by Deven Kane
She rotated her chair to face the monitor with the riot footage. She moved her fingers deftly across her instruments, and another image emerged.
It was a close-up of the protestors, taken prior to the Peace Wardens opening fire. Tara leaned back in her chair, gesturing to the still image.
“If you think the protest isn’t connected to the attack on the Council Chamber, watch this.” She activated the video, and the image transformed into a sudden flurry of action in the midst of the crowd.
The camera zoomed in. A solitary figure fought his way through the throng, shouting and lashing out at protestor and counter-protestor alike. The mob turned on him, and he was knocked to the ground. The operator jabbed her finger at the console, freezing the image in place.
“He was screaming something about people dying, and not wanting to hurt anyone, and then he exploded.” She recited the facts with clinical detachment, ignoring the glaring incongruity between her words and the anonymous man’s lethal actions.
“Look at his face.” She increased the magnification. “He’s not behaving like a Tracker, but that’s an active scanning eye. He wasn’t there by accident. He was in the perfect position to instigate chaos.”
“And then the Peace Wardens opened fire on innocent Citizens.” Darcy inhaled sharply in a rare display of unease. “And some of the Wardens have been replaced by Trackers, who never disobey orders.”
“Exactly, Councilor.” Tara sighed, looking defeated. “The whole thing was a set-up. Just like the Council Chamber.”
She shook her head, fear deepening the lines around her haunted eyes.
“The Givers have gone on the offensive.”
Thirty-Nine
DOCTOR CAMPBELL SIGHED as she stretched her weary limbs. She tugged her surgical mask down and stepped away from the operating table. She’d performed so many surgeries in the past few days. It was hard to keep track
The newest Tracker lay motionless on the operating table. Her eyes were wide, staring at nothing. The doctor nodded to herself, recognizing the signs. The Givers had initiated the modification of the girl’s mental processors.
Her patient’s lips moved silently as she acquiesced to the programming. The conversion process was on track.
The Givers had exited the room several minutes earlier. It wasn’t necessary for them to be physically present when they invaded a new recruit’s mind.
Doctor Campbell preferred it that way, if the truth were to be known. Despite her many years of service on behalf of the Givers, she still experienced an awkward queasiness whenever the aliens were in close proximity.
She glanced up and caught the eye of her overseer. He hadn’t bothered to don surgical attire today, opting instead to observe the procedure from an antiseptic distance. Now he gestured to her, beckoning her to join him and the personal assistant standing beside him.
She sauntered toward them with studied nonchalance, yanking off her surgical gloves finger by finger, the snapping sound underlining her refusal to be intimidated by him. “A new Tracker, Councilor Sterne, prepped and ready for its first assignment on behalf of the Enclave.”
Her statement was redundant. Sterne was well aware the procedure was a success. She was simply using the opportunity to remind him of her strategic importance.
He didn’t take the bait, ignoring her insolent tone. “You’ll be pleased to know we were able to find a use for your last Tracker failure, after all.”
Sterne’s benign expression, coupled with his casual tone of voice, made the barbed insult all the more biting. “You’ve probably seen it on the Infomedia already.”
He turned to address his assistant. “Well done, Ethan. The Givers have noted your service.”
Ethan fidgeted awkwardly, glancing at the livid doctor. “Thank you, sir. The edited riot footage was pretty convincing. The Initiative should proceed at an increased rate after today. People are screaming for security more than ever.”
“The net is closing.” A satisfied smile flitted across Sterne’s face. “The pieces are falling into place.”
Doctor Campbell edged closer, curiosity outweighing her resentment. “Everything is on schedule then?”
Despite the lingering sting of his earlier snub, she couldn’t disguise the eagerness in her voice.
Sterne smiled tightly, clearly relishing the thought. “Yes, it’s almost time. The Givers will be pleased.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, a look of hungry anticipation on his face.
“I’ll alert Mateo.”
Forty
“YOU WANT TO SEE HOW much damage I can do with this?”
Aubrey had never seen Don so enraged. He confronted Mateo, wielding one of the electric prods in his massive fist. “Aubrey tells me the left eye is a good place. You want to light up your scanner and give me a good target?”
Megan’s agonized scream brought everyone running to the infirmary. Garr managed to restrain Don as he burst through the door. They grappled in the doorway, their bodies blocking the rest of the Runners from entering. Don snatched the prod from Doc’s workbench, brandishing it over Garr’s shoulder at Mateo.
The rest of the Runners, their meal preparation forgotten, clustered in a compact group in the corridor, agitated and wary.
Mateo stood alone at the far side of the infirmary, calm and unflappable. He cocked his head to one side, eyeing Don as if he were a strange new species to be catalogued. “Must I repeat myself, Don? Why do you still persist in responding emotionally, rather than rationally?”
Don growled something inarticulate, and Garr was hard-pressed to prevent him from acting on his threat.
You don’t make it easy, do you, Mateo? Aubrey was floored by the Tracker’s audacity. If anyone could overpower you, it’s Don.
Megan’s limp form sprawled in a graceless heap on the gurney. The improvised hospital bed was the only barrier separating Mateo from the rest of the group.
Doc hovered over Megan, as if shielding her from Mateo, a look of anguish on her face. Is she dead?
“What did you do to her?” Doc spat over her shoulder at Mateo. “She trusted you.”
“I did precisely what I said, Doctor Simon. What each of you agreed to, including our unconscious colleague,” Mateo replied, observing Megan with detached curiosity. “An experiment, in hopes of reactivating Megan’s self-repair enhancements. Such an undertaking entails a certain amount of risk. I’m sure you’re well aware of that, as a person of science.”
Aubrey heard Sheila’s heated protest behind her. “Megan is not a lab rat.”
“That’s enough, all of you.” Garr released his grip on Don, but remained firmly planted between him and Mateo. “Megan gave her consent. She knew it was risky. Stop with the blame game—nobody’s at fault.”
Don reluctantly lowered the prod, flicking the power off with his thumb. His scowl was unchanged as he tossed the device on Doc’s workbench.
Aubrey marveled again at the Runner’s deference toward the former Colonel.
Sheila slipped past Aubrey, hovering beside the gurney opposite Doc Simon. Doc lifted Megan’s limp arm, fingers pressed against her wrist. Aubrey held her breath until Doc nodded wordlessly; Megan had a pulse.
“If I may . . .” Mateo stepped to the foot of the gurney. He paused uncharacteristically at the baleful look Doc aimed his way. “Doctor Simon, my ability to scan the patient is more thorough than your primitive methods.”
Doc glared at him. “Be my guest. But from a distance, do you understand me?”
“You’d better do as she says.” Garr crossed the floor to stand beside Sheila. “We know Trackers have a lot of range when it comes to scanning.”
Mateo gave him a curious look. “If we’re scanning for Implants, yes. That’s what we were designed to do. Megan is a different matter.”
His gaze shifted from Garr to Doc. Neither of them showed any inclination to budge.
Don coughed into his hand, glancing with exaggerated significance at the nearby prod.
Mateo acquiesced with a slight nod, stepping away from the gurney.
Aubrey couldn’t repress a shiver as Mateo activated his scanner, the reddish glow giving his countenance an alien cast. She tried not to stare, but a horrible fascination left her unable to look away.
That circle of light means death.
If Mateo was aware of Doc’s furious gaze, he gave no sign. He scanned Megan from head to foot, and back again, taking his time. His face was as impassive as always.
“There’s no evidence of additional damage,” he said at last. The red circle pulsated with a mechanical rhythm beneath the skin around his eye. “Nor is there any indication whether our experiment was a success. Only time will tell. We must wait.”
“Do we have any way of knowing whether or not you’re lying?” Sheila asked coolly, studying him with shrewd eyes. “As I recall, you tend to be less than open and transparent. Unless it suits you, of course.”
“You should chat with Amos about the value of not second-guessing your allies,” Mateo replied, not looking at her. He scanned Megan’s limp form again, and the red glow faded, restoring his human appearance.
He cocked his head to one side, sniffing deeply. An odd expression crossed his face. “Does anyone else smell something burning?”
Forty-One
“WHAT A WASTE.” AUBREY wrinkled her nose as she scraped the inside of the blackened cooking pot. “I was looking forward to something besides trail rations for a change.”
“I guess we’ll never know if Don was going to poison us or not.” Garr grimaced as he helped Don wrestle the cooking unit away from the wall for a thorough cleaning. Don stooped behind it and yanked out the power cord. Aubrey noticed that he didn’t respond to the Colonel’s attempt at lightening the mood.
The door opened behind them, and Sheila strode in. She made a show of holding her nose as she frowned at the reminder of the meal that might have been. “Good thing we’re in the sub-basement. The locals will assume the Mission’s cooking crew made the smell.”
“Lucky for us,” Garr replied, scrubbing the surface of the cooking unit. “We’ve already had too many close calls. Let’s not tempt fate by getting careless.”
“How’s Megan?” Aubrey asked, pausing in her scraping. “Has there been any change?”
Sheila shook her head, dropping the pretense of plugging her nose. “Still out cold. Whatever Mateo’s blood did to her system, it knocked her out. Doc’s keeping an eye on her, but it looks like we’re just going to have to wait.”
Sheila tried, and failed, to repress a smile. “And, for the record, Doc’s also banned Mateo from the infirmary until further notice.”
Aubrey finished cleaning the charred pot, grinning in spite of herself. I can probably guess the expression on Doc’s face when she did it. And the look on his face, too.
The door opened again, this time to usher Amos and Jane into the mess hall. They stopped just inside the door, taken aback by the unmistakable odor. Amos recovered first, crossing the room to speak with Garr, Jane close on his heels.
All eyes in the room were riveted on the two newcomers.
Something’s up. Aubrey’s grin faded abruptly. Her chest constricted, matching the sinking feeling in her stomach. What else can go wrong today?
“The drop-box?” Garr straightened from his task. “What did you find?”
Amos shook his head. “We didn’t make it that far.”
“Not even close,” Jane added.
“Trackers?” Don spoke for the first time since leaving the infirmary. He wiped his hands on a towel. “Or Hoarders?”
“Both,” Amos and Jane said in unison. They glanced at each other, uncertain, before Amos gestured for Jane to continue.
The Runners gathered around the partially cleaned cooking unit, listening with trepidation. Jane gave a terse description of the Hoarder abductions they’d witnessed just a few blocks from the Mission. Amos chimed in about the Tracker they’d stumbled across during their return trip.
“He passed within a meter of us.” Jane tugged absent-mindedly at her cap. “Between Trackers and Hoarders, it’s getting crowded around here.”
Amos shrugged. “We’ve seen Trackers prowling near the Mission before. Hoarder abductions are the bigger worry. Any time an adversary changes tactics . . .”
Aubrey’s heart sank. Her hands were trembling.
Classic symptoms of anxiety. She recalled one of Doc’s many explanations. I’ve got to hold it together. I won’t be the weak link.
“You may not have made it to the drop-box, but this intel is just as valuable.” Garr ran a weary hand through his hair. “My guess is the Hoarders are deploying more Trackers because they suspect we’re located nearby. Their ambush failed last week, and cost them a number of Trackers in the process.”
“Maybe the Tracker was scanning for new Implants.” Sheila stuffed her fists into her pockets. “The Hoarders you saw were kidnapping people to Implant. Don’t they usually return people to the same area, post-Implant?”
“To avoid arousing suspicion, yes.” Aubrey was glad for a topic she could speak to with authority. “Take me, for example. I’ve got no memory of being abducted or Implanted. I had no idea what the Hoarders had done until . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she visualized her final evening with Thomas and Sarah, seated around their kitchen table, just before one of the Soul-less broke the door down.
They sacrificed themselves to save me.
“It may not make much difference, either way.” Sheila fixed her gaze on Garr, driving home her point. “Whether the Trackers are searching for us, or scanning for newly Implanted Runners, staying in this Hub is too risky.”
“One more night.” Garr’s terse announcement fell into a pensive silence.
He gestured for Don’s assistance to slide the cooking unit into its proper place. The big man connected the power cable, and together they shoved the unit back against the wall.
Garr pivoted to lean against it. “Pack what you need, everyone, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, we head back to the Enclave.”
Don laughed without much humor. “Right. Straight back to Hoarderville. So much safer, compared to our Hub.”
The walls of the room seemed to close in as he spoke.
We’ve been living in denial. Aubrey bit her lower lip. The feast was just a distraction. We know what’s next—Darcy, the Enclave, and the Givers.
“Trail rations for the road.” Don heaved a heavy sigh. “And trail rations before bed tonight. Everybody remember to thank our good friend Mateo for that.”
“Where is Mateo?” Amos glanced around the mess hall. “Is he with Doc?”
The question startled Sheila. “No, Doc told him to stay clear of the infirmary.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. A quick search through the Hub confirmed their suspicions.
Mateo had disappeared.
Forty-Two
MEGAN’S THOUGHTS WERE chaotic, jumbled. Pictures flashed through her mind at lightning speed, with no discernible connection from one to the next. She struggled to focus on the spinning images, desperate to catch one between her hands and force it to hold still—long enough for her to identify and understand.
She floated, weightless, flailing uselessly. She lurched for an image as it sailed past, only to feel the sudden return of gravity. Her stomach heaved as she plummeted like a rock.
No matter how hard she tried, she could neither capture the spiraling images nor slow her rapid descent.
This isn’t happening. It’s all just in my mind. She tried to impose control, to no avail. Mateo did something to me . . .
Mateo. The name became an anchor in her chaotic vision. A face attached itself to the name, and she clung to it. Yes—Mateo. He’s one of us—one like me—a Tracker.
I’m not a Tracker! Another part of her mind erupted in furious protest. No more voices, no more Givers. I am Megan.
Was her precipitous fall beginning to slow? Had that single,
defiant assertion of her identity allowed her to recapture a semblance of control? Megan struggled to concentrate on a solitary image in the whirlwind around her. She was rewarded at last, but not as she’d expected.
She landed hard on an unyielding surface, a massive weight settling on her chest, pinning her down without mercy. She panicked, unable to draw a breath. Her limbs refused to obey, as if they were held fast in a giant’s iron grip.
Her ears popped loudly, as if she’d fallen down a steep mountainside. The thud-thud of her pounding heart rattled through her bones.
The whirlwind of images winked out of existence, with the exception of one. The solitary image refused to disappear—on the contrary, it expanded until it dominated her mind’s eye.
Then the image asserted control. She was inside it. This wasn’t a hallucination—it was a memory.
She saw again the two technological devices, cupped in the palm of an unknown hand. Once more, she heard her own cries of panic and despair.
Why are you doing this? We didn’t betray you—don’t turn me into one of Them!
“Will somebody please shut her up?”
Megan fastened eagerly on the exasperated voice. This was more than she’d remembered before. Another voice—female—responded to the first.
“As you wish, Councilor.”
The twin mechanical devices—they were processors, she realized, mental processors intended for her—flickered and vanished. The crushing pressure on her ribs lifted, and she felt almost weightless with its departure.
She gasped, gulping in great drafts of oxygen, and then she was in the infirmary again. Her vision cleared. Doctor Simon leaned over her, brow furrowed with worry.
“Megan? Can you hear me?” Doc repeated the question over and over, with as much calm as she could muster. Megan heard the anguish in her voice. “Don’t try to speak. Just nod if you understand me.”