Shield

by Rachael Craw

  “Listen.” Davis turns abruptly to face me, his eyes flicking in irritation at the others before he shifts to block them out. “I know it’s been a couple of months since everything went down with your brother but there’s still a lot of bad feeling. So maybe, you know, play it cool and don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  My mouth dries. “Bad feeling?”

  He fixes me with a penetrating gaze as though willing me to be reasonable.

  “Aiden died.” My voice is thin and airless.

  “Now Benjamin’s a hero.” Davis lifts his hands. “He doesn’t feel that way. At all. But a lot of people see it that way. We’re talking about some deeply ingrained beliefs.”

  A taut silence.

  Everyone stares at me.

  I grip the side rail harder. “Aiden deactivated.”

  “Not everyone buys that and most don’t care. He was a Stray at some stage.”

  “He was my brother.”

  “Look.” Davis sighs, struggling to manage his tone. “Shields don’t use their Sparks to save Strays.”

  A sickly feeling shrinks my stomach.

  “That’s not how it was,” Jamie says, almost a snarl. “Aiden was deactivated. Kitty was safe.”

  Davis locks his scowl back into place. “I know that, Richie Rich. Benjamin knows that. No one else gives a shit. They see Evie as a Stray sympathiser, which makes her about as popular as ReProg. Less popular, in fact.”

  “It’s not natural,” Lane says, looking away from me, his eyes on the elevator console counting us down to level six.

  I think of Dante’s Inferno and wonder which circle of hell was number six.

  We come to a stop and the double doors open on a T-section of blank corridors. Sweeping ceilings, looming walls, polished floors. Davis veers left and we fall into step behind him, his warnings exacerbating my post-sedation jelly knees. I don’t find my bearings until we come upon a wide window in the right-hand wall looking out on a vast L-shaped gymnasium. A running track surrounds the long leg of the gym. Work-out stations divide the middle. In the dogleg there’s a knife-throwing range. Beyond that is the window to the men’s mess hall. I shiver, recalling the bristling hostility of thirty or forty men built like gladiators glaring at me after Davis told them what I had done.

  “What time is it?” I ask, peering into the empty gym.

  “Almost midnight.” Davis turns right into what must be the corridor I took when I escaped the recovery ward. I listen for approaching footsteps, one ear on the bandwidth for foreign signals, muscles tense for a fight. But there’s no one around. Maybe Davis is overreacting? Besides, how many of those men would still be here? Some of them might have been newbies brought in for Orientation. Chances are those Shields would be back out in the world living their new lives. What about the rest? A lot of them were older, mid-twenties, thirties, even some guys Ethan’s age. Employees like Davis, Benjamin and Lane? Is there likely to be many of them who’d recognise me?

  Maybe Ethan’s bringing me in at midnight to avoid me being seen, worried like Kitty and Davis that I’ll get in trouble. The thought doesn’t give strength to my legs or settle the queasiness in my stomach. I concentrate on the turns Davis makes, trying to recognise the path to Ethan’s laboratory. We finally come to a sliding door with a familiar yellow racing stripe and my eagerness to see Ethan eclipses my anxiety about everything else.

  The door slides open and my heart skitters, stops then starts with a punch. Ethan’s not alone. Robert Knox, the Executive Council Chair, is with him. Knox who had my spine skewered and my hair chopped off. Knox who interrogated Miriam in the ReProg room, unleashing the full power of the Proxy to invade and crush her mind. Knox who tortured Ethan in his youth and resisted the Reforms that stopped Affinity from using Shields for profit.

  Our arrival cuts them off mid-conversation or argument. No raised voices, but their body language suggests high tension. Ethan stands behind his desk, balancing a clipboard on its edge – knuckles white around it – like it’s the only thing keeping his hands from lunging for Knox’s throat. Knox stands jaw locked, shoulders stiff. Their heads turn when the door opens. Knox is the first to break his stance.

  He gestures for us to come in, like it’s his lab. “Ah, the guinea pigs.”

  Pins and needles stab at my spine. The scraping sound is my grinding teeth. Pain in my palms is the work of my nails and the bent one shrieks. A high-pitched ringing in my ears precedes a rattling sound from the counter to my right and I cringe inwardly.

  “Expanding your repertoire?” Knox cocks his head at the vibrating containers, a box of surgical gloves, pens, plastic beakers and yes, a tray of glass test tubes, eating them up with hungry eyes. I fire a desperate glance at Ethan. He holds my gaze, relaxes his arms and expands his chest with a slow breath in and out. I force my fists to unclench and try to match his breathing but the high-pitched ringing won’t let up. Ethan directs a commanding look behind me and Davis draws close. He slips his hand around the back of my arm, gentle but firm – a discreet warning.

  He thinks I’m going to attack Knox? But Davis’s usually aggressive signal is cool and clear, overlapping mine. My panic dissipates, the beakers and vials slow their tap dance on the counter and grow still.

  “Control,” Knox says – a slow nod. “Good for you. Though, who really knows what you’re capable of now? All that potential waiting to be mined. Moulded. It warrants thorough examination.”

  Can the whole room hear the machine-gun stutter of my pulse? I’m too afraid to be embarrassed or to care that Davis must feel me shiver.

  “Counsellor Knox,” Ethan, his clipped German accent working the hard edges of the Executive Chair’s title. “Evangeline remains under my jurisdiction. The Council has already signed over the protocol for her ongoing assessments to me.”

  “Still, it won’t be the depth of analysis we enjoyed before the Reform.” Knox keeps his expression bland and adds lightly, “Don’t you miss the efficiency of vivisection?”

  My breath snags. Davis tightens his hold on my arm. Jamie takes a measured step, casual enough with his hands in his pockets, and blocks me from Knox’s view.

  Knox chuckles. “The boyfriend, the muscle and … a new recruit?” He gestures at Lane. “I suppose you didn’t want Benjamin in the Initiative, Ethan?”

  “You wanted to see us, Counsellor Tesla?” Jamie says.

  I love him for his even tone and formality, his unspoken piss off, Knox, you complete bastard. I want to hide my face between Jamie’s shoulderblades and weep.

  “Yes, Mr Gallagher.” Ethan matches Jamie’s delivery. “It is already late and we have much to discuss. Would you excuse us, Counsellor Knox?”

  “Make sure they understand the terms, Ethan.” Knox steps into my line of sight, gaze riveted on me. He makes his fingers into a gun and bounces his eyebrows. “You’ve got one shot. Don’t waste it.” He pretends to fire at me. A sickly grin and he saunters to the door.

  None of us moves or speaks until it slides closed behind him. Lane whistles long and low. Davis releases my arm with a gentle squeeze and Jamie steps away.

  “He wants to experiment on her?” Lane says.

  “That will never happen.” Ethan is the only one who will look at me and he catalogues the full wreck of my pallor, weight loss, shadows and tension. Concern creases his brow. I know he hears my heartbeat, sees the tremor in my shoulders. My self-loathing peaks. I can’t stand this needy version of myself but I can’t help imagining Ethan stepping out from behind his desk and gathering me into his arms. Not to restrain me. Not to keep me from hurting myself, or blowing up the lab. A proper hug, like a dad.

  We haven’t had that yet. He’s held my hand when he thought I was asleep, smoothed my brow when he thought I was sedated. The only overt affection he’s shown me was when he said goodbye before his trip. He’d cupped the side of my face, run his thumb over my cheek and I’d leaned into his palm – just a fraction – and closed my eyes. An instant archive set on a ve
lvet cushion, beneath a glass case with its own goddamn spotlight for me to stare and stare at until my eyes water. But the hug won’t happen with an audience – Jamie’s the only person here who knows Ethan’s my father – it would raise questions.

  “What did he mean?” I ask. “Understand the terms of what?”

  He exhales and shrugs off his coat revealing a black singlet and golden muscle, bands of tattoos around his thick biceps that remind me of Jamie’s – exactly of Jamie’s – and I try not to stare. He tosses the coat on his cluttered desk and reaches for the heavy leather bag by his feet, retrieving a metallic cylinder. Liquid gleams midnight-blue through the windows of the cylinder, sloshing as Ethan holds it up to the light – the field test proof of Aiden’s Deactivation. “We have a cure.”

  INITIATIVE

  Two loaded syringes: one white, the other red. Two vials, both clear. Ethan lays them out on the edge of his desk where he’s cleared a space before Aiden’s blue cylinder. The red syringe with the vials. The white syringe by itself. Lane, Davis, Jamie and I peer at the collection of serums, stunned stupid.

  Lane points to the smallest vial of clear liquid at the end. “This is the actual cure?”

  Ethan gestures to the red syringe and the larger clear vial. “These must be administered first but yes, that is the cure for the Stray mutation.”

  “I don’t understand … How?”

  Ethan rubs at his thick stubble as though he’d rather not say. “The lab has been working with Aiden’s deactivated sample since the event.”

  My internal thermostat plunges. I picture Aiden’s grey corpse on a slab in the bowels of the Affinity Project compound, chest cavity laid bare, organs weighed and bottled in briny fluid. No. I’m being ridiculous. Not like that. Surely. But my fear slips its clamp, so quietly it’s almost a whisper, “They cut him up?”

  He frowns like he’s not sure he understands the question. “We discussed this, Evangeline.”

  We did?

  “Several times, while you were in recovery.”

  My ears get hot. My hands get cold. I can’t feel my lips. Is everyone staring? They are. Shit. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut and nod? I blurted that revolting question. You’re blinking too fast. Pull yourself together.

  “They took core samples, blood and bone marrow before his remains were cremated,” Ethan says softly.

  Jamie shifts his weight, his arm brushing against mine and he stays there. The gesture only makes me feel more fragile. I straighten up, creating space between us again.

  “Right. I think I remember.” I don’t. At all. My therapist warned me I might have patches of memory loss, difficulty concentrating, but this … this is major. Core samples. I imagine the scars on my back throbbing. I make my voice steady, business-like. “It’s only been two months. That’s nothing. You said there was no cure in decades of attempts and now … now it’s …” I point at the small vial and my hand trembles. I tuck it away in my jacket pocket.

  What’s wrong with me? Loss of control. Aversion to pity. Unresolved rage. A cure that’s too little too late? I want the research team to take their cure and ram it up their asses. I want to cry. Howl. I want to run through the compound waving the vial in my fist screaming, see, you self-righteous bastards, I was right! I want Ethan to drag Knox back in here and force him to admit he was wrong and hold him down while I pound his face into meat.

  “We have a large database of samples from previous trials.” Ethan watches me with careful eyes. “Aiden’s deactivated DNA acts like a key, unlocking the code to the mutation. It was successful not once but in multiple applications. Almost three thousand samples responded positively. Eighteen hundred shared the strongest markers of the mutation. Rapid cellular regeneration. The reversal of corrosive amino acids in the gateway structure and …” he trails off, taking in the blank wall of incomprehension, “The key works.”

  “For Strays,” Jamie says.

  Ethan’s perma-frown returns. “It opens pathways for further research but this cure is for the Stray mutation only.”

  No one speaks. A grappling silence. Minds wrestling – struggling to hold the weight and significance of Ethan’s words. He lets us wrestle for a while before opening his hands to the group. “The Executive Council is under pressure from the World Council and the CIA to investigate my claim that a cure is possible. The politics are … complicated. Knox feels my recent mistakes have brought the organisation into disrepute. He blames me for the increased government presence in the compound and Robert has little tolerance for civilians. The Executive Council has conceded to allow me one attempt to produce viable proof that the cure works or they will confiscate my research and revoke my security clearance.”

  I shake my head. “They can’t do that to you.”

  “They can.”

  “What constitutes viable proof?” Jamie asks.

  Ethan wets his lips. “A fully regenerated Striker.”

  Davis rocks his head forwards. “What are you saying?”

  “I need a team to bring me a live test subject. A live Stray.”

  Jamie slowly uncrosses his arms. Lane opens his mouth but produces no sound. My brain trips ahead, unsure where to land. Am I surprised? Who else could he ask? Who else would stomach the request? But … could I really go down this path? I’d have to put my rage and resentment aside. Risk my trashed hope on someone else’s brother, someone else’s son. A chance to make Aiden’s loss count.

  Ethan waits.

  Davis digs his fingers up into his hair. “A live Stray?”

  “How is that even … possible?” Jamie murmurs.

  Lane jerks his head. “It isn’t. You can’t catch a Stray and not kill it. You either have a dead Stray with a living Shield or a living Stray with a dead Shield. Or a living Stray with a dead Spark and a Shield gone crazy with grief.”

  Davis blows air through his lips.

  “Makes no difference,” Jamie says. “To catch a Stray you’d need the consent of his counterpart and you can’t actually work with a Shield once they’ve triggered.”

  Davis and Lane make noises of agreement.

  The dismissive tone grates me. “You and Miriam worked with me.”

  “And how did you react when you thought Miriam was interfering with Kitty’s safety? Besides which Kitty was your first – it’s not comparable. Even Supply Protection is a solo gig. The team is there for the set-up and once the Spark is confirmed they get the hell out of the way. It’d be too dangerous otherwise.”

  Ethan picks up the lone white syringe. “This is a short-term blocker. It masks the Fixation Effect, muting the kill switch.”

  The guys recoil from the syringe like Ethan has presented them with personal kryptonite.

  “It was developed when the mutation first surfaced but it was ineffective on Strays. Those of you willing to participate in a Supply Protection protocol would receive a dose before attempting first contact with the Spark. The one who activates would have an eight- to ten-hour window, depending on the size, metabolism and maturity of the Shield, to identify the Stray and relay this to the support team before it wears off. The team would detain the Stray.”

  “Mute the kill switch?” Lane chokes, the whites of his eyes prominent. “No one’s going to agree to that.”

  “Why?” My voice shoots up.

  Lane gives me an incredulous look.

  Davis glares him down and turns to me, face smooth, tone careful. “An experienced Shield wouldn’t agree to anything that risked their Spark’s safety.”

  Experienced. Euphemism for “real” – a real Shield not an unnatural Stray sympathiser. My teeth meet and I push words through them, “But if they knew there was a support team who would protect the Spark …”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lane says, his lips a sour twist.

  “Because I’m not a mindless drone?”

  Jamie sighs. “Because you’ve never lost a Spark.”

  “Oh. Please patronise me.”

>   His mouth thins. We glare and smoulder. It isn’t sexy. It’s hard edges and bitter truths and worn longing.

  “Jamie is talking about the principle of first loss,” Ethan says, using the same careful tone as Davis – the let’s not upset the unstable telekinetic in case she blows the place up tone. “It is a deliberate design feature.”

  “Deliberate?” I hug my waist for something to hold on to. “They want us to fail?”

  “There are powerful physiological, psychological and emotional processes involved in a Shield’s first loss. It fuses the synaptic pathways associated with Sparking, amplifying the primary motivator of the Fixation Effect. In the heat of pursuit it tips the Shield into a frenzied, almost animalistic state. Reason becomes irrelevant.” He turns the white syringe in his fingers. “This blocker would restore a Shield’s reason – for a brief period.”

  I don’t know what to say. Miriam warned me about the terrible statistics that no one saves their first but never why that was. Of course she explained the slow development of signal maturity and frequency sensitivity, the time and focus required to master new physical and telepathic abilities. She never hinted it was a deliberate feature to allow loss to fuse my synaptic pathways. I look to Jamie. “You could have told me.”

  “So I could put doubt in your mind? Worsen the odds for my sister?”

  He’s right; it was a stupid thing to say and I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth.

  Davis clears his throat. “I’m in.”

  Everyone swivels to stare at Davis, who shrugs and scowls.

  “I would not command you to do this, Malcolm,” Ethan says.

  Again, Davis’s first name jars me.

  “It will be dangerous,” Ethan continues. “It will put you at odds with your fellow agents. I would not have you agree to something against your conscience.”

  Davis glances at me then looks away. “It’s all bullshit unfairness, everything we are, everything we do … If it worked for Aiden, it might work for some other poor bastard.”

  Ethan exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “Then we have our first team member.”