by Meli Raine
It's ingenious.
And it’s a total lie.
We're not funded by the government. The money for this project comes from private donors, family dynasties with perpetual trusts. The founders of Stateless are Svetnu's age, some already dead, some with heirs who continue to support our efforts without even knowing what we do.
When you have that much money and never had to work for it, you just don't bother.
“Sir. Kina and Sally are off compound. Hokes drove them.” The connection is terrible, Smith’s voice fading in and out, but I get the gist.
When I try to reply, dead air is all I get.
Good. Good that they're off compound, but a tug in my chest makes me frown. If Kina's leaving the compound for the first time since she was brought there at the age of four, I want to be there with her. It's sentimental and too silly for my blood, and yet... I feel it.
I feel more and more these days.
All because of her.
Rough landings are par for the course, I've been warned, but the bumpy sputtering and the pulling to the right feels better than any smooth-as-butter commercial landing. It makes sense to be jostled, for my stomach to tighten, for the arrival to be less than perfect.
Nothing in this situation is going to be easy.
Might as well get off to a bad start.
My legs are tight and move with quick muscle twitches, as if my body is two seconds ahead of my brain. It's combat mode, every cell wired for reaction.
For survival.
Who bombed the server farm? What were they trying to destroy? Why did it happen the same day we set fire to Alice Mogrett's old ranch? The timing is insane. It's too aligned to be random.
And yet there's no way someone inside the compound sabotaged us.
Is there?
One of two things has happened: either the compound has been infiltrated by outside forces, or we have a double agent deep inside Stateless.
Either is unacceptable.
But figuring out which it is requires precious time and resources.
And an extremely careful sub-operation. Weeding out a spy inside your own ranks means layers on layers of secrecy. You never know who to trust.
Not that it's much different from daily life.
It's just higher stakes.
Smith is at the bottom of the small set of stairs to the runway when I emerge, backpack in hand, his words starting the second my ear's anywhere close to his mouth.
“Completely destroyed. Limited backups,” he snaps.
“Limited? Why?”
“Whoever did this knew how to disable the backups. It’s someone who understands hacking well. All our backups have taken place on schedule, so we never noticed any problems. But when we try to restore them, it's nothing but videos of old spy movies. Hundreds of them.” The side eye he gives me makes my jaw clench.
Someone above us is already thinking I did it.
Why the hell would I destroy the very evidence that proves who I really am?
That's what someone else just did.
Someone with a sick sense of humor.
Can't use that logic as an alibi, though. Either way, I'm screwed.
“And the nursery's experienced extensive damage on the north side,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Kina and her assistant evacuated the children in those two rooms. Kina and Sally went to the hospital,” he adds, dropping his voice.
“I know. I ordered it.”
“You're crazy.”
“Not when a child was dying.”
“Wouldn't be the first death here,” he says dryly. “We have a procedure for that.”
“Not for toddlers.”
His silence chills me to the bone. I halt and stare him down.
“We are assets. Highly trained, high-investment assets. The leaders can choose to have us kill each other in The Test as a way of refining the program and thinning the herd, but a two-year-old child is an unknown. Have you read Jay's file? The biological parents are an Olympic athlete and a genomics researcher. We'd be complete and utter idiots,” I spit out, holding the glare, “if we let him die.”
“Why would I read nursery files?”
“Because it's part of The Mission? Because leadership means using innate pattern matching to decide what to do next? Because you can't pattern match what you don't know?”
His face goes blank.
I've hit a nerve.
“I'm wasting my time trying to teach you what any fifth-year student is taught by instructors less savvy than you, Smith. I'll be in my office. When Kina and Sally return, let me know.”
And with that, I storm off.
Wishing I could be with Kina at that hospital.
9
Kina
There are roads with four lanes.
I know this, of course. I've watched enough television and movies to know they exist. But I've never ridden in a car on one. I can drive–we're all taught that, but only on compound grounds–but Hokes has the wheel, navigating easily along country roads that opened up to this winding, larger roadway, the headlights illuminating glowing yellow and white lines on the asphalt.
Jay is asleep in the car seat, his fingers resting on the manila envelope Sally gave me.
Jaden. His fake name is Jaden–it sounds enough like Jay that he’ll respond to it. And I am Amber Cantoni.
I'm a single mom who is driving through from Connecticut, on my way to visit family in Kentucky. My son fell and hit his head trying to climb out of the car. The glass scratches are from parking lot debris.
I don't have health insurance.
The story is so easy to identify with. There are thousands of mothers like Amber Cantoni in the world. My goal is to fade into the woodwork.
Piecing it together is simple. The false identities should do the trick.
“Remember, Amber,” Sally says, a sharp bitterness in my fake name. “De-personalize. None of the people working at the hospital really care about you or Jaden. They’re not real. They’re not worth attachment. They’re doing their job. That’s it. You’re there to get him stabilized and to gather information. And if we’re lucky, one of them will be Stateless.”
“Stateless?”
“We’re everywhere. Remember? Even in dinky little towns like this one.”
Jay seizes again, his jaw clenching hard, eyeballs fluttering under closed eyelids. I gently brush his cheek and hope we're not too late.
I also know how lucky we are. Angelica hinted years ago, when I took over in the nursery, that there were discreet methods for disposing of deceased children. She claimed that I was too stupid to be told more, that I had no need to know the details. Knowing that the compound had documented procedures for managing a dead child's body was more than enough.
Should I have been surprised, though? What happened to Judi's body? Jason's body? The Test was an annual event that produced a known corpse. Of course the compound has procedures for this.
And a child's body is smaller. Easier to bury.
Easier to disappear.
My shudder at the thought mirrors Jay's seizure, so if Sally notices my emotional leakage, I can wave it off as part of his tremoring. The sparse houses on either side of the road begin to become more frequent as we enter what I assume to be a more populated area. The houses are so different from the compound. Of course I’ve seen homes on television and in magazines, but these are real. I want to look at everything. Take it all in. Breathe deeply of the variety.
Jay, though, is my focus. He has to live.
Never before in my nine years as nursery director has a child had a seizure like this. We've had sick children, of course, and once there was a febrile seizure, but onsite medical staff took care of it. Our isolation means fewer germs are introduced. No one has ever been so sick that they needed to leave. Regular doctors and nurses have been able to set broken bones, handle minor surgeries, and repair what needs to be fixed.
Bombings aren't on the list of anticipated causes of injuri
es, though.
This is unprecedented.
A stoplight appears, Hokes forced to bring the car to a halt. We're in the black SUV, the kind all the trainees learn to drive in, and it smells like pineapples. Jay's brow is sweaty and his mouth puckers, like a baby searching for a nipple. I want to rouse him, to hear him speak, to feel his eyes on mine and to sense the fullness of Jay in a glance.
But I can't.
I won't.
Whatever is going on in his little brain now requires more than I can give.
More than Stateless can give, too.
“Remember,” Sally says in an ominous tone, “you're entering enemy territory. These people operate in a world that wishes people like us were dead. They think institutions are more important than people. Stick to your cover story. Don't say a word out of turn.”
“Why would I?”
“Good.” She softens, eyes darting to Jay. “This better be worth it.”
Hokes pulls up to the hospital entrance. I climb out of the backseat, walk around the car, and open Jay's door, unclipping him from his seat buckle. He's limp but breathing, and as I cuddle him on my shoulder, a security guard notices us.
“Ma'am? Can I help?” he asks, a lilt to his voice I find soothing.
“It's my little boy,” I call back. “He's seizing!”
And just like that, I'm Jay's mom.
Double automated doors part with a pneumatic wheeze, as if they sense the urgency, and I'm in a big, open foyer. Beige carpet with a pink flower print covers the floor, and a huge, blond wood reception desk dominates the space. I expected cinder block and harsh lighting, like I’m used to, but this feels luxurious. Carpet can be pink? With flowers?
This is where people go when they are sick?
“What's your emergency?” a woman in a pink polo shirt asks, eyes going troubled at the sight of Jay. She’s wearing a hospital badge.
“He fell out of my car.” I turn his head so she can see the wound. “And then he started having fits.” Sally told me to use the slang term for seizure.
“When?”
Before I can respond, Jay's body goes rigid, hard, then shakes.
Suddenly, two nurses come up to me and rush us back to a curtained area. “We'll handle insurance information later, Mom,” one of them says to me as they guide me into a tiny exam area. Sally plans to pay cash for the bill, her “concerned aunt” role carefully practiced.
All I care about is the warm little boy in my arms not dying. Insurance is the last thing on my mind.
The seizure stops before I can set him down on an exam table. We have medical facilities at the compound, but nothing like this. There are machines everywhere in here.
“Hey there, Mom. What's his name?”
“Jaden,” I say as Sally appears, smiling at one of the nurses with a concerned look.
“I'm her aunt,” she says smoothly. “Jaden and Amber were just here for a visit while driving through to Kentucky. And then he fell getting out of the car.”
“Has he ever had a seizure before?” one of the nurses asks me.
“No.”
“It's scary,” she says, hand on mine as the other nurse–no, she’s a doctor–examines Jay's eyes.
He startles at the light in his eye and tries to squirm away. The doctor smiles.
“A good sign. Where did he hit his head?”
I point.
“Kee! Kee!” Jay squeals. He holds out his arms to me.
Sally tenses.
“Ki-ki is his favorite toy,” I lie. “A monkey he loves. I forgot to bring it.”
“Awww,” the nurse murmurs. “He's adorable.”
I don't know how I'm supposed to respond to that.
The doctor holds a tablet in her hand and taps quite a bit, finally explaining to us that Jay needs a CT scan and an MRI. Sally's listening, but it's clear she's more concerned about Stateless being exposed than she is for Jay's well being. His eyelids droop and he starts to fall asleep, twitching as the doctor puts antiseptic on his wounds.
“So many scratches!” she mutters under her breath. Then she looks up at me. “How did you say he fell again?”
Sally braces her legs against the bottom of a chair as she leans on a counter. “Out of the car. Face first onto the asphalt. Some jerks must have broken some glass in the parking lot, because the poor baby got scraped up.”
“Mmmm,” the doctor says. I look at her nametag. Mandi Phathani. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She has a slim face bisected by a straight nose, and two very round eyes fringed with long lashes behind her glasses. The blue latex gloves she wears are the only splash of color on her. White shirt, white lab coat, white scrub pants.
“I couldn't stop him from unbuckling his own car seat,” I say, forcing tears to come, playing the part of the upset mama. “He just tumbled out. I feel so bad!”
No one says anything, but I don't pick up a hostile sense, either. If anything, they're so focused on this little boy that I'm an afterthought.
Which is how it should be.
The toddlers and babies at the compound are viewed as unformed human beings. Seedlings. They don't quite acquire personhood until they are four, as if a switch flips on the day of their birthday and finally you can view them as complex human beings worthy of respect and attention.
No.
That's not how human beings work.
“We're going to take Jaden and have some tests done on him. He's in and out of consciousness, so if you can trust us, Mom, we'd like to do this quickly. You're welcome to come back with us, but we can do it faster if you let the experts be in charge.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Sally interjects before I can say a word. “Amber's tired, and if it's better and faster for Jaden, then thank you.”
Any objections I had die in my throat.
The nurse and doctor share a look that says her answer–and my compliance, as I nod–helps me to pass some sort of test. Carefully, I kiss Jay on the forehead and step back.
He looks just like he does in his crib at the compound. Fast asleep, save for the little panting sounds he makes sometimes.
Please let him be fine, I think, the words floating out into space. Stateless considers religion to be an organizational tool for herding the weak. We don't pray, but I know what it is. The words please let him be fine are the closest I've ever come to praying.
“Amber?” Dr. Phathani asks me as the nurse takes Jay down the hall. “We'll call a child life specialist in for Jaden when we're done and the anesthesia wears off.”
“Child services?” Sally asks in a hard voice, nostrils flaring, her sudden anger making a blast of fear shoot through me. Sally’s one of the nicer trainers at the compound, but she also has a dual personality, the kind that can flip on a dime. “Amber did nothing wrong–”
“Oh! No,” Dr. Phathani replies, alarm all over her face, “not child services. Child life. We have child development specialists who work here at the hospital to help children and parents feel safer, to give them resources and support during difficult times when their child is sick.”
Skepticism lingers on Sally's face. “That's a real thing?”
“It is!” The doctor seems proud. “Research shows that when children have their emotional needs met in scary situations like hospital visits, their health outcomes are much better.” The doctor looks at me. “And their parents feel better, too.” She smiles. “Why don't you go into the cafeteria down the hall and get some coffee or water? Jaden will be a while. It's a quiet night, but it'll still take time.”
“Okay,” I say, suddenly shaky. If Sally says anything about it, I’ll tell her I was just acting. Sally and I leave the exam area, following the signs to the cafeteria. Every room we walk by is full of more equipment, machines, computers. It’s overwhelming.
“If we leave now and abandon him, we could get this over with faster,” Sally says out of the corner of her mouth.
“That would make the compound even more of a target. What kind
of women bring a toddler to the hospital and then disappear? Our faces will be all over the news. Forget ever going into The Field again. You know facial recognition software is making that increasingly impossible.”
“Damn. Guess we're stuck here. Coffee it is.” Her words are light, and she grabs my arm in a fake gesture of compassion as we realize staff see us.
Can't behave in any suspicious ways.
“Cry,” she says as she plows an elbow in my ribs.
“What?”
“A caring mother of a toddler who's just been hauled off for testing after a fall would cry.”
I sniff.
Anger makes it impossible to really cry, though.
Ten minutes later, we're seated, coffee and two bowls of soup in front of us. I bought an energy bar with money Sally gave me, and now I can't stop staring at the row of soft-serve yogurt machines.
“Why so much ice cream?” I ask. “It's a hospital. Shouldn't they limit sugar?”
“Hah!” Sally says around a mouthful of soup. “Did you see all the people in scrubs smoking outside the front door? The corporations that run these hospitals are hypocritical. They serve nothing but sugar and salt in the cafeteria and allow employees to smoke but refuse to provide support for cessation efforts–more proof that this society is going to collapse without our intervention.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would any social system be so contradictory? Hospitals are for people to get better.”
“No, Amber,” she says, stressing the name. “They're for corporations to turn a profit.”
“The doctor and the nurse seemed nice enough.”
“They’re pawns.” Her snort of dismissal stops my next question in my throat. The cafeteria smells like coffee and bleach, with the occasional scent of oregano wafting by–not so different from our cafeteria at the compound. A quick look at the hot food section shows some kind of meatball and pasta dish. My stomach is in knots, so I went for light food.
But the frozen yogurt machines are too fascinating. At the compound, we have vanilla and chocolate.
Key lime? Peach berry twirl? Peanut butter toffee? What are those?