Revive

by Tracey Martin

I turn from Audrey so she doesn’t see me cringe. I’ve been good about thinking of myself as Sophia, but maybe that’s a mistake. Sophia would get to go to a dance, and kiss Kyle between classes, and slack off in her duty to spend time with him.

  But I’m not Sophia, even if part of me wants to be. I shouldn’t do any of those things. I’m Seven, and Seven is working on this relationship with Kyle only because she suspects Kyle is up to no good. Not because she likes him.

  Right? Right.

  Besides, Seven has One.

  No! I ball my hands into fists in my jacket pockets. Seven plus One equals deep shit. Almost as large an amount as Sophia plus Kyle. I have to stop this. All of it.

  I’m glad Audrey is too busy sighing over something silky and purple to notice my internal war.

  “So you never went to your prom?” she asks.

  Thank goodness for movies so I know what proms are. “Nope. My high school was small and didn’t do that sort of thing. We just had a regular dance every year.”

  “That sucks. Now I wish I had an excuse to buy a new dress,” she says. “What kind of style are you thinking of?”

  “Not a clue.” It’s nice when I get to be honest.

  We spend the next hour meandering among the dress racks. With Audrey’s encouragement, I try on flowing pink ones, slinky black ones, strapless blue ones, ruffled green ones and hideously sequined ones just for laughs. I model short dresses, long dresses, modest dresses and skimpy dresses. Audrey says she’s jealous of my figure, and I might as well show it off to Kyle, but I hate looking like a wannabe hooker.

  Also, my body is not what it was when I came to RTC. Not that I usually care too much about how I look, but without the rigorous, daily exercise I’m used to, I feel flabby and don’t like it. Fitzpatrick might be, well, Bitchpatrick, but there is something useful about having an evil overlord berate you for running too slow or call you a wimp on those days when you can’t dead lift at least twice your weight.

  On the other hand, there’s a lot to be said for not suffering that kind of abuse too.

  “This one,” I tell Audrey, flinging open the dressing room door.

  My goal of this shopping trip was to find something practical, a dress in which—should the worst-case scenario go down and I need to defend X from an encroaching enemy—I could throw a punch without worrying about flashing everyone nearby.

  So much for that. This dress is a creamy, peachy gold, strapless and silky, and it hangs to my knees. When I spin in place, the skirt flairs out, revealing a lacey under layer. It’s the very definition of impractical, but the moment I saw myself in the mirror, I could imagine Kyle’s reaction. That was all it took.

  Yup, I’ve gotten weak, mentally as well as physically. But what are the odds that I’m going to need to punch someone at the dance? I run the calculation in my head to reassure myself. See? It’ll be fine. I can look sexy and have fun for one night. In fact, if all goes well, I’m not even going to be around for the dance, so who cares.

  “Well?” I do the spinny thing for Audrey.

  She squeals. “Totally.”

  Audrey is so upbeat and perky that she’s basically an anti-Fitzpatrick.

  From there, she drags me off to shop for shoes, which is not nearly as interesting. That’s a good sign. I’m not completely girly after all. Heels suck, and I finally settle on the lowest ones, which are the most comfortable pair I try on. I’m half tempted to wear my combat boots with the dress anyway. It would make a bold statement, and I think Kyle would like it.

  Laden down with bags, we commandeer a table in the food court for lunch. As we eat our burgers, we fall into silence. Audrey flips through the handful of novels she bought on her e-sheet, and I gaze absently into one of the TVs mounted around the area. The news is on.

  “How can you watch that?” she asks, looking up. “It’s so depressing.”

  I swirl the soda and ice slush around in my cup. “Yeah, but it’s real. It’s stuff we should know—important stuff.”

  “Unlike my books?” She sticks her tongue out at me before I get to tease her this time.

  Audrey reads books about angels and werewolves and aliens that can shape-shift into hot men. The only thing sillier than reading about fictional people is reading about fictional people who couldn’t even exist. But Audrey doesn’t merely read about fictional people. She writes stories about them too. She calls it fun.

  I admit, I’ve read a lot of novels and watched a lot of TV. Back home, they made us do it, just like RTC makes students read books for their English courses. But I’ve always considered it research—those books and shows were assignments meant to keep us updated on popular culture.

  “That stuff going on in the Middle East?” I point a French fry at the screen. “That could have major affects on you.”

  She waves her e-sheet at me. “So could this. I’m an English major, remember? I told you. I want to be a writer, or maybe an editor, or both. I have to read a lot.”

  “Yeah, and you think it’s fun.” My turn to stick my tongue out.

  “Exactly.” She grins, dumping more ketchup on her fries. “Nothing wrong with that. You are way too serious. Don’t tell me—you watch the news because you’re considering switching your major to journalism or something. I thought you were going to go pre-med, like Kyle.”

  I take the ketchup from her. “Ugh, no. I’m not switching. Journalism sounds boring. And I’m not really pre-med. I just like science.”

  “So what do you want to do? You have to declare something by the end of next semester.”

  Audrey’s been bugging me about this ever since she found out I was undeclared, and I know she’s right. If I were a real student, I’d have a dilemma.

  I chew a fry thoughtfully, putting my tale together. Sophia’s future career is not part of my cover story, so I can choose whatever I want as long as it fits. I opt for being as truthful as possible because it makes me feel better. “I want to make the world a better place. Help and protect people. Take down bad guys. That sort of thing.”

  Audrey wrinkles her nose. “Ew. You mean like police work?”

  “Something bigger, like the CIA. I want to travel all over the world, go to exotic locations, solve international problems, save people’s lives.”

  “Sounds scary.” She pretends to shudder. “Spies and stuff? Better you than me. But if you can stop the terrorists who do things like that—” she nods at the TV, “—good for you.”

  Yeah, good for me. I think about the additional assignment Fitzpatrick gave me. It goes down tonight, and my stomach twists in anticipation. I want it over with so I can focus again on my RTC mission.

  Pushing away the rest of my lunch, I tune out the food court noise and concentrate on the update coming from the screen. Two days ago, someone set off a bio bomb at a prep school in New York City. Hundreds of students ended up hospitalized, the city had to erect quarantines and thousands upon thousands of people were evacuated. It was only recently that the Center for Disease Control deemed all to be safe.

  Two of the students at the school were the children of an unnamed, high-ranking political official. And so far they were the only two people severely stricken by the weapon, to the point where they were both in comas.

  According to this new update, the terrorist group responsible has come forward with the information that only they have the antidote that can revive the children. They claim they’ll make it available in exchange for the release of certain high-security enemy combatants.

  Audrey crumples up her trash, looking ill. “That’s awful. I don’t understand people.”

  “I don’t understand why only those two kids are in comas.” It’s like whatever was in that bio bomb was targeted to their DNA, which shouldn’t be possible.

  I tap my fingers together while Audrey says something about all the evil in the world. Prior to today, I’d
figured it was bad luck for those kids who seemed most susceptible to the mystery illness. But now? Now it definitely appears they were targets, and that makes me want to do some research. Back home, my biology teacher once talked about the difficulties in creating a weapon like that. If someone’s figured out a way, that’s terrifying.

  Before I can pry too deeply into my memories, though, Audrey waves to people behind me. Kyle and Chase are walking over.

  I assess Chase’s left arm as he grabs a chair. According to Kyle, Chase sliced his forearm open yesterday trying to prove the blade of his utility knife needed sharpening. Since apparently the blade was plenty sharp after all, I’m hoping to see the results of Chase’s stupidity so I can potentially cross him off my list of suspects.

  But although Chase is one of those people who’s always warm and therefore almost always wears short sleeves, today he doesn’t. Today, his shirt covers any potential injury. Convenient. I make a note, pondering the precariousness of the situation if Chase turns out to be X and Kyle—his roommate—is truly working for the enemy.

  “Did Audrey make you try on a hundred dresses?” Kyle asks.

  “Eleven.”

  He grabs a fry. “And you’re still friends with her after that?”

  I elbow him, and he elbows me back, and I temporarily forget about everything else.

  Nine hours later, my good mood from dress shopping is officially gone. I’d like to kick somebody as I set up for work.

  All the information for this new assignment Fitzpatrick gave me was on the data stick, as promised, including the information about where to obtain the supplies I need. It’s all planned out, down to what I’m supposed to wear. I only have to pull the trigger, so to speak. Thought, creativity—not needed. A monkey could do what I’m supposed to do. It’s an insult to all my training.

  It’s also a test. That’s the only reason for it. I’m being tested, not just on my nerves like Fitzpatrick said, but also on my willingness to obey orders.

  It makes me want to scream. I mean, it’s not like I can’t pass their test, but give me a break. What’s the point in teaching me to be an independent agent if I’m not allowed to actually show some independence when I’m finally in the field?

  Frowning, I boot my laptop. That was a Sophia question. The pre-Sophia me would not question an order or an assignment like this. I run my hands through my hair in exasperation before I remember I’m wearing a wig, and I nearly yank it off. Excellent.

  I’ve been having more and more Sophia thoughts lately, beginning with my decision not to use the AnChlor again. Then I compounded it a thousand times with my decision not to immediately turn over Kyle, and no one even knows about that yet. If they did, I suspect a simple test like this wouldn’t be all I was given.

  Too late to do anything about it now. I made my decision, and I’ll stand by it. I’ll do their stupid test too, and without screaming.

  I point the laptop in the right direction, then walk over until I’m in the camera’s line of sight. The angle’s not quite right, so I adjust it, check it again, then wait. The lights are off. The drapes are closed. The hotel room is dark.

  The Boston traffic, six stories below, is muted through the un-openable window, but occasionally voices drift inside from the hall. Hotel walls are paper thin. I despise this fact because it makes what I have to do more difficult. It means it must be done in silence.

  And still I wait. Based on the information I was given, I know this could be a while. My target is a heavy drinker when he travels. His OCD issues cause him to be creeped out by sleeping in hotel beds, so he drinks in the evenings to get over his anxiety. He’ll be at the hotel bar until he’s loopy enough to crash.

  I really hope he doesn’t try to pick anyone up. My intel assures me that he’s devoted to his third wife, but really—he’s on his third. How devoted can he be to anyone? The first wife he divorced. The second wife he killed. Yet I’m supposed to believe he’s madly in love with lucky number three and won’t cheat on her?

  Rolling my eyes, I check my equipment to keep myself busy. I guess even terrorists can have soft spots, right? I bet Hitler loved his dog or something.

  I text with Audrey while the clock creeps toward midnight. She turned down a night of partying to cozy up with those books she bought earlier. As for me, my dearest “Aunt Kate” supposedly wanted to see me again before she left Boston. Audrey thinks we went out to dinner and to see some aging blockbuster, a story chosen specifically so no one would bother asking what the movie was about.

  Finally, as my stomach growls to let me know it’s been five hours since dinner, footsteps pause outside the room door. I let out a breath of relief, and my muscles relax. I love the calm that comes over me when I get to act. No doubt that calm was trained into me, but I don’t care.

  Not for the first time, I wonder why Fitzpatrick and her superiors think I can’t pass their test. This is what I was born to do. Are they not as capable as me of seeing the distinction between a terrorist responsible for bombing innocent students, and the innocent students themselves? That’s a disturbing thought, and one that’s been weighing on me. For now, though, I push it aside so I can get this assignment over with.

  I’m positioned by the door when my target opens it and flips on the light. He’s astute; I’ll give him that. A mass murderer, sure, and possibly drunk, but an observant drunk mass murderer. He notices my laptop immediately.

  I kick the door shut as he tries to maneuver, but even as quick as he is, he’s not quick enough. He’s also short—sixty-five inches—which I know from the information on the data stick, and which is a fact I’m relying on. With my left hand, I cover his mouth. With my right, I jab him in the neck with the needle I was provided.

  He struggles for only a couple seconds, but the drugs work as fast as I do. He starts going limp in my arms, and I lower him to the floor. Looking down, I struggle to feel something. Empathy? Compassion? Maybe I have some for his wife, though I’m probably doing her a favor in the long run.

  Guilt? Horror? No. This isn’t the same as what happened at RTC with the AnChlor. Removing this man is justice, the only type his kind is likely to ever get.

  I flip off the laptop’s camera and whoever will end up watching this. The gesture says “I can pass your stupid test” more eloquently than words can.

  Then the man on the floor grabs my ankle. I jump, but his grip is weak, his breathing labored, and I kick his hand off easily. He tries to speak, but his words slur as he loses control of his tongue. Too fucking bad.

  “Eighty-six children are dead because of you, and hundreds of adults,” I tell him. “I don’t care what you’re saying.”

  He draws a long breath, his face straining with effort. This time, enough of his words are understandable. “You think…that’s…about? Tell Harris he’s…evil bastard.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t work for anyone named Harris.”

  He gasps once, twice, and I think he’s laughing. “He’ll get to you too. One day.” Then his muscles lose all tension, and he seems to melt into the floor.

  Stepping over him, I cap the needle, shut down the laptop and clean up any traces of my presence. Now I am a little disturbed. Not by the guy’s words since they don’t make sense, but by the idea that he doesn’t get why he died. It doesn’t seem right. He should take that guilt to his grave.

  He’ll get to you too. One day. That just goes to show this man knew nothing about me. Harris, whoever he is, won’t get to me. Nor will anyone else. The whole point of my existence is so that no one can get to me.

  I carry all one hundred fifty pounds of terrorist onto the bed and position him so he looks comfortable. There’s no reason for that, but dumping him in a heap bugs me; I was trained to be meticulous and tidy. Then I check my disguise in the mirror, grab my things and get out. My test isn’t officially over until I return everythin
g to the drop point, but now that the tricky part is done, I’m feeling antsy again. And hungry.

  But I defy anyone to tell me I didn’t pass.

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday Morning: Present

  I’m cut off from the garage stairs, and my options flash through my brain: hospital again, garage ramp or fight. Just minutes ago, I’d have said fight, but I suspect my original tails are nearby. I’ve got to be outnumbered three to one.

  So be it. Running it is. But as I throw open the hospital door, I barrel straight into someone. Strong hands grab my shoulders.

  Yup, my tails are nearby. Very nearby.

  “Sophia, stop it,” the guy says, struggling as I yank out of his grasp.

  This time when I swing at him, he’s ready and ducks. I grapple with both men, who—it’s starting to dawn on me—aren’t exactly fighting back. They’re blocking me. Their moves are aimed at subduing and restraining, not hurting. What’s with that? It doesn’t make sense.

  Bad people are coming.

  If they’re bad, why aren’t they trying to hurt me?

  Trust no one.

  But it’s no good. Confusion slows me down, and speed was my advantage. One of the men snags my arms and forces me to my knees.

  I scream, and my voice echoes in the lot for a second before the second tail clamps a hand over my mouth. It’s calloused and stinks of cigarette smoke. I’m going to hurl.

  “Don’t scream,” says the same voice that called my name.

  The man with my arms forces me around, and I quit struggling. It’s not doing me any good, and I should pay attention. After all, the guy who got out of the SUV is pointing a gun at me. I’m not sure I could scream anymore if I wanted to.

  I nod at the guy to let him know I understand, and the hand peels away from my mouth. I gasp for the cleaner air.

  “What do you want?” My voice trembles only slightly. I’m almost proud of myself for being brave, except I have an inkling that I’ve been drilled for this sort of scenario.

  The guy with the gun spreads his arms. He wears a long black coat and leather driving gloves, and he makes my tails look like cheap hired muscle by comparison. “I’m following orders. I’m here to take you home.”