Black Room

by Rachael Craw

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  Black Room

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Other Books by Rachael Craw

  Ethan Tesla is afraid. The sinister Affinity Project has him bound, drugged. Untethered and separated from his Spark. Affinity wants something from Ethan. And it’s only a matter of time before he gives it to them.

  Black Room is a thrilling prequel to the award-winning young adult science fiction Spark series by New Zealand author Rachael Craw. Jump straight into the action with Spark (Book 1), Stray (Book 2) and Shield (Book 3), or enter the mind of a Stray in the short story Kill Switch.

  BLACK ROOM

  This is fear. Ethan knows it, detached though he is from synaptic response, the numb weight of Fretizine bogging his senses, blanketing his limbs in a fuzzy, lead-lined heaviness. The slow roll and thump in his chest is his heart weakly fisting blood, the muted pulse echoes in his head and his breathing is shallow. He can’t get up. Can’t move his arms, legs, mouth, or work his throat to swallow. He’d give anything to swallow, find some moisture. That’s how he knows it’s Fretizine – his throat is a desert, the dry muscle of tongue laminated to the roof of his mouth. The drug is a signpost, it cautions: pain ahead, despair, humiliation, powerlessness – brace yourself, Affinity has you.

  Though he can’t yet open his eyes he can tell by gravity that he is sitting up, or is bound upright, at least. Bonds across his chest keep him from collapsing forwards. Pressure on his wrists and ankles warn he is strapped to the seat. His head hangs, heavy as the world, impossible to lift.

  He is conscious then of tepid air from industrial vents, the stale whiff of disinfectant and the hum of fluorescent strip lighting. He knows this room. He’s been here before. He knows what they want and what they’ll do to him when he refuses. He knows how willing they are to hurt him even though they will not get what they want. But they won’t kill him. The Affinity Project does not believe in waste.

  Overriding all this is a terrible absence, there is no tug behind his navel, no invisible pulsing cord anchoring him to his place in the universe. He is untethered and if he were not numb it would almost be unbearable. She’s out there, alone, the girl, heedless and unaware of the cosmic misfire in her DNA. When Affinity took him he had been tracking her from a distance, up the street to her family’s apartment building from the bus stop, her blonde braid like an exclamation point between the vulnerable wings of her shoulderblades. The strap of her Hello Kitty satchel twisted around her arm, the weight of textbooks bouncing on the side of her leg. She was nodding to the beat of Radiohead or Nirvana or some band too dark and sad for this girl bright as sunshine. Her discman fixed to the belt of her jeans, orange foam earphones snug on her ears, she had paused on the pavement to fiddle with it – skipping tracks or adjusting the volume. He had stopped, half a block behind her, shuffling his fake school books, waiting for her to move. That’s when the van had pulled up beside him. Three agents, unsubtle in menacing black. Run and they would make him pay for the trouble of catching him.

  Here, in this bleak room, he cannot feel her signal in the bandwidth. He does not know if she is safe or if the Stray is coming for her. He does not know how long he’s been unconscious or when he will get away from here or if she made it home. If it wasn’t for the drug, the fuse of panic would burn through his veins and taste like sulphur in his throat. He prays she made it to her loud chaotic home with her brother, sisters and parents and is not alone. Alone is the worst-case scenario.

  “Is this necessary?” A woman’s voice, young, English, posh and hesitant, pitched for someone else’s ears.

  “You wanted to meet him,” a man responds, young, American, an odd mix of deference and disdain but unapologetically loud by comparison. “It’s the only way to bring us in when we’re on an active Spark.”

  There’s a pause. “Agent, are you telling me you’ve pulled Tesla from an active assignment?”

  “Your people didn’t stipulate otherwise.” He sounds bored, deliberately so.

  Her breath catches. “Tell me you at least sent in a replacement.”

  “If you understood the Fixation Effect then you’d know that would be pointless.”

  “Affinity’s failure to eradicate the Fixation Effect is the reason your job’s on the line, Agent, so spare me the tone and answer the question. What happens if the Stray takes the Spark while Tesla’s in here?”

  “Collateral damage is an unfortunate reality in our line of DNA, Ms Foster. Ethan would receive trauma support from our psych team. I’d say time on the psych ward is long overdue in his case.”

  “Are you suggesting there’s something wrong with him?”

  The man snorts. “This kid is an Asset in the truest sense, Ms Foster, with only the one loss on a flawless record of completed assignments. Few of us can claim that.”

  “But you don’t trust him?”

  “On the contrary,” he says, and it sounds pompous and contrived.

  Steps scuff towards Ethan who tries to stiffen, but signals lapse between brain and muscle and he remains slack beneath his bonds. A calloused hand lifts Ethan’s chin. Relief and pain in his stiff neck loosens a moan from his throat. Someone scrapes his lower lip with a thin tube and water spills down his chin. His lips tear like rice paper as he takes the straw, ungluing his tongue. He winces, drawing water into his dry mouth, spilling more than he swallows, splashing his chest as he gulps it down.

  “Ethan Tesla is scrupulously trustworthy,” the man’s voice says above him. “It could almost be counted against him as a fault. Integrity tends to hamper Orientation. Much of the reprogramming–”

  “Brainwashing,” the woman snaps.

  “Reprogramming,” the man continues, “is oriented towards impulse modification. We maximise survival instinct, pleasure incentives, rewarding compliance with Affinity protocols. Our receptors are highly intensified. Even you would be impressed by how successful the process is with Second Generation Assets. The need to satisfy desire and avoid pain is beautifully motivating.”

  “Torture,” the woman says, disgust in her voice. “We’ll be doing things differently.”

  Ethan cannot make sense of the conversation. The man, he thinks, must be Robert Knox, slick and vicious in a smiling way, barely an adult, smug about his two or three extra years and his rank. Robert’s signal pulses brashly in the bandwidth, rolling over Ethan, an electromagnetic surge, aggressive, territorial. Yet he feels nothing from the woman and does not recognise her voice or understand her words. Who will be doing what differently?

  He drains the water, the straw leaves his lips and the hand releases his jaw. His head sways but he manages to keep it upright and the muscles in his face allow him to grimace and squint. The light is dim. He supposes this is a consideration for him, in as much as Affinity does consideration. The light stings anyway and his tear ducts respond, making him blink through the blur and wetness.

  The ReProg room is about eighteen feet square, surrounded on three sides by walls of black glass beyond which are three other rooms that can be made visible on command, though the crowd of mirrored reflections is preferable. The rooms to the left and right are other identical ReProg rooms because witnessing someone else’s ReProg can be an efficient method for “recalibrating” an Asset’s “point of view”. Affinity values efficiency.

  The concrete wall behind him, with its handle-less steel door, is reflected in the black glass wall of the observation room, along with Robert and the Englishwoman. The concrete floor slopes slightly inwards towards a grated drain in the middle of the room.

  Ethan is arrested by his own hazy reflection in the glass, the smudge of dark hair above tan skin, his eyes, out of focus bruises.
It startles him now, just as it has every time he has awoken in one of these rooms. Suspended from the ceiling on a retractable neck, the throne-sized seat hovers above the floor like a reptilian dental chair, able to extend, recline and fold as required for interview, interrogation or discipline. However, there are no tubes or wires twining from the neck of the chair to his body, today, and Ethan doesn’t know whether it’s a good sign or reverse psychology.

  “This kid has one of the highest pain thresholds I’ve seen in a Shield,” Robert says.

  This time fear gets past the drug and Ethan stiffens slightly, the muscles in his arms and legs contracting beneath the bonds. Robert must notice because his signal amplifies, probing for him, and Ethan’s mind is invaded with luridly bright images, a memory that isn’t his own. He sees himself through Robert’s eyes, his body bristling with wires and tubes, writhing in the reptilian chair, his naked chest arching against restraints, the muscles taut in his neck, his body slick with sweat, spasming as volts of energy rack through him, an unearthly keening coming from behind a gag. “Bravo, champ,” says Robert’s voice. “Way to prove a point.”

  Ethan grunts, trying to shake the memory off. It’s from eight months ago. One of several unsuccessful “recalibration” sessions.

  “What are you doing to him?” the woman demands.

  Ethan’s mind clears and he’s back in the now, panting, shaking. “Arschloch,” he says, his voice rusty and sharp.

  “Kenetic Memory Transfer.” Robert grins at the woman. “Reminding Ethan of his last visit.”

  “You put your memory in his head?”

  “I offered it. He didn’t have to look.”

  Ethan wants to snarl but lacks the strength to curl his lips back. Instead he reaches through the murk of his thoughts for one small missile of retaliation, a brief yet potent memory. It swims out of reach at first but the quality of his hatred pins it down and then it blooms behind his eyes and he projects it into the bandwidth. Ethan’s fist driving into Robert’s face, a crunch, his head snapping back, the spray of blood from Robert’s nose. Ethan opens his eyes in the ReProg room in time for Robert’s grunt and grimace as the memory hits him.

  “What?” the woman says.

  “He’s showing off.” Robert’s lips form a snide twist. “He shouldn’t be able to Transfer with this much Fretizine in his system.”

  The woman steps around the table, drawing close enough so that Ethan can make out the fuzzy details of her face. Her sandy hair is pulled back, her cheekbones are sharp and high beneath worried blue eyes. “Wissen Sie wo Sie sind?” she says.

  “Of course he knows where he is.” Robert folds his arms. “That’s why you can see the whites of his eyes. He’s trying not to piss his pants.”

  “Thank you, Agent Knox,” the woman says, clipping each word. “Release him and leave us.”

  “If I remove the restraints he’ll fall and smash his face on the floor. I thought you people wanted less blood.”

  She straightens up and glares at him. “I struggle to understand your attitude. Are you not like him? You have no compassion for your own?”

  “Ich bin nicht wie er,” Ethan croaks. “Robert ist ein Arschloch.”

  Robert tilts his head, smiles his fake smile and reaches for the console on the back of the chair. A hydraulic whirr and the straps over Ethan’s arms, chest and legs retract. He tumbles forwards, unable to keep himself upright. The woman exclaims, darting to catch him, but he is six-four and solid muscle. She is five-seven and slight. His weight and momentum take her off balance and she lands on her knees, grunting. His face mashes against the side of her neck. Her warm skin, his hot breath. His thigh wedges between hers, shunting her skirt up. Their chests compress together. The door of the ReProg room slides open, the sound of steps moving away. “You’re welcome,” Robert says before the door slides closed behind him.

  The woman swears, her arms flapping beneath his. Inexplicably, Ethan begins to chuckle; he cannot help it, a combination of dampened hysteria and relief. “Forgive me,” he says. “Are you hurt?”

  “You speak English,” she says. “Here, let me …” She wrestles him back, trying to rise to her feet, but he is a dead weight and her arms are trapped beneath his. She topples forwards, ramming his spine into the blunt edge of the seat, landing hard, straddling his lap, her face mashing his neck now. She swears again. Ethan groans and chuckles again. The woman scrambles free, red-faced, lipstick smudged. Stepping back, she keeps one hand on his chest to stop him from slipping sideways to the floor. Her shirt hangs away from her body. Ethan does not look at her cream lace bra, he does not stare at the sudden V of cleavage, he keeps his gaze on her blue eyes and inwardly gives thanks for Fretizine. “Can you manage?”

  “I will not fall,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, which is also inexplicable. Ethan is not a joker, he is not easygoing, he rarely smiles and the involuntary response confuses him. She is older than him. Pretty, yes, but she is a civ, has no signal and should have little impact on his sense register. What he feels is … touched by her effort, her kindness, charmed by her fluster. “You are not Affinity, I think.”

  She straightens up, watching to see if he will slump. She brushes her skirt, touches her hair, the nape of her neck. She glances at herself in the black glass and frowns, rubbing her knuckle beside her mouth to erase the smear of lipstick. She faces him, a moment of indecision in her eyes as she looks around. There is nowhere for her to sit. When he was in the chair they were nearer to eye level and now she seems uncomfortable standing over him. “I am with the CIA.”

  “You are English.”

  “They don’t seem to mind.”

  He narrows his eyes. “The CIA does not know we exist.”

  “We do now.”

  “You are too young for the CIA.”

  “You’re only eighteen.” She blushes a little, it must have sounded petty even to her.

  “Age is irrelevant for the Affinity Project, but it matters for the CIA.”

  “My name is Madeline Foster. I’m twenty-three and old enough for what the CIA wants me for.”

  He does not ask, he waits.

  “To liaise with you.”

  Ethan stares at her, the blur lifting from his vision so he sees everything clearly. Something cold and heavy drops in his stomach and he feels unspeakably disappointed. He should have known it was not kindness or humanity that caused her to intervene with Robert or break his fall from the chair, it was manipulation, a set-up. He despises himself for being so easily disarmed by a civ. “I do not kill for Affinity. I will not kill for the CIA. You can have Robert strap me back in the chair and shoot volts up my ass. My answer remains the same.”

  She blinks rapidly. “You don’t understand.”

  “There is a girl in New York. She is fifteen. She plays the oboe and sings in her school choir. She has two little brothers and holds their hands when they wait for the bus. She likes a boy in her class and sneaks into the gym on Tuesdays to watch him practise basketball. He does not know she exists.”

  “Ethan, I–”

  “I brushed shoulders with her in the subway, three weeks ago. Twice now I have felt the Stray. He is coming for her but I am here with you.”

  “I know,” she says, her hands together. “I’m sorry. If I had known you had an active Spark I would never have allowed them …”

  “This information would be clearly indicated in my current signal data.”

  “My contact was Robert, he didn’t relay your status, he … he–”

  “Ist ein Arschloch.”

  “Yes.” She exhales heavily, bringing her hands to her hips. “It will not happen again. Everything is changing, Ethan. The Affinity Project as you know it is finished. There will be no more contract killing–”

  “I have never–”

  “We know. We’ve read your file and that’s why we are asking you to consider joining an Executive Council for reform.”

  He stares up at her, cold se
eping from the concrete floor into his immobile legs, the grated drain whistling faintly at his feet. He quakes again with the inexplicable laughter. “Does the CIA have a time machine?” He shakes his head. “You cannot reform the Affinity Project. There will be a third generation, a fourth … there is no end.”

  “But it could be better, Ethan. It will be better. We’ll focus on Deactivation pathways, Stray eradication, provide better support for the Shields, a stronger focus on Spark protection, no more ReProg.”

  Ethan heard only one thing in her list. “Deactivation pathways?”

  “The CIA believes we can find a cure. It is one of our central aims. Will you help us?”

  Ringing fills Ethan’s ears, he draws a long breath, his chest expanding, swelling with a feeling he barely remembers, and vaguely recognises as hope. It makes his throat tight and his eyes sting. It hurts to speak. “I am listening.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  RACHAEL CRAW studied Classical Studies and Drama at the University of Canterbury, but became an English teacher after graduation. Working with teenagers has given her a natural bent towards Young Adult fiction and a desire to present a feisty female protagonist in her writing. Rachael was born and raised in Christchurch, New Zealand, and currently lives in Nelson with her family. Visit her online at www.rachaelcraw.com

  Published in 2015

  by Walker Books Australia Pty Ltd

  Locked Bag 22, Newtown

  NSW 2042 Australia

  www.walkerbooks.com.au

  This ebook edition published in 2015

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  Text © 2015 Rachael Craw

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Creator: Craw, Rachael, author.