by Anna Vera
And then, he’s thrusting me toward my league.
“She’s deploying,” he says. “That’s the end of it.”
“Brother—”
“Get her microchipped, briefed, and armed with both weapons and provisions. I’ll see you all at the loading dock in no more than thirty minutes—they will deploy in an hour.”
Pavo walks away without a backward glance at his sister.
Meanwhile, I’m left feeling shaken.
I came here to rat Pavo out for killing Nova, and now I’m about to be microchipped, briefed, and deployed alongside my league the way I’ve always hoped?
But there’s one critical difference: my blind loyalty has been chafed and eroded away, ruined by a few hastily spoken words from a girl I didn’t realize was a friend.
I will make sure Nova didn’t die in vain.
7
Onyx takes a cup and places it against my lips.
“Drink,” she orders. I do as I’m told—even though, for all I know at this point, it could be poison.
Cyb, Lios, and Merope gather around, their faces glistening behind a film of sweat. It’s absurdly hot in the laboratory, one of the many reasons the lower levels of the Ora aren’t suited for long-term living.
In the corner, Apollo fans himself, apparently bored.
Lios swipes his sweaty hair. “Onyx,” he begins, speaking in quiet circumspect. “Shouldn’t we start briefing Eos?”
Onyx grunts, robotically taking the cup out of my hand and putting a chilly finger under my jaw. My nostrils fill with the pungent odor of rubber. She positions my arm so my wrist faces the ceiling, resting perpendicular to my side.
Almost immediately, I feel the drugs take. My tongue feels swollen, and the lights are suddenly too bright.
“Tell me about our Purpose,” I say before I lose coherency.
“There’s . . . a traitor,” Merope begins, twisting her fingers in a fit of anxiety. “Her name is Mabel Faye, who was previously in servitude to the Project.”
“For how long?”
“Almost a whole lifetime. She’s of the First Generation.”
Rumors are that the technology for modifying genetics to include supernatural abilities preceded the plague by nearly two decades, at least. By the time the plague, the A-42, struck—the most powerful of the world’s governments having already joined together, wisely pooling funds and resources to create what’s now known as the United Government—these advances in biological understanding had been mastered.
All thanks to the specimens that came before, which were created experimentally. They are known as the First Generation, who helped aid the Project before all others.
“And what did she do?” I ask with a swollen tongue.
“What Onyx is doing for you now,” Cyb chimes in, her pale brow arched. “Microchips.”
I knew it. “So that’s it, then: Mabel Faye is waiting for specimens to deploy to Earth, and once they land, she’s taking out everybody’s microchips?”
“We think so, yes,” Merope replies. “She’s got backup, likely another traitor. It would be impossible to extract the chips from four specimens so quickly, in under forty seconds.”
“Why do so at all?” I ask, dazed and trying to ignore the fact that Onyx is now swan-diving a scalpel between the flesh and sinew of my inner wrist.
I feel the dull pressure of her grip; the tug and strain of the blade as it dips deeper. But I don’t feel pain.
Merope strokes my hair. “We don’t know why. That’s our primary Purpose, though: gathering intel on what she’s doing and why she’s doing it.”
“And,” Lios adds, “Mabel Faye is supposedly leaking loads of top secret material on the Project to native-borns.” He chews a lip nervously. “We’ve got to find out how many people know about the Project, and smother it.”
“Pavo says she’ll tell us a series of lies—brainwash us, claim she has no affiliation with the Project . . .” Merope trails off, her fingers still stroking my hair. “We can’t listen to her.”
“Whatever she’s saying, it’s convincing,” I say curtly, thinking of how in the hell five leagues were capable of being fooled into betraying their Purpose.
“She’s the founder of a quarantine,” Cyb says, going on with the debriefing. “A large one with excellent security and lots of resources—easily the best quarantine in Colorado.” She stops for a second, hesitating. “If Mabel doesn’t come directly to us, the way we suspect she has with the others, the only way to get to her is through the quarantine.”
“Meaning gain membership,” Lios clarifies. “Find a way to earn her trust—and the trust of fellow members—and sniff out the funny business.”
“Why wouldn’t Mabel come directly to us?” I ask as, to my far right side, Onyx drops the microchips into my wrist: a small octagonal, pewter-colored chip, which is meant to track my every move, my coordinates. Another to track my pulse, vitals, and my general health. And one final chip, a cherry red orb . . .
Which she leaves out.
Lios says, “We are the first league to deploy almost instantly after a previous league that has disappeared. We’re hoping she’ll still be too busy dealing with Pavo’s league to prepare herself for our unannounced arrival.”
“There’s no way she knows we’re coming,” Cyb adds.
“And if,” Merope goes on, “Mabel doesn’t come directly to us right after we land—when we see her later on—she must not know that we’re specimens.”
I swallow dryly. “We’re to pretend we’re native-borns?”
“Natives looking to join the quarantine,” Lios affirms.
“Easy enough,” I grunt.
Onyx stops what’s she’s doing and suddenly says, “Go to the loading dock.” We all exchange glances. “The four of you are dismissed,” she reiterates coldly. “I’ll finish prepping Eos and we will be there in ten.”
After a few additional wordless glances, the four of them file out of the laboratory together, leaving Onyx and I alone while she seals my incision with a Q-Tip dipped in liquid stitches, healing the cut instantly. It leaves a faint scar, a pale silver line as thin as thread, wrapped alongside my inner wrist.
The microchips are inside, set close to my ulnar artery as to monitor my vitals, as well as make it impossible to remove on my own without risking my life.
I’ve always wanted a microchip scar. It’s the ultimate mark of a soldier. Yet today, after what Pavo did to Nova—right before my eyes—I find myself resenting it.
“There’s something I’ve got to tell you,” I confess.
“What?” Onyx asks dully.
“I saw your brother kill a specimen this afternoon.”
The room, aside from a droning whir of air and the subtle groan of the ship moving, is totally silent.
Onyx’s nostrils flare. “Nova,” she says decidedly.
“You knew?”
“Her termination was authorized days ago.”
“Authorized? On what grounds?”
“That is none of your concern,” Onyx says, rolling back her chair and stripping off her rubber gloves. “Though I am sorry you had to see it.”
“He strangled her!” I snarl. “You’re telling me that’s how all ordered terminations are regularly performed? Through the act of strangulation?”
Onyx licks her thin lips. “He strangled her?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure? You saw it?”
“Yes,” I echo, despite knowing I didn’t actually see his fists around her throat; it was all through a mirror, and I’d only been able to see her legs dangling in the air.
But how else would he have killed her?
Onyx studies me, glaring through her depthless eyes, and all of a sudden it’s as though I’m jettisoned back in time, thinking of the days we would laugh and play tog
ether—when I was young and naïve enough to call her Mom.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on,” I suggest.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“There is more to this,” I whisper wildly. “There is more happening here, and you’re not telling the truth—but now, right now, you can.”
I reach for her hand, but she pulls away.
Unfazed, I say, “Tell me. Please.”
But suddenly an alarm sounds—a slow, dreary wail. It isn’t at all like the fire alarm. More of a call to arms, the kind of blare that might announce a tornado’s approach.
Onyx tells me it’s time to go, ushering me off the tissue-paper covered table and toward a doorway—but before we step out into the hall, she stops me.
“Find Mabel,” she whispers. “Find her.”
I look at her, startled by the severity of her eyes.
“I will,” I vow.
“No,” Onyx snaps, gripping my elbow hard. “Promise me you will stop at nothing until you do.”
The alarm continues to blare, a countdown. The podcraft at the loading dock is ready to launch.
“I will find Mabel Faye,” I declare again. “I promise you.”
Onyx gives me a flighty nod and easy as that, we’re walking down the hallway together, descending ever deeper into the dark bowels of the Ora.
When we arrive at the loading dock, I see the others.
They’re gathered around a table of weapons. Backpacks and water bottles and granola bars are piled in heaps, and it appears to be something of a free-for-all.
I lift a backpack—it’s already full, pre-packed with camping supplies of all kinds, most likely.
Nobody stops to pay me attention. I’m glad of it and leap into the chaos, grabbing supplies, loading guns, and examining a series of knives and other weapons.
Then, a voice. “I hate these damned alarms!”
I glance up and realize it’s Apollo speaking. He’s leaning up against the wall casually, as though deploying in a few minutes is not the most terrifying thing he’s ever encountered. The rest of us sport pale, sweaty faces and shaking hands.
“Apollo, now isn’t the time,” Onyx barks, guiding us to the exit across the room.
I grab a pistol and a few magazines, stopping to consider the spread of knives more carefully.
“You’ll pick that one,” Apollo says, eyeing a slender stiletto knife at the end of the table. “It’s feminine. It’s so . . . you.”
I glare at him, grabbing a vicious skinning knife with a spate of serrated, toothy edges and a hooked end, and raise it up to his bare, ghostly-pale throat.
“Ah.” He laughs. “Wasn’t expecting that.”
I press the blade a little harder. The serrated edges cling to this delicate flesh, pulling enough to aggravate his skin, leaving a track of light pink behind.
Then I lower it. Onyx is right. Now isn’t the time.
We change into cold-weather clothes: sweaters, jackets, and fur-trimmed boots. There’s a pile of hats—haphazard in style, but all goofy—which we pick from. I take a knitted ear-flap hat and when Lios takes one, he selects the ugliest hat available. And on purpose, I’d guess. The hat is as round as a bowl, and brown, like a misshapen mushroom or chocolate truffle.
He puts it on proudly, giving me a sideways wink.
“Let’s go!” Onyx shouts. “We’re out of time!”
My nerves officially start kicking in, and all too soon we’re following Onyx through a large set of steel doors, entering into a cavernous room. The ceiling is so high it can’t be seen, a pocket of indecipherable shadow.
Stationed at the room’s center is a podcraft: a smaller craft meant for temporary trips to Earth. It is auto-piloted, driven like a drone, and operated by somebody working in the CORE.
The podcraft issues a sweeping neon-green light—lighting up brighter, only to fade gradually, like the slow sweep of breath while you sleep.
But as the time grows nearer to takeoff, the neon-green light picks up speed, eventually transitioning from a breath, to a thudding pulse, to a blink . . .
Then it launches, with or without you.
And just now it flips from a breath to a pulse.
Everybody stiffens, including Pavo, Onyx, and Jupiter.
“Specimens,” Onyx commands. “Line up!”
My league and I stand at attention, lined up in front of the three mentors of our branch. My mouth goes dry at the thought of previous leagues—Pavo’s, specifically—having done just what we are now, hours ago, but now they’re gone.
In front of us, Pavo begins pacing. “Your league is our last chance at success. The last chance we have at bringing not only glory to Branch 50, but freedom.”
Merope and I exchange a quick glance. Freedom?
Pavo grins. “Executing PIO Morse is of such importance, our spaceship, the Ora, has been contacted by its sister-craft, Sors and Fortuna.”
We almost never mention the sister-craft, seeing as they are, until we fulfill our Purpose, irrelevant to all specimens. There are three deployable leagues per branch; after they have all deployed, a trial is held to determine which league performed their Purpose the best. Then, the league that’s chosen, the cream of the crop, is admitted to the Elite rankings—sent to live in total harmony for the rest of their lives on Fortuna.
It’s the future every specimen dreams of. Due to the wide array of genetic differentiations we have, we’re unfit to live alongside the natives on Earth. So we’re born, we fight, and if we fight well, we live out the rest of our lives in peace.
But two of three leagues won’t be picked for the Elite, and they are forced to redeploy—to continue to fight on forevermore, until they are eventually killed. Where they would go should we defeat the plague destroying Earth, I don’t know. Most of us try not to think about it.
The other sister-craft, Sors, isn’t hospitable. It’s a quarter of the size of the Ora—built for a small crew of only a few hundred people, at the most—to monitor Earthly activities. These crew members control the CORE, and are shipped to Earth regularly to keep in touch with what’s going on governmentally.
Pavo rubs his palms together. “You’re aware of how difficult it is to be admitted to the Elite rankings? Well, in the case of PIO Morse, a very rare exception to the rules has been made.”
The podcraft leaps from a pulse to a blink, and though we know it’s almost time to take off, we’re hanging on Pavo’s final words like they’re a lifeline. He strolls up and down, eyeing each of us individually, his lips stiff and posture rigid.
“This mission—your Purpose—is so important that they are willing to accept the league which accomplishes it immediately, without trial.” Everybody stands a little straighter. “Should you complete this mission flawlessly, the five of you won’t even return to the Ora. You will go straight to Fortuna.”
I realize I’m struggling to breathe. The possibility of us all going to Fortuna . . . a utopic spaceship without pollution or crime or danger, rife with opportunity . . .
None of us have to die. We could all go there, live together.
Jaw slightly agape, I turn to look at my league. Cyb’s silver-gray eyes are spilling with tears. Lios is looking down, pinching the bridge of his nose, swearing silently. Merope and Apollo look as though they could positively sing.
And yet there’s something holding me back—a certain echo whispering sourly in the back of mind, reminding me of a vow that I’ve made to somebody.
Nova.
But do I even believe her? How could I possibly buy into the claim that her skillset ability enabled her to see souls? That our three mentors don’t have them?
Merope clears her throat. “What about mentors?”
Pavo looks elated that she cared to ask. “Mentors will also be accepted to the Elite rankings—as
will your lead and the other authorities in your branch.”
So, we’ll all benefit from this.
Including Pavo.
The light of the podcraft accelerates from a blink to a rapid and startling flicker, casting us all in a disorienting strobe of neon-green light.
My heart picks up, matching the strobe’s pace.
Pavo waves a hand in conclusion. “Find the target, but don’t kill her—bring her to me so that I may have the pleasure of doing so myself.” His dark eyes take on an evil sheen. “She will pay for defaming the reputation of the Project, for lying to ignorant native-borns. She won’t get away with this!”
He gestures to the podcraft, urging us to board. I heave my backpack over my shoulder, readjust my hat over my hair, and try to remain calm.
“Don’t forget to cover your tracks,” Pavo purrs as we line up to board the podcraft. “One wrong move and your invitation to the Elite rankings will be instantly forfeit.”
Cyb boards, followed by Apollo and Lios, and as I scoot closer to my turn, I realize I won’t get a chance to say goodbye to one of my newest friends: Huckleberry.
Will I ever see him again?
It’s my turn. I ascend the small steps leading to the mouth of the podcraft, handing my backpack over to Lios, who tries to situate it beside his, buckling it safely away. Much to my chagrin, my hands shake when I grip the podcraft’s hood and begin wiggling my way aboard.
“Tighten this!” Lios shouts over the incredible whir of the podcraft’s booming engine. I can barely hear him, but he nods to a seatbelt and fastens it for me, cinching it tight.
Suddenly, Onyx is at my side—a looming, tall shadow.
I glance up at her curiously. “Onyx?”
The podcraft expels a hiss of air, preparing for takeoff, but she makes no move to leave. Her hand finds my hair, and in the most strange, disconcerting way, she strokes it out of my face.
Eyes holding mine, she says, “I tried.”
“What?” I shout, though I’ve successfully read her lips.
“I hope . . .” Onyx pauses, taking a swift step backward and instantly setting herself out of the podcraft. “I hope this isn’t goodbye for us, Eos.”