by Meg Collett
In his arms, she sank to the deep, deep down of the inky blackness that sucked at her feet and swallowed her whole.
9:
“Wren, wake up.”
Wren moaned and pressed her face deeper into the pillows. A clang of metal and swoosh of fabric filled her ears, then light shuttered against her eyelids. Everything was much, much too bright for her aching skull.
“Time to wake up.” From the back of her groggy mind, Wren realized Bode was talking to her. A tray settled on her bedside table. The bed dipped beside her, and a hand descended on her shoulder. Bode gently shook her. “Come on, Wren.”
“Ugh.” She cracked open an eyelid. Her voice was hoarse, her throat coarser than sand paper. “Waz slime?”
Bode chuckled. “It’s early. Hazen and I need to talk to you before the others wake up …” He kept talking, but Wren didn’t listen.
She reared up in bed, sending her pillows cascading to the floor, and a wave of low-humming pain rolled through her sore body. Her eyes swept over Bode sitting on her bed to Hazen standing near her closed bedroom doors. He gripped the handles of a sleek white-and-chrome wheelchair. She wrapped an arm around herself and clung to the sheet.
“What’s going on?” Wren’s fingertips went numb with fear as she eyed the wheelchair. “Where are we going?”
“Just a quick trip downstairs,” Hazen said.
“For more alterations?” A cold sweat broke out across her body from just thinking about another trip to the Tube. Thankfully, her time in the VidaCorp contraption was only a hazy fuzz of overexposed memories.
“No,” Bode soothed. “We want to show you something.”
“Why are you two talking so quietly?” They’d barely raised their voices above a whisper.
“We don’t want to wake the others,” Hazen said before Bode could answer.
Wren frowned. “Why not?”
“It’ll all make sense after we show you. Bode, give her the medicine and let’s go.”
“I don’t want any more medicine,” Wren said when Bode reached for the silver tray atop her bedside table. “Whatever I took yesterday for the alterations knocked me out. I can barely remember anything.”
Bode and Hazen exchanged weighted glances. Finally, Bode said, “Your alterations were three days ago, Wren.”
She gasped then coughed, hiccupping with shock and horror. Three days? She remembered nothing. “Three … three days? What? How?”
“Tube alterations are supposed to be stretched out over the course of months. You had it all in one day. Your body is also malnourished and weak. It needed help, so I decided it would be best if you were unconscious for a few days while you recovered.” Hazen didn’t even have the good grace to apologize for drugging her out of her mind.
“How much medication did you give me?” she accused in a scratchy rasp.
“Enough,” Hazen said like he’d expected her angry tone.
Wren’s fist closed around the bed sheet. “How about you let me decide how much I can handle before you knock me out for days?”
Hazen’s eyebrows shot up, but Bode spoke first to intercept his brother, probably all too familiar with what could happen if he didn’t. “Wren, we understand you’re afraid—”
“I’m not scared,” she interrupted. “I just don’t appreciate being drugged unconscious for days at a time.”
“Okay.” Bode held up his hands, his gaze flicking nervously to Hazen. “We get it. That’s fair enough. Right, Hazen?”
Hazen’s smile wasn’t at all kind. “Sure.”
Wren matched Hazen’s sarcasm, saying, “Thank you.”
“You’re starting the alt maintenance dose today,” Bode said, hurrying to cover up the tension. “The alt pill will keep your body from reverting to its original form. If you feel any aches in the next week or two, let us know. We’ll put you on a stronger dose.”
“Everything aches.”
Bode grimaced. “I mean, worse than the soreness. It—”
“It’ll feel like your bones are bulging out of place,” Hazen supplied.
Bode retrieved the breakfast tray from the bedside table and settled it on the blankets between them. Two different pills sat on the tray next to a short glass of water. The first she recognized as her lung medicine—the pause button, she thought ruefully—and the other had square edges and was barely larger than her fingernail. She picked up both. The new alt pill smelled strongly of cinnamon. On one side of the pill, “VC” was stamped, but on the other side was “SL.”
“They’re manufactured specifically for your body, post alterations,” Bode explained. “No two pills are the same.”
“Try not to waste them,” Hazen said. “They’re expensive to produce.”
Biting back a retort, she popped the pills into her mouth and waited as they dissolved on her tongue in a whoosh of mint and the sweeter lick of cinnamon. She chugged the water and then asked, “Why are we going downstairs before anyone wakes up?”
“Probably best if we show you.” Bode was already fetching her plush robe from the bathroom. When he shook it out for her and held it up, Wren realized he was waiting for her to get out of bed and put her arms into it. By the door, Hazen stared at her, waiting, his toe tapping against the carpet.
Beneath the sheet, she felt the brush of silk pajamas. Someone had changed her after the alterations, perhaps multiple times while she’d been out. It felt invasive. She hadn’t asked for additional drugs, and the thought of someone’s hands on her while she was unconscious sickened her. She stood, dropping the sheet at the last second, and shoved her arms into the robe. She tied it up with quick jerks.
Hazen sent the wheelchair rolling across the carpet with a kick of his foot. Even standing for a brief time had left Wren dizzy. She didn’t complain as Bode helped her into the wheelchair. Hazen opened the bedroom doors, and Bode wheeled her out, the progress through the penthouse silent.
They didn’t speak again until the elevator doors had closed and Micki the hologram said, “Good morning, sirs and madam! What floor may I send you to on this fine day?”
“My personal garage level,” Hazen said.
“Right away, sir!”
“What if someone else calls the elevator from another floor?” Wren asked, her eyes on the hologram. Was someone behind the shimmering holo? Were they listening? Why were they going to Hazen’s garage?
“Private elevator,” Hazen said. He picked at a piece of lint on his shirt. “No one else has access.”
As the carriage descended, Wren wished she could see out to the city beyond. She wanted to ground herself and remind herself why she was here. Locked inside this penthouse, drugged unconscious, and waking up to find chunks of her life missing made her forget what she was fighting for. Since she’d started coughing and discovered her days were numbered, every moment had been assigned a significance. Even with the hope of VidaCorp’s cure, she couldn’t shake the feeling of needing to remember every moment and live it. To have lost days? It was an awful feeling.
The elevator slowed to a stop. The doors whisked open. Micki beamed at them. “Have a wonderful day!”
Bode rolled Wren off the carriage and into the underground garage. The air was cool, and the lights buzzed on above them, activated by motion sensors. The level was the one Wren had arrived in days ago, even though it felt like yesterday. She hadn’t realized it was Hazen’s personal garage.
“You live here?” she asked him.
“I keep a residence in the building for when I’m not staying in VidaCorp’s headquarters.” He paused to let Bode catch her up to him. “Lots of late nights.”
“Why are we down here, then?”
“You’ll see.”
Bode rolled her deeper into the garage, Hazen’s loafer heels clicking against the polished concrete. They stopped at the farthest corner from the elevators. The lights hummed on above them. Everyone’s eyes fell on the charred, soot-covered gash across the ground.
It was massive—the size of
a car—and still produced enough heat that Wren felt warmer this close to it. The concrete had cracked, and a piece had sagged into the ground, the other end angling up into the air. Above it, the walls were burnt. Wren had seen enough fires and explosions in Sunshine Heights from the gangs to recognize the results of a dirty bomb when she saw one.
“There’s something we haven’t told you yet, Wren,” Hazen said.
“Clearly,” she replied. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Roll her back,” he directed Bode. “Let’s show her the hologram replay.”
Bode wheeled her back a few feet as Hazen’s fingers flicked across his phone. “This is security footage from the night you arrived. It’ll replay the event for you in real time.”
Wren was about to ask how it would replay, when a blue light scanned across the ground and walls, illuminating the corner in a sweeping flash. As it progressed, it left behind a holographic image that overlaid the actual space in front of Wren. With a beep, it finished, and Wren was staring at clean concrete and walls. A gas car sat in the middle of the holo. Wren didn’t know much about cars—or anything—but she knew this car was built for speed. It was low to the ground, with sweeping curves and blacked-out wheels. The windows were completely opaque. The paint was blood red.
“Your car?”
Hazen inclined his head in answer.
A person walked into view from the corner of the holo feed. Two more people followed him. Wren assumed the first person was male because of his broad shoulders and tapered hips. He wore a black mask with a white skull painted on the fabric, and when he turned toward the camera positioned behind her, Wren shrank back in her chair, afraid, even though she knew the masked man couldn’t hurt her. It was only a hologram. But there was something about him—pure menace that had nothing to do with his mask or leather jacket. Wren thought of the summer heat storms that filled the suburban skies, their heat oppressive and the smog hanging thick in the air. Lightning would light up the night sky in a nearly constant aurora of fire. This man in the mask was that lightning. Even through the flickering holographic image, she knew he was dangerous.
Wren felt this man’s hatred for Hazen—for VidaCorp—in her bones. He held up a sign toward the camera.
Welcome to the Game
- The Whitebirds
“The Whitebirds,” she read. Sweat rolled down her back. “What are they doing?”
“Just wait,” Hazen said.
The man lowered the sign and turned away from the camera. Wren let out a breath of relief.
One of the three masked people approached the car and pried open the gas tank’s lid. They stuffed in a piece of damp cloth. A second person lit the end of the rag with an old-fashioned match. They ran.
Wren knew what was about to happen, but when the car exploded, she still gasped and threw up her arms to cover her face as the holographic flames burst outward in a searing blaze of light. Hazen let the feed play as his car burned to a black husk. A few minutes later, the firemen and police arrived.
“How did they get into your garage?” Wren asked once she’d steadied herself from the explosion.
“Funny, I asked the same thing when I found out.”
Behind her, Bode adjusted his grip on her wheelchair, his weight shifting beneath Hazen’s prickly stare. “They threw tear gas into the guard shack, looped the camera feeds, and walked right in. It wasn’t until yesterday that we managed to decrypt this footage.”
Bode could avoid Hazen’s blame as much as he wanted, but Wren heard the guilt in Bode’s voice.
“So why did the Whitebirds burn your car?” she asked.
“As a reminder.”
“It’s no surprise the Whitebirds hate VidaCorp.” Wren thought of Mak and all her elaborate conspiracy theories. Mak would have had a field day with this footage. “But what does this have to do with me?”
“We believe the Whitebirds have infiltrated the show’s cast and crew.”
Wren stared at him. It was her turn to say something—anything—but she couldn’t find the words. Her brain slogged through her thoughts, processing what Hazen had said. The Whitebirds were on the show, hidden among the cast or crew. She was joining a show with anarchists.
“Are you canceling the show?” she asked. It seemed like the only way to keep everyone safe.
“Absolutely not,” Hazen snapped. “Canceling the show is not an option.”
“These anarchists,” Bode said, coming around her wheelchair and crouching beside her, “will try to use the show to further their agenda.”
“They dispute that Pacem can cure diseases by inhibiting select genetic expression. They think we’ve gone too far by altering gene expression to an extent that might cause emotional suppression.”
“Does it cause emotional suppression?”
Hazen’s mouth tightened at her question. “It hasn’t been confirmed. But the Whitebirds say Pacem is too dangerous, the side effects too unknown.” He unclasped his hands and walked through the hologram, distorting the feed into blue flickering lines around his body. He peered down at the charred ground, his eyes unfocused. “They want to bring VidaCorp down.”
“Is Pacem dangerous?” Wren asked. Emotional suppression didn’t seem that bad.
Hazen turned back to her, the blue illumination spilling over his shoulders, and scowled. “We’re just a pharmaceutical company trying to help people. We won’t know the full side effects until the government allows us into the human trial stage.”
“It’s the anarchists who are dangerous,” Bode said. “They think they’re judge, jury, and executioner. Why not let people decide if the side effects are worth it?”
To Wren, it sounded like the Bafford brothers knew exactly what side effects Pacem could cause. It meant Mak’s zombie theory might have some merit.
“They think they’re righteous enough to decide who is and isn’t sinning against humanity.” Hazen’s words echoed his brother’s; they’d had this conversation often enough to get the rhythm of its delivery down pat. Wren couldn’t help but feel like they were compensating.
“What does this have to do with me?” she asked.
“We believe they’ll come after you.”
Wren sputtered and coughed. Bode leaned over to rub her back.
“Why me?” she croaked out, her throat sore.
“Because you’re Sloane Lux. You mean something,” Hazen said. He paced through the hologram.
Bode offered her a weak smile.
“What are they going to do?” she asked.
“We believe they’ll try to manipulate you,” Hazen said. “They’ll try to make you do certain things to cast the show and VidaCorp in a bad light. Because you’re Sloane Lux, the entire country will be watching you. Anything and everything you do will be put under a microscope. You’re a huge target for the attention they seek.”
“They might even try to pull you into their fold and convince you of their agenda,” Bode said.
“That won’t happen.”
“You’re a smart woman.” Bode placed his hand on the chair’s armrest, a brush away from her arm. “You’ll see these people for what they are, but we need you to be on the lookout. Be aware and on guard at all times.”
“You think that’s all they’ll try to do? They blew up your car,” she said to Hazen.
“You shouldn’t underestimate how dangerous they are, but nothing will happen to you while Bode is here.”
Wren glanced at Hazen in time to see something dark pass between the brothers. It was the kind of look only siblings would understand, a mental exchange spoken in a secret language created from a lifetime of knowing each other. There were years in that shared look and just as much pain.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Bode said, the words ringing with promise. “My purpose on this show is to protect you while we investigate the Whitebirds from the inside.”
Neither brother continued. They wanted her to be a convincing Sloane Lux, but now they were tel
ling her she had to uncover an anarchist as well. “That’s all you want me to do? Just investigate them?”
“Any suspicions you have, we need to hear them,” Hazen said.
“That’s all.” Bode lifted a shoulder like it was no big thing. “We’ll do the rest.”
“Who else knows about this? Hutton? Roman?”
Hazen shook his head. “Only you. And it stays that way.”
“Why just me?”
“You’re the only one we trust, because we know you’re not a Whitebird.”
Wren waited a beat before asking, “You’re saying Hutton and Roman are suspects?”
“We can’t rule them out. Hutton grew up with Sloane back in Chicago, and Roman dated her for years. Out of all the cast and crew, they’ve had the most contact with Sloane.”
A thought twisted up her stomach. “Was Sloane a Whitebird?”
“We highly doubt that,” Bode said. “Someone inside Sloane’s life was part of the Whitebirds, which is why we want you to look closely at Hutton and Roman.”
“You’ll report to me every morning while on set,” Hazen said.
“On top of everything else,” Wren began slowly, “I’m a VidaCorp spy too?”
“No.” Hazen leaned forward until he was at eye level with Wren, his fists braced against the armrests of her wheelchair. “Because of everything else, you’re helping us. We know you’ll show us the truth.”
“Or else I’ll die, either from the anarchists or the cancer you won’t cure if I mess up. Are these your new terms? I have to uncover the Whitebird insider to receive my cure?”
“We’re not blackmailing you,” Bode started, tensing beside them.
“It sounds like you are.”
“We’re putting our faith in you,” he said. “We need your help, but I’ll be with you every step of the way to watch your back. You’re still getting your cure, Wren. The terms of that deal haven’t changed.”
Wren looked away from Bode’s steady stare. She knew better. Everything had changed. She met Hazen’s gaze, inches from her own, without blinking.