by Pintip Dunn
“Slicing yourself is aggressive,” I say. “It makes you stand out.”
“The cutting is my back-up plan.” She holds her arms out. She sliced herself up, all right. But not with neat, surgical strokes. The cuts are jagged and crooked, as if she ripped up her skin with a coat hanger. Or her fingernails.
“The girls think I cut myself to keep track of time. It’s easier to let them think that. Be their human calendar. But the truth is, I can’t bear to do it more than once a week.”
“Why do it at all?” I ask.
“I kill a man in the future, hatchie. But before that, he rapes me.” She presses her lips together. “I know how FuMA thinks. If they ever decide I’m aggressive, it won’t be enough to turn me into a murderer. They need to make every detail come true, for fear that the ripples will mess up their precious system.
“But I’ll show them.” Her voice hardens. “Rape is one crime they can’t force. So if I cut myself up, if I starve myself into a pile of skin and bones, then the lowlife will be so disgusted, he won’t be able to rape me. Right?”
Rape is about power, not sex. And besides, they have pills for erectile dysfunction. They can fix Sully’s arms with the zap of a laser. If FuMA has ways to dig into our brains and drag our memories to the surface, I doubt they’ll let a little disfigurement stop them from reaching their goals.
But I don’t say any of this out loud. Because hope, no matter how irrational, is a powerful thing. When the odds are against us, when the battle seems insurmountable, hope may be all that keeps us going.
I will not destroy Sully’s hope. I will not shoot down the one thing that allows her to survive.
So I press my eye to the hole. “Right. He won’t be able to rape you. You’ll be safe here.”
She turns away without responding, and after a moment, I do, too. Retreating into the corner of my cell, I allow a single tear to fall down my cheek. I can’t let them have my memory now. I won’t.
I slam my eyes shut and throw myself back into my future memory. This time, I drag my feet as I walk down the hall, dreading what I will find in room 522. I open the door and try to look at anything but my sister. My eyes fall on the teddy bear, specifically on its blue ribbon.
Yes! I did it! I changed the color!
But my elation doesn’t last long. There’s work to be done.
I take a breath, summoning my courage. But Limbo has put my reserves into a sieve, and I have to grasp at what little strength I have before it drains away. Finally, I turn and face Jessa. Poor, sweet Jessa with her tangled hair and big smile. With her toes poking up the sheet three feet before the end of the bed. With a mental push, I imagine those same toes clumping the fabric just a foot from the baseboard. When I look again, it’s as if she’s grown two feet taller.
Excitement stirs in my stomach. I can do this. I can change my memory.
Turning my attention to her face, I sculpt a new one. I disintegrate the baby fat left on her cheeks and push her jawline out. This work is the mental equivalent of running a marathon. Already, my mind feels blurry and fatigued, like I haven’t slept for seventy-two hours. But I can’t rest, not yet. I push forward.
Jessa’s eyes grow rounder and spread slightly farther apart. On her chin springs a small mole. Her button nose lengthens, curving up at the end. And for the finishing touch, her perfect little grin twists, displaying two rows of crooked teeth.
The spot where my six-year-old sister lay now holds my cheating husband. That bastard. I’m going to kill him.
But first, I think I need a nap.
A few hours later, I wake to the nightmare-inducing vision of Scar Face. The scar isn’t even the ugliest part about him. Mean, narrow eyes, thin, sneering lips. Now that’s an image I’d like to alter. He hauls me to my feet and shoves me out of the cell. We take the same path to Dr. Bellows’ lab as before.
At the first intersection, I lunge right. But the guard’s hand is a manacle around my arm, solid and unyielding. He yanks me forward, and I stumble. “Not going to work, girlie. I’m under strict instructions to take you to the labs uninjured.”
“Oh, really? Does that mean you can’t whip me for doing this?” I work up the saliva in my mouth and spit right in his face. The slobber plops onto his cheek and slowly, stickily drips down. It’s even better than urine.
Scar Face wipes his cheek on my jumpsuit. “Of course, Bellows didn’t say anything about after the procedure,” he whispers lecherously in my ear. “I think you and I are due for a private, one-on-one session.”
The words are ice cubes clattering down my spine. I know I should defuse the situation. I know I shouldn’t do what I’m thinking. But I can’t help myself. I grab his neck, pull him close, and bring my knee up as hard as I can. “Looking forward to it.”
He doubles over, moaning in pain.
I gawk. I can’t believe that worked. I must’ve learned something in my Self-Defense Core, after all.
Before he can recover, I run down the hallway, but I don’t get far. A couple of employees spill out of the rooms and converge on me, seizing my arms. Scar Face must’ve pushed a button to call them.
I’ll pay for this later. After the procedure, without the protection of Bellows’ instructions, I’ll be helpless against Scar Face’s rage.
But it was worth it. Because I can spit in the guard’s face. I can knee him in the groin, and he still has to deliver me to Bellows, safe and unharmed.
And that gives me deep, extreme pleasure.
Does that make me a bad person? Or maybe Chairwoman Dresden was right. Maybe I am aggressive after all.
The guard deposits me at the lab without another word. Before he leaves, he twists the flesh of my arm, a menacing promise of what’s to come.
I thrust the incident from my mind. I can’t think about Scar Face right now. I need to focus on this room. This fight. This memory.
Bellows is accompanied by a young woman. She sits at the table, a backpack hanging on her chair, her hands wrapped around the keyball. Medium build. Light eyes. Brown hair that curves around her ears and ends in a question mark above her shoulders.
“Looks like Chairwoman Dresden’s taken a special interest in your case.” Bellows fiddles with the pencil stub behind his ear. “She sent over her personal assistant to make sure we stay in line.”
His tone is neutral, but a muscle ticks at the corner of his mouth. He’s not happy to be supervised. And really not happy at me for causing it.
“Not at all.” The assistant gets out of her seat and smiles. “Chairwoman Dresden was merely curious why the first treatment didn’t work. Please, sit down.”
Something flickers in my mind. William said he was dating the Chairwoman’s assistant. Does that mean this woman is his girlfriend?
If she knows who I am, she gives no indication. She helps me into the wired chair and fastens the harnesses over my body, her floral scent wafting over me. It’s not perfume, but a pill she took to change the composition of her sweat.
“My name’s MK,” she says.
I know she’s not my friend. Even if she’s William’s girlfriend, she is personal assistant to the Chairwoman herself, one step removed from the enemy. And yet, I can’t help but warm up to her. She’s the first ComA employee who’s been kind to me since I’ve been arrested.
“I’m Callie,” I say.
“Full name: Calla Ann Stone.” Bellows slaps the sensors onto my head. “Birthday: October Twenty-eight. Status: in Limbo. Are we done with the niceties here? Some of us have work to do.”
MK squeezes my shoulder and retreats to the desk screen.
Bellows jams wires into the sensors. “I’ve doubled the potency of the formula. You’re at full health. If the memory’s in there, we’re dragging it out.”
He nods at MK, and she flips a switch. My skin breaks out in goose bumps.
“Have you experienced anything strange since the previous treatment?” he asks.
Oh, sure. I’ve found out FuMA facilitates violent
crime because of some twisted notion about preventing ripples in the future. Is that strange enough?
“No, sir,” I say out loud.
“Are you sure? If you have any inherent psychic ability, these treatments have been known to enhance them.”
I lick my lips. Does he know about my mind’s machine-like abilities to manipulate memories? But that started before the last treatment, not after. He couldn’t know.
I fall back on the answer I practiced with my mother. “I do not have a psychic ability. You can read my school record. Not a single report.”
“Hmmm.” He cups his chin with a hand. “Even with your genetic background?”
My heart stops. They know about Jessa? But how?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your father,” Bellows says.
My father? What?
It’s doesn’t matter. My heart starts beating again. I don’t care what my father has to do with anything, so long as Jessa’s safe.
“You thought I didn’t know?” Bellows smirks. “Your name sounded familiar. It reminded me of a man I used to work with. He was so proud of his firstborn. He came to the labs and crowed about how he named her after the great Callahan.”
He walks to his desk and lifts his hand. The keyball jumps to meet his fingertips. A moment later, my father’s image appears in the air. It’s the same one my mother has programmed into her locket, the one she wears when she’s not wearing the cross.
“I did a little research,” Bellows says. “Turns out this same man is your father.”
I stare at the picture. My father’s lips are relaxed, his expression stoic. I’ve seen this image a hundred times, but I’ve never seen the panic banked in his eyes before. Or is that my imagination?
“What do you know about my father? What does he have to do with me having a psychic ability?”
Bellows studies me. Behind him, MK waits, her fingers poised above the keyball. “It’s classified,” the scientist finally says. “If your mother didn’t tell you, I can’t divulge it.”
He nods at MK. She keys in a few commands, and they exit. The moment the door clicks shut, smoke pours into the room.
I’m not ready. My mind isn’t a steel cage. Bellows’ news has split it wide open. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He did this on purpose. The scientist wasn’t ever going to tell me about my father. He probably made the whole thing up, just to rattle me.
My mind is open. As open as the patch of sky over the courtyard, as the ductwork that twists and turns out of this room. Open as the bottomless pit of a ready mind.
I am walking down a hallway. It has green linoleum floors, with computer screens embedded in the tile. The lighted walls shine so brightly….
No! I won’t do it. I’m not giving them this piece of me.
…I can make out a partial shoeprint on the floor. The acrid smell of antiseptic stings my nose.
I grit my teeth. I clench my jaw. I cannot let the memory get to the door. I don’t know if my changes stuck. I have no idea if I will murder my cheating husband or my baby sister. My fingers dig into my palm, ripping open my skin. I form the tightest fist I can. Tight because it is closed. Locked up. It will never open. Not for Bellows and not for anyone else.
This is my sister I’m trying to save. My sister.
Closed.
I don’t know how long we fight, the fumes and I. Sweat drenches my entire body, gluing me to the chair. My heart thumps like it’s in hyperdrive—too hard, too fast, too much for my fragile human body. I can’t hear anything but the roaring in my ears. Can’t see anything but the deep blackness behind my eyelids. Can’t taste anything but the sharp, metallic flavor of blood.
CLOSED.
At some point, the machines go haywire. Beep! Beep! Beep!
MK rushes into the room, keying commands into the sphere and yanking the sensors from my head.
Bellows follows closely behind. “What are you doing? We almost had her.”
“Her vital signs were off the charts.” She pushes a button, and my harnesses fall away. “This memory is important, but we will not sacrifice her life in order to retrieve it. Is that clear?”
Nausea sets in and I fall to the ground. The room spins. Wires, computers, and both FuMA employees rush around me in a funnel of wind.
“You’re right.” How can Bellows talk when he’s flying sideways? Why do his words come out clear instead of garbled? He is the tornado, and I am the eye. He will not stop moving, and I am eternally, consistently still. “She cannot die until she fulfills her memory. Her premature death will put the entire system in jeopardy.”
He wavers in and out of my vision, and I clap a hand over my mouth. How can he stand it? I’m getting sick watching his motion.
“I’ll tinker with the formula.” His body elongates until it stretches all around me. I whip my head back and forth as I try to lock in on his face. “Take her back to her cell and get her symptoms under control. By this time tomorrow, we’ll have her memory.”
It is a relief when MK slips her arm around my waist and takes me out of the wind.
13
MK half-carries, half-drags me back to Limbo. I try to help, but my legs don’t work. I fall to the floor, pulling MK and her backpack down with me.
“You’re going to be okay.” She helps me to my feet. “I’m going to inject you with a quick-acting antidote. It’s not standard issue, but Bellows signed off on it. He wants you back to full health as soon as possible.”
We lurch past the glass-walled office. Burly Whiskers sits behind the desk. No sign of Scar Face. His shift must be over already. How long was I in the labs? All the walls in the cells are dimmed, so it must be nighttime.
We enter my cell, and MK lowers me to the ground, arranging my limbs as if they were precious silverware. I can almost believe she cares about me. Almost believe her primary concern is my well-being, not the success of the project.
Until she pulls the needle out of her backpack.
Hard, cylindrical. The length of my palm, with yellow liquid swimming in the barrel.
I swallow hard. “What…what are you doing with that?”
“It’s the antidote. Won’t hurt a bit.” She pushes up the sleeve of my jumpsuit, and I feel a sharp pinch in my arm.
An antidote. Maybe that’s what I slammed into Jessa’s chest. Maybe my future self was trying to save her, not kill her.
I wish. I could wish on a thousand falling stars, and it still wouldn’t be true. I know because the heart rate monitor went flat. I saw it. She died.
“You see?” MK’s cool fingers move to my pulse. “Your heart rate’s slowing already.”
She turns and begins to rearrange the items in her backpack. I close my eyes halfway. She’s right. I do feel better.
MK may work for the wrong people, but that doesn’t mean her intentions are evil. Judging by the items in her backpack, she’s a regular girl, like me and Marisa. Water bottle, compact, teddy bear…
Wait a minute. Teddy bear. It has white fur and a red bow, round ears and a black nose. Just like the bear in my future memory.
I struggle to sit up. “MK, where did you get that bear?” The words squeak out, rushed and panicked.
“Shhh.” She zips up the backpack with the bear inside and swings it over her shoulders. “It’s a stuffed animal, Callie. It can’t hurt you.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m not hallucinating. The bear—”
She covers my mouth with her fingers. “You need to rest. No more talking, okay? I’ll be back in the morning to check on you.”
“MK…”
But she’s no longer listening. She and the bear leave my cell, and the gate slides shut behind her.
I lie back down, my heart pounding. I’m being ridiculous. This probably means nothing. It’s coincidence that the bear’s twin was on Jessa’s windowsill.
Except I don’t believe in coincidence anymore.
I close my eyes and try to sleep. I have a big day
tomorrow. Bellows is going to tinker with the formula. Make it even stronger. I have to resist the fumes. I have to.
Once more, I probe my brain. Falling into step with my future self, I run down the hallway to room 522. Opening the door, I see a fluffy white bear with a bright blue ribbon. Relief floods over me, and I break into a grin. I step further into the room and turn toward the bed to kill my husband. I drink in his ski-jump nose, squared jawline, and crooked teeth. As ugly as he is, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life. But just as I raise the syringe, something changes. Our gazes lock and I see her eyes. Jessa’s eyes.
Just like that, the whole ruse disintegrates. Jessa’s face becomes soft and round, the mole disappears from her chin, and her lanky legs grow stubby once more. I plunge the needle into Jessa’s heart. The last thing I see before I fall into reality is Jessa’s final grin, full of crooked, little teeth.
My stomach sinks. I’ve failed. My abilities aren’t strong enough to maintain the alteration, at least not yet. My only option is to fight the fumes. I have to hold off the memory. But how long will I be able to keep this up? Can I keep resisting day in and day out?
I sit up, and the floor tilts in waves. I clutch my forehead. Bellows said the formula doesn’t work as well when I’m injured. I need Scar Face. I need him to beat me up, to keep me safe from the formula.
I stagger to my feet, but before I can run to the bars, I hear a mechanical whirring. As if in slow motion, the gate slides open and a figure steps through the open space. His face is shadowed, but his shoulders fill the doorway.
My breath gets clogged in my throat. Wish granted. Scar Face is here.
I back away, my feet tripping over themselves. I want him to hurt me, but fear wraps its icy fingers around my heart. The hair stands on my neck, and my body is already flinching from the pain.
“Get it over with.” The voice crawls out of my throat on all fours, beaten and resigned. I can do this. Whatever injury he inflicts will be worth it because it will keep me safe from Bellows’s formula, keep FuMA from finding out about my sister.