—including his mother—and he’d done it all without a word of complaint. “Daisy was able to program the surgical tools, and she and Fang sealed the damaged blood vessels so that they won’t be at risk of rupture anymore. You still shouldn’t take any blows to the head if you can help it, but you’re not at any more risk of an aneurism than anyone else.”