Restitution (The Alpha Drive Book 3)

by Kristen Martin

  Emery sat back in her chair as the words sank in. A disturbing realization hit her. Worse than the Federal Commonwealth, worse than Novak . . .

  My father is my new enemy.

  34

  “Now that you’ve had the formulation for forty-eight hours, what do you have for me?” Byron asked as Dr. Matheson took a seat in front of him. “I’m hoping it’s good news.”

  For the first time since Byron had worked with him, the doctor smiled. “Our results have been promising,” he said as he pulled a half-filled syringe from the inside breast pocket of his lab coat. “Now that I have the actual product in my hands, it’s been much easier to find ways to clone it in larger doses.”

  Byron took the syringe from him, turning it over in his hands. “This is much better than the milligram you showed me last time.” He nodded his head in recognition. “Good work. However, as you know, we’re planning to start selling sanaré to the dormants residing in Chicago this week, which equates to 1.5 million people.” He eyed the syringe dubiously. “We need these to be full syringes. And we need a lot more of them.”

  Dr. Matheson held up his hand before Byron could continue his lecture. “You didn’t let me finish,” he said with a coy smile. “I’ve found a way to clone sanaré in large quantities, but I’ve also found a way to increase the potency of each dose.”

  Byron’s ears perked up. “Meaning what exactly?”

  “Meaning I’ve created a better solution. Half of a syringe of sanaré is equivalent to the power of one full syringe.”

  Byron raised the needle in the air with both hands, examining it closely. “Have you tested it?” As soon as the question left his mouth, a vibrant female, about Emery’s age, walked into the room, followed by a male around the same age.

  The doctor stood from his seat and approached the young girl. “Carlise, here, is a dormant. When I found her, the grey was all over her body, and was quickly approaching her neck and head.” He fiddled with his holopad and projected a hologram of Carlise’s previous state—her grey state. “She was injected with a full syringe of the less potent cloned sanaré.”

  Byron nodded. “Impressive. She looks exactly as I would have guessed after being injected with a full dose.” He turned his attention to the other subject. “What about him?”

  “This is Jackson. Also a dormant, his grey was approaching his neck and head when I found him. However, he was injected with a half syringe at the exact same time as Carlise.”

  Byron looked the boy up and down, scrutinizing him for any signs of the condition, but he couldn’t find any. His skin looked natural, his weight was in a healthy range, and he moved around the room with a pep in his step.

  “We’ve been monitoring both of their vital signs. The half syringe with cloned ingredients worked faster and more efficiently than the less potent and full syringe. By increasing the potency and making the formulation more concentrated, we’ve reduced the healing time by over a third.”

  “It almost sounds too good to be true,” Byron rebutted. “What’s the catch?”

  Dr. Matheson thanked both Carlise and Jackson as he dismissed them. He waited until the door closed before answering. “The catch is that we can only clone from the original formulation.”

  Oh. Byron took a second to let this sink in. He tapped the tips of his fingers together, then stood from his chair so that he was eye level with the doctor. “Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is that you can’t clone a half syringe to make another half syringe?”

  Dr. Matheson sighed. “We’ve tried, but the result of the secondary cloned syringe was ineffective. The cloning process feeds off of the natural ingredients in the sanaré. Without it, the entire process can’t exist.”

  Byron raised an eyebrow. “So what exactly are you saying?”

  “What I’m saying,” Dr. Matheson said as he lowered his voice to a whisper, “is to guard that original syringe as if your life depended on it.”

  “And why is that?”

  The doctor’s eyes flitted toward the door. “Because, in all seriousness, it actually does.”

  35

  It’d been three hours since their conversation at the café with Naia. Torin sat on a barstool, watching as Emery paced back and forth across the living room in his apartment. The worry lines in her forehead were prominent, and she was whittling her fingernails down to mere stubs.

  “How quickly do you think Naia can gather the information?” she asked as she gnawed on yet another hangnail.

  He hopped off the stool and placed himself directly in front of her. “You’re making me dizzy,” he admitted as he took her hands in his. “Can we sit down?” He glanced at the holoclock on the wall. It was almost one in the morning.

  A loud sigh escaped her lips as she sunk into the plush couch. “Fine, I’ll sit.”

  He couldn’t help but eye her leg, which was now bouncing impatiently. She really can’t sit still. He extended his arm across her body, his hand landing on her knee. The bouncing ceased almost immediately. “There. That’s better,” he whispered.

  She studied him for a moment, concern lining her eyes. “How did this happen? How did my dad become the enemy?”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily call your dad the enemy,” he countered, choosing his words carefully. “He’s trying to help the general population. He’s trying to heal an illness. Is that really such a terrible thing?”

  She cast her eyes downward and shrugged. “I just have a bad feeling. My gut’s telling me that what he’s trying to do is wrong.” She looked back up at him. “Do you know how hard it is to not follow your intuition?”

  Do I ever. It was difficult to hold her gaze, especially with the hundreds of thoughts swirling around in his mind. Her crimson hair was thrown into a messy bun, and her makeup was smeared in the corners of her eyes. She looked confused and heartbroken and beautiful, all at the same time.

  Oh, what the hell.

  Before a second thought could interrupt, he leaned in and placed his lips on hers, the movement gentle and sweet. To his delight, she didn’t break away; instead, she scooted in closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. Cinnamon and chocolate lingered on her breath, the smell only making him want her more. With her chest pressed against his, he could feel the beating of her heart as it grew faster and faster, in rhythm with his own. They remained intertwined for a few moments, prolonging the moment as long as they could.

  When she finally pulled away, it felt too soon, but he was grateful he’d acted on his feelings. He’d taken a chance and she’d accepted. Finally.

  Without saying a word, Emery grabbed the fleece throw that was sitting on the edge of the couch and leaned into his shoulder, wrapping them both up in the soft, fuzzy blanket. His chest rose and fell with hers, their breathing completely in sync. He could see out of his peripheral that her eyes were beginning to flutter, the first signs of falling asleep. He allowed his eyes to do the same and, for once, didn’t fight it. He drifted off to sleep with her hand curled in his. And that’s when he knew.

  I’m in love with Emery Parker.

  36

  A familiar dream visited Emery that evening. She was at home with her mother and sister in Arizona, enjoying a hot, dry evening splashing around in the pool. As her mother got out of the pool, her movements were much slower than usual. Emery got out after her, following her to the barbecue pit, but instead of moving slowly, her own body moved at lightning speed. She spotted an empty syringe laying on one of the lawn chairs.

  “Mom?” she called out. “Are you okay?”

  Her mother turned to face her, tongs in hand. There were patches on her skull where her hair had fallen out, her hairline receding further and further back from her forehead. Her big brown eyes were sunken in, along with her cheekbones, accentuating her jawline in an unsightly manner. But instead of staggering backward, like in previous dreams, Emery found herself taking a step forward.

  “We all have to die at some
point,” her mother said, her voice empty as it echoed through the desert. “It’s unnatural to live forever.” A single drop of blood slid from her nose.

  “What are you talking about?” Emery whirled around to face her sister, who was still floating in the pool. “What is she talking about?”

  She expected to see her sister’s bones laid out perfectly on a pool raft, like in the previous rendition of this dream, but her sister was as spritely as ever. “Listen to mom,” Alexis cooed as she bounced over to where she was standing. “Listen closely.”

  “We all have to die at some point,” her mother repeated.

  Emery knew what was supposed to happen next. She’d try to take a step toward her mother, but her feet wouldn’t move. They’d be stuck to the ground in a blue gel-like substance. Instead, she took a deep breath and confidently held her hand out to her mother. “There’s a cure now. No one has to die. Come with me.”

  Her mother shook her head as her skin began to melt away from her face. Emery closed her eyes to block out the disturbing scene. I refuse to watch my mother die, yet again.

  Moments later, she finally opened her eyes, a pile of ash on the ground. A gust of wind ruffled her hair as it picked up her mother’s remains and whirled them away into the desert sky.

  Come on, wake up. She didn’t want to stick around for her own demise—her skin disappearing, one body part at a time—to reveal only bone, until there was nothing but ash left. Instead, she gazed across the pool, startled by the image before her. There stood Byron, with piles and piles of orange-filled syringes surrounding him. “It’s the only way,” he said, his voice musical like a song. “Join us.”

  Emery jolted awake. She was still cuddled up with Torin on the couch, his head thrown back and perfectly molded into one of the cushions. After carefully placing his arms in a position she could sneak out from, she stood from the sofa, rubbing her eyes as she made her way into the kitchen.

  Remnants of her dream floated across her mind. It was odd that both she and her sister had been perfectly healthy in this dream, whereas before, they’d both been ill, eventually disappearing as the wind swept their ashes away. There’d been nothing different about her mother—still sick and still repeating her mantra. Her dad’s appearance, however, had been a new addition, surrounded by syringe after syringe of sanaré, beckoning her to join them. In the past, she’d only recounted and listened to her dreams until it was too late—she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  As she pulled out her phone to give Naia a call, a holophoto of her and Mason appeared. She froze as her throat tightened, her palms beginning to sweat. Suddenly, the room turned stuffy and claustrophobic, like she’d just entered a burning building without a hazmat suit. In desperate need of fresh air, she rushed over to the window, forgetting that Torin had some weird command system he used for almost everything in his apartment. Frustrated, she darted over to the front door and burst into the hallway, arms and legs pumping down the corridor until she made it outside.

  She inhaled a gigantic gulp of frigid fresh air, keeling over so that her chest was on top of her knees, her arms folded over her shins in a yoga-like pose. After a few more large inhales, she stood upright, hoping that no one had witnessed her anxiety attack. She wiped the sweat from her forehead when another paralyzing thought struck her.

  I kissed Torin last night.

  A wave of guilt washed over her. Ever since the hunt for the sanaré ingredients had started, she hadn’t been to the cemetery once to visit Mason. It was like the formulation and the sanaré had taken precedence—like she’d completely pushed him and their friendship aside.

  I’m a terrible person.

  Without another thought, Emery trudged to the nearest T-Port and directed it to transport her to St. Augustine cemetery. A slightly too-warm breeze for the end of autumn greeted her as she stepped off the platform. Although she hadn’t been there in weeks, the cemetery looked and felt the same. Mason’s headstone was exactly as she’d left it, albeit it was damp and a shade darker from a thunderstorm that had just recently passed.

  She knelt next to his grave, slowly leaning into the side so that her back was up against the edge. She kicked her feet out in front of her and folded her arms across her lap. Tears streamed down her face and, for once, she didn’t try to stop them, didn’t try to hold them back. She just let them flow.

  “Everything’s a mess,” she murmured under her breath. “You’re gone. My mom’s gone. My dad’s not who I thought he was.” She took a deep breath, her body shuddering with the movement. “And last night, I kissed the person who took you away from me.” A loud sob escaped from her throat. She rocked herself back and forth, hitting the back of her head against the stone. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  She turned to face the grave, waiting for some kind of sign that he’d heard her plea, but there was nothing. The air around her was still. The trees were motionless. The usual rustling of the leaves was nonexistent.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered again as she stood up. “I hope you can forgive me, Mason.” She looked up into the sky, waiting again for some kind of sign that he’d heard her. As she stared deeper into the clouds, a thought occurred to her, one she should have realized a lot sooner.

  I can’t keep torturing myself like this. I have to move on.

  With a steadying breath, she wiped the wetness from her face. She walked around to face Mason’s grave head on, then turned her gaze upward again at the cloudy sky. She squeezed her eyes shut, then knelt and patted the ground, shifting the clumps of dirt between her fingers.

  “Goodbye, Mason.”

  As she brought herself upright again, she smoothed her pants and shirt, then turned on her heel to head back toward the iron wrought gates. As much as she wanted to look back one last time, she knew better.

  It was time for a new beginning.

  And that time was now.

  37

  One day of distribution in Chicago, and sanaré had already been a major success. Byron kicked his feet up on his desk as he perused the most recent statistics. At two hundred and seventy five dollars per syringe, 7S was already raking in the cash. And this is just one city, he thought to himself. He averted his gaze from the holoreports to Dr. Matheson, who was also busily scrutinizing the numbers.

  “Impressive,” he murmured as he scrolled further down the list. “Highly impressive.”

  Just as Byron was about to respond, there was a knock at his office door. Naia strode in with her usual demeanor: shoulders back, head held high, glowing brighter than the sun on a cloudless day. “Sir,” she greeted. “May I have a moment?”

  Byron switched off the holoreport, then turned his attention to Dr. Matheson. “Would you excuse us?”

  The doctor nodded as he stood from his seat and headed for the door. “I’ll be in the lab if you need me.”

  “Very good.” Byron nodded as the door shut behind him, then turned his attention to Naia. “Please have a seat.”

  She obliged, occupying the same chair the doctor had just moments ago. “This might be somewhat of a sensitive topic,” she began, her tongue rolling across her lips, “but it needs to be addressed.”

  He clasped his hands together and put his elbows on the desk. “I’m listening.”

  “I know that there are two phases of Operation Revive.” Her expression was pained as she continued. “I know about the IFT X4 and the plans for mass production and distribution.”

  He sat back in his chair, studying her face as he processed the information. “Did Dr. Matheson tell you?”

  She shook her head. “No.” She paused. “Actually, I sort of pieced it together on my own.”

  “Frankly, I’m not all that surprised.”

  A hint of a smile touched her lips. “What I want to know is why I was kept out of the loop regarding this second phase and the creation of the IFT X4.” Her face fell. “I thought I was a more valuable asset to you than that.”
/>   “I assure you, that was never my intention.” He hesitated, knowing he had to choose his words carefully. “I had you working on the first phase. That was your sole focus, and the most important one, I might add.” He could see beads of sweat forming along her hairline.

  “I understand that,” she replied slowly. He could sense some caution in her voice. The confident woman he’d witnessed mere minutes ago was quickly fading from sight. “But now that the first phase has been successfully completed, I’d like to formally request to be an active officer for phase two.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but we have plenty of active officers on phase two,” he responded harshly. “Perhaps the next project.”

  “Sir, if I may . . .”

  Why is she pressing this so hard? He took a moment to study her more closely. She sat rigid and upright in the chair, her hands clasped tightly on the armrests of the chair. Her lips were pursed and her chest was rising and falling more rapidly than usual. The realization hit him right between the eyes. She’s nervous. But why?

  Unless . . .

  She was trying to get information, to find out something, albeit he didn’t know what. He knew better than to play in her hand, but if he were to dismiss her without reason, there was no doubt in his mind she’d go snooping around to find answers. And knowing her background and her skillset, that was the last thing he wanted.

  “On second thought,” he said, shifting his tone, “you make a valid point. I can probably find some room for you in phase two. In fact, the more I think about it, there are a few areas where we could really use you.” He scratched his chin, hoping he’d come off as sincere. “You’ll be second in command to Dr. Matheson. Work closely with him and he’ll fill you in on everything you need to know.”

  He noticed her grip loosen on the armrest, her knuckles returning to a normal color. “Thank you, sir,” she said as she rose from her seat. “I appreciate the opportunity. I’ll meet with Dr. Matheson immediately.”