Biome

by Ryan Galloway

  Dosset absently reaches over and presses a button on one of the consoles. The giant screens blink back to life with a feed of the colony. “There was no sign of her?” he guesses.

  “Um, no. There was not.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Dosset says.

  Mercer frowns, his forehead wrinkling like a walnut.

  “You’re not.”

  “No,” replies Dosset with a chuckle. “To be honest, I don’t believe she ever left the colony in the first place.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “She did the same thing I do, Andrew. She anticipated our move, then made her own. I’m impressed at how quickly she has acclimated to the memories. But if I had to guess, I’d say the longer she goes on like this, the more calculated she’ll become.”

  “Then… what can we do to stop her?”

  In the flickering light of the screen, I see an eerie smile cross Dosset’s face. He reminds me of a wolf again. The thought makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

  “Consider more drastic measures,” he says. “Though, as always, we must exercise strict caution. We cannot afford a panic. More than anything else, our primary concern is keeping the cadets in good health mentally, emotionally, and physically.”

  The projection distorts as Mercer tilts his head, revealing a film of sweat on his brow.

  “What do you plan to tell the others?” he asks haltingly. “About Aster?”

  “Nothing at the moment. I’m afraid information like this will only confuse them.” Dosset turns his back on the hologram. “Why don’t you come up to the Bridge when you’re finished? We’ll have a proper debriefing.”

  “Understood.”

  The hologram disappears and I slink back into my hiding place. As Dosset shuffles past me, I hold my breath. Then he’s gone.

  As soon as I’m alone the sobs come. The fear, the dread, the horror of the moment is a vise on my chest, and I can’t catch my breath. Anyone could walk in and find me. But right now it doesn’t seem to matter. My hands tremble as I hold them over my mouth, telling myself it will be okay, willing it to be okay. Forcing myself to believe it.

  The gasping eases at length, and I finally begin to breathe normally again, icy sweat shrouding me in a crystalline shell. I’m severely tempted to turn back now. To tell the others what I’ve learned before I’m silenced like the cadets in cryonics.

  But I can’t. The news about Aster only makes our mission that much more important. More than ever, we need Atkinson’s help to bring down Dosset.

  So, against my better judgment—against every fiber in my body—I wriggle out from under the desk and continue with the plan.

  Locating a port isn’t difficult. By the time I’m tucking the splicer back into my pocket, a doctor has returned to keep watch over the surveillance feed. I crouch between the rows of servers for a good fifteen minutes, waiting for him to settle. Then I dart out into the sloping hallway, not risking a backward glance.

  Where are they keeping Atkinson? I have no idea. We’d been so sure he was in cryonics, we didn’t even discuss an alternative. But at this rate, I could end up checking every room in the Helix.

  Not that I have a better plan. So I keep trudging up the curve until I reach a new door, this one labeled Sick Bay.

  I almost decide to keep going, but a memory gives me pause. Something in Noah’s head about the risks of sedating trauma patients. If Atkinson was injured, the doctors might be waiting until he’s stable before they put him into cryosleep.

  Really, it can’t hurt to look. I’ve got no other leads and no other ideas.

  As I push through the door, I know at once that the Sick Bay is no longer being used for patients. The beds have all been replaced by tables spread with beakers, burners, and trays of an electric blue powder. Doctors bend over the various pieces of equipment, everyone wearing a surgical mask.

  Rather than hide, my instinct is now to flee. But I’ve only just stepped into the room, and a sudden move like that will surely draw attention. Instead, I turn my back to the doctors, digging my own mask out of my pocket and slipping it over my ears. My hands occupy themselves with a rack of test tubes as I watch the white figures through a reflection in the cabinetry.

  No one speaks. They seem fixated on their work, checking this and weighing that. What are they doing? I half wonder. But my curiosity is swiftly buckling under the weight of my nerves. Trying to act natural, I risk a move toward the door. But then my eye catches on the end of the nearest table, where the product of their work is amassing on small plastic trays—inoculators, the drug funneled into a tiny reservoir. At once I know what they’re making.

  Verced.

  After seeing how useful the drug can be, I yearn to grab one. Or maybe ten. Because I’m painfully aware of how vulnerable I am, outnumbered and unarmed. Verced is a way to defend myself without just running away. But to steal them, I’ll need to get very close to the doctors.

  Paralyzed with indecision, I face the door, lingering. At any moment they could notice me and demand to know who I am, why I’m here. Yet I find myself edging back to the table anyway, my face still turned. I scoop up one, then two of the small tubes.

  “Carver,” says a voice. “Do you have that backlog?”

  I freeze, certain the question is intended for me. But I compel my knees to bend, stiffly obeying the only impulse that seems to be firing in my brain:

  Run away. Run away.

  “Hey—Carver!”

  But I don’t stop, because I now recognize Meng’s curt tone. As soon as I’m out the door I take off at a trot, no longer able to make myself move at a walking pace.

  Stupid. It was so stupid to steal the Verced. If I could’ve just found Atkinson, I might not have even needed it. Now I’m going to have the entire Helix hunting for me, as soon as they realize they’ve got an intruder—which won’t take very long.

  I’ve only just started down the spiral when voices echo up at me, urgent and thin. I spin and dash back up the curve, past the Sick Bay and onto a new level of the Helix. Here, the glass terrarium is capped off by a hallway of uniform doors. Breath short, hands trembling, I pick one at random and pull the handle.

  Locked.

  The voices behind me are growing louder. Footsteps picking up speed. I see a door at the end of the hall, ajar. My legs propel me forward and I reach it, swinging the door closed as quiet as a whisper.

  Inside is some kind of atrium, bare except for an empty desk. There are three rooms that split off from here—two appear empty, their windows dim. The third has a light on. I choose one of the darkened rooms.

  There I hover in the shadows, waiting. Through the wall I hear the atrium door opening, footsteps stepping through, and I know that any second they’ll find me here. Any moment they’ll crash into the room and drag me away, kicking and screaming.

  But they don’t.

  When enough time has passed for me to realize I’ve actually eluded my pursuers, I can’t believe it. But my relief wavers as I look around and see that the only way out of this room is the way I came in.

  Peering through the window, I see that a familiar doctor has taken up his post at the desk. McCallum. He sips a cup slowly, reading something on his tablet.

  I lean against the door and ball my fists, trying desperately to remain calm. It feels as if I’m trapped in the coffin-cart all over again. The surgical mask is making it hard to breathe, so I rip it from my face.

  But I haven’t even recognized the room yet, because it’s so dim. Slowly my eyes adjust, and it dawns on me:

  This is the interrogation room. This is where Dosset and Shiffrin cornered me, asking the questions that would chart the memories for my first Revision. A long metal table. Cold, sterile air that smells of rubbing alcohol. Nameless tools suspended on twisted arms hanging stiffly around the chamber.

  I think about the other two rooms that connect to the atrium.

  The one that was occupied.

  Could Atkinson be lo
cked in there? The doctors captured him almost four days ago. Surely Dosset would’ve extracted any valuable information from him by now. What logical reason could they have to keep interrogating him?

  Not that logic has played much into Dosset’s recent decisions.

  Whatever the case, I’m not going anywhere until McCallum leaves. I take a deep breath and prepare myself to wait.

  And wait…

  And wait.

  Time crawls. No voices announce the hour. Judging by my hunger, I’m stuck in the room until long past lunch. Maybe even dinner. McCallum doesn’t budge, though at one point another doctor brings him food.

  Hollow aches come and go, rumbling up through my abdomen. And again, dehydration sets in. Every time I stand up to stretch, black spots dance across my vision. I eventually end up sitting cross-legged under the table to conserve energy, and to keep hidden in case anyone enters suddenly.

  Part of me wishes I knew how late it is. Another part is thankful I don’t. At least this way I can’t listen to the hours dwindle by. I wonder if this is how it feels to grow old. Knowing that time is still passing but you’re no longer a part of it. Weak and forgotten by the ones you loved.

  “Getting pretty grim, Liz,” I mutter to myself, shivering. “Think happy thoughts. Ones that don’t involve food.”

  Finally, I hear movement outside the door. When I scramble to the window, I just catch sight of McCallum as he exits the room, two other doctors on his heels.

  Am I alone now? I can’t be entirely sure. But if I’m going to make it out alive, I have a feeling that this is my chance.

  After tiptoeing out of the interrogation chamber, I hesitate, staring at the window that’s still lit.

  What waits behind this door? For some reason, the same dread that settled on me in cryonics has returned. Could it really be Atkinson? Or am I about to come face to face with yet another secret—one even darker than before?

  Bracing myself for another run, I close shaky fingers around the handle and pull.

  Chapter Eleven

  The room is the same as the first, though this one is thick with the smell of sweat, urine, and the sour hint of blood. And seated on the other side of the table, a man with ragged brown hair, pale skin, and heavy bags under his eyes fixes me with a bloodshot gaze.

  There is only one man on the planet this can be. Even without Romie’s memories to confirm it, I simply know.

  “You must be Lizzy,” Atkinson says hoarsely.

  If I was tongue-tied before in the Verced lab, now I’m positively speechless. He looks as if he’s been awake for days. Tortured, maybe. Though I can’t understand why. If it’s information they’re after, couldn’t they just use a Stitch to extract it?

  “Doctor Atkinson.”

  My voice isn’t much more than a squeak, under the circumstances. I hurry across the room. His arms and legs have been tied down by synthetic straps. Bandages crisscross his forearms, covering what… wounds?

  The sight reminds me unpleasantly of the way I restrained Terra.

  “Can you get me out of here?” He’s growing frantic. “They could be back any moment.”

  “I’ll try,” I promise. The weight of the Verced in my pocket is reassuring at least. “Are you able to walk?”

  “I’ll try,” he echoes.

  I smile, but he doesn’t return the gesture.

  With the straps free, he’s able to lean forward and stagger to his feet, but he leans on me heavily. I wish I hadn’t removed the surgical mask. His acrid stench makes bile climb into the back of my throat. What have they been doing to him?

  Together we manage to reach the door, though we’re both perspiring by the time we do. Ignoring the smell and dizziness, I peer through the window. Still no sign of the doctors. But if we really hope to get out of here, I’ll need the cart I left back in cryonics. He’ll never reach the exit in his current state.

  “Can you wait here?” I ask him, digging the surgical mask out of my pocket.

  His eyes widen in terror.

  “We need to leave,” he tells me. “Now!”

  “Not so loud,” I say, trying to use the soothing voice that Chloe is so good at.

  This isn’t at all what I’d expected, a trauma victim on the verge of a breakdown. But then, none of this is what I expected. I notice the dilation of his eyes, the way he keeps twitching and jumping at small noises, and realize there’s no chance of leaving him alone. He’ll just follow me anyway, or wander off and get caught.

  “Come on,” I tell him reluctantly. “We’ll just have to go quick, all right?”

  He nods.

  “We need to leave,” he says.

  “I know.”

  We start forward, me pulling him along, him groaning with every step. He moves like a creaky old man, as if his joints are made of wood. Fortunately, we only have to move down the spiral, which is much easier than going up. We make it past the converted Sick Bay and Comm Room. I start to believe we might actually make it.

  “There,” he huffs, pointing a finger.

  I look up as a silver door comes into view at the bottom of the slope, a thumbprint reader beside it. Just a dozen more meters and we’re free.

  “Hang in there,” I say.

  No response now, just heavy breathing. He reaches out a hand as we near, scanning his thumb over the glossy surface. Green lights flash and the door clicks.

  If they didn’t know he’d escaped his room before, they do now.

  We lumber down the short hallway and around the Wheel, then enter the access point to the Xeri domes. This is where Terra was supposed to meet us. But there’s no sign of her. In fact, there’s no sign of anyone.

  Atkinson is practically heaving.

  “We need to leave,” he says in a slurred voice.

  “One second,” I say, glancing at his shaky hands and pasty skin. Now that I’ve recovered from my initial surprise, it’s easy to recognize the signs of dehydration. He needs water before anything else. I know there’s a bottle in Noah’s pod, but I don’t think Atkinson will make it that far. The Xeri kitchen is much closer.

  And yet the kitchen is so exposed. Anyone could just walk in and catch us.

  I’m too weary to linger but too fatigued to choose. Then all at once the overheads click off and my decision is made for me.

  “This way.”

  We stagger onward, following green runners along the path. Is it power down already? I was in the interrogation room longer than I thought.

  In a way, this has worked in my favor. The shadows will help shield us from the cameras, and with the hallways empty, we should be able to stick to the walls and mostly avoid their gaze.

  Then as we enter the kitchen I hear them—footfalls—echoing all around us. My heart is in my throat before I realize that the noise is just Atkinson’s heavy steps bouncing off the flat metal cabinetry. He’s still gasping for breath. I drag him to a water station and, since I don’t have a water bottle, fill a small saucepan to use as a cup.

  Half of the first panful goes down the front of his lab coat, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. The next one is better. After four pans he leans back and wipes his mouth with his hand, now a little steadier, the frantic gleam in his eye a bit diminished.

  While he hiccups, I fill a fresh pan and slake my own thirst. By the time I’m done, I’m so full that the liquid sloshes around my stomach like a wave pool.

  “How are you feeling?” I say, turning my attention back to Atkinson.

  He squints at me in the gloom.

  “You’re Lizzy?”

  I nod.

  “Lizzy Engram?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m Lizzy.”

  He blinks at me as if he’s confused.

  “What happened, doctor?” I ask hesitantly, unable to help myself. “What did they do to you back there?”

  I immediately regret the question. From the way he reacts, the words are like a trigger. He begins to quiver, scratching his fingernails over the bandages on his forearms
as if whatever lies beneath has begun to itch uncontrollably.

  “My memories,” he says. “He took my… my memories.”

  I feel a coldness begin in my toes and work upward through my body. A suspicion I don’t want confirmed. But I have to know.

  “You mean Dosset?” When he nods, I ask, “Which memories? Which ones did he take?”

  “All of them,” he whispers. “One by one. He asked me questions and… I tried not to, but he made me think about them. About everything. My family, my… my son.” His face crumples and his lips tremble. “I think he was my son. My child. But I… I can’t remember. Not his name, not his face.” He fixes me with a gaze so full of agony, I have to look away. “He told me I stole the Memory Bank and gave it to you. Is that true?”

  His words are almost an accusation. As if I forced him to steal the bank against his will. And then their meaning sinks in and I realize how foolish I’ve been.

  Dosset would never have taken the risk that Atkinson might somehow escape. Not when he had me on the loose with a conceivable plan to overthrow the system. Isn’t that basically what Dosset told the others in the airlock? Let’s have no more talk about Atkinson. Because Atkinson no longer exists.

  When they discover him missing they’ll probably laugh. And what a joke it is, my thinking I could outwit these doctors who have so fully controlled us. They’re likely on their way to collect us right now.

  I glance at the door apprehensively, but it remains closed.

  His next words take me by surprise.

  “It was the Verced, I think. The drug we use to sedate our cadets. It produces retrograde amnesia. Do you know what that means?” Before I can answer, he explains, “It means it erases your short-term memory. Everything from the past few hours. Apparently, I took two doses when they captured me. As a result, I almost didn’t wake up… and when I did, I no longer recalled anything about that night.”

  He scratches harder and a bandage comes loose, revealing jagged scabs where his fingernails have torn zig-zag lines in his skin. Two begin to bleed.

  “Dosset has been encouraging me to think down the same neuron pathways I did when I stole the memories,” he continues. “To imagine what I must have thought the first time—to reformulate the plan, to recreate the lost memories. As if, given enough time, my brain will produce the same result as before. But… it won’t. It just won’t.”