None of us say anything, turning resigned gazes on one another. We can’t fight them outright, not if we’re going to stay long enough to help Flicker. It seems silly to pass up this chance to figure out what they know—about our genetic makeup and how to manipulate it, about the government and what they want, about our pasts at Darley. All of it.
I don’t want to learn how to handle a gun, really, but I’m not going to fight them on it.
“Military training?” Goose whispers. “Who are these people?”
Fake Flicker shoots him a glance heavy with suspicion. I think about talking to Maya last night, about how good it felt to get out of here, to taste freedom for a few brief hours.
We need to find answers fast, because all of this hiding away and pretending is going to make us forget that there’s a world out there. Even if I have to do it alone, I’m going to find a way to bust myself out of Cavyland one way or another.
The world doesn’t want you, the Philosopher’s voice whispers in my mind. It can’t understand you.
That’s okay, I snap back. I want it.
Mole taps me on the shoulder as Chameleon slips through the cafeteria doorway by the staircase, and I know it’s time for us to follow through on the assignment he doled out to us last night. Gathering my courage to confront the Older, I grab Mole’s sleeve and guide him that direction.
We catch him at the top of the stairs, in what would have been the church’s entryway. He’s not alone, though. Sepasiph, an Indian woman with a sparkling bindi on her smooth forehead, is on one side, and a tattooed, pierced guy with jet-black hair and gray eyes hovers on the other. I don’t know his name—there are several Olders who haven’t been introduced to us, and the majority of their particular talents remain a mystery.
“Um, excuse us,” I fumble. There are just so many questions that it’s hard to know where to start.
Tattoo guy chomps on a pale-green apple, barely sparing us a glance, which seems about right. Both Sepasiph and Chameleon make eye contact with me, but neither seems thrilled about the interruption. The self-described leader considers us with his milky eyes and his typical unhurried demeanor. One probably designed to give him the upper hand.
I grind my teeth to stop myself from showing him it’s working.
“Can I help you children?” He makes it sound as though he’s spent his life catering to our banal questions when, in truth, we knew nothing of him until two weeks ago and we’ve hardly talked to him since he brought us to Saint Stephen’s. And we didn’t ask to be here in the first place, nor to be attacked with needles and lied to and everything else he’s orchestrated.
His wrinkly, age-spotted skin and his stooped frame betray his advanced age, but otherwise nothing would. Nothing about his voice or the way he commands a room makes him seem like a man pushing seventy. The fact that he’s elderly—and a Generation One—might make some people give him a pass, but remembering his age doesn’t stop his patronizing manner from grating my nerves into dust. I guess my nerves are better than my teeth.
“We have a few questions,” I try again.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “More questions?”
“Yeah, more questions.” Mole bites the words off one syllable at a time, and it sounds more like metal squealing as it’s ripped apart. He looks toward me—finding my heat signature or however he always knows where I am—and the fire in his eyes lights a similar fire in my heart.
Courage pours into my gut. “Would you like to talk here or in your office?”
“My office will suffice.” He flicks a finger toward Tattoo guy, lips pursed in distaste at the smacking that’s accompanying the man’s apple eating. “You two may go. Assign the groups for training.” Then he turns and continues down the hall.
We follow Chameleon up another flight of stairs to the second floor, and finally into the space he’d fashioned as an office. It’s even colder in here than it is in the rest of the building, with the front wall nothing more than a gaping hole. He hobbles over to the chipped, worn wooden desk and sits, rubbing his knobby hands together in what’s probably a useless attempt to warm them up.
“Please, sit.” He gestures to the chairs on the other side of his desk, then rests his hands on a forest-green day planner in front of him. They disappear, his skin turning dark and pebbled until it completely blends in with the surface his hands are touching.
We sit. Nerves tumble through my belly like little manic acrobats practicing somersaults and cartwheels. The man has made me jumpy since day one, and I’ve learned enough over the past several weeks to not dismiss my gut. It’s somehow smarter than the rest of me. Chameleon is manipulative. And that might be his least offensive trait.
Not the kind of man I want to think of holding Flicker hostage and unconscious. Anger coils through me, but I try to tamp it down and focus on the task at hand.
“I only have a few moments,” Chameleon says. “I’m afraid that some of us have been called away on business and need to leave tomorrow, so let’s keep this brief.” His smile pushes through what looks more like annoyance, thin lips skimmed back over yellowing teeth. “What can I do to put your minds at ease?”
Nothing, I think. There’s nothing you can say to accomplish that.
I swallow, not letting myself wonder about where they’re going and what kind of business the Olders have to attend to. There will be time for that later.
“We want to know what’s in the serum. The GRH-18. Before we take any more of it.” Mole gets words out first, though to be fair, that wasn’t a question.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Chameleon frowns. “The enhancement serum does many things for those of us with unique genetic makeup, including giving us the ability to heal quickly and to circumvent the null effects that many members of the CIA have managed to put in place.”
I startle at the sharp memory of touching Dane Lee but never seeing his death. It had been equally terrifying and comforting. It made me feel normal for once. But for the others, it meant not being able to protect themselves.
If the serum really can break through the CIA’s shields, if it lets us heal, maybe we shouldn’t stop taking it. We don’t know what kind of danger lies ahead, but the fear in Haint’s face last night, the terror that lies in the unknown, overpowers logic. At least for now.
“But it’s changing our mutations,” I assert, swallowing again. “Has anyone ever experienced negative side effects?”
His white eyebrows go up. “What sort of changes?”
Mole sighs, letting me know that giving away information wasn’t part of the plan coming in, but it’s too late now.
“I don’t only see numbers,” I elaborate, grudgingly. “Since that first injection, I’ve been getting more and more information. Now it’s like I’m being transported to the time and place of the person’s death.”
Chameleon doesn’t move, but the sudden focus in his gaze betrays his interest. “How do you know this?”
“The graves.”
“Ah. So you haven’t experienced it with a person who is still living.” He drums his fingers on the desk in front of him. “Still unimpressive, but that could change if you were to learn enough specifics to stop a person’s death, to alter its outcome. You might no longer be Inconsequential.”
Yeah, like I’ve never considered that.
“We’re getting off the subject here,” Mole interrupts. “We don’t care what you say it’s doing for us. If you don’t start sharing information about what’s in it, how it was engineered, and how exactly it’s manipulating our genetic code, then we don’t feel comfortable taking it anymore.”
“You must do what you feel is best, of course.” He narrows his rheumy gaze. “But I must warn you that, as with any drug, quitting might not be as simple as all that. You might reconsider.”
“You’re refusing to tell us anything about ourselves. Why should we trust you?”
“I’m not refusing, Mr. Mole. But this is my operation and I’ve been runnin
g it successfully for many years. I’ve saved your lives, brought you here and offered you my protection. I only ask that you allow me to take our partnership at my own pace.”
There’s no arguing with him, and Mole and I both know it. He’s turning this all around on us, making us out to be a bunch of ungrateful brats, even though we have every right to ask what’s being pumped into our own bodies.
He’s in control. We all know it, but I can’t just accept that.
Anger nips at the edges of my anxiety, biting and swallowing until it’s one pulsing ball of discomfort. My mouth opens the same moment Mole shoots me a look that says Shut up, but the words are too far gone. “You might feel as though there’s plenty of time for you to decide when to trust us with certain information, but the eight of us still have some serious decisions to make. Unless we have all of the pertinent facts, how do you propose we do that?”
Silence follows my snapped retort and goes on so long I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. Mole breathes easily beside me, a slight jiggle in his leg the only indication that he’s as antsy as I am.
“And what decisions are you referring to, my dear Gypsy?” Chameleon remains calm, his voice steady, but it took him so long to answer that we might be getting under his skin. Whatever color it might be at the moment.
I stick out my chin, tired of dancing around the Olders. Tired of having no control over my own life. It’s been that way for seventeen years, and after even a small taste of independence, I can’t go back.
“Whether or not we’re going to stay here. Whether working for the government is as bad as you want us to believe, or if we could do more good for the world than they could do harm to us. If maybe we want to chuck it all and live on a giant sailboat somewhere between Tahiti and Guam. Take your pick.”
“I can answer all those questions for you very simply.” He’s technically smiling, but he looks more like an animal baring its teeth. “You haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, or what we have been through to secure this safe place for people like us—a sanctuary where we can rest and research and train. Learn things about ourselves that the government never intends to share. I promise you, young lady, that a confrontation with the CIA will come whether or not you seek it out. It will be up to you to decide which side you’d like to fight on, then, but in the meantime you will not act ungrateful for all we’ve established. It has cost us. Dearly.”
Chameleon stands up, and so does Mole, and for a brief moment I wonder if they’re going to tussle over the neat desk. I push to my feet as well, knees shaking and head reeling from the implications of his tirade. Confrontation? Why?
“As I said, you will be told what you need to know when you need to know it. This is my facility, and you are welcome to share in what we have.” He limps to the office door, holding it open in a clear gesture for us to get out of Dodge. “But you are not prisoners.”
Mole shoves his chair back so it screeches across the floor. My heart sticks in my throat. It’s fear that’s pushing it up there, fear that we’re making a mistake by ditching the serum, that the Olders are up to so much more than whatever they are doing to Flicker. There’s just so much we don’t know. That he won’t tell us.
I step toward the door, my gaze fixed on the rigid muscles between Mole’s shoulders, and wonder if he’s thinking the same things. He reaches back, putting a stiff hand on the small of my back as he guides me over the rotting office threshold.
“Oh, and children?” Mole freezes and I turn back, catching a gleeful gleam in Chameleon’s eyes. “The GRH-18 also works as a tracking device. For your own safety, of course.” He pauses. “So, that’s something else to consider before you make any rash decisions.”
Neither of us responds aloud, but my fingers curl into fists that are itching to grab that smug old man by the collar and shake answers out of him like ripe pecans from a tree. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. At least we’re walking out of here with more than we had when we went in, I think. That has to count for something. And maybe Haint and Goose will find out even more before the meeting tonight. We’re gathering nuts of information, one by one. It’s enough to make me believe that eventually, the whole picture will come into view.
I attend hand-to-hand combat training in a clearing a little ways away from the church with Haint, Goose, Fake Flicker, and Pollyanna while Mole, Athena, and Geoff get the first crack at martial arts instruction in the graveyard. Fury over the Olders’ lack of transparency eases to confusion the more I think about the GRH-18 and its supposed positive effects as our group traipses up the hill to a little clearing in front of a dense copse of trees.
It’s warmed up a little since last night. Not warm, exactly, but winter in the South would need dentures to take a bite out of anyone. Gills, a hippie holdout who refuses to wear shoes or wash her nappy hair, and who just happens to be the Older who brought us into the fold last month, stands in the center of the clearing opposite the Tattoo guy. A live oak spreads its branches like thick arms, its fingertips nearly brushing the grass while balls of stringy Spanish moss bob gently on the breeze. Underneath it, the two of them flank a blanket rolled out on the grass to accommodate a line of various weapons.
“They call me Zombie,” he says in way of introduction. He gestures toward the blanket. “Now pick your poison.”
Nunchucks, knives of various sizes, baseball bats, household items like crowbars are spread out like gifts under a Christmas tree. When we don’t rush toward them like anxious children, Zombie rolls his eyes.
“Come on,” Gills barks, clapping her thin hands. “You heard him! Select a weapon!”
No instruction, no thoughts on which one might be a good fit with our body type or physical strengths. I’m guessing neither of them has a proper teaching certification.
Polly grabs a baseball bat, which doesn’t surprise me—subtlety isn’t her strong suit—and Goose picks up the nunchucks. He promptly smacks himself in the face with them while giving them an experimental twirl.
“Ow.”
“Give me those, you buffoon.” Haint holds out her hand and Goose puts the weapon in her palm before rubbing the bridge of his already-reddening nose.
Goose chooses again, a crowbar this time, and lets it dangle at his side. Fake Flicker picks up a serrated, angry-looking knife, and then I go last, fingering a slender blade that’s as delicate as it is deadly.
In the right hands, of course. I eye Goose, wondering how long before I accidentally stab myself instead of someone else.
“Very good,” Zombie grunts. “Circle up.”
We gather around and Gills steps up next to him. Without warning, the two of them start sparring, both wielding common objects—a tire iron and a length of pipe—and even though neither has a sharp end, they deal each other plenty of hard blows. Gills whacks Zombie hard on the shoulders a couple of times and he answers by landing a rough smack on the small of her back.
My heart pounds, stomach roiling. They’re hurting each other for what? Sport? Training?
What for, if they don’t run missions for the CIA? Maybe just to be prepared for…whatever.
I look around at my Cavies and know I could never do such a thing to any of them. Then my gaze lands on Fake Flicker and I reconsider.
The ferocity of my own thoughts shocks me and I drop the knife, which almost sticks in my foot. Brilliant. No one’s watching me, though, because Zombie just stuck his foot out and swept Gills’s legs out from under her. She lands hard on her back with a whoosh of air and a groan, but she climbs back to her feet within three seconds.
The enhancement serum does many things for those of us with unique genetics, including the ability to heal quickly.
I wonder how long it will take for the serum to wear off, for our healing and our abilities to go back to normal, whatever that is. We’ve only skipped the one injection so far, so there’s still a good chance I won’t accidentally kill any of my friends today.
A
fter they’re done, they run through some techniques and general rules of thumb, acting them out slower this time. The fact that they’re not smacking each other around makes it easier to follow, but there’s so much information that my mind feels more than a little overwhelmed when they stop.
“Okay.” Zombie stretches his left arm, the one he was using to fight, and looks at the five of us. “Your turn.”
“What?” Goose’s brown eyes go wide. “You want us to…hurt each other?”
“There’s no better way to learn to fight than by sparring,” Gills explains. “It will teach you to watch and react to another person’s movements, and help you pick up the natural cadence of hand-to-hand combat.”
“Plus, we don’t have a ton of time.” Zombie meets Gills’s gaze, a secret passing between them, and I know they’re keeping something from us, something big.
Maybe the business Chameleon mentioned is more pressing than he let on.
When none of us move, they pair us up themselves—Pollyanna and Fake Flicker, Haint and me, and Goose with Zombie. Gills stands to the side, arms crossed. “You must think both offensively and defensively, and above all, protect your vital organs. That means watch your neck, chest, abdomen. If you get in trouble, fold in on yourself first, find a way to fight out of it second. You can’t win if you’re bleeding out.”
“And make no mistake,” Zombie interjects, black eyes glittering. “We heal quickly but we’re not invincible. We can die the same as anyone else, if it happens fast enough, and we lost the only Cavy with the ability to put ripped-apart molecules back together.”
“Shut up, Z.” Gills glares at him, spiking my curiosity over who they’re referring to. “Okay. Start. I will come around and give you pointers.”
She starts with Polly and Fake Flicker, circling them slowly while Polly goes on the offense and straight for the impostor’s face. It’s an advantage, knowing your opponent is a traitor and not a friend.
“Good. That’s good. Going on the offense quickly puts the other person on their heels. Oh dear.”
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