“Everyone has fears. Do you believe that?” Dr. Evans said. “Everyone lives with those fears and does the best they can. The CEO, the shoe shiner. Both still have fears. Everyone desires to be in control of their life. Do you agree?”
“Why would I agree with anything you’re saying?” I said.
“Your father did.”
That reference was too much.
“Ollie!” I cried. “Get over here.” I grabbed for Ollie’s tail, but he slipped away, a game for him now.
“But here’s the great equalizer,” Dr. Evans called after me. “We all die. No matter how much power, how much control, how many assets, how much wealth, we all only live so long. 107 years? 110 at the longest? Maybe twenty years more than that with technology in the future. Regardless, eventually, none of it matters.”
Ollie paused, tail wagging, looking back at me, waiting. Before he could evade me again, I dove and scooped him into my arms.
“Your father wanted to fill the world with good, Sage. Remember that, if nothing else. Only the good matters.”
I snorted, striding away. We were going somewhere else, away from this man and his ramblings.
How could any of this fill the world with good? All this—all the mutations and science and corporations, all my father had created—had only ever brought me pain.
“I believe in good, and I want to help you if you’ll let me. A man will meet you in your room tonight. Listen to what he has to say.”
I spun at Dr. Evans’s last words, to see his face, to grasp the nature of his intent, but he was already at the gazebo again, standing inside, not even looking in my direction.
He stared out across the green rolling hills of the property, twirling that orange flower between his finger and thumb.
22
JACK
We left at dusk.
From the front steps of the building, Imogen watched us go.
I flipped down the visor of my helmet.
Too many questions, too many doubts rolled around in my head about our entire time at this building in Kansas City. I only felt assurance in knowing we’d be back in a few days to get Finn and Imogen, and then we could leave.
For now, I was ready to get lost in the rumble of the bike on the road.
*
After four hours of hard driving, we pulled over at an obscure old gas station on the side of the highway in Missouri for a pit stop.
Beckett didn’t take off his helmet. Probably good idea. No one needed to recognize him, not after all that had happened back on that farm, even if there was just the old man at the register and a lone loitering patron—the likely owner of the old Buick out front.
We bought some waters, stretched out our legs. It wasn’t until we were outside on the gravel, about ready to head out, that I heard Beckett’s voice.
“This is gonna be a long trip if we don’t say a word to each other the entire time.”
I didn’t reply. We’d barely spoken directly to each other since our brawl in Kansas City. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’d spoken congenially to Beckett since he arrived on the island at the very start of this mess.
I was just about to mount my bike again when Beckett sighed and put his hand on my arm.
“Jack, come on.”
I stared at his hand.
Beckett hesitated.
“Remember that night in Dad’s office? After they kept you in the lab for twenty-eight hours? You looked god-awful. I thought you might die that night, the way you looked. And as we were falling asleep on the couch, you said, ‘They broke me tonight, Beck. They got to me.’”
I swallowed but didn’t answer. I’d tried to forget those twenty-eight hours every day since. It was the greatest physical pain I’d ever experienced in my life.
Even here, in this deserted parking lot years later, my body tensed at the thought of it.
I pulled my arm away from Beckett and swung my leg over my motorcycle. I didn’t want to hear whatever he was about to say next, I knew that much.
“Do you remember what I told you that night?” Beckett pressed.
Yes, I remembered what he’d said. It was the only thing that kept me sane in the emptiness that filled the days that followed.
“Do you remember?” he said again.
I wasn’t going to repeat those words he’d said to me then. I refused to even nod at Beckett, and vaguely, I wondered why. It was just me and my brother, sitting here in the middle of nowhere in the darkness of a gravel parking lot.
Aside from Caesar, Beckett was the closest thing to a best friend I’d ever had. Why couldn’t I just show him that what he’d said to me that night had actually been meaningful? That his words had, in some way, saved me in that moment?
Beckett squinted at me, not surrendering to me and my blank, unchanged face.
Instead, he pressed his fist on my leather biker jacket, right over my heart, just like he’d done that night in Dad’s office.
“I told you, ‘They can never get you here.’”
I shoved on my helmet, blinking away the wetness in my eyes only after my black visor was down.
Beckett gripped my arm.
“How do you think we’ve kept from killing each other all these years? After all the things Dad has done to try to make us hate each other? You, of all people, Jack, should recognize it. You’ve had more horrible things done to you in your lifetime than some people ever experience. And you’ve become calloused. But the essence of who we are doesn’t go away when bad things happen to us. The heart of us doesn’t change. We’re still who we are. You try and push people away, but why do you think I never give up?”
“Because you’re a sucker,” I said.
“Because I know who you are, you idiot. I knew you before all this crap.” He waved his hand vaguely, out across the expanse of gravel, the dilapidated gas station building, the treeless rolling hills.
“I remember the Jack who talked to me about Mom. I know you’re still there. Because it’s the part of you no one can take away. The Corporation, Dad, evil, darkness, call it whatever you want. None of them can take it away from you. And they can’t take it away from Sage, either. She’s still who she’s always been. And I won’t let her go. I won’t let her get lost, just like I won’t let you get lost.”
I started my motorcycle and revved the engine.
Beckett’s shoulders dropped.
He climbed onto his bike seat. He didn’t seem surprised or even agitated at my lack of my response. He seemed more resigned than anything else.
This was the same old story. He talks, I push him away by saying nothing.
Beckett was so damn nice. How is it possible for someone to get treated the way I treated him and still be such a good person? Was I trying to break him so I wouldn’t have to feel so crappy about myself every time I hung around him? Is that why I did it?
I shoved my kickstand up, peeled out of the gravel drive, and took off down the highway.
And then, it hit me.
I knew why I was so angry. I knew why I pushed Beckett away.
Of course.
Now that the last twenty-four hours had played out, I saw the truth again. It only took being around Beckett for a little while to realize it.
He’s the more decent human being.
And Sage deserved the more decent human being.
I wasn’t thinking clearly when I fell from the helicopter yesterday. Adrenaline had been flooding my system in that moment.
Even if I do live—and can live now thanks to the code in Sage—I still don’t deserve to be with her. Not in the scenario where I stay with her for life, like I was thinking in those brief moments of suspended reality while floating down to the ocean.
Oh yes, I knew why I was angry.
Because the more Beckett talked, the more it proved that he deserved Sage, and that I did not.
And I hated myself for it.
23
SAGE
Dr. Dallamore gave up trying to get me to
eat lunch or dinner.
Between the meals, he led me through a tiresome debriefing in some conference room, asking me in a million different ways if I was “absolutely sure I had no idea where my father was located.”
During the evening meal, I refused to let go of Ollie. After I started feeding my dog my dinner instead of eating it myself, Dallamore said he’d had enough. He led me to the room where I’d be sleeping.
Finally.
We stood at the doorway of my room, and Dallamore ushered me inside with a wave of his hand.
“I’ll be back at 7:00 am sharp. You have a busy day tomorrow,” Dallamore said.
He closed the door behind me, and the lock clicked in place.
The walls of the room were draped in thick, blood-red velvet fabric. Elaborate Oriental rugs covered the hardwood floors. A gas fireplace was tucked into the corner of one wall, and beyond it, lay the doorway to a bathroom. A red velvet duvet spread across a king-sized four-poster bed.
The fabric on the walls muffled all noise—even the click of Ollie’s toenails on the wood floors sounded subdued. No one would hear someone scream in a room like this. No one would hear me escaping out one of the windows, either.
I headed to the nearest window. Ollie followed.
I pushed aside the plush, deep-purple window drapes and tried to lift up the pane.
Locked.
My hands and eyes searched for anywhere to actually unlock it, but I found nothing. I moved on to the second window along the same wall. Also sealed shut. I moved onto the third out of four, this time, focusing all my strength into trying to lift it. My face grew hot with the exertion, until I exhaled and sunk my head against the glass.
“There will be plenty of time for escaping,” a steady voice said from across the room.
I whirled around and saw a man, sitting in the far corner, near the four-poster bed. He looked untroubled at having so clearly startled me. His index fingers and thumbs formed a triangle under his chin, a pleasant smile on his face. He wore khaki, military-style cargo pants and a black t-shirt, his hair cropped close to his head.
I hadn’t heard him enter, and obviously, neither had Ollie. I was certain he wasn’t in that corner when I first came in.
Ollie’s ears were perked, and he growled softly beside me.
My pulse quickened.
The man caught my eyes flicker toward the fire poker by the fireplace.
“You can relax,” he said. “My name is Sven. I’m working with your father. We’ve made a plan to get you out of here. Conveniently, I also work for Vasterias, and they trust me exceedingly. An errant choice on their part, and yet, they do.”
This, then, was the man Dr. Evans mentioned would be coming. Did that mean Dr. Evans hadn’t told me the truth? That he had been in contact with my father?
And did this mean my father still wanted me? Why? What was his purpose now? I hated that a spark of hope lit in my chest, especially when I knew the truth … my dad had already shown his intentions back on the island. He didn’t care about me as a person, not outside of the code.
“Beckett and Jack will be here within a day. They’re on their way from Kansas City as we speak.”
This news distracted me, made me forget that I didn’t know this man at all and had no clue if I could trust him. “The boys? They got out?”
My mind flashed to the last time I saw Jack—the haunting blank look on his face as he fell from the helicopter, the tangible feeling of our broken trust.
“Got off the island, you mean?” Sven nodded. “Yes, of course. Your father came for them.”
“And Finn?”
Sven hesitated. “Yes … your brother made it out. And Imogen, too.”
“But, I mean, is Finn ….” My voice trailed off, unwilling to say the words.
Sven seemed to know what I asked. He paused, his hands falling to his lap. The look on his face, the way he stared steady into my eyes, it all made my stomach drop.
“He’s not doing well.”
For a moment, the corner of the room where Sven sat in the chair faded into blurry nothingness.
A long pause filled the air, blank, open space laden with the weight of Sven’s news. I could feel his eyes studying me, taking me in from head to toe.
“It’s no wonder Vasterias wants you so bad, you know. The closest prototype—the recruits—are failing them now. Sterile and dying off.” Sven shook his head. “And Vasterias has made so many promises. To so many important people ….”
The look on my face must have shown my horror.
“You did know that, didn’t you?” Sven crossed his legs. “Yes. Half of the recruits are dying off. It starts in their hands. They get all red and chapped. And then, the exact same thing spreads throughout their body, inside and out. They’re just kind of wrinkling up, drying out, dying. It started a while ago with the recruits already stationed at outposts. Vasterias didn’t want anyone to know about it, for obvious reasons.”
A sick feeling rolled through my body.
Imogen.
“How long?” I said.
“How long until we get you out of here?”
I shook my head, numb. “How long after the redness shows up do they die?”
Sven looked thrown by my question. “I don’t know. Weeks? Months? Certainly not years.”
His information felt like sandpaper—words about my father still wanting me, about Finn, about Imogen—all of it rubbed at open wounds.
“Please go away,” I said.
I didn’t even know if anything this man was telling me was the truth. It could all be lies.
But if he were … if it were real … Finn dying, the boys coming, my father, Imogen ….
Sven smacked his hands to his thighs, and he stood up to go. “I’m experienced enough to see you don’t fully believe me. But when Beckett shows up tomorrow, he’ll confirm I’m working with them all. And then, you will trust me.”
My body wouldn’t move, couldn’t move. A weight pulled down on my every cell.
The door closed softly behind Sven, and I was alone.
24
IMOGEN
Two hours.
Two whole hours that I’d been waiting for Dr. Cunningham to return with better ways to help his son.
Ever since Jack and Beckett dispatched, my body remained reclined against the wall near the foot of Finn’s bed.
This room was utterly depressing. Cracks in the cement floor, cracks in the cement walls, cracks in the corner sink. And then, the rank smell of Finn’s infected flesh.
Finn, with his crazy-long limbs all sprawled out, took up the whole bed, plus some. His brow—the only part of him that wasn’t totally slack—had furrowed itself into a pained expression. The white sheet beneath his body accentuated the pale-green tint of his skin. Why wasn’t he waking up? Was he that close to the end? Had Jack knocked his skull one too many times back in that cell on the island?
Once, I went looking for Dr. Cunningham, but some bugger stopped me in the hallway, told me to go back to the room, and that the doctor would be in soon.
So where was he? Cunningham, you blighter, get in here and help your son.
*
Thirty minutes later, a strange, fidgety man—a man they called Bert—shuffled in.
He worked on Finn for a while.
It was funny though, how he cried, standing over Finn, how his arms would hardly stop shaking while he re-bandaged the bullet wound on Finn’s shoulder, how the guard never left his post inside the room while Bert was with us.
Bert seemed skeptical of me. He kept glancing over. The feeling was mutual. Anyone who acted so jittery and inept begged my suspicion, especially when he was working on my friend.
“I think I can come up with something to help,” Bert said softly.
Was he speaking to me? Or the guard? He didn’t look away from Finn when he said it.
“It will take a bit of time ….” Bert glanced at me then. “Can you administer water to him? And make sure he g
ets enough?”
“I’ll administer whatever you want mister, as long as it will help him get better. Just bring me a cup.”
Bert nodded. The guard followed him out.
25
SAGE
With Sven gone, I slumped into a wing-backed chair and eyed the portrait hanging above the mantle. A serene looking woman in a flowing orange dress sat with one hand plucking a harp and the other holding a scroll. Her facial expression mocked me. It said, I have all this and look at you. What a mess you’re in, you poor, wretched thing.
I wanted to throw something at her.
I couldn’t think of room decor any less like me than the stuff in this bedroom.
For starters, the painting looked like it was the original. I remember dinners back home on the farm when we didn’t have enough money for a full meal. If not for mom’s vegetable garden, some nights, there wouldn’t have been food at all.
The Oriental rug at my feet in front of the fireplace probably cost as much as our tractor back home.
A small gas flame burned in the fireplace even though the summer temperature outside didn’t require it. We only made a fire back home—with real wood—when it was too cold to manage without.
I sighed and leaned my head back. Beckett and Finn liked playing board games in front of that fireplace back home, and now, no one was even at the farmhouse to return home to. So why think about memories of it? They only brought pain.
Ollie jumped into my lap, nuzzling himself into the space between my arm and torso. I stroked his fur. The light from the moon shined through a skylight in the ceiling and cast a rectangular strip of light across the Oriental rug.
Back home, on clear nights like this, Beckett and I studied stars from the barn loft. We could see across the Kansas plains for miles. The endless sky provided us visuals for star chart after star chart.
How simple life was back then. Even with all our money problems. At least in the evenings, all I had to think about was how many stars we could mark for the night, and if I’d made sure all the animals had been fed, and if our farm help could be paid for the week. All those doubts about having enough money to pay the bank at the end of the month felt a hundred times easier than facing all this.
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