by Rachael Craw
“I’ll do it,” Jamie says.
I refold my arms. “You just said it was impossible.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”
“You’re leaving.”
“He is?” Davis looks hopeful.
Jamie glares. “It can wait.”
“It is better that you stay,” Ethan says, appearing blindsided by the suggestion that Jamie was even considering leaving. “We have need of–”
“But this could go on and on.” I can’t help myself. “We can find others.”
“We?” Ethan freezes. “Evangeline, you cannot be a part of the team. You are not yet cleared by the psych ward, nor have you completed Orientation.”
I produce a gust of air like I’ve been punched in the guts. “This is my brother’s DNA. There’s no way you are doing this without me.”
Ethan raises an eyebrow. “The Executive would never allow an untrained Asset to participate in a dangerous pursuit such as this, especially in circumstances as unpredictable as the ones we would be going into.”
“Then why the hell drag me in here? Put me through Orientation!”
“You are not well enough.”
“How would you know?” My voice shoots up again. “You’ve been away for a month! I’m fine. I haven’t missed a single psych session.” I gesture for Davis to back me up but he produces an ambiguous shrug. “I’m taking my meds. I’ve been going to class. My grades are good.”
“Are you sleeping?” Ethan cocks his head, already knowing the answer. “Are you eating properly?”
“I – I eat.”
“But you are not sleeping.”
Another high-pitched note pierces my inner ear and pressure builds in my head. “It’s getting better. I’m getting better.”
No one speaks. The vials on Ethan’s desk begin to shuffle. I grit my teeth and close my eyes.
“Evangeline,” Ethan begins. “I brought you in with Jamie because it is an efficient use of time and resources. Also, I am your Watcher and I have not, as you have pointed out, seen you for a month. You are here because it is my obligation to make a personal assessment of your recovery. While you cannot participate in the Initiative you are entitled to some explanation of our plans, given–”
“Given you wouldn’t have a cure if it wasn’t for me?” I don’t say it, I spray it. “Given I was the only one who believed this was possible in the first place? Given I am the only Shield you have who hasn’t lost a Spark, and who would likely respond best to your blocker?”
“Evangeline–”
“Given I’m the most powerful telepath you have next to a Proxy in a goo tank? But no, I’m out because being upset about my murdered brother is a character flaw!”
“Evie.” Jamie grabs the vials dancing inches above the desk. Ethan snatches at rising pencils and containers. Davis clamps his hand on my shoulder. Behind us, the door opens. Somehow the ringing in my ears stops and the volcanic surge recedes inside me. One of the chestnut-haired twins from the Executive Council strides in, pausing at the tense tableau around Ethan’s desk.
Thurston, the name comes to me. I’m not sure which Thurston she is but she’s as flawless as I remember the sisters being. I guess she must be around the same age as Miriam. It may be the long ponytail draped over her shoulder that reminds me of my mother. I picture Miriam in the ICU, her beautiful hair hacked off by Knox. I doubt whichever Thurston this is made an effort to intervene then or when Knox interrogated my mother into a coma. I hate her in the three steps she takes towards us.
“Counsellor Thurston?” Ethan says.
She acknowledges him with a tidy clip of her head. “The Proxy is prepped for assessment. Helena said you wished to be notified as soon as the child was ready. She sent through a notification but you haven’t replied.”
Helena.
The name sends an unpleasant zip-zap through my spine, not helped by the untimely increase in pressure in Davis’s fingers still on my shoulder. I ignore it – there’s more than one Helena in the world. Besides Jamie’s Helena is in Berlin. I’m not a jealous little kid.
“Ah.” Ethan takes brisk steps from behind his desk. “We have been discussing the new Initiative. There is much yet to cover.”
Her eyes play over the group, lingering on Jamie then locking on me, a piercing appraisal as she responds to Ethan. “Helena will stay with the new candidate until you arrive. She was hoping you would bring the boy here with you.”
The boy here timed with another direct glance at Jamie.
Not. A. Coincidence.
Ethan stiffens and moves to guide Counsellor Thurston towards the door, his hand on her elbow, then the small of her back. “Thank you, Juno. Please tell Helena I will be up shortly.”
She turns her head, conscious that she is being ushered out, an amused smirk at the corner of her mouth. The door opens for her and when it closes Ethan stands with his back to us. He drops his head, rasps his hand over his beard before squaring his shoulders to face us. To face me.
He needn’t worry. In the time it took to walk her to the door and then compose himself, I’ve completed the stomach lurch, the head swim, the electric spine burst, the chest clench, the throat close, the palm sweat and the refuse to make eye contact with Jamie. I’ve arrived solidly at the no way in hell will I let anyone see me lose it over this. A painful throb starts up through my right temple and Davis releases my shoulder. I almost regret the loss of his solid hand, holding me in place.
“Helena’s here?” Jamie’s voice suggests he’s cycled through a similar set of reactions but gotten stuck on the throat close.
“Forgive me,” Ethan says, gruffly. “It was my intention to explain Helena’s presence to you both privately.”
I bury my fists in my jacket pockets. “It’s none of my business.”
Jamie turns towards me in my peripheral vision. I don’t look.
“Unfortunately, I cannot delay the assessment of the new Proxy.” Ethan sighs. “Jamie, you will come with me now, please.”
“But I–” Jamie says, struggling.“Evie–”
“Davis.” Ethan gestures at me. “Take Evangeline to the women’s dormitory. Ask the Director of Residence to clear her for retinal scan with minimum access for level six. Lane, you are free to go but I ask you to consider my request.”
Davis and Lane nod and grunt. I shrug. Jamie looks like he’s about to walk the green mile and I feel his nudge in the bandwidth as though begging me to tune in. If he could remotely Transfer, he would. I hold myself back from the urgent thrum of his signal moving over mine. It would take nothing for me to tap into his frequency – like flexing a muscle – but I don’t want to see, I don’t want to know. It can only be memories of closeness and that would cut me open.
“I know you all have many questions. We will meet in the morning. Evangeline–”
“I wanted to see Miriam.”
“I know,” he says, his brow a thick knot. “You do not have clearance to go without me. Can you wait until tomorrow?”
The plunge of disappointment takes my stomach to my feet. I manage the barest nod.
DESTINY
“Need to puke?” Davis asks, the moment Ethan’s lab door closes behind us. He leads the way to the right, the buckles and zips on the thick fabric of his black jacket making little clacking noises. “There’s a restroom ahead if you do.”
“I don’t need to puke.” I stalk next to him, pins and needles at high voltage in my spine.
“You look pale.”
“I am pale.”
“Paler.”
“I’m fine.”
Three strides in blissful silence.
“Wanna punch something?”
I stop. “Yes.”
The corners of his mouth tuck in. “Come on, then.”
We end up at the gym, it’s dimly lit and the lights are out in the men’s mess hall. “Am I allowed in there?”
He doesn’t reply, leading us through the glass sliders into cool air and
open space. The ceiling is stadium height and I breathe deep, closing my eyes. It’s the familiar smell of rubber mats, oiled steel and polished wood but without the pong of student bodies that I associate with school gym class.
Davis drags a sparring dummy to the middle of the floor; it’s similar to the one Miriam keeps in her hidden training room. He shoves one of the protruding wooden arms, sending it spinning in small circles then stands back waiting for me to get on with it. I drop my jacket on the floor. I’m wearing jeans and my hooded sweatshirt. Not exactly conducive to a comfortable work-out but at least I’m in sneakers.
I stop the dummy with a sharp thwack, my forearm, bone to wood, and send it spinning in the other direction. Back and forth, I find my rhythm. At first I keep my back to Davis not wanting to see his expression or let him watch mine.
“It’s not Tesla’s fault,” Davis says.
Thwack, thwack.
“He can’t bend the rules for the Initiative.”
Wrist, foot, palm, thwack.
“Doesn’t mean it’s forever. Once you’re cleared …”
Knee, elbow, forearm, thwack.
Davis sighs, falling silent. I focus on my body, the bruising relief of working out, the echo of wood and bone, hammering the dummy until its screws rattle, forcing the clamour in my head into background noise.
“You know …” Davis lifts his voice above the clatter. “Tesla was planning to tell you about Helena.”
Thwack, thwack. Stop. “You knew?”
“It wasn’t my place to–”
Smack, slam, slam, thwack!
“She was in a bad way after her last Spark – things were messed up – I dunno. Tesla had her transferred to the compound in the UK.”
Slam, slam, smack.
“She’s training to be a Caretaker.”
Smack, smack, thwack.
“I guess he’s hoping she and Jamie will get back on the Deactivation wagon.”
Crack!
A midsection arm detaches from the thick body of the sparring dummy and hurtles at Davis. His hand blurs and he catches it in front of his face, eyebrows high. “Now that you guys are done.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, breathing rapid, heat inside my collar. I drag my sweatshirt up over my head and toss it to the side, my T-shirt skewed up around my chest. I tug it back down over my midriff. Davis’s face doesn’t shift gear. I begin again. Wrist, foot, palm, knee, elbow, each thwack echoing up into the lofty ceiling.
“You guys are–”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
With an easy twist of his fingers he twirls the wooden arm then flicks his wrist, sending it whistling at my head. I catch it without losing my rhythm and use the broken arm as a block, creating a satisfying percussive beat as I smack the dummy back and forth. A foot to the midsection sends it careening to the left, a somersault lets me beat it to the edge of the mat where I knock it back the other way.
“Gallagher’s an idiot.”
Thwack. Stop.
I step back, lean on my thighs and try to catch my breath, sweat forming rivulets to collect in my bra. “For wanting a way out?”
He scowls.
I straighten up, wiping sweat from my eyes with the back of my hand. “You wouldn’t deactivate if you could?”
“No.”
No hesitation. Not even a flicker of doubt.
I shake my head, squinting at him. “You like all this.”
“Like’s a bit strong.”
“How many people have you killed?”
He doesn’t flinch. “How many people have I saved?”
I want a fight. I want a screaming match. I want to hit Davis so hard I make him cough blood. I want him to hit me. I dig my fingers into my hips and nod. “You think you can do it? Save a Stray?”
“Maybe.” He cocks his head.
“Jamie’s not a coward.”
“An idiot.” He rolls his shoulders. “I wouldn’t quit for a chick I wasn’t even into.”
I frown at the floor mat. “He could be into her … she’s smart and beautiful.”
“Big deal.” He snorts. “We’re all smart and beautiful. Why give up your purpose?”
“Purpose?” I stretch my back out. “You think this is your destiny?”
“Why not?”
I toss the broken arm of the dummy to the floor. “Destiny doesn’t come from a test tube.”
FAULT
I’m wearing an Affinity Project hospital gown. It makes papery rustling sounds when I lean over my school desk or try to cross my legs. It’s not long enough and I’m naked beneath it. I keep tugging the hem down but the tie at the back of my shoulder comes loose and I feel air on my back. I put my pencil down so I can use both hands to tie it closed, afraid the people in the rows behind me will see the scars tracking my spine. The pencil rolls off the edge and clatters on the concrete floor. The floor has a gradual slope and the pencil keeps rolling towards the grated drain.
I lurch up. The metal feet of my chair make a painful scraping sound that echoes off the black glass walls and I cringe at the disturbance. I scramble for my pencil but it hits the drain, spins and slides into a hole in the grate. I land on my knees, my fingers snatching air as it disappears. “Shit,” I whisper. I didn’t bring a spare.
Getting to my feet, I notice they are bare and cold on the concrete and tug at my gown. No one else looks up from their desks. Kitty is already halfway through her paper. Gil Bishop swamps his desk, glowering at the questions, flipping the paper back and forth. Benjamin sits with his arms folded, his question sheet complete. I wonder if I should ask to borrow his pencil but his expression is stony cold. Davis is hard at work in the back row. Jamie bends low over his desk, a small smile as he scrawls on a scrap of paper. He folds it and leans towards the next desk. A sandy-haired woman, grinning and complicit, takes the note, biting her lower lip.
I look for Ethan who I know is running the test but he’s not in the ReProg room. He must be watching from behind the central panel of black glass from the observation platform. I slink back to my desk and my untouched exam paper, heat in my face. I raise my hand, hoping for Ethan’s voice through the speakers asking if I need anything. There is no voice and the only sound in the room is the sound of pencils working across paper and a soft girlish giggle from the back row. I wave my hand. “Excuse me. I need a pencil. I don’t have a pencil.”
On all three screens of glass the shimmering black surface pearls and shifts. A luridly bright memory unfolds, the same image repeated in each screen. It’s me, from behind. Underwear, tank top. I’m wrapped in Jamie’s arms on the camp mattress beside my bed. His large bronze hands smooth over my pale skin.
My face burns as I hunch at my desk, throat closed. I want to cry out for them to stop, turn the Symbiosis off but of course it’s not a recording; this is my memory and the Proxy is Harvesting it effortlessly. The image doesn’t falter. Jamie pulls me onto his chest, our legs scissor together. I tug his shirt up and we wrestle it off. He pulls the blanket up over me and we kiss and kiss and our hands move beneath the covers like we’re searching for something. I nuzzle my way beneath Jamie’s jaw and his eyes roll up and closed.
“Stop,” I rasp, my voice powerless.
In the back row I hear a small sob and I clamp my hands to my head as the memory unfolds, willing it to stop, cringing at the thought of my father seeing it all from the observation platform. Right in his face. And Kitty, what must she be thinking, knowing that we were all over each other in the night while she slept unawares? I don’t look to see her face or Gil’s. I don’t need to look for Benjamin to guess that he’s sitting there in total disgust and what about Davis?
It doesn’t stop. The memory goes on and on. Nothing hidden. All our longing laid out in triplicate.
I finally glance over my shoulder. Helena buries her face in her arms, her shoulders shaking with silent tears. Jamie leans from his desk with a comforting hand on her back. He catches my eye and his expression is one of deep d
isappointment and hurt. How could I do this to him? How could I hand over something so personal like it was nothing? How could I let it happen here, with all these people watching? Was I so cruel that I needed to make Helena suffer by parading my intimacy with Jamie as some kind of proof of supremacy? Did I want to humiliate her?
Shaking my head, I mouth, no. No. It’s not my fault. I don’t know how to make it stop. I’m not doing it. It’s the Proxy. She’s Harvesting. I can’t help it.
Jamie’s face grows cold, his grey eyes dark with anger. “The Proxy’s dead, Evangeline. No one is doing this to you. It’s your own fault.”
SHOWER
I sit panting on the edge of the narrow bed, waiting for my pulse to regulate. A dim floor light glows beneath the low shelf that acts as a bedside table, keeping the dorm room from being pitch dark. My sweat-damp shirt clings to my back and I reek. I should have showered after my work-out but once Davis delivered me to the women’s dorm I was wiped out – seriously wiped out – and wanted to escape the unsmiling eyes of the Director of Residence. I couldn’t tell if she was simply annoyed at being summoned at two in the morning or worse, she recognised my name and knew my story.
She stalked ahead of me down a narrow hall of numbered doors, a straight-backed, no-nonsense woman in her early thirties, dressed in Affinity black. She stopped at room six-one-eight, the digits etched vertically in the bronzed slider, and swiped a keycard across the reader. Then it was my turn to lean in and record my retinal scan. That’s all I would need from now on to unlock the door – my eyeballs. She pointed to the wardrobe and muttered, “Help yourself, the bathroom’s at the end of the hall. Women’s mess hall is back on the north wing.” Then she asked for my shoe and bra size. I mumbled a confused reply and with a cool parting glance at my chest she left me by myself.
It must be the first night since I left the psych ward where I’ve actually slept alone. The first night I’ve slept without sedatives. I should be grateful that I slept at all. Anxiety needles quickly into my veins. The room is too small. I hate the sound of my heartbeat. My head isn’t a safe place. Without Kitty beside me, snoring gently, emitting her comforting bland static I’m a sack of misfiring atoms.