MILA 2.0: Redemption

by Debra Driza

  Why these kids? Why Grassi? Why Sarah?

  Those questions still plagued me. But I did have one answer, or the beginning of an answer.

  Holland had lured these exceptional students to Montford with the Watson Grants. But their scholarships came with a steep price. Along with regular classes, they had to go through high-tech military training, and why was that? It had to be because he was molding the grant kids into some kind of new and deadly soldier.

  What war would they be fighting? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. But we’d have to find the answers before we left this campus. It was the only way to save this group of kids. We owed that much to Sarah.

  You safe?

  I texted Hunter, Abby, and Samuel.

  The responses blipped in, one after another:

  All clear, from Abby

  10-4, from Hunter

  If I don’t die from this agonizing side cramp, then yes, from Samuel. But that was way too close for comfort.

  That was scary, from Abby. Are you going to tell us what the hell was going on back there?

  For an instant, confusion clouded my brain. Then I realized. She couldn’t see—not the way I could. None of them had the luxury of my android sensors.

  I told them what I’d witnessed. I told them what I’d made of it.

  For several seconds, there were no responses. I wondered if the texting app had malfunctioned. As I prepared to run a check, Samuel replied.

  As horrifying as that is, at least it makes sense. I was starting to wonder if they were all on a bad mushroom trip.

  They would wait to hear from me before they did anything else.

  My next step was to check in with Lucas, and I was surprised when a second voice joined our conversation.

  It’s Daniel. Lucas is letting me use his audio connection. We’re both listening in. Tell us what happened.

  I started with our close call with Grassi, and Daniel responded.

  Is there any chance he saw you?

  He may have seen the bottoms of my legs and shoes. I ditched the shoes. The jeans could have belonged to anyone.

  Daniel muttered a curse.

  You know this means heightened security. I think we need to pull you out.

  I hesitated, but only for a second.

  No. We’ll just have to be extra cautious. We only have a day left at Montford. Even if they could track something down that led to us, it would take time. We’ll be gone by then.

  I don’t know, Mila. It sounds incredibly risky.

  It’s always been incredibly risky. Look at Lucas—he left his job with Holland’s company, and now Holland knows he’s missing. We have a good chance—possibly our only chance—to bring Holland down. To stop what he’s doing. To give those kids their lives back. We can’t give up now, not when we’re so close. What would Sarah want us to do?

  Silence greeted me. And then Daniel’s sigh of defeat.

  Tell us what you learned.

  I started from the beginning. The virtual-reality room. The testing. The scoring. The chips.

  I heard Daniel inhale sharply. Chips? You sure?

  I only saw Grassi using them to monitor the kids’ vital signs. But there’s no reason he couldn’t also use the chips to control them. Force them to act against their will. With those implants, the sky’s the limit.

  Daniel and Lucas both went silent. They knew as well as I did how dangerous a weapon these kids could be in Holland’s hands. He had planted a bomb inside me, and with it he could wreak terror wherever he chose—but only once. With total control over J.D. and Hannah, Ben and Claude and Sharon—trained fighters—he could do so much more. It could be so much worse.

  Lucas was mulling everything over. Here’s what I don’t get, he said. How did he get the chips in? Does Holland visit the school? And even if he does, he can’t be doing surgery. Surely someone would stop him.

  Daniel jumped in then. And why these kids? he said. They’re at Montford because they’re high achievers. Why would Holland want to control them? These kids can do so much on their own. Wouldn’t he choose more malleable victims?

  I thought back to what Hannah had told me. She didn’t apply for the Watson Grant—she was just chosen. Out of a clear blue sky. But why?

  It could be because she had developed amazing apps.

  Or it could be because there was something else in her background. Something we hadn’t noticed before. Or something we’d noticed . . . but ignored. Until now.

  My brain crunched the data on the grant kids. They were from different places. Different kinds of families. They had wildly different talents and personalities. But they had one thing in common.

  Hannah’s appendectomy scar.

  Ben’s femur pins.

  J.D.’s pain pills, left over from a concussion.

  My head began to pound a deep, throbbing beat as a fragile connection began to emerge.

  I need to speak to Daniel.

  A pause. Here.

  Was Sarah ever hospitalized? Before she got the grant offer?

  This time, the silence lasted five seconds. Yes. She had meningitis, a few weeks before her offer. She ended up staying three days. Why?

  Sorrow washed through me like a river, and I shut my eyes, giving myself a few seconds to grieve. This. This had been the beginning of the end for Sarah. I was almost sure.

  I told him about Hannah and Ben’s scars, and J.D.’s concussion.

  Let’s hack the hospitals in the cities where the grant kids lived, find their records. Look for evidence of tests that don’t belong.

  Because hospitals were the perfect place. All Holland would need were a couple of doctors under his thumb. Identify the kids, implant the chips while they were under anesthesia. When kids were sick, it was easy enough to keep them an extra day. Give them extra tests, just to be safe. Tests that weren’t tests at all . . . but secret procedures. The kids probably had no idea about their implants.

  I’ll take the research from here, I said. The more I thought about the implants, the more angry I felt.

  Daniel’s reply was swift.

  No! If there’s some kind of alarm on those files, we can’t have it coming back to Montford. It’s not safe. As a matter of fact, I still think you should all get out of there, first thing in the morning. We have enough information to go with for now.

  For a brief moment, I let the fantasy play out in my mind. I’d return to Lucas’s side and we’d leave Philadelphia. We’d find somewhere to hide. Another secluded mountain cabin, or maybe a tiny island, out in the middle of nowhere.

  We’d get away from the world. We’d get to be together.

  There was only one problem.

  We’d have to accept the fact that Holland was ruining the lives of countless other kids. He’d remain a free man, while I forever remained a prisoner to the bomb beneath my skin.

  As far as fantasies went, this one really sucked.

  We can’t let Holland get away with this.

  Fear scraped at Daniel’s voice. We can’t let Holland hurt you any more than he already has.

  Daniel was worried about me. And despite everything else, a glow ignited somewhere beneath my ribs, and I tucked it away for later.

  But for now I was arguing with my father.

  We need one more day. Give us time to look through Grassi’s office, talk to the kids a little more. We’ll leave by tonight, I promise. Even if we find nothing, just one more day.

  I could picture Daniel clenching his fists.

  Fine. But you’re leaving tonight, if I have to drag you out myself.

  A muffled burst of static, then Lucas came on.

  He’s too upset to talk. But he trusts you. I trust you. You’re almost there.

  I was pretty worried about Lucas, too. Holland knew he wasn’t sick—he knew that Lucas was lying. How long before he tracked him down? For all we knew, the cabin in the mountains was the first place he’d look.

  Anything else from Tim? I asked.

  I haven’t been a
ble to reach him, Lucas replied. It could be because he wants to be left alone, as usual. Or it could be because something’s wrong.

  I had no human siblings, but I knew there would be nothing like the pain of losing a brother.

  And I knew there was nothing I could say to comfort Lucas, though I longed to.

  Good luck with everything, I said.

  You too. Be safe. A hesitation, and then a soft Please.

  I will. See you tomorrow.

  Only one more day to right some terrible wrongs: for Sarah, for the grant kids, for Lucas, for Hunter, for me.

  NINETEEN

  Samuel and I waited in the cafeteria for the others. Something crashed to the ground behind us, and we both jumped.

  “Sorry,” said a student sheepishly, picking up the tray he’d dropped.

  Samuel released a tense breath. We were both on edge. Any loud sound was potentially Grassi or the dean, coming for us with questions about where we’d been last night, and why.

  And that was before Abby arrived with Celia and Sharon.

  Sharon walked with her usual athletic bounce, but I could see the telltale signs of fatigue in her puffy eyes, her waxy skin, her unbrushed hair. Now that we knew how she spent her nights, it wasn’t shocking that she was tired. It was shocking that she could play any sports at all.

  Celia, though, was another story. She wasn’t one of the grant kids—she was just their friend. She should have had a good night’s sleep. But here she was, her eyes rimmed pink, her shirt on inside out.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Celia when she sat down next to me.

  “I guess so. It’s just . . . Hannah’s gone.”

  Samuel met my concerned gaze over Celia’s head. “Gone? What do you mean?”

  “She sent me an email in the middle of the night—it was waiting for me when I woke up. She said she was sick and her dad came to get her. But she’s not coming back.”

  “Never? Why? What about the Watson Grant?” I asked, stunned.

  Celia sniffled. “She just said that it wasn’t worth it anymore. She could go to any school, I guess. She doesn’t need a scholarship to this one.”

  It was probably true, I thought. But Hannah would always have that chip in her neck—did it mean that Holland could call her back at any time? I wasn’t sure a student could ever really get away.

  Celia sounded crushed. “I just want to talk to her,” she said. “Make sure she’s all right. But I tried to call, and her phone went straight to voice mail.” Celia put her head in her hands. “This happened last year, too. I swear, I’m a jinx.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, guessing before she answered.

  “It happened last year, too. To that Sarah girl that I told you about. I mean, I barely knew her, but she was nice. She started acting weird, too, though, just before she left. And no one ever heard from her again. What if it’s something I did? What if it’s all my fault?”

  Sharon put an arm around her friend, seeming like the stronger of the two. “Come on, let’s go get you some pancakes,” she said kindly. Only I knew that one of these days, Sharon could be the girl who disappeared. The students at Montford thought the Watson Grant was only for the lucky kids, but I knew it was a sort of curse.

  They headed for the food lines, while I struggled not to scream. Don’t panic.

  Don’t. Panic.

  “Don’t panic,” Samuel echoed, as though reading my thoughts.

  “But why did they take her? And where?” I said. Whatever Celia might think, I worried that this was my fault. I’d stolen images of Hannah’s eye to fool the security camera, and while I thought I’d wiped our entrance from the system’s memory log, maybe I’d left a trail by mistake. If Grassi had reviewed the log-ins and saw Hannah’s name pop up—even though he knew she was with him—he’d probably suspect her of something. Especially when he’d heard that noise in the hallway.

  She could still be here at the school. Held somewhere on campus. Interrogated. Tortured. I wouldn’t put anything past Holland and whoever was helping him. But I didn’t detect her GPS chip anywhere.

  As the other students began shuffling off to class, my team threw together a hasty plan. We had two goals to accomplish:

  Rescue Hannah if she was still on campus. Which I was willing to bet she was.

  Connect Grassi and Holland to the illegal experiments on Montford students.

  We’d have to use speed and surprise to our advantage.

  If Grassi was worried about Hannah’s involvement in a security breach, questioning her wouldn’t lead him to us. Hannah had no idea what was going on. A blessing in terms of our safety, but in terms of hers? I didn’t want to dwell on the possibilities.

  First we’d split up and scour the campus for Hannah. Quickly, I made assignments. “I’ll contact Hunter and tell him to take the administrative buildings and the quad as soon as he can get away from J.D. Abby, you take the athletic fields and the gym. Samuel, dorms. I’ll tackle the rest of the classrooms and offices—I’ll be able to locate her by fingerprint scan if she’s in a close enough range. Then I’ll try to get inside Grassi’s office.”

  By now, students were already in classes, and the hallways were eerily silent. As I paused to scan each classroom, I avoided standing by the windows. I didn’t know Montford’s policy on loitering in hallways during class time, and I didn’t want to find out. Being stopped by an irritated teacher was the last thing I needed.

  There was no flash on my sensor alerting me to Hannah’s presence. No sign of her in any of the vacant classrooms. Nothing.

  But as I snuck past a full class upstairs, something beeped in my head. I froze, hope blossoming even though the location made no sense.

  Scanning: Match.

  Ben LaCosta.

  100% certainty.

  Not Hannah. Ben. Another grant kid, at risk.

  I speed-walked back down the stairs and slipped outside. Clouds covered the sky in a blanket of white, not a glimmer of blue to be seen. The air felt thick with moisture.

  Humidity level: 78%.

  Showers ahead, probably soon.

  I darted into the social-sciences building next and headed for the elegant, curving staircase. I took the stairs two at a time and repeated my search, making sure to check any unmarked doors and storage rooms, even bathrooms.

  I quickly exhausted my search there, so I headed to the math-and-science building. Each door I passed yielded the same result.

  No traces of Hannah, anywhere.

  But I did catch a glimpse of Grassi. Standing up at his desk, lecturing with his usual enthusiasm. Like nothing at all was wrong.

  I headed to the basement and confirmed what my gut already told me was true. She wasn’t here, pure and simple. Almost out of time, there was only one thing left to do.

  While the others continued their search, I’d move on to plan B.

  The basement felt colder than the rest of the building, and the ceiling creaked overhead. Despite staircases at both ends of the room, the knowledge that I was underground made it feel like a trap. I wondered how it felt to the math-and-science faculty, who had their offices down here. Did they like being apart from the bustle of classes and students? Or did they resent being beneath the surface, like moles, with no natural light?

  I hesitated just outside Grassi’s office. My internal clock said we had fifteen minutes until the end of class. That might not be long enough to get through everything alone.

  I texted to let the others know what I was doing, then prepared myself to break in.

  I tried the handle, unsurprised to find the door bolted shut. I stared at it uncertainly. Once I forced open the door, there would be no hiding it. The second Grassi came down here, he’d go to the dean and ask to see the footage from security cameras, and I hadn’t been able to plan ahead and thwart them.

  I considered waiting until later. I’d have more time to search if I started at the beginning of the next class. But I was pretty sure Grassi’s next period was open, and
who knew if he ate lunch down here or not?

  It was now or never.

  I exerted inward pressure to force the door open, applying counterpressure with my other hand in hopes of masking the sound.

  Millimeter by millimeter, the wood separated from the metal lock. Yielding under my hand.

  The splintering crack as the wood finally gave wasn’t loud, but still I froze. Waiting to see if anyone heard.

  When the hall remained quiet, I pushed the door open and hurried inside.

  Scanning . . .

  A quick visual survey revealed a desk with attached drawers. A desk chair behind and two upholstered chairs in front. An industrial file cabinet in the corner. And a fake potted plant on a rectangular stand.

  The desktop computer sat in plain view. As good a place as any to start. Machine to machine, we’d talk.

  As I powered it on, I heard the warm-up hum of the components and realized the computer was a good five years old. Images of the high-tech equipment in Grassi’s classroom flashed to mind, and I frowned. His dated desktop seemed out of character.

  When the screen pulled up without password protection, I knew the search would be futile. But still I whipped through the few assorted files until I was absolutely sure.

  Nothing of use on this relic. Time to move on.

  As I rose from the chair and opened a desk drawer, a thought hit me. When I’d peeked into Grassi’s classroom, I’d caught a glimpse of his laptop bag. So his laptop wasn’t even here, I realized. Probably not his cell phone, either. My hope at finding evidence connecting him to Holland—or the testing on the grant kids—was shrinking by the second. Still, I had to see this through.

  Then my auditory sensors picked up a sound.

  Slap. Slap. Slap.

  Footsteps. Heading down the south stairs.

  I whirled, my gaze catching on the splintered wood around the lock. One look at that, and anyone would guess forced entry.

  Slap. Slap. Slap.

  The footsteps were now on the basement floor. Headed this way.

  Human threat detected: 40 ft.

  I slipped over to the door and eased it against the wall in hopes that a casual passerby might not notice the damage.