by Tahereh Mafi
My mind wanders.
A flash of Darius’s limp body blazes in my mind, carrying with it a sharp twinge that twists my gut. I fight against an impulse to vomit, even as I feel the contents of my meager breakfast coming up my throat. With effort, I force back the bile. Sweat beads along my forehead, the back of my neck.
My body is screaming to stop moving. My lungs want to expand, collect air. I allow neither.
I force myself to keep walking.
I wick away the images, expunging thoughts of Darius from my mind. The churning in my stomach begins to slow, but in its wake my skin takes on a damp, clammy sensation. I struggle to recount the things I ate this morning. I must’ve eaten poorly; something isn’t agreeing with my stomach. I feel feverish.
I blink.
I blink again, but this time for too long and I see a flash of blood, bubbling up inside Darius’s open mouth. The nausea returns with a swiftness that scares me. I suck in a breath, my fingers fluttering, desperate to press against my stomach. Somehow, I hold steady. I keep my eyes open, widening them to the point of pain. My heart starts pounding. I try desperately to maintain control over my spiraling thoughts, but my skin begins to crawl. I clench my fists. Nothing helps. Nothing helps. Nothing, I think.
nothing
nothing
nothing
I begin to count the lights we pass.
I count my fingers. I count my breaths. I count my footsteps, measuring the force of every footfall that thunders up my legs, reverberates around my hips.
I remember that Darius is still alive.
He was carried away, ostensibly to be patched up and returned to his former position. Anderson didn’t seem to mind that Darius was still alive. Anderson was only testing me, I realized. Testing me, once again, to make sure that I was obedient to him and him alone.
I take in a deep, fortifying breath.
I focus on Anderson’s retreating figure. For reasons I can’t explain, staring at him steadies me. Slows my pulse. Settles my stomach. And from this vantage point, I can’t help but admire the way he moves. He has an impressive, muscular frame—broad shoulders, narrow waist, strong legs—but I marvel most at the way he carries himself. He has a confident stride. He walks tall, with smooth, effortless efficiency. As I watch him, a familiar feeling flutters through me. It gathers in my stomach, sparking dim heat that sends a brief shock to my heart.
I don’t fight it.
There’s something about him. Something about his face. His carriage. I find myself moving unconsciously closer to him, watching him almost too intently. I’ve noticed that he wears no jewelry, not even a watch. He has a faded scar between his right thumb and index finger. His hands are rough and callused. His dark hair is shot through with silver, the extent of which is only visible up close. His eyes are the blue-green of shallow, turquoise waters. Unusual.
Aquamarine.
He has long brown lashes and laugh lines. Full, curving lips. His skin grows rougher as the day wears on, the shadow of facial hair hinting at a version of him I try and fail to imagine.
I realize I’m beginning to like him. Trust him.
Suddenly, he stops. We’re standing outside a steel door, next to which is a keypad and biometric scanner.
He brings his wrist to his mouth. “Yes.” A pause. “I’m outside.”
I feel my own wrist vibrate. I look down, surprised, at the blue light flashing through the skin at my pulse.
I’m being summoned.
This is strange. Anderson is standing right next to me; I thought he was the only one with the authority to summon me.
“Sir?” I say.
He glances back, his eyebrows raised as if to say— Yes? And something that feels like happiness blooms to life inside of me. I know it’s unwise to make so much of so little, but his movements and expressions feel suddenly softer now, more casual. It’s clear that he’s begun to trust me, too.
I lift my wrist to show him the message. He frowns.
He steps closer to me, taking my flashing arm in his hands. The tips of his fingers press against my skin as he gently bends back the joint, his eyes narrowing as he studies the summons. I go unnaturally still. He makes a sound of irritation and exhales, his breath skittering across my skin.
A bolt of sensation moves through me.
He’s still holding my arm when he speaks into his own wrist. “Tell Ibrahim to back off. I have it under control.”
In the silence, Anderson tilts his head, listening on an earpiece that isn’t readily visible. I can only watch. Wait.
“I don’t care,” he says angrily, his fingers closing unconsciously around my wrist. I gasp, surprised, and he turns, our eyes meeting, clashing.
Anderson frowns.
His pleasant, masculine scent fills my head and I breathe him in almost without meaning to. Being this close to him is difficult. Strange. My head is swimming with confusion.
Broken images flood my mind—a flash of golden hair, fingers grazing bare skin—and then nausea. Dizziness.
It nearly knocks me over.
I look away just as Anderson tugs my arm up, toward a floodlight, squinting to get a better look. Our bodies nearly touch, and I’m suddenly so close I can see the edges of a tattoo, dark and curving, creeping up the edge of his collarbone.
My eyes widen in surprise. Anderson lets go of my wrist.
“I already know it was him,” he says, speaking quickly, his eyes darting at and away from me. “His code is in the timestamp.” A pause. “Just clear the summons. And then remind him that she reports only to me. I decide if and when he gets to talk to her.”
He drops his wrist. Touches a finger to his temple.
And then, narrows his eyes at me.
My heart jumps. I straighten. I no longer wait to be prompted. When he looks at me like that, I know it’s my cue to confess.
“You have a tattoo, sir. I was surprised. I wondered what it was.”
Anderson raises an eyebrow at me.
He seems about to speak when, finally, the steel door exhales open. A curl of steam escapes the doorway, behind which emerges a man. He’s tall, taller than Anderson, with wavy brown hair, light brown skin, and light, bright eyes the color of which aren’t immediately obvious. He wears a white lab coat. Tall rubber boots. A face mask hangs around his neck, and a dozen pens have been shoved into the pocket of his coat. He makes no effort to move forward or to step aside; he only stands in the doorway, seemingly undecided.
“What’s going on?” Anderson says. “I sent you a message an hour ago and you never showed up. Then I come to your door and you make me wait.”
The man—Anderson told me his name was Max—says nothing. Instead, he appraises me, his eyes moving up and down my body in a show of undisguised hatred. I’m not sure how to process his reaction.
Anderson sighs, grasping something that isn’t obvious to me.
“Max,” he says quietly. “You can’t be serious.”
Max shoots Anderson a sharp look. “Unlike you, we’re not all made of stone.” And then, looking away: “At least not entirely.”
I’m surprised to discover that Max has an accent, one not unlike the citizens of Oceania. Max must originate from this region.
Anderson sighs again.
“All right,” Max says coolly. “What did you want to discuss?” He pulls a pen out of his pocket, uncapping it with his teeth. He reaches into his other pocket and pulls free a notebook. Flips it open.
I go suddenly blind.
In the span of a single instant darkness floods my vision. Clears. Hazy images reappear, time speeding up and slowing down in fits and starts. Colors streak across my eyes, dilate my pupils. Stars explode, lights flashing, sparking. I hear voices. A single voice. A whisper—
I am a thief
The tape rewinds. Plays back. The file corrupts.
I am
I am
I I I
am
a thief
a thief I stole<
br />
I stole this notebook andthispenfromoneofthedoctors
“Of course you did.”
Anderson’s sharp voice brings me back to the present moment. My heart is beating in my throat. Fear presses against my skin, conjuring goose bumps along my arms. My eyes move too quickly, darting around in distress until they rest, finally, on Anderson’s familiar face.
He’s not looking at me. He’s not even speaking to me.
Quiet relief floods through me at the realization. My interlude lasted but a moment, which means I haven’t missed much more than a couple of exchanged words. Max turns to me, studying me curiously.
“Come inside,” he says, and disappears through the door.
I follow Anderson through the entryway, and as soon as I cross the threshold, a blast of icy air sends a shiver up my skin. I don’t make it much farther than the entrance before I’m distracted.
Amazed.
Steel and glass are responsible for most of the structures in the space—massive screens and monitors; microscopes; long glass tables littered with beakers and half-filled test tubes. Accordion pipes sever vertical space around the room, connecting tabletops and ceilings. Blocks of artificial light fixtures are suspended in midair, humming steadily. The light temperature in here is so blue I don’t know how Max can stand it.
I follow Max and Anderson over to a crescent-shaped desk that looks more like a command center. Papers are stacked on one side of the steel top, screens flickering above. More pens are stuffed into a chipped coffee mug sitting atop a thick book.
A book.
I haven’t seen a relic like that in a long time.
Max takes his seat. He gestures at a stool tucked under a nearby table, and Anderson shakes his head.
I continue to stand.
“All right, then, go on,” Max says, his eyes flickering in my direction. “You said there was a problem.”
Anderson looks suddenly uncomfortable. He says nothing for so long that, eventually, Max smiles.
“Out with it,” Max says, gesturing with his pen. “What did you do wrong this time?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Anderson says sharply.
Then he frowns. “I don’t think so, anyway.”
“Then what is it?”
Anderson takes a deep breath. Finally: “She says that she’s . . . attracted to me.”
Max’s eyes widen. He glances from Anderson to me and then back again. And then, suddenly—
He laughs.
My face heats. I stare straight ahead, studying the strange equipment stacked on shelves against the far wall.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Max scribbling in a notepad. All this modern technology, but he still seems to enjoy writing by hand. The observation strikes me as odd. I file the information away, not really understanding why.
“Fascinating,” Max says, still smiling. He gives his head a quick shake. “Makes perfect sense, of course.”
“I’m glad you think this is funny,” Anderson says, visibly irritated. “But I don’t like it.”
Max laughs again. He leans back in his chair, his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He’s clearly intrigued—excited, even—by the development, and it’s causing his earlier iciness to thaw. He bites down on the pen cap, considering Anderson. There’s a glint in his eye.
“Do mine eyes deceive me,” he says, “or does the great Paris Anderson admit to having a conscience? Or perhaps: a sense of morality?”
“You know better than anyone that I’ve never owned either, so I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what it feels like.”
“Touché.”
“Anyway—”
“I’m sorry,” Max says, his smile widening. “But I need another moment with this revelation. Can you blame me for being fascinated? Considering the uncontested fact of your being one of the most depraved human beings I’ve ever known—and among our social circles, that’s saying a lot—”
“Ha ha,” Anderson says flatly.
“—I think I’m just surprised. Why is this too much? Why is this the line you won’t cross? Of all the things . . .”
“Max, be serious.”
“I am being serious.”
“Aside from the obvious reasons why this situation should be disturbing to anyone— The girl’s not even eighteen. Even I am not as depraved as that.”
Max shakes his head. Holds up his pen. “Actually, she’s been eighteen for four months.”
Anderson seems about to argue, and then—
“Of course,” he says. “I was remembering the wrong paperwork.” He glances at me as he says it, and I feel my face grow hotter.
I am simultaneously confused and mortified.
Curious.
Horrified.
“Either way,” Anderson says sharply, “I don’t like it. Can you fix it?”
Max sits forward, crosses his arms. “Can I fix it? Can I fix the fact that she can’t help but be attracted to the man who spawned the two faces she’s known most intimately?” He shakes his head. Laughs again. “That kind of wiring isn’t undone without incurring serious repercussions. Repercussions that would set us back.”
“What kind of repercussions? Set us back how?”
Max glances at me. Glances at Anderson.
Anderson sighs. “Juliette,” he barks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Leave us.”
“Yes, sir.”
I pivot sharply and head for the exit. The door slides open in anticipation of my approach, but I hesitate, just a few feet away, when I hear Max laugh again.
I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop. I know it’s wrong. I know I’d be punished if I were caught. I know this.
Still, I can’t seem to move.
My body is revolting, screaming at me to cross the threshold, but a pervasive heat has begun to seep into my mind, dulling the compulsion. I’m still frozen in front of the open door, trying to decide what to do, when their voices carry over.
“She clearly has a type,” Max is saying. “At this point, it’s practically written in her DNA.”
Anderson says something I don’t hear.
“Is it really such a bad thing?” Max says. “Perhaps her affection for you could work out in your favor. Take advantage of it.”
“You think I’m so desperate for companionship—or so completely incompetent—that I’d need to result to seduction in order to get what I want out of the girl?”
Max barks out a laugh. “We both know you’ve never been desperate for companionship. But as to your competence . . .”
“I don’t know why I even bother with you.”
“It’s been thirty years, Paris, and I’m still waiting for you to develop a sense of humor.”
“It’s been thirty years, Max, and you’d think I’d have found some new friends by now. Better ones.”
“You know, your kids aren’t funny, either,” Max says, ignoring him. “Interesting how that works, isn’t it?”
Anderson groans.
Max only laughs louder.
I frown.
I stand there, trying and failing to process their interactions. Max just insulted a supreme commander of The Reestablishment—multiple times. As Anderson’s subordinate, he should be punished for speaking so disrespectfully. He should be fired, at the very least. Executed, if Anderson deems it preferable.
But when I hear the distant sound of Anderson’s laughter, I realize that he and Max are laughing together. It’s a realization that both startles and stuns me:
That they must be friends.
One of the overhead lights pops and hums, startling me out of my reverie. I give my head a quick shake and head out the door.
KENJI
I’m suddenly a big fan of the Warner groupies.
On our way back to my tent, I told only a couple of people I spotted on the path that Warner was hungry—but still not feeling well enough to join everyone in the dining hall—and they’ve been delivering packages of food to my room ever s
ince. The problem is, all this kindness comes with a price. Six different girls (and two guys) have shown up so far, each one of them expecting payment for their generosity in the form of a conversation with Warner, which—obviously— never happens. But they usually settle for a good long look at him.
It’s weird.
I mean, even I know, objectively, that Warner’s not disgusting to look at, but this whole production of unabashed flirtation is really starting to feel weird. I’m not used to being in an environment where people openly admit to liking anything about Warner. Back at Omega Point—and even on base in Sector 45—everyone seemed to agree that he was a monster. No one denied their fear or disgust long enough to treat him like the kind of guy at whom they might bat their eyelashes.
But what’s funny is: I’m the only one getting irritated.
Every time the doorbell rings I’m like, this is it, this is the time Warner is finally going to lose his mind and shoot someone, but he never even seems to notice. Of all the things that piss him off, gawking men and women don’t appear to be on the list.
“So is this, like, normal for you, or what?” I’m still arranging food on plates in the little dining area of my room. Warner is standing stiffly in a random spot by the window. He chose that random spot when we walked in and he’s just been standing there, staring at nothing, ever since.
“Is what normal for me?”
“All these people,” I say, gesturing at the door. “Coming in here pretending they’re not imagining you without your clothes on. Is that just, like, a normal day for you?”
“I think you’re forgetting,” he says quietly, “that I’ve been able to sense emotions for most of my life.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So this is just a normal day for
you.”
He sighs. Stares out the window again.
“You’re not even going to pretend it’s not true?” I rip open a foil container. More potatoes. “You won’t even pretend you don’t know that the entire world finds you attractive?”