Sleep, I think, and I file away everything else and bury it deep in my mind.
Within moments, though, I sense someone in front of me. I don’t open my eyes. That someone remains anyway, and then makes the mistake of touching my shoulder. My hand darts forward, grabbing a bony elbow in the same instant my eyes flash open.
They meet the shocked face of a woman who looks like she may be a bit younger than Angie. I recognize her from the earlier introductions; she is the only one of the four whose appearance I somewhat bothered with committing to memory—mostly because she is hard to ignore, since she’s so . . . bright. Silvery-blue shadow dusts her eyelids, and the only thing demanding more attention than that is her hair, which is equal parts vivid purple and a pale blond that’s been bleached recently enough that I can still smell it. There’s a small ring hooked into her pink-stained lips, which part slowly, uncertainly, as I stare at her.
I notice the others have risen to their feet, and then I realize how tight my grip on her arm still is.
I let go.
She keeps staring at me.
“Can I help you with something? . . .” I trail off, realizing I don’t have a name to address her with. I search my mind for one, knowing that my brain likely heard and stored it even if I wasn’t paying full attention earlier. She answers me before I find it, though.
“Leah,” she supplies, relaxing and suddenly looking much more cheerful and confident than the rest of her companions. “It’s Leah, and no, not really anything in particular, I guess. I was just hoping you might talk to us.”
The way she watches me reminds me of the way the president did when I first woke up, though Leah’s eyes are a bit kinder; it’s the same, intensely interested gaze of a scientist waiting to see how an experiment plays out. I consider lashing out at her again—and I think she must anticipate that, because she draws back a bit—but in the end I decide she isn’t worth the effort, and I let my attention drift instead to the computer screen nearby.
Now that I’ve let go of Leah’s arm, the other two in the room have gone back to this screen and huddled around it, same as they were when I walked into the room and interrupted them.
“I’m assuming you weren’t paying attention to anyone else’s introductions either,” Leah says. She refuses to let me ignore her as thoroughly as I want to, stepping back into my line of vision as she points to the curly-haired woman seated at the computer. “So, that’s Tori, who’s sort of our security specialist and the reason we can call this a ‘safe’ house. And next to her is James.” At the sound of his name, the man glances over and gives me a cautious sort of half wave, but his eyes are drawn almost instantly back to the screen.
Partly because I’m curious about what’s on that screen, but mostly because Leah is still much too close and I need to move, I get up and wander toward James and Tori. My gaze fixes on the computer between them.
It’s a newscast being streamed, and I realize immediately why they’re both having a hard time looking away from it: because the headline scrolling along the bottom reads CLONES MISSING: SUSPECTED CCA INVOLVEMENT, and behind the live reporter is a small brick building that serves as a CCA meetinghouse—one of the many public spaces the group has scattered throughout the city, mostly to help distract people from its actual headquarters. Nothing terribly important actually happens in any of the buildings like this, but it gives reporters like this one something to focus their cameras on.
The reporter cites her source for her story—a Huxley representative—and it makes Tori sigh. “Of course Huxley ran straight to the news with this,” she says. “Like they’re perfectly innocent in this or something. I mean, I’m assuming that the CCA did have something to do with the disappearances, but how much do you want to bet that it was Huxley, again, who sent those clones to mess with the CCA in the first place?”
“But why?” I meant only to listen and observe, but suddenly I find myself glancing between Tori and James, anxious to understand. Tori shivers a little at the sound of my voice, and her gaze slides away the same way I’ve seen so many others do, so often: as if looking at me might strike her with some sort of curse.
Though maybe, for her, I am a curse, or a reminder, at least, of all those cursed things she worked on at Huxley. One she would rather not look at.
James is a little braver. He meets my eyes, but his expression is strange, like he doesn’t think I have any reason to be asking questions. “Because this is basically just part two of the same story that played out at the CCA headquarters a few nights ago, isn’t it?” he says. “More clones directly targeting the CCA’s operations. And all of them for the same reason, most likely—at least based on what Seth has told us about the things happening within that organization.”
“And that reason is because . . . ?”
“Because they see an opportunity.” There is a hint of impatience in his voice, I think, as he tries to keep watching the newscast.
I ignore it.
“The CCA is dividing,” he reluctantly continues as I step between him and the computer. “Weakening, and Huxley just wants to take the time to make sure it breaks completely. So they send clones to cause a bigger mess of things there, and throughout the rest of the CCA’s operations in the city, and then they do things like tipping off this reporter”—he nods to the screen—“to get the public rallying against them too. Because believe it or not, there are still people in the city who are skeptical about Huxley being the bad guys, and they think the CCA is fabricating most of the horrors and rumors you’ll hear about them.”
“Though to be fair,” Leah chimes in, crossing the room to join us, “the CCA has done plenty of that in the past.”
“Personally, I think the world would be better off without either group,” Tori mumbles, her wide eyes still fixed, unblinking, on the screen.
Leah chews on her lip ring, but says nothing.
“Maybe,” James says. “Bottom line, though, is that said world doesn’t really know all the facts about either of these organizations. And the Huxley people are using that to their advantage, trying to get some sympathy on their side.”
“And you think they’re managing it?” I ask.
“Well, they’ve managed to make this reporter sound plenty biased, at least,” he says. “Because, sure, the missing ones are clones, but they also belonged to families in the city.”
“ ‘Belonged’? . . .” The word lodges itself in my brain.
Belonged, as in the way property belongs to a person?
Or as in the way important pieces fit as part of a whole?
Could it ever truly be the latter?
“Yeah,” he says. “And playing that up is probably stirring up people on both sides of the cloning debate. It’s good for their ratings, I imagine.”
The four of us fall silent then, and we stay that way until the newscast draws to a close. Then James turns to me again. “So, you fared better than most clones at the CCA at least, huh?”
“You could say that,” I reply, though what I am thinking is that I was only a tool there—almost certainly in the property category—and I don’t know if that is any better at all. Huxley may not have been able to control me, but the president managed to, and even now, it still doesn’t feel as if I am in control of myself. I don’t know how I got here. Why I am breathing the same air as these three, or why they are staring at me like they expect answers, some sort of insight into the CCA or cloning that I don’t have. I am as clueless as the rest of the city when it comes to the truth about these things. It doesn’t seem fair, to be caught in the middle, squeezed so tightly between these two organizations that each had a hand in my creation, and still not be able to find meaning in either of them.
Maybe monsters aren’t meant to have meaning.
I can hear the voices of Josh and his gang. I can see their faces in my mind, lips twisting around the word “monster.” And then, as if I needed another reminder that control is a luxury I don’t have, that buzzing begins in the back
of my brain. It floods warmth forward, a burning that shakes my vision and makes me feel clumsier than usual as I take a step away from the others.
“What’s wrong?” I hear Leah ask.
I’m too busy focusing on moving my fingers, one by one to the count of ten, to answer her.
“I only asked you a simple question,” James says. I shake my head but don’t look at him, not trusting myself to take that focus off my fingers. But for some reason he sees that as a challenge, and keeps pushing me. “Sensitive, aren’t we?” he says darkly. “Still missing your friends back at the CCA?”
I manage to laugh at his assumption.
It is the only response I give him though, and he doesn’t seem to understand why I find him so amusing. And as it so often does with humans, that lack of understanding just makes him angry. Even without looking at him, I can feel the waves of that anger rolling off him as he asks, “Why are we sure we can trust her to be here, anyway?”
My eyes flash his direction, and my hands go still.
“She’s not the same as Seth,” he says, skipping right over me to exchange a look with the other two. “Angie was responsible for his programming, at least.”
“Leave her alone, James.” It takes me a moment to break through the buzzing and realize that this small, uneasy voice belongs to Tori.
“All I’m saying is that we don’t know what Cross has done with this one,” James continues, ignoring her. “She could be dangerous.”
“Could be?” The challenge slides out with a small smile before I can stop it, and I would be lying if I said some part of me didn’t enjoy the way it makes him shrink away from me just the tiniest bit.
If I can’t entirely control myself, I think, at least I can control this much of others.
I remember Seth’s words from earlier, though—his lack of faith in my ability to not turn violent in his absence—and for whatever reason, I want to prove him wrong. So I close my eyes and force a deep breath. Over and over I force myself to breathe, even as James continues to talk, and I do everything I can to ignore his words, because I realize by now that he has nothing good to say.
He is loud, though.
And Tori’s voice is quiet in response, but the fear in her words—fear of me and what I might do—is still deafening, and I know that nothing I could ever do would completely silence it, and the thought of that makes me want to run away from them all.
At least until I remember, again, that I have nowhere to run to.
My head is caving in, splitting right between my eyes and collapsing into that violent sea of droning noise. I feel trapped, cornered, because I can’t fight these people, and like it so often does when I start to feel this way, my mind begins to flicker to black.
Back away. The words claw desperately to be heard between flashes of darkness. Back away, before you do something you regret. Something you won’t even remember.
I see Leah step toward me. Her lips are moving, but there is no sound coming out. Her hand reaches for my arm, but there is no sensation of touch. She must be holding me back, though, because when my eyes find the door to outside, and I try moving toward it, I get nowhere.
Nowhere.
Nowhere to go, and everything is turning black, black, black—
• • •
When the light comes back, I am lying on the ground. Leah crouches down beside me a moment later.
“Well, that isn’t normal,” she says.
Her face is just inches away, and my muscles coil in response to her nearness, and they spring me to my feet and push me away without any conscious thought. My back slams into the nearby sofa. I grapple behind me for the sofa’s edge—for something solid to grab hold of—and glaring at Leah, I say, “Not much about me is normal.”
“I know,” she replies, not moving from her crouched position. “But I mean, what exactly happened to you just now? Your eyes looked strange, and then it was like you were fighting with yourself, and then you just sort of . . . collapsed.”
I scan the floor around us. No flecks of blood this time. But then, I hadn’t been thinking of hitting Leah—the person closest to me—before my consciousness slipped completely, so perhaps that’s why.
I still shake my head at her questioning gaze though. “I don’t know what happened, exactly,” I say. “I . . . I black out sometimes.”
“Sometimes? Like how often is sometimes?”
Too often, I think, but I don’t want to admit that out loud, so I just stare at a knot in the wood floor instead.
“It happens when you get upset, when you feel threatened, that sort of thing, maybe?” My eyes jump back to her, but I still don’t answer. It doesn’t matter, though, because she already realizes she’s right. “I can fix it,” she says.
“Fix it?”
“It sounds like something is off with the prefrontal cortex controller. And god knows what else—several of the CCA used to work at Huxley, yeah, but it’s not like first-rate cerebral programmers were a dime a dozen. And I feel like this should probably be obvious, even to you, but human brains aren’t exactly simple to replicate. I know President Cross’s background, and I have an idea of who she has working for her, and I have to say: I’m sort of surprised you’re as functional as you are. No offense.”
There is a hint of arrogance in her tone, enough that I could see Catelyn not liking this woman, but overconfidence doesn’t especially bother me. I almost like her better for it. “I’m assuming you consider yourself one of these top-rate programmers, then?”
She smiles. “I learned from the best. The ‘best’ being Angie, if you were wondering.”
“But Angie didn’t say anything about fixing it before,” I say. “The other night, when Seth brought me to her, she checked everything out in there—wouldn’t she have noticed if something was wrong with this . . . controller thing?”
“Probably?” She stands, walks over, and offers me her hand. I don’t take it, but I do rise to my feet and meet her gaze as she adds, “But I also doubt she would have wanted to touch it if she had. Angie’s sort of sworn off messing with that sort of thing since she left Huxley. She may have checked you out to make sure nothing was critically malfunctioning, probably as a favor to Seth, but I doubt you could talk her into making any real changes in your programming.”
“But you would make those changes?”
“Only if you want me to. No sense in letting my talents go to waste, right?”
I’m still skeptical, but some of the tension seems to be rolling out of my shoulders on its own, even as I ask, “Why should I trust you?”
She shrugs. “You don’t have to,” she says. “Just thought I’d offer.” And with that, she turns and starts to walk away.
I feel the word “wait” rising in my throat, but I manage to swallow it. At least at first. Because at first, I am the same me from six months ago, still hesitant, distrustful of everything in the room, and even more loath to accept help from anyone—much less someone I’ve only just met.
Because what will I owe her if she helps me?
What will she expect from me then?
But then all of a sudden I realize: I am not exactly the same, am I? There is something bigger than that loathing inside me now. There is a desperate need for something like control, and a realization that I may have to rely on someone else if I am going to achieve it.
So I find my voice. I make Leah stop. And when she turns back to me, and she explains what we have to do to fix me, I hesitate only for a moment before nodding and agreeing to let her try.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Seth keeps his promise. It is almost a full day before he comes back—accompanied by only Angie now—and one of the first things he does is pull me aside and hand me a small computer.
“I brought this back from the warehouse. It’s been rigged to be untraceable, and you can use the Connections application on it to create a straight feed to Catelyn’s communicator. You remember her number?”
“I never forget nu
mbers. Or anything else, really.”
“Right. Computer-brain and all.”
“Just like yours.”
Or, something like his, at least. I still don’t know—and maybe don’t want to admit—exactly how alike we are. I imagine we’re becoming more similar, though, now that Leah has had a hand in programming my brain, same as her mentor programmed Seth. I suppose it remains to be seen whether or not she did as seamless a job as Angie did; it’s something I had been trying to figure out a way of properly testing, up until the moment Seth reappeared.
“So you remember, then,” he says, “what I said about not telling Catelyn anything that’s happened?”
“All I want her to know is that I’m alive.”
“Right.” He still looks less confident than usual as he guides me into one of the three small rooms off the house’s main living area.
“Are you planning on hovering over me the entire time I make this call?” I ask.
“Why do you think I wanted you to wait until I got back for this?”
“You really trust me that little?”
“I really do.”
It takes him a minute, but soon he has everything configured, and a video player with a green connecting bar pops up on the computer’s screen. It flashes three times before Catelyn’s face appears in the player.
“Oh my god. Violet!” She moves closer to the camera, squinting, like she can’t believe she is seeing me. “Where are you? What’s going on? And what are you calling from? What happened to your communicator?”
“Long story.” My mouth is oddly dry all of a sudden. I expected her barrage of questions but not this difficulty I would feel when facing them. There is so much I can’t tell her, but I didn’t think I would care about that. Now that I see her, though, not being able to tell her everything is somehow causing an actual, physical aching in my chest.
“Violet? Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I force a smile and a nod. “That’s why I wanted to call you. Just so you could see for yourself, so you wouldn’t do anything stupid like trying to come find me.”
Into the Abyss Page 12