The Gene Rift (Destiny by Design Book 2)

by J. Andersen

  She gives me a look. “Yeah, I get that. But it’s the fringe benefits of being with you every waking second that I’m worried about. All the planning together, the raids, the trips to the cabin.”

  “You realize the purpose of that trip was to get the man I love out of prison, right?”

  Trying to figure out what she’s really thinking is impossible. Does she hate me for something I can’t control? It’s hardly fair. She seems like the kind of person who could look at a situation objectively, but right now, her emotions are clouding her thinking, which is weird be-cause I’m pretty sure she’s the non-emotional type.

  “Look, I promise you I have no interest in Jaxon,” I continue. “Can we forget about this and start over? Put aside this awkwardness be-tween us?”

  She studies my face for a moment, probably trying to gauge if I’m sincere. “Yeah, I suppose we’ve got no choice but to put up with each other.”

  ****

  The elders gather in the meeting room and murmur amongst them-selves, every few moments, stealing glances at the bed in the corner.

  Saul’s there, attached to an IV drip, which Dr. Bartholomew is monitoring closely. When I asked, they told me it was just saline to help with hydration and coherency when he wakes up. Should be any minute now. Hopefully, they’ve added something more. Something to keep him sedated and weak.

  Heads turn toward the bed when Saul shifts, and Dr. Bartholomew checks the machines showing his vitals. Saul’s eyes flutter, and a quiet groan escapes his throat. I’m at the end of the bed, waiting to see what will happen, and as soon as his eyes fully open, he looks directly at me.

  “I guess you didn’t kill me … unless this is hell.”

  Then he sits up and scans the faces watching him. “Maybe it is hell.” He shrugs like nothing has happened. Like he wasn’t just drugged and kidnapped by his enemies.

  Standing looks difficult on his still wobbly legs, but he insists. And since I’m the closest person, he leans on me. I shrug away at the feel of his hand on my shoulder, but he grasps it with his claw-like fingers and lowers his head to my ear. “This will go a heck of a lot smoother if you at least pretend to like me. I know that may be difficult for you—”

  “Difficult? Try impossible.”

  “Am I really that bad, Kate? Think about it. I trusted your guys not to kill me with that drink. Now it’s your turn to trust me to save your little boy toy, Micah.”

  No eye glare is strong enough to portray the hatred I feel for the man who stands next to me. But as much as I hate him, I have to play along for now. “Fine. Let’s get this over.” I put my arm around his trim waist and help him hobble to the table where eager faces await.

  Mr. Suthers stands up. “Mr. Goodman, I’m sure you can understand the predicament we’re in right now. You see, we don’t cater to those in your line of thinking or work, but since you have access to one of our community’s valued citizens, we’re willing to hear your proposal.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  The way he says “sir” holds a hint of contempt, like the respect he’s showing goes only so far.

  Suthers remains standing and looks Saul up and down, “Let’s not waste time, then. Please, tell us what you’re thinking.”

  “As you wish.” Saul places both hands on the table in front of him and leans for support. I offer a seat, but he refuses. I assume he’s too proud to sit among those who consider themselves his equals, despite their lack of military training. “The long and short of it is that Micah was chosen for a special procedure, and we’re planning to steal him en route.”

  “What kind of procedure?” someone asks.

  “Since Micah’s an enemy of Sector Four, he’s being rehabilitated … medically.”

  “Can you explain in further detail?” Marie asks.

  “If you would quit interrupting me, I would explain a lot of things.” A hush falls over the room.

  “No disrespect intended,” he adds.

  “Of course not,” Suthers says, quietly seating himself. But by the looks of things, he knows Saul’s last statement was a lie.

  “Like I said, Micah is considered an enemy of Sector Four, and there are two ways we rehabilitate these people. We kill them or make them one of us.”

  I swallow at his words. And the way he squeezes my shoulder doesn’t help to calm me. It’s a reminder that he has Micah’s future in the palm of his hands.

  “The Evolutionary Scientists at The Institute have developed a new Microchip Implant for Health with these kinds of criminals in mind. It helps with the rehabilitation process because it blocks the impulses of the brain that may lead to traitorous thoughts or actions. In other words, when the chip is activated, he won’t be able to think anything against The Institute, and he certainly won’t do anything that would help the rebellion. In fact, he’d do the opposite. We find that these criminals become incredibly helpful to our cause after receiving the im-plants. They tend to spill any information they have about the rebellion.” Suddenly, fear invades every corner of the room as the reality of what Saul has said settles upon the Committee. Micah knows too much. If he were to tell them what he knows, it would be disastrous. Silas frowns. “So why help us?”

  “Kate’s agreed to give me my son in exchange for Micah.”

  I’ve already told the elders about Brody being Saul’s son, but that doesn’t prevent the reaction from them. A few gasp. Others harden their looks or flex their jaws. Only Suthers doesn’t react.

  I glance away, but I can hear the smile in his voice. If I look at him, he’ll know it’s a ruse. That I’d never give him my son. And right now, I need him to believe it’ll happen. Otherwise, he won’t help Micah.

  “Besides, what better way is there to get back at the enemy than to make one of their youngest and most innocent one of ours? Train him up in the way he should go and all that. I’ll raise Brody to adhere to the rules of The Institute, bring him up with my Tier Two military ideals.” And the truth comes out. The ideals of The Institute wrapped up in a nice little package. The thought of my innocent son becoming one of those monsters sends a fresh pang of hatred deep into my bones. Building my courage, I stare up into Saul’s twinkling coffee-colored eyes; he knows he’s got me. I do my best not to show my loathing for him at the moment, but it takes every ounce of my self-control.

  “So you see, it’s either Micah or Brody.”

  “Mr. Goodman, you still haven’t told us your strategy to rescue Micah,” one of the women says.

  Saul nods. “The easiest way to get him out is to intercept him on the way to surgery. That’s when they’ll be the most vulnerable. I’ll make sure there’s a gap in security; you ensure your men are there to take him. We both know you have people planted within The Institute’s borders, ready to do your bidding. I’m sure it’ll be no trouble to make it look like the doctors and nurses took him elsewhere for surgery. By the time they find out he’s missing, it’ll be too late.”

  “Sounds like it’ll work, but how do we know we can trust you?”

  “Oh, please. I let you drug me with what could have been poison.

  And you’ll do it again to get me out so I won’t see the layout of your hidden cavern down here. Don’t give me grief about trust. If I can do this much, you can meet me halfway.”

  “He’s right,” Silas says. “It sounds like it’ll work. When’s the surgery? How long do we have to plan our rescue?”

  “Two weeks. He’s scheduled for implant a week from Monday. Nine a.m.”

  Suthers stands up again. “In that case, we need to get you back to The Institute and begin our plans. If you don’t mind …” He motions toward the bed in the corner where the doctor stands with a vial of something in his hands.

  Once again, Saul leans on me for support, though his legs seem to have more strength now. I wrap my arm around him, and my hand grasps the muscles of his side. They twist and turn under my touch as he moves, each one thick and strong. A reminder of the massive power he possesses, both
physically and socially.

  Suddenly, he feels too heavy, like he’s using his weight to push me down. I don’t know why he’d want to assert his power right now in front of the elders. Treating me like this, forcing me to my knees, will gain him no points. My bum leg can’t withstand the weight of him, and I’m sure it’ll give out any second. Then my eyes go fuzzy, and even the bed a few feet away blurs into a white cloud. My legs feel like jelly, and I can’t figure out how Saul is doing this.

  I hear a faint whisper, but it’s not clear. Like I’m hearing what Saul says through a thick wad of cotton.

  “Kate. You okay?”

  I know he’s whispering because his lips are by my ear, and his breath is on my neck. Too close. He’s way too close.

  The blurriness subsides, and the strength returns to my legs. Just like that, I’m back to normal and climbing to my feet. I shake my head slightly. “Yeah. I’m fine.” But a minute later when he’s sitting back on the bed, allowing Dr. Bartholomew to hook up another IV that will deliver another sleeping drug, he looks at me, and I’m sure there’s concern in the way he cocks his head to the side and wrinkles his forehead like he’s thinking.

  I step away and run my hand over my face in an attempt to wipe away the heat that’s flushed over my skin. From a few feet away, I watch the medication as it slowly drips into Saul’s vein. His eyes lock on mine until they become too heavy to stay open. Moments later, he’s asleep.

  THIRTEEN

  TESTING

  (MICAH)

  Mr. Dennard is back to do observations again today. Not really sure what he’ll observe here in this lovely stone room. Following me while I go about my normal life—not that I have one anymore—would make more sense. He could actually see what I do and why I do it. For The Institute’s data purposes, it would be better. That way they’d be able to tweak the chip to make me think one way or another based on what they’ve seen, but sending in a guy to ask questions is a little less “observation-like”. Fine by me. I can manipulate the answers to do as little damage as possible to my own brain while the Committee and Jaxon are hopefully working out a brilliant plot to get me out of here.

  I’m waiting in the observation room—the one with the table and two chairs and nothing else—for Mr. Dennard to walk through the doors. With a bag slung crossways across his chest and over one shoulder, he crosses the threshold and lumbers toward the table. At first, I’m taken aback by the uncanny resemblance of Kate to her father, but soon my daydreams give way to watching his movements.

  Ducking his head to remove the strap of his bag from his shoulder, he slides it off and places the bag in a crumpled heap on the table. He digs around inside and removes his compact and stylus as well as a small box and lays them on the tabletop next to each other in a neat row. Upon closer inspection, the box, with its clear hinged top, holds a tiny chip. An MIH. My MIH. It looks like it’s set into a small hub in the center, probably meant for programming the chip. When Mr. Dennard presses a button on the screen, the square lights up, as does the chip inside. Not quite a centimeter square, it holds the inner workings of our human existence, telling our bodies how to preserve energy, keeping our minds sharp until our programmed deaths. I say our, but what I mean is their. Except now it will be mine as well unless Silas and the others figure out a way to get me out of here. If they even know I’m still alive.

  Looking at the tiny square of Plexiglas and metal, I can’t help but wonder what other things they’ve programmed in there just for me. Will I die before the usual time of one hundred and twenty years? Will I go crazy so they can use me as an example of what happens to rebels, much like how they do to the remaining Wombers at the Parade of Values each year? I’ve seen the practice, marching out the line of elderly citizens with their deteriorating bodies and failing minds just so the people of our community will respect—no, fear—The Institute and its advances. Will this tiny chip leave me any free will, or will I become a walking robot, ready to obey Fishgold’s commands?

  I secretly cringe at the thought, but I don’t let Dennard see my reaction. No … I have to be in full control of myself around him. The possibilities are endless: forced truth-telling, mental deterioration, physical ailments … all ways to get back at me for what they think I’ve done. Truth be told: the thought of them messing with my mind creeps me out.

  Reaching into his bag again, Dennard removes a few suction cups with antennae attached. He places one on my wrist, two on my head and without even asking, he moves the collar of my shirt and places two more on my chest. Heart rate monitors. A lie detector. No problem. I’ve beaten lie detectors before. It’s one of the first things our people learn if they’re going undercover. Even breathing begins now.

  Once he’s got everything in order, he removes a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his nose back and forth before returning the filthy rag to his pants. Something about the gesture comforts me. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen Silas make the very same movements a thousand times. Like a habit from long ago now lost to improved medicine. Whose nose runs around here? Nobody gets colds anymore; those viruses were eradicated long ago. But knowing what I know about Den-nard’s ancestry, it must be a gesture adopted from his grandfather, one of the first generations of our new improved society. Not all habits can be easily broken.

  Finally, he sits. “Shall we begin?”

  I don’t respond. Am I supposed to get all pumped up about having my life as I know it turned upside down? I think not. No, now is the time to focus like no other. I need to formulate my answers carefully, control my bodily responses. I give myself a second to steady my heart rate.

  “Name?”

  “Micah Pennington.”

  “Eye color?”

  “Blue or gray depending on what I’m wearing.”

  “One word answers, please, Mr. Pennington.” I smile.

  “That should do for the baseline questions. Shall we begin the interview?”

  “Sure, what the heck.” I’m ready, but I’m thrown off when he asks his first real question.

  Mr. Dennard eyes me for a millisecond before glancing back at the chart beside him. “Do you love my daughter?”

  My pulse soars off the charts, and I fight to get it back under control. Even, steady, slow breaths. I cock my head to the side and eye him suspiciously. “Excuse me? Could you repeat the question?”

  He glances at the screen of his compact and back at me. Probably saw how my levels jumped. He knows it threw me off; his computer told him so. “I believe you heard me clearly. Do. You. Love. My. Daughter? It’s a simple question, Mr. Pennington.” His straight expression reveals no emotion. Like his daughter didn’t run away with her son, leaving him to never see his grandson. Like she could be coming back any minute and his life can go back to normal.

  Suddenly, I feel sorry for him. In all my planning with Kate, we never discussed what it might mean for her family. She up and disappeared, and they had no idea where she’d gone. Suspected, maybe; but without any evidence, they’d be left to wonder. Sitting here across the table from him, I see a twinge of pain in his eyes. He hides it well with the stoic expression, but it’s still there.

  “What does that possibly have to do with this interview? Seems kinda personal, don’t you think?” Calm. Control.

  “The goal of this interview is to know you inside and out. I cannot do that without asking a few uncomfortable questions.” He wipes his nose with the handkerchief again and leans to one side while he tucks the handkerchief into his back pocket. Then he folds his hands and leans his elbows on the table. “Do you feel uncomfortable, Mr. Pennington?”

  I hate how he keeps using my name. Like saying it will eventually tear me down somehow.

  “No.”

  Absentmindedly, I scratch at the suction cup attached to my chest.

  When I realize the gesture might make me appear nervous, I stop.

  Dennard taps a few places on the screen and speaks before he looks up at me again with that pointed, penetrati
ng stare that is somehow not a stare at all. “No, you don’t feel uncomfortable, or no, you don’t love my daughter?”

  Man, I’m failing this stupid test already. Deep breath. “No, I don’t feel uncomfortable. Lie. Yes, I love your daughter. Truth.

  His face seems to soften a bit as he looks again at the screen in front of him. He knows I’m telling the truth about Kate, and whatever he sees on the screen must confirm this. Maybe that was his test. To see if I cared for his daughter. The real question is what is he going to do with that information? Will it help me or hurt me? After all, he’s the one who will program my new MIH.

  “If you truly love my daughter, why did you convince her to run away from her life here, especially at a time when she was on the cusp of moving through the ranks of the Creation Department?” The attempt to control his emotions is strained, and the vein in his neck gives him away when it pops out on the surface of his skin. To hide it, he leans forward and rubs the stubble on his chin with one hand.

  Scrap the being careful. This is totally a trick question. If I answer truthfully and tell him I love Kate because she sees things others don’t, because she’s strong and courageous and beautiful, because she was willing to give it all up, even me, to save her son, then I may as well tell him where the entrance to Arcanus is. He’ll know it exists and that I helped her.

  But if I lie and say I had nothing to do with her disappearance, he’ll think I don’t love her, that I’m a selfish bastard who’s trying to get out of trouble. So do I take a chance at satisfying The Institute worker side of him, or will appealing to the father in him help me more?

  “I didn’t convince her to run away, Mr. Dennard. She asked me for help.” I want to say something about Brody, tell him I love her because of what she did for her son, but I don’t know if he knows about the baby. Best to leave that part unmentioned. “Your daughter is an amazing woman. She’s strong even though she can’t see it. She has a respect and zest for life, and she thinks for herself. That’s why I fell in love with her.”