by Deven Kane
Don glanced at her, nodding. “And they’ll have no choice but to storm the room, with or without us.”
He turned to Connor. “Garr’s counting on us. Sorry, kid, but we’re sticking to the Colonel’s plan. If all goes well, we can find your sister later.”
Connor shook his head, the emphatic gesture tempered by his wide grin. “The medical facility is beside to the conference room. There’s a door between the two—we can sneak through one to get to the other.”
Don glanced at Aubrey, thinking hard, and then poked a thick finger into Connor’s chest. “The Givers, and then Darcy. That’s the order of our priorities. If we run into Megan along the way, fine. But if not, we stick to Garr’s strategy. Got it?”
“Got it.” Connor pointed confidently down the hallway to their right. “The stairway to the medical facility is that way. It’s not far.”
Aubrey glanced through the open door behind her. The viewscreens were unchanged—sentries still encircled the Citadel. “Assuming this works, what about all those Trackers downstairs?”
“One thing at a time.” Don motioned for Connor to lead the way. “Let’s hope Garr’s team is waiting upstairs. I don’t like the idea of facing the Givers with nothing but my bare hands.”
Connor jogged to the next stairwell, stepping lightly to mask his footsteps. The spidery lines on the floor gave Aubrey a queasy feeling, and she was relieved when she set foot on the spiral staircase.
A heavy lump in her jacket smacked against her thigh as they ascended. Aubrey cupped one hand over her pocket, securing the handgun before it gave her a nasty bruise.
Seventy-Five
MEGAN HALTED IN A SMALL foyer on the Citadel’s fourth level. The ghostly lines of illumination provided enough light to get her this far. She felt a twinge of unease as she realized her memories were less complete than she’d hoped.
She scanned back and forth, to the right and to the left, a predator on the hunt. I haven’t been here since that Day.
The phosphorescent lines diverged at the top of the stairwell, leading in opposite directions to identical doors. Rectangular lights outlined each portal, winking in random patterns—red, blue, white, green—taunting her.
Megan ignored them, imposing calm on her frayed nerves, and made her decision. She chose the door on her right, holding her breath as she entered the codes on the keypad.
The pad’s illuminated surface blinked once, and she smiled as the lock disengaged. Memorizing the codes when Connor read them aloud to Garr had been simple.
They still underestimate me. Even the Colonel.
She pushed the door open, peeking around the edge before entering. She felt a quiver of apprehension as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
I know this room. This is where it all started for me.
The lighting in the medical facility was subdued, which was to be expected after the staff had gone home for the night. There were no glowing lines in the floor here. Indirect lighting fixtures near the vaulted ceiling, dimmed for the overnight hours, provided meager illumination.
Her eyes were drawn to the brightest light source: a wide viewscreen centered in a complicated computer setup. She recognized it—the link between the Givers and the mental processors embedded in every Tracker’s skull.
Her heart skipped a beat as she spotted a solitary figure hunched over the keyboard. She was tempted to turn and run, but there was no need. The white-coated tech didn’t pause, typing commands into the keyboard, too engrossed in his task to notice her. She exhaled a shallow breath of relief.
The tech tapped a final key with a flourish, rising from his chair to evaluate the changes on the screen. Satisfied, he smoothed the front of his spotless lab coat and tucked a digital clipboard under his arm. His gait was confident as he strode to the opposite side of the room. He paused to enter his codes into the keypad, and exited through a single door.
Megan tip-toed into the room, darting to shelter behind an oversized couch. The presence of the now-departed tech tempered her impetuous advance. She crept forward, every sense alert, and hid behind a bulky medical refrigerator. The metal was cool to the touch, and she flinched away from thinking about what might be stored inside.
There’s someone else in here. I can feel it.
She didn’t have to wait long. A figure emerged from the shadows behind the computer array, skirting the console to face the center unit. Megan held her breath.
Logan. He was at the clinic with Mateo. But what’s he doing here?
Logan didn’t seat himself, as the first tech had done. He extracted a small object from his pocket and inserted it into the computer. A few keystrokes later, his task complete, he unplugged the device, pocketing it.
Logan studied the animated icons, nodding as if pleased, and pivoted without warning. Megan froze, afraid she’d been discovered, but he dashed past her, racing down the stairs two at a time. The door slid shut, muting his rapid descent.
Megan emerged from her hiding place, warier than ever. She padded silently to the workstation, captivated by the icons on the screen. She leaned over the edge of the console, lips moving silently as she tried to decipher their meaning.
Her eyes grew wide when she realized what Logan had done, and she retreated instinctively from the console. I’ve got to warn the others.
She took several stumbling steps backward, her eyes fixed on the ominous display, and collided with an unyielding obstacle. She spun to confront an operating table.
She held her breath, staring at it with a mixture of dread and fascination. It wasn’t just any operating table. It was the operating table. Trackers were created on its sterile surface.
She touched it with a tentative hand, all thoughts of Logan eclipsed by her discovery.
She leaned over the table, twisting her neck to look into the circle of surgical lamps overhead. They were dark now, a circle of grim sentinels awaiting the next procedure.
She stared into their unseeing eyes, trying to imagine them activated, radiant, pinning their innocent victims to the table beneath their merciless glare.
Megan turned her attention to the table, running her hands over its brushed-metal surface. She remembered—vividly—the restraints lashing her down against her will, but she saw no evidence of them.
No. Inaccurate data. The restraints were very real, even if invisible to human eyes.
Her questing fingers discovered a small set of controls under the table’s edge, and then her memories clicked. She trembled involuntarily, a visceral reaction to the blinding terror of being immobilized by bonds she couldn’t see.
She heard the distant echoes of her own voice, shrill with shock and betrayal. Why are you doing this to me?
Her stomach heaved as the nightmarish vision of the hand returned. The twin processors, shiny and pristine, prepped and ready for installation inside her skull. She was trapped, pinned to the operating table—powerless to resist and unable to defend herself.
Please, don’t turn me into one of Them.
Megan fell to her knees, nauseated. She slid to the polished floor, leaning against the base of the operating table. Gradually, the throbbing in her head subsided, and her thoughts cleared.
She’d come here seeking answers, hoping to find a clue to unlock her past. Nothing changed—all she had to show for her trouble was a single recurring nightmare.
She froze, heart pounding anew as the door opened behind her. Someone entered, their footsteps beating a staccato trail to the opposite side of the operating table.
The white-coated tech? Does he know what Logan did?
Then, abruptly, the footsteps stopped. And then she heard his voice. He was reciting names under his breath, spitting each one out with fanatical loathing.
Seventy-Six
AMOS KNELT ON THE PLUSH carpet, hands clasped on his head. He felt the stares of the people seated around the ornately carved table, their gaping mouths and hushed comments confirming the Runners hadn’t been expected.
Even Darcy, seated at the far end of the room, appeared shocked.
There was one exception. Amos nudged Jane with his elbow, nodding to indicate the smirking Councilor at the head of the table.
He was the only one standing, one arm resting casually on his leather chair, his back to the glass-walled exterior. His smug expression told a different story from his counterparts around the table.
You knew we were coming. Amos glared at the Councilor as the implications sank in. Mateo works for you. The two of you set this whole thing up.
Mateo stood beside Amos, cradling a Hoarder weapon in his arms. He basked in the Councilor’s approval like a lizard on a warm rock. Amos’s contempt morphed into a fiery rage. He couldn’t even look at him.
His inner voice, once held at bay, was quick to jump into the fray. And yet, once upon a time, you trusted him. If only Trey could see you now. He’d be so proud.
Amos ground his teeth, furious at himself for letting his brother down—again.
“My fellow Council members.” The Councilor spoke for the first time. His voice reeked of Hoarder arrogance. “This is truly an auspicious occasion. We are gathered, the surviving remnant of the Council, to inaugurate a new era of peace and security in the Enclave.”
Several of his comrades eyed him with suspicion. Others continued to stare, with a mixture of curiosity and repugnance, at the four prisoners kneeling on the lavish carpet. Little wonder—their faces had been broadcast on the Infomedia all day long, in an infinite loop.
The Councilor left his chosen post, circling around the table to stand before the Runners. He clasped his hands behind his back, clearly enjoying himself. He eyed each of them with equal contempt, and then spoke to Mateo.
“Just as you promised, Mr. Reyes.” He smiled—a gracious despot praising his underling. “You’ve earned your place in the Citadel. The Givers will be pleased.”
Mateo bowed slightly from the neck. “It is my privilege, Councilor Sterne. The Givers are as wise as they are generous.”
Amos felt a nudge from Jane, elbow to elbow. He glanced at her, and she pointed with her chin at the rest of the Council.
The mere mention of the Givers produced a noticeable effect on the people seated around the table. Several exchanged uneasy looks, while others rose to their feet—half-eager, half-wary. The spike in tension was unmistakable.
Amos felt a new surge of fury as he spied a familiar figure at the far end of the table. Darcy was one of the first to leap to his feet, but unlike the others, his face was distorted by loathing and contempt.
Not just for the captured savages. Amos knew without being told. For Mateo, and the Givers he’s betrayed us to.
The door behind Amos opened, and Logan entered, taking a position beside Garr. Sterne paid him scant attention, beyond a curt nod, and then stepped back with a magnanimous gesture to Mateo.
“Come, my friend, step forward and be recognized.” He retreated to the middle of the conference room, standing before a dull black wall. Lightning flashed outside the windows, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He appeared to be waiting, his attention solely focused on the rough-textured black wall. The remaining Councilors got to their feet, their apprehension clear.
Mateo glanced at his kneeling prisoners, his head cocked to one side. “I bid you all a good journey.”
Amos spat at him.
Seventy-Seven
MATEO STALKED AWAY from the Runners, joining Councilor Sterne in the center of the conference room.
A low mechanical rumbling filled the room. A thin crack appeared in the black wall’s textured surface, running in a straight line from floor to ceiling. A flickering greenish glow emanated from the crack as it expanded, bathing the Councilor in its eerie light.
Councilor Sterne savored the emotions swirling in the room around him—the anticipation, the curiosity, and the fear. The fear was the strongest.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his colleagues slink away, escaping through the nearest door into the medical facility. He took note of the coward’s identity.
Darcy Peterson, the smooth-talking hothead. He’d always underestimated the political power which came from aligning with the Givers.
He won’t get far. Peace Wardens are stationed at every exit. The Councilor banished him from his thoughts.
Ethan, his loyal aide, came to stand beside him. Sterne smiled, reveling in his young assistant’s adulation.
At the other end of the room, the prisoners watched in stunned silence, spellbound. Logan took an involuntary step forward, his face alight with eager anticipation.
The mechanical rumbling continued, louder than before. The dull black wall separated into two halves, the thin crack swiftly morphing into a gaping crevice.
A droning vibration filled the air, and Sterne felt the static electricity tingling on his skin. He squinted, resisting the urge to raise a hand to shield his eyes. Green-tinged light, crackling with spidery bolts of energy, cast a sickly pallor over the room.
The Givers were coming out.
Seventy-Eight
CONNOR CLEARED THE last step to the landing at the top of the stairs. He braced one hand, palm flattened, against the door while he entered the codes. The keypad blinked once in response, and the door to the medical facility opened.
He stepped aside to allow Don to enter. Aubrey followed, but halted just inside the door, barred by Don’s out-flung arm. She stared past him, her heart pounding in her ears. She heard Connor’s sharp intake of breath behind her.
She felt dizzy, and clutched at Don’s arm for support. What’s he doing here? I’m not ready to face him.
Darcy stood beside an operating table, frozen in place. His eyes widened in shock at their unexpected appearance. Time slowed to a crawl.
Darcy’s face contorted in fury, and he lifted the device in his hand, fingers stabbing at it with manic precision.
“The controller.” Connor’s hoarse voice jarred Aubrey out of her paralysis. “He’s programming the names . . .”
Crack!
A dark object struck Darcy full in the face, and blood erupted in a bright fountain of red. He staggered backward, clutching blindly at his face. His other hand tightened on the controller, clasping it against his chest.
The dark object clattered to the floor, landing at Darcy’s feet. Jane’s handgun. Aubrey gasped, belatedly realizing what she’d done. Don rushed forward, diving for the weapon.
Darcy pounced, snatching the gun away from Don’s grasping fingers. He took two quick steps back, pointing the pistol at his would-be assailant. A wide smile creased his face. Don rose to his hands and knees, meeting Darcy’s malignant gaze eye-to-eye, defiant to the end.
The Hoarder’s eyes were wild, feral. Blood streamed from his shattered cheekbone, flowing freely over his gloating sneer. He stood above Don, gun in one hand and the controller in the other.
Megan vaulted over the operating table, catching Darcy unaware. He whipped the pistol toward her, but she caught his wrist in both hands. His eyes widened when he saw her face. She wrenched the pistol up and back, twisting savagely.
Darcy yelped in pain, dropping the controller in his frantic attempt to free himself from Megan’s fierce grip.
Don launched himself from the floor, driving a massive shoulder into Darcy’s midsection. Darcy’s eyes bulged as the breath was driven from his body. Don’s momentum knocked him off-balance, and they crashed heavily to the floor.
Megan managed to twist away, tearing the weapon out of Darcy’s grasp. Connor lunged forward to join the fray, scooping up the controller.
Megan tossed the pistol out of reach, scrambling back to the operating table. “Don—bring him here!”
Don dragged Darcy’s limp body up from the floor and slammed him over the table. Darcy struggled, but Don held the Hoarder down, one hand at his throat.
Aubrey skidded to her knees on the floor, retrieving the pistol. Megan circled the operating table, intent on a small contro
l panel. She gave Don a quick nod, her fingers poised. Don whipped his hands away as Megan jabbed at the controls.
A thin bead of light around the table’s edge glowed to life. Darcy was immobilized, pinned to the metallic surface.
An uncanny stillness settled over the room. The Runners surrounded the table, staring at the inventor of the Implants. Aubrey hovered near the foot of the table, spellbound.
Megan leaned on the edge of the table, supporting her weight with both hands as she studied Darcy’s bloody face. His pale eyes lost their icy confidence as she hovered over him, expressionless. It was plain to everyone—he recognized her.
Megan slid her eye patch aside, revealing the ruined eye socket beneath. “Do you remember the last words you said to me, Councilor? The last human voice I heard before the Givers turned me into a Tracker?”
Darcy said nothing. His gasps for air were ragged, and his terror-filled eyes spoke volumes. Aubrey felt neither pity nor satisfaction. She was numb.
Megan leaned closer, until their face were only a hands-breadth apart. “You said ‘will somebody please shut her up.’ Remember?” Her question became an accusation.
She straightened, easing her eyepatch into place. When she spoke, her voice was low and filled with revulsion. “The Givers may be aliens, but that doesn’t make you human.”
She backed away, revealing Connor standing behind her. He stared down at his foster father as if seeing the face of a stranger. He held the controller aloft, where Darcy could get a good look at it.
Without a word, he slammed the digital device on the table, next to Darcy’s head. The controller splintered against the table’s unyielding surface. Stray bits of plastic shrapnel peppered Darcy’s face.
Connor dropped what remained of the device to the floor and stamped it repeatedly under the heel of his boot.