Burn

by Sarah Fine

  Something in my chest loosens, even as my throat gets tight. “Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “Dad never designed things without a purpose.” But it’s one more thing to figure out, and we may not have time. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since that Sicarii scout ship discovered the location of Black Box. Why haven’t they attacked yet? What are they waiting for? “I’ll take a look at it later if the weapon design team can’t figure it out, but I have to get back to work on bringing the satellite system online this morning.”

  Congers stares at the scanner, his expression grim. “Assuming we can activate that satellite shield, will it still be functional if—”

  “If those Sicarii come in here and blow us up?” I interject.

  Angus regards me steadily. “The servers are very protected, deep underground. Bombs probably wouldn’t do it. But if these Sicarii get boots on the ground and gain control of the compound, they could probably take it down.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, and then Angus scoots his chair back abruptly. “We’d better get moving,” he rumbles as he stands up.

  Race turns to me. “In the spirit of mutual trust, Tate, I was thinking you and I could work on the satellite defense system together, maybe figure out the technology, which pieces of the wreckage your father used to create the system and the scanner.”

  I look into his eyes, the whites still shot through with crimson. It’s not possible to trust him, not completely, but after what he said about my dad, it’s a bit easier to think about working with him.

  Also, there’s no way I’d let him look at the satellite plans by himself. “Sounds good.”

  Leo pokes my arm. “Can I come?”

  Race looks to Angus, who nods. “Don’t underestimate this boy,” Angus says proudly.

  “He knew my dad well,” I say. My voice sounds hollow. I think he knew my dad better than I did.

  As I dig into my breakfast, eating as quickly as possible, Angus asks Christina if she’d like to help out on the factory floor. They need all the assistance they can get. Christina looks relieved at the idea of having something to do and eagerly agrees. Angus waves to a ridiculously tall, lanky guy with black hair and olive skin, and when the dude comes over, Angus introduces him as Manuel Santiago, oldest son of the Santiago patriarch and a member of the weapons design team. He appears to be in his midtwenties and, like so many others, looks short on sleep and highly caffeinated this morning. He shakes Christina’s hand and tells her he could use some help inputting raw data to create a simulation to test the weapons systems for the combat vehicles. I’m not sure whether it’ll be boring or cool, but Manuel seems easygoing and friendly. He doesn’t ask her what her last name is. He seems interested only in having an extra set of fingers to enter data, considering the urgency of getting the vehicles battle-ready. Christina kisses my forehead and leaves with him, telling me she’ll see me at lunch.

  I’m shoveling the last bit of cereal into my mouth when Brayton walks into the cafeteria. He slept in, and it’s done him loads of good. His face has lost the sunken look it had last night. He strides over to our table, doing that meticulous hair-smoothing thing as he reaches us. “Good morning,” he says to Angus.

  “Morning,” says Angus. Both Race and Congers sit back a little, watching. “You look like you got some rest.”

  Brayton smooths his hair again. “I heard you needed some help figuring out how to bolster the security around the scanner,” he says, nodding at the device. “I told the guards last night that I’d assist.”

  “We did need help,” says Angus. “We put Rufus Bishop and Mr. Congers here on it.”

  “But I know more about it than either of those two,” Brayton says, his brow furrowed. “I was the CEO, for God’s sake. I know all the systems within this compound. It’s very shortsighted of you not to use my expertise.”

  Angus gives Brayton a friendly smile that does not completely mask the cold look in his eyes. “I had every intention of using your expertise. We were hoping you’d assist in managing the logistical team.”

  “The logistical team . . .” Brayton begins.

  Angus nods. “Sanitation, janitorial services, laundry, and cafeteria services.”

  Brayton stares at Angus. “You don’t trust me,” he says slowly, tilting his head. “Have you ever trusted me? Was I an idiot to think you did?”

  His tone is so controlled, but I’ve seen Brayton get mad—on Monday in Princeton when I wouldn’t give him the scanner, and again yesterday when he found out he’d lost his job. My stomach tightens as I wait for the explosion.

  Angus puts his hands up. “Brayton, this isn’t the time to rehash the past—”

  “Then I won’t,” Brayton snaps as he takes an abrupt step back, looking from Angus to the scanner before meeting each of our eyes. “I will work to regain your trust,” he says, gentling his tone. Then he pivots on his heel and marches out, his hand shooting out to grab a granola bar from a rack as he makes his way to the exit.

  “He took that better than we anticipated,” Race comments.

  Angus lifts his shoulder slightly, a noncommittal sort of movement. “We’ve had our differences over the years, mostly over his accounting, but also over how brilliant men like Rufus Bishop and Fred Archer were driven away from our ranks because Brayton prioritized profits over anything else. He went after the scanner on his own last week. I had no idea he was trying to buy it from Fred, and no idea how far he’d go to get it. And what he did to Tate is unconscionable.” He folds his arms over his chest. “He’ll be watched.”

  “He’s not the only one who should be monitored,” I say, frustration creeping in. I don’t disagree with anything Angus is saying, but Brayton was in his room last night, and he looked too tired to be sprinting down corridors in the main building. Rufus was also in his room, and I can’t imagine him sprinting anywhere ever. But maybe neither of them needed to. “This attempted theft was aided, at least, by someone who knows the technology. But maybe whoever masterminded it had help.” I get up from my chair, struck by an idea. “Where’s the scanner going to be?”

  “For now, when we’re not examining it, it will be in a storage room adjoining my office. I’m taking it there now,” says Angus. “All the security staff are needed today to work in the defense stations at the perimeter, since we’re concerned about another attack after yesterday. When I’m not in there to watch over it myself, guards will be posted outside the door, at least until Rufus and Bill render the electronic systems foolproof.”

  Computers aren’t that hard to fool, I want to remind him. But instead, I say, “I’ll meet you at your office.” I tell Race I’ll be in the computer lab in less than half an hour, then make for the door. Leo follows me out.

  “What are you up to?” he asks as I head for the infirmary.

  “Low-tech alternatives,” I say, and he grins.

  I stroll into the clinic to hear Dr. Ackerman’s voice emanating from behind a curtain. In his soft, Southern drawl, he instructs a Core agent to inhale and let it out. The open hospital room still contains a few of the injured, a guy with burns and two others still wearing oxygen masks. For a half second, I consider trying to talk to Dr. Ackerman about where he went after he left the meeting room last night, but if he’s guilty of trying to steal the scanner, I can hardly expect him to be straight with me.

  Besides, I’m going to catch the thief if he has the balls to try again. I ask a nurse if I can access some of their basic supplies. I show her my ID card that marks me as a patriarch. She leads me to a closet with bandages, soap, various ointments and nutritional supplements . . . and what I want—vitamins. I grab a bottle of B12 tablets and make my exit, Leo at my heels.

  On our way to the elevator, we pass all the portraits of dead patriarchs and matriarchs again. Leo looks away as we pass his dad. I wonder how well he remembers his parents. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

 
“Yeah, sure,” Leo replies.

  “What family was your mom from?”

  “Fisher,” he says. “Uncle George was her cousin.”

  I look up the hallway toward my dad’s nameplate. “Did your parents ever tell you how they met?”

  “It was an arranged thing. Like most marriages within The Fifty.”

  “Does that bother you?” I ask. “Knowing that these families are picking out some girl for you to marry?” The vitamins rattle in my hand, taut with nervous energy.

  Leo shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Are you asking because of your thing with Christina?”

  God, she’s not even here, and still this feels awkward. “Yes and no. I mean, it’s not like we’re at the point where we’d even talk about a permanent commitment.” I pause for a moment, about to mention her college plans, and then realize all of that might be totally irrelevant given our present circumstances. We’ll be lucky to make it through today. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out how important it is. You know. To keep the families totally human, genetically speaking.”

  Leo stops in front of my dad’s nameplate. “Weird being part of an endangered species, isn’t it?”

  I nod. “Is it our responsibility to keep it going?” Honestly, as I think about the differences between H2 and humans, which come down to our origins and some discrepancies in molecular structure so tiny that they can only be detected by extraterrestrial tech, it’s hard for me to understand why it matters, except in principle. I stare at the blank space where my father’s portrait will hang. “I wish I could have talked to him about it.” I close my eyes. “Did he ever talk about it with you?”

  Leo is quiet for a few seconds. Then he sighs. “Kind of? At the March board meeting, one of the Bearden matriarch’s daughters—her name is Kim—decided to marry a guy who wasn’t a member of The Fifty. There was no way of knowing if he was H2 or human.” He chuckles. “Well, I guess there was, but your dad wasn’t telling anyone about it. And there were big questions about whether Kim could remain a member of The Fifty if she didn’t marry within the group. Some people, like Rufus, were really outraged that the Bearden family was even still speaking to her. I guess he expected the Beardens to completely cut her off.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose. “Your dad was really quiet in that meeting. I don’t know how he voted. But afterward, he said it was a decision every family would have to face, and he hoped they would remember what was important.”

  My heart beats a little faster. Christina and I had just gotten together in March, and my dad must have known she was probably H2, just based on the odds. “Did he say what was important?”

  Leo’s brow furrows. “I asked. And he just said that every family had to decide that among themselves.”

  I grit my teeth. Dad put off all those conversations, and now they’ll never happen. And meanwhile, as he was keeping me in the dark, he was talking to Leo, who’s almost three years younger than I am.

  I want to put my fist through the wall, right where Dad’s picture will be.

  I want to sit down on the floor and try to breathe, because it’s almost impossible right now.

  I can’t do either. I need to stop a thief, hack some satellites, and save the fucking world. “Next stop, morgue,” I say briskly, swallowing the lump in my throat. “My mom’s probably already down there, if she ever left at all.”

  We get on the elevator. Leo shuffles his feet as we descend. “She’s having a hard time with the autopsies,” he says.

  “Why did you go with her last night?”

  “I wanted to know if Uncle George suffered,” he mumbles, confirming my suspicions. “She said it was quick.”

  I don’t parse the death of George’s body with the death of George himself, because we don’t really know how it happened, what the Sicarii did to him. Maybe my mom has some answers by now. The elevator opens onto a basement level brightly lit and completely sterile-looking, white tile and white walls. Cold as hell. I shiver as my sneakers squeak along the hallway, following Leo to a swinging set of doors. It opens into a room with drains in the floor, a row of sinks along the back wall, and a long table containing a shitload of medical equipment, centrifuges, a mass spectrometer, and a set of microscopes. This place isn’t just a morgue—it’s a forensic lab. Awesome. “Mom?”

  “Tate?” she calls from a room to my left. “In here. Hang on.” A tap switches on, and a moment later, she comes out, wiping her hands on a towel. She’s wearing a rubber apron that makes her look like a butcher. “I’m in the middle of the dissection,” she says somberly. “Dr. Ackerman was too busy with patients to help this morning. How are you?”

  “Rested. Fine,” I tell her. “You?”

  Her mouth twists at the corner. “I may have found something, but I’m not sure yet.”

  “What is it?” Leo asks.

  She gives him a sympathetic, motherly sort of look, one that seems odd on her serious face. “Are you sure you want to hear this, Leo?”

  He folds his arms over his chest. “I’m not a child.”

  She puts her hands up. “Okay. I’ve discovered some anomalies in George’s skin.”

  “Anomalies,” Leo says quietly.

  “In addition to the sweat glands, there are secretory glands that I’ve never seen before.”

  “Like, they grew there? Something alien?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around what she’s saying.

  “Perhaps.”

  “What do they secrete?” Leo asks in a tight voice.

  “Unknown, as of yet,” Mom says gently. “I’m using caution as I examine them, but at this time, I can tell you that the structures are definitely unnatural. I’ll have more answers later today.”

  “You’re being careful, right?” I ask. “We still don’t know how the Sicarii go from body to body.”

  She gives me a smile. “I wear full protective gear when I’m working. I’m taking every precaution.”

  “Good.” I look her over, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her brown eyes rimmed with red. And I think of my dad, how he left so much unfinished, including his relationship with me. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” It comes out rushed. Soft. I’m the one who sounds like a child.

  My mom’s eyes get shiny. “Like I said, I’m being careful.” She clears her throat. “And I need to get back to work.”

  “We’ll leave you to it, then,” I say. “I just came down here to see how you were doing and to grab some things. Do you have a black light?”

  She points to a cabinet over the set of sinks. “There’s a wand light in there. Why do you need it?”

  I walk over to a shelf that contains all sorts of chemicals and take down a bottle of ethanol. “To catch a thief.”

  Leo grabs the black light from the cabinet, and I snag a metal bowl, stirrer, and specimen brush. My mom doesn’t bother asking me what I’m up to, but she gives me an amused, fond . . . sad . . . look that tells me I’m reminding her of my dad. She says she’ll call me if she discovers anything and retreats back to her autopsy, and Leo and I walk back to the elevator.

  “I approve,” Leo says as he looks over our supplies. “Your dad would have thought this was hilarious.”

  “He’s the one who forced me to learn this kind of thing.” I don’t say that he never cracked a smile while he did it, either. I can barely fathom what “hilarious” looked like on my dad, and it kind of kills me that Leo knows.

  I swallow back the bitterness on my tongue. “Leo? Was my dad . . . I don’t know. He talked to you about a lot of stuff. But what was he like when he was with you?”

  “What was he like . . .” he says thoughtfully, then pushes at the bridge of his glasses. “He was sad, Tate. He was nice, but he always seemed kind of sad. And honestly, sometimes he seemed sadder after spending time with me.”


  “I’m sure you didn’t make him sad, Leo,” I say, my stomach aching. But I probably did.

  “No, I know I didn’t. I think . . .” His eyes meet mine. “I think he kind of wished I was you.”

  Guilt lances through me as I say, “I don’t know if you’re right. He and I fought. A lot.”

  “He never talked about that. He did talk about you, though. All good stuff.” He glances at the ethanol and vitamins I’m carrying. “All true stuff.”

  I bow my head. And all I can think is why. Why, if he could talk to Leo about me and say those nice things . . . why couldn’t he just say those things to me? Why was he so shut down? So machine-like, except for those final minutes when I held his hand and watched him die? Why does it have to be like this? And why does it have to hurt this much?

  We find Angus in his office suite with Kellan. They’re standing next to a closed door, which is locked using yet another electronic code vulnerable to hacking. I assume it’s the storage room Angus told me about. He frowns as he looks over my armload of supplies. “Do I even want to know?” he asks.

  “It’s just a backup,” I tell him as I sit on the floor and dump the bottle of B12 pills into the metal bowl, then crush them with the heavy ethanol bottle. Next, I pour the ethanol over the pill debris and stir until it’s dissolved. “Maybe don’t mention this to anyone else?” I say to the two of them.

  Angus nods in this bemused kind of way as I use the specimen brush to paint the dissolved B12 solution over the electronic keypad, the door handle, and the threshold in front of the door. I stand up and switch on the black light, and Kellan’s eyes go wide.

  “Vitamin B12 is fluorescent under black light,” I explain, gesturing at the bright yellow glow beneath the light. “You can hack the code, but it still takes a pair of hands to open the door and swipe that scanner. Assuming we can keep this between ourselves, the thief won’t know he has this stuff all over his fingers and shoes. It can be easily wiped off and reapplied.” I pour the remaining solution back into the ethanol bottle and hand it to Kellan.