Scorpion

by Deven Kane

  Don straightened without comment, turning away from the brink of the cliff. Their brief respite, it appeared, was over. Jane followed in his wake, pushing aside the low-hanging branches. Megan trailed just far enough behind to avoid the branches as they swung back.

  The rocky valley below was forested with various pines. The narrow plateau, in sharp contrast, saw the needle-laden evergreens interspersed with a sudden profusion of maple, hemlock, and dogwood.

  Megan noted the botanical change in a detached manner, as if another part of her mind was at work—categorizing, sifting, and evaluating new data. Analyze. Adapt.

  No. Her face twisted as she rebelled against thinking like a Tracker. No more Givers. I am Megan.

  She spat on the ground. Her action was, in part, a symbolic rejection of her former programming. It was also an attempt to purge the aftertaste of vomit.

  “You okay, Megan?” Jane pushed a branch aside for an unobstructed view. She seemed suspicious, although Megan also detected a note of feigned concern in her voice.

  “Fine.” Megan waved a casual hand as she pushed through the underbrush. Don’t patronize me. I’m not fragile.

  Jane studied her as she drew near, and then continued on Don’s trail. Megan quickened her pace, anxious to prove her breakdown by the Tracker’s corpse was behind her.

  The truck’s engine bellowed to life as she emerged from the bushes. She sidled up beside Jane, who ignored her as they waited for Don to turn the truck around.

  The overgrown brush on either side of the unpaved road forced him to execute a series of incremental turns, raising a choking swirl of dust. They held their breath against the gritty cloud as Don skidded to a halt.

  Megan scooted across the rear bench, seating herself behind Don. Jane took the passenger side in the front. Don shifted the truck into gear, and the vehicle crawled forward.

  “Well, Enrico can start breathing again.” Jane grinned, turning to face Don, one arm casually flung over the back of the bench seat. “His truck returned before sundown, and still in one piece.”

  Don grunted in response. His thoughts appeared to be elsewhere.

  “Amos is too smart to engage a Tracker single-handed,” he said, thinking out loud. “And judging by the angle of the wound, the Tracker was struck from above, hard. If I was a betting man, I’d wager Mateo was involved.”

  Megan’s stomach lurched at the mention of the deceased Tracker. She swallowed hastily.

  He died serving the Givers. She struggled to reconcile her conflicting emotions. But in a way, he was dead long before his life ended.

  She flexed her hand, fascinated by the opening and closing of her fingers. She regretted the loss of the enhancements—the strength, the speed, the stamina. Her body functioned much as it once had, before . . .

  Megan grimaced as the memory of the anonymous hand, twin processors cupped in its palm, invaded her thoughts.

  “Megan? Are you okay?” Jane’s voice rasped on her nerves. Megan shifted to look at her, irritated by the interruption.

  Jane’s body language was casual, one arm still flung across the bench seat, but her eyes were watchful, attentive. She’d seen the expression on Megan’s face, observed the beads of sweat breaking out by her hairline.

  How can I explain myself? Frustration over her inability to communicate gnawed at her.

  Her nightmarish recollection of the day she’d become a Tracker—even if the memory was an incomplete fragment—would be difficult to describe. Megan concentrated, willing her thoughts into coherent speech.

  She reached up and touched the side of her head.

  “Same in here. I have.” She ground the words out in short, sharp bursts. She hoped they could fill in the blanks, make sense of what she said. “Not working, but same.”

  “The dead Tracker,” Jane guessed, her voice remote, her gaze shrewd. “The tech we saw inside its head—you have the same devices, but they don’t work anymore.”

  Megan nodded and Jane eyed her with new interest. “I’ll bet seeing that tech brought back a few memories.”

  Don growled something under his breath. Jane shot him a resentful look, but fell silent.

  Megan nodded again. Her wavy hair feel forward, partially obscuring the patch over the ruin of her mechanical eye. Her scanning eye.

  She decided against trying to explain the nightmare memory—the concept was too complex to put into words. There was something else her companions needed to know.

  Let’s see if this works. Megan pointed to her eye patch, and then flexed her bicep, before indicating her eye a second time. Jane frowned, shaking her head as she tried to interpret Megan’s improvisations.

  “Givers. Change,” Megan said, repeating her actions. “My eye, my body . . .”

  Jane nodded. “You mean the enhancements? To make you stronger, enable your body to repair itself?”

  Megan pointed at her with an enthusiastic nod. So far, so good. She forced her reluctant lips to form the words, hoping for a sudden burst of clarity. “Change. Dead animals. Wrong change.”

  She saw the muscles in Don’s massive shoulders tense, and she imagined him clenching the steering wheel with greater intensity. Jane twisted her body further, leaning over the seat, her eyes searching Megan’s face.

  “The animals were changing. Into what—Trackers?” Jane frowned, her skepticism plain. “Do you mean the Givers are experimenting on animals as well?”

  Megan shook her head: no. Emphatically, no. In a flash of inspiration, she opened her mouth as wide as she could, and brought her teeth together in a sharp bite, hoping against hope Jane would make the connection.

  “Animals, changes,” she repeated, and snapped her teeth together a second time.

  Jane’s eyes widened in horror. “The animals died because they tried to eat the Tracker.” She caught her breath when Megan nodded with a relieved smile. “You’re saying they were killed by the enhancements?”

  Megan reached up to tap the side of her head, smiling.

  “Not complete,” she said, pleased she was getting through. If I had paper and pencil, this would be a lot easier.

  “The enhancements are a package deal.” Don spoke for the first time, the truck’s sudden acceleration underlining his reaction to the news. “Whatever the Givers put into a Tracker’s blood was too much for the animals. It’s possible the tech in a red-eye’s brain acts as a regulator.”

  Jane looked to Megan for confirmation, but the former Tracker’s only response was a noncommittal shrug.

  “I don’t think she knows how it works, just that it does.” Jane settled into her seat, massaging the back of her neck. Without warning, she bolted forward, whipping around in her seat to stare wide-eyed at Megan.

  “The blood.” The connection was made. “Darcy designed the Implants based on the same technology the Givers use to make Trackers. We’ve always said it’s in the blood. Doc saw it under her microscope, but nobody could ever figure out how it worked.”

  Don lifted one massive hand from the steering wheel and brought it down with a resounding thump. “And Garr expects us to partner with Darcy? It’s like inviting your own executioner over for lunch.”

  The kilometers flew by without their realizing it, and they came upon the paved highway sooner than expected. Don’s careening turn on the cracked pavement shook the truck, and the chassis groaned in protest. He accelerated again, speeding them toward the small town.

  “The enhancements are what allows the Givers to control the Trackers.” Jane stared out the windshield as if she hadn’t heard Don’s bitter remark. “And Runners, once their Implants have been activated, are driven to assassinate specific targets. In both cases, it spreads through the blood. But in animals, the enhancements are straight-up poison.”

  She leaned forward, dropping her head into her hands. “You said it, Don. Darcy’s pure evil. Brilliant, but evil.”

  Don’s response was an inarticulate growl as he coaxed the aging vehicle down the derelict highway. The outl
ying farms near the small town were visible in the distance. They weren’t far from Enrico’s shop.

  “So, what you’re telling me is: never turn my back on Darcy.” Don broke the silence, his somber eyes finding Megan in the rearview mirror. “And never attempt to take a bite out of a Tracker. You’ll be relieved to hear I have zero intention of doing either.”

  Megan remained silent, recalling the man called Darcy from their meeting in the Old City. And the blond boy who’d called her by name.

  She wondered what the connection was.

  Twenty-Two

  THE ANONYMOUS PATIENT awoke in slow stages. He felt groggy, and his thoughts were sluggish. He moved to wipe a hand over his face, his motion instinctive.

  Annoyance flared when he was unable to complete the gesture. His arm—no, both of his arms—were restrained somehow. His pulse quickened and he forced his eyes open, squinting at the blurry haze of light above his head.

  He lay on a bed. Or a table, he decided, as the unyielding surface refused to adapt to his body weight. His eyes . . . he struggled to focus.

  He couldn’t move—hands and feet alike held in place by bonds he couldn’t see. Annoyance gave way to fear, and his heart began to pound.

  He heard voices speaking around him, but they were muffled, indistinct. It was as though he was underwater, the sounds conducted imperfectly through a liquid medium.

  He fought against the dizziness, struggling to regain his mental equilibrium. His eyesight was beginning to clear, bit by bit, as was his hearing. Where am I? Is this a hospital? Why can’t I move?

  His narrow victory over blind panic was short-lived. A new and terrifying sensation coursed through his body, as if hundreds of burning insects crawled with military precision under his skin.

  He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped.

  The crawling sensation accelerated through his torso, and then abruptly ceased. A refreshing coolness flooded from his shoulders down to his feet, and he gasped in relief. The lights above his head began to resolve into clearer focus. A circle of lamps, harsh and revealing. I was right. I’m in a hospital.

  Panic erupted a second time at the sudden clamor in his head. It seemed to come from within him, a jumbled cacophony of discordant notes. It was like hearing voices without knowing the language, interrupted by odd clicks which sounded mechanical.

  Bile surged in his throat, and he swallowed several times in quick succession. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he willed his rebellious stomach to settle.

  His hearing was improving. He understood the sharp, exasperated outburst just to his left. In English. “This one’s defective. The Givers—he can’t hear them.”

  The voice was dour, the words clear but incomprehensible. What—who are the Givers?

  The speaker leaned over him, an angry scowl twisting her features. She wore a physician’s attire, but her surgical mask was pulled below her chin, revealing her down-turned lips as she examined him. She was not pleased.

  A second figure appeared to his right, staring down at him. He was also outfitted for the operating theater, but his surgical mask, with its accompanying cap, hid most of his features from view. He seemed less volatile than the first speaker.

  “Not another one.” His voice was flat and dismissive, his eyes cold and distant.

  The woman glared at him, as if he were accusing her of incompetence. “I just perform the procedure. I didn’t invent the technology. If the manufacturers made an error, take it up with them.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell them yourself,” the man replied, his voice calm as he nodded his head, indicating the foot of the operating table.

  All eyes—including the table’s restrained subject—shifted in the direction indicated. The woman stiffened and fell silent, averting her gaze.

  Alien creatures stood in solemn silence, observing. They wore no surgical gear, and the patient on the operating table felt his stomach heave without warning. His reflexes failed, and the female doctor dodged away, her voice raised in disgusted protest as he vomited over the side of the gurney.

  The patient stared into the circle of lights, his eyes pleading, as if the glare could purge the sight of the creatures.

  He heard another recurrence of the alien voices—poking, prodding, crawling like mechanical spiders over his brain. He could make no sense of anything he heard, and he collapsed in limp relief when the noise and sensations were cut off.

  “There’s no point.” A new voice, detached and clinical. A young male, dressed in a white lab coat, consulted a hand-held device with an expert’s eye. “His mind appears to be incapable of accepting the programming. Everything else seems to be in working order, but he can’t hear the Givers.”

  The creatures pivoted in perfect unison, departing in a vertigo-inducing swirl of motion. No one spoke until after an unmistakable click of a closing door was heard.

  The young technician continued to study the device in his hand, frowning at what he saw.

  “Maybe it was a mistake to try this on a Citizen.” He hesitated, as if expecting a rebuke. “He can’t be controlled.”

  “Then he’s useless.” The woman turned away, removing her surgical gloves with short, angry motions.

  “Not necessarily,” the man to his right said, his features still hidden behind the surgical mask. “Everything else works, correct, Ethan?”

  His question was directed to the young technician, who nodded twice. Yes.

  The man stared at the cowering patient, ignoring the sour odor of vomit. “Take him to a public place, the more crowded the better.”

  He spoke casually, with the confidence of someone well-acquainted with giving orders. “Another protest, if possible. Plant him in the crowd, and push the button.”

  “As you wish, Councilor,” Ethan replied.

  Twenty-Three

  AUBREY TUGGED THE HOOD of her jacket forward, thankful for the light drizzle of rain. Bad weather gives me an excuse to cover up. Plus, there’s less people on the street to notice me.

  She was grateful Garr had included her on his regular rounds in the Mission’s neighborhood. She knew exactly where to find the drop-box. She was careful to make the customary stop at the market, browsing and chatting with the merchants before resuming her casual route.

  The Mission, a block further and across the street, appeared gray and lifeless in the rain. The usual crowd of regulars would be indoors today, seeking shelter from the cold and damp.

  Doc wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Aubrey visiting the drop-box alone. But Aubrey had argued, successfully, that it would be unwise to break their routine. Doc relented, albeit with obvious reluctance.

  Garr has a bad cough. Aubrey rehearsed her lie, in case anyone asked. One of the shopkeepers, perhaps. We’re going to make some hot soup for him.

  They were always careful to follow the same routine. Garr’s patient coaching came to mind. You never know who might be watching, Trackers look normal unless they’re hunting.

  Aubrey quickened her pace, the bag of vegetables she’d purchased weighing her arm down. The dreary weather painted the neighborhood with a stifling, claustrophobic hue. She’d done this trip many times, but this was her first solo.

  There weren’t many people out and about, but Aubrey watched diligently for any betraying signs. The Tracker raid had occurred more than twelve blocks from her position, but her nerves were still on edge.

  The rain was beginning to seep through the fabric of her hood, and her bangs were plastered to her forehead. Aubrey brushed the hair away from her face with an impatient hand.

  She cupped her scarred hand above her eyes, shivering. Her grip on the produce bag tightened, and she slipped into the alley, darting toward the boarded-up doorway.

  She ducked beneath the overhang as if seeking refuge from the drizzle. Hidden in plain sight. She mouthed the words in silence. Just a little rest, out of the rain.

  She crouched down, balancing on the balls of her feet, and placed her bag of produ
ce on the slick pavement.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a dark figure moving at the end of the alley. She held her breath, mindful to lower her gaze so she wasn’t staring. Easy, Aubs. Don’t draw attention, don’t stand out.

  The figure shuffled out of sight, and the patter of rain obscured any sound of his or her footsteps. The Mission was a block further—was that the anonymous walker’s goal?

  Aubrey waited, counting under her breath as she’d been taught. The rain drizzled on, droning on the uneven paving stones. She remained motionless, until she was confident the other was a safe distance away.

  She edged the brick out, her action shielded from view by the deep entryway. As she expected, a small, leather-wrapped package lay nestled inside. See, Doc? This trip was necessary.

  She extracted the package and maneuvered the brick back into place, wiping away any trace of her actions.

  The package was thinner than usual, and Aubrey hesitated, doubt eroding her earlier confidence. What if it’s empty? Doc won’t be impressed if I made this trip for nothing.

  She ignored the inner clamor of warning, disregarded their usual protocol, and opened the package right then and there.

  There was a single sheaf of parchment inside, its lettering bold and ragged. The message was short and blunt. Aubrey felt light-headed as the words sunk in. She swallowed convulsively, sealed the package and stuffed it into her jacket for safe-keeping.

  She glanced down the alley, half-expecting to find the shuffling figure had returned. No, her luck continued to hold—the alley remained empty. She was alone, at least for now.

  She leaned against the doorframe, feigning nonchalance for a few seconds longer, and then set off at a brisk pace to the opposite end of the alley. Walk, Aubs, don’t run.

  She risked a quick, furtive look in both directions before rounding the corner. The few pedestrians ignored her as they scuttled across the street to various dry destinations.

  Aubrey kept walking, pulling her hood forward to hide the number of times she gauged her surroundings.