Earthquake

by Aprilynne Pike

  “What about your brother?”

  Benson cringes like I’ve slapped him. “They—they made a soldier out of him and . . . I don’t even want to know what he’s doing now. They probably tell him he’s looking for Dad. I imagine after this long he’d actually kill him if he saw him.”

  My throat is tight, and I’m having trouble swallowing. “And what about you?” I finally choke out.

  Benson’s gaze is fixed on the desk. “I guess I was always a bit of a rebel. I didn’t like what I kept hearing from these people. And they always wanted to use me for my ability to see the Earthscript. I started to lie and tell them I didn’t see it after all.” He gives me a pained smile. “I was little; I thought it was a good idea. I never considered that it would be painfully obvious I was lying. But things were at least bearable until we actually moved into a Reduciata compound. Before that I’d go to the library every day after school and stay until dinnertime. Hiding, basically. But once we moved I couldn’t go anywhere without the Reduciata and everything it stands for being thrown in my face.”

  “But you still chose to become a member, eventually,” I say, reminding myself of the important part. “You have the tattoo.”

  He chuckles dryly. “You’re so fixated on that mark.” He’s silent for a long time, and I don’t push him.

  Though I want to.

  “When I was twelve, my brother was fifteen and had just been sent on his first ‘real’ mission—I didn’t want to know anything about it. He decided it was time that his wimpy little brother became a true Reduciate. He went to the tattoo artist and told him that I’d said my vows, but that I was afraid of needles. He and couple of his buddies held me down, and I got my mark. End of story.”

  “He tattooed a twelve-year-old boy while he was being held down?”

  “The world of the Reduciates is nothing like the world you know.”

  “Okay, fine . . .” My voice trails off. “But no one was holding a gun to your head when you met me.”

  Sob story aside, that’s the crux of the issue. I can forgive him for getting involved in an organization he’s been tangled up in since he was a kid. But everything he did in Portsmouth, he did of his own free will.

  “They might as well have.”

  I scowl at him and wait.

  “When I was seventeen they let me get my GED, and a few weeks later I was shocked but pleased to get into New Hampshire, despite a late application. Not that it mattered; I didn’t think the higher-ups would let me go. I should have realized when they did that they had something in store.” He leans his forehead on his clasped fists. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they got me accepted to begin with.”

  “When was this?” I ask warily.

  “A month after your plane crash,” he says bluntly.

  A pit forms in my stomach. I remember Benson asking me—just a few weeks ago—how far I thought this whole conspiracy idea went.

  I don’t think even he knew at the time.

  “So they gave me a taste of real life, of freedom. Of everything I ever wanted, really. And three months later they brought me in. To Marie. Marianna they all call her there.” He lifts his head, his eyes lifeless. “As soon as the message arrived I knew I’d stepped into a trap. So I went in to see Marianna, and she told me about you.”

  “Told you what about me?” I shoot back, more a knee-jerk reaction than anything.

  “Just the basics. That you were important; that they needed an inside agent to facilitate your memory-retrieval process. The plane crash,” he adds in a mumble.

  “You knew. Everything.”

  He nods, his eyelids squeezed shut.

  “Why you? Surely they had dozens of people who could have done it.”

  “I was young. I was ‘fresh,’” he says with quotey fingers, “as Marianna put it. I wasn’t a Reduciate—not truly—and she thought I would be more convincing.”

  “She was right,” I mutter half under my breath.

  I don’t know if he heard or not, but he doesn’t respond. “And, of course, I can see the Earthscript. They wanted someone who could really know exactly what was going on with you. And so they decided I was the man for the job.”

  “And you said yes.”

  “I said no,” he whispers.

  I sit, stiff, staring at him.

  “And then they reminded me that my brother and mom were both under their control and that they could make their lives inconvenient. Or simply short.”

  I turn to the side so I don’t have to look at him, and wish I had a curtain of hair to hide my face. Would I have turned a stranger over to an evil establishment to save my parents? I push aside the little voice on my shoulder that says yes.

  “So I made a deal with them. I told them I would do this for them—help some brain damaged, crippled girl get her memories back—and in exchange they would let me go. Forever. And I would keep their secrets.”

  My mind latches onto the words brain damaged and crippled and I’m shocked by how much it hurts to hear them come out of his mouth.

  “Problem is it wasn’t just someone—it was you.”

  His voice sears like boiling water that feels warm for one instant before the agony sets in. “Benson—”

  “I know, I know, none of that matters. . . .”

  “But you kept going. Even after you met me.”

  “I had to. You saw how Marianna was—now you understand why she hovered so much while we were studying at the library.” He fidgets in his chair and then adds, “I was watched every second by someone. If it wasn’t Marianna, it was . . . Johnston. You called him Sunglasses Guy.”

  I want to throw up. More even than I have in the last half hour.

  “I had to think of my mom and brother. Of my freedom. And then when . . . when you became more important than all of those things put together, it was too late. I was already screwed. I tried . . . I tried to get us away but—” His words cut off and he shivers. “You don’t understand how powerful they are. How fully they were integrated into every part of my existence. Your existence,” he adds in a whisper. “I tried.”

  “Why do they want me?” I say, and even though he’s lied to me a thousand times, I feel guilty asking him a question I already know the answer to, guilty testing him. But I can’t afford to believe every word that falls from his lips. That’s what I did before, and look where it got me.

  Does he know the secret that I’m a Transformist? Because I sure as hell know the Reduciata does.

  “That’s why I kept following you,” Benson says, his face taking on a sense of purpose that makes him look more like himself. More like my Benson. “They didn’t tell me originally, but based on the little bit I was able to hear while they had me in custody, Jay—or, you know, Mark—he was right, it is about the virus.” He pauses. “Tave, you’re immune.”

  I glare hard at him, his words taking me completely off-guard. This doesn’t have anything to do with transforming. Doesn’t have anything to do with anything. “What?”

  “You’re immune. That’s what Marianna said.” He sounds excited now, and his features are so animated that I can hardly draw breath at the sight. “So I’m figuring they wanted me to help you provoke your memory process so that you could remember why you’re immune so they can replicate it. She said they needed to find you and pick you up and start testing you.” He suddenly sobers then continues, “That’s why I begged the Curatoriates to take me with them, even if it was as a prisoner. Why I told them about the painting and the Earthscript. I had to get to you. So I could find a way to tell you. We—we have to stop this before it kills everyone.”

  I rise to my feet, pushing the chair back with a loud squeal. “I am not immune. I guess I just have to decide if you’re lying to me or if they were lying to you.”

  “Tavia, wait, please! Don’t go.”

  I’m not sure what mak
es me stop. The pleading in his voice? The fact that my heart aches at the thought of leaving him again? Of walking away for good?

  But I can’t make myself do it.

  “Tavia, I know I’ve done so many things wrong. But I swear to you, I will never, ever lie to you again. Never.” His face is so open, his eyes begging me to believe him.

  But I’m not sure I can.

  I’m not sure I can believe any of it.

  “I know that I’ve destroyed any chance of being with you again,” Benson says softly. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I did—earning your forgiveness—if that’s what it takes. And even if what I overheard is a lie, it’s got to be somehow useful to know what Marianna is saying about you. I don’t know how to convince you I’m sincere, but whatever it takes, tell me, I’ll do it.”

  I pause at the door. “I fell in love with a history nerd who liked bad puns and pastel clothes and hated math. Does that person even exist?”

  Benson looks down at the desk and is silent for a long time. “From the day my dad left I never got the chance to be the person I wanted to be,” he says, his voice hollow. “I planned to major in philosophy, not history; I do have a fondness for really bad puns; and I never want to wear Reduciate black again. Maybe that Benson wasn’t quite what you would call the real Benson, but it’s the person I always wished I could be.”

  After that I can’t take it anymore. My heart is tearing itself to pieces, and if I don’t get out of this room, I’m going to throw up or cry . . . or possibly both. I pull on the doorknob, desperate to escape, but the door is locked.

  Of course it’s locked.

  I’m sure if I wait fifteen seconds someone will unlock it, but I’m too frantic. I transform the space around the door handle into a puff of air and shove my way out, staggering into the hallway.

  “Sorry about that,” I mutter to the people surrounding the door, but I don’t stop to answer questions.

  TWENTY

  I slam the door to my room behind me, realizing vaguely as I turn the new bolt—one that I just made using my powers—that now Logan can’t get in. With my back wedged against the heavy door I hold my breath and look around, finally releasing it when I see that I’m alone. No Alanna pounding the door behind me, no Logan lounging in the room in front of me. A few moments to myself, that’s all I need.

  Just a few moments.

  I go to the bathroom and turn on the lights, staring at myself in the mirror. How can I look so familiar and yet feel like a stranger? I thought my life turned completely upside down when I found out I was an Earthbound two weeks ago. But now?

  What am I, truly?

  I’m an Earthbound; my powers make that clear. But even so, I have unique powers. Is it possible I’m also immune to this raging virus? Despite everything else? Isn’t that too big a coincidence?

  I am the most powerful Earthbound in the world. I am the only Transformist in the world. I’m also the only person who’s immune? It seems like too much.

  Unless . . .

  Unless they’re all tied together somehow. If one leads to the other, though I don’t see how. Is that what my secret is about? But how could it be—I wasn’t any of those things when I was Rebecca.

  Was I?

  I pause with the cold water running over my hands. What if the secret is bad? What if the reason I didn’t tell Quinn wasn’t for his safety, but because I was afraid? I hadn’t considered that. Maybe it’s a terrible secret.

  I wish I could just remember!

  I groan and let my hot forehead fall against the cool mirror. If only I had my backpack. By the time I woke up in the Reduciata cells, they’d already taken it from me. Surely they threw Sonya’s braid away, dismissing it as nothing. I wish, wish, wish I had the braid now that Logan and I have resurged and I know that I can safely use it without wasting my final death.

  That braid was the only key to her life in this entire world—the only method I could have used to figure out my dreams of her.

  I wish now that I had used it, even though rationally I know I couldn’t have taken the risk without having first made sure Logan and I wouldn’t die forever.

  And now it’s gone. Despite my brief dreams—which may or may not reflect reality—whatever Sonya knew is dead with her.

  I splash water onto my face as I think about what Audra told me. About how limited my brain is for an Earthbound—even though I seem pretty normal for a human.

  But my memories? They’re so inaccessible I may as well not have them.

  Without my memories does it matter that I had past lives? Does it matter that there’s an immortal soul somewhere inside my body? Maybe that soul will do nothing but lie dormant through this life as I stumble through it being Tavia the Human . . . plus superpowers. How much better is that than being, say, Audra the fully awakened Earthbound whose powers are still temporary?

  I freeze, my hand on the faucet. I don’t want to forget myself.

  The last year of my life has been filled with so much joy and pain. There were days I wasn’t sure I could survive. There were times my brain literally ached with the weight of the facts and feelings I threw at it.

  But I wouldn’t take them back.

  Not even . . .

  I look up and see my own haunted eyes and whisper, “Benson.”

  Not even him.

  Yes, my heart rips in two all over again every time I think of that final night in Portsmouth—of that mark on his shoulder. But would I trade the pain of that moment for the memory of his heartbeat when I lay against his chest in the cheap hotel in Maine? I watch myself shake my head in the mirror.

  I don’t want to lose memories of love. Any kind of love.

  But apparently I don’t get a choice, because my brain can’t put stuff in long-term storage. All my memories from this life. Of everyone.

  Gritting my teeth, I slowly undo the tight braid on the right side of my head. I’m not used to my hair being bound so tightly, and it’s making my scalp ache. But I’m safe here. I startle when someone fumbles at the doorknob, and for a second I’m afraid Alanna has decided to come by for a visit.

  Then I remember I’ve locked Logan out.

  “Sorry,” I murmur when I open the door. “I changed the lock.”

  “It’s okay,” Logan says, smiling nervously. “As long as I can get to you, you can do whatever you want to the door.”

  “I was afraid you might be Alanna,” I say, closing the door behind him. I avoid his eyes. I haven’t actually talked to him since I wouldn’t explain myself last night. Now I feel even less ready, but I know I have to tell him something.

  Logan lets out a loud noise of disgust and kicks off his shoes. “Everywhere I went, they were there! Alanna and Thomas. I couldn’t shake them. What’s their problem?”

  “Thomas seems nice enough,” I say, pulling at my own shoelaces. “And quiet. I’m not sure how he stands her.”

  “Because she lets him grope her all freaking day long,” Logan replies, sinking into a chair.

  “What?” I ask, head shooting up.

  “It was awful,” Logan says, pulling me down onto his lap once we’re both barefoot. “They were seriously making out every time we stopped walking.” I fold my knees against my chest, and he wraps his arms around me—all of me—his chin resting on my head so his voice reverberates in my ears. “I mean, I certainly wouldn’t mind having my hands on you every minute of the day,” he says with a hint of laughter in his voice, “but I have a degree of self-control. And some inkling of what’s socially acceptable,” he adds, sounding pissed now. We definitely agree on this topic.

  “You should have seen the way everyone here avoids them,” Logan says, rubbing his fingers in random circles down my spine, like he has to work out his frustrations. “They physically make way whenever the two of them come around. It’s practically
a shield the way they all scatter.” A dark chuckle. “If I thought they were even remotely trustworthy, we could use that to our advantage.” He shakes his head and leans back against the chair, his arms falling onto the armrests.

  “Were you able to find anything out?” I ask, my eyes closing a bit sleepily as I lean against him. I didn’t realize until now just how much working with Daniel today wore me out.

  “The basic geography of this place. I’ll draw you a map later. It’s actually pretty cool—it’s an underground pyramid, as far as I can tell. Like someone created it and then buried it in the sand.” His head cocks to the side. “Actually, that’s probably exactly what they did. But I couldn’t really scope out anything with those two hanging around. I don’t know what to do about them.”

  “Be mean,” I suggest, only half-kidding. “Shout at them to get the hell out of your face?”

  “No joke.”

  We sit in silence for several minutes, me listening to Logan’s heartbeat, Logan thinking thoughts I can’t predict as he rubs at my knotted spine.

  “So, are you ready to tell me who that guy in the cell was?” he whispers. “You seemed pretty shaken up about him.”

  My whole body tenses, but I don’t pull away. “His name is Benson,” I say cautiously.

  “How do you know him? From this life, or another one?”

  “Oh, this one,” I say quickly. “He’s human. He’s from Portsmouth. From before.”

  “Was . . . he your boyfriend?”

  “Not exactly.” I push up from Logan’s chest and look down at him, trying to keep my face unreadable.

  “He has a Reduciate mark.” Logan’s voice is steady, but there’s a tense undercurrent.

  “He does,” I answer tentatively.

  “So I assume you’re going to have nothing to do with him.”

  “Well, I think I should . . .”

  “Tavia!” My name explodes from his mouth. “You know as well as I do that the Reduciates are dangerous. They killed my family, captured us, and trapped us in a cell. And that’s just in this life. You can’t trust them.”