by Pintip Dunn
“Oh, what the Limbo?” She blows the cardinal hair out of her eyes. “I suppose there’s no harm, and you two should eat your meetiversary meal. Peanut butter and guava sandwiches, huh? That’s so sweet it makes my enamel ache. What floor is he on?”
“He’s working on a subterranean floor today. B-23.” Inside my shoes, my toes contract. The lower the floor, the more restricted. Please don’t ask what an intern is doing so far beneath the surface.
But she doesn’t even blink. She swipes her wrist over the sensor and keys in the right floor. “Go. Have fun. Give him a big kiss for me.”
“I will. Thank you.”
My legs shaky, I climb into the capsule and strap myself in. The doors slide closed, and a huge grin spreads across my face. I can’t believe it. The plan worked!
“I’m in,” I murmur to Ryder. Before he can respond, the capsule is propelled through a series of tunnels. I can tell the moment we’re underground because my earpiece cuts out. It’s part of the security of the subterranean levels—no communication via the normal channels. Like it or not, I’m on my own.
The capsule lurches to a stop, and the doors open. I can’t see anything at first but black stars and bright lights, and then my vision clears.
I step into a corridor with pale-green tiles and a darker green stripe bisecting the walls.
Just like in my vision.
11
The moment I step into the hallway, something clicks. The vision rushes over me, layered on top of my reality, and I’m flooded with a feeling of rightness. A magnetic force pulls me forward, sucking me into this path. I must run this maze. Not because the vision tells me, not because it’s in my genes. But because sometime in the future, I already did.
Callie felt this way. On the last day of her life, Logan told me how she talked about Fate’s invisible hand, urging her forward.
She may have changed the future. She may have proved that an infinite number of parallel universes exist, and it’s up to us to determine which world we live in. But she had to walk into my room, with a syringe in her hand. Because this was her Fixed.
Mikey posited—and I believe—that some moments are lived more strongly than others. These sequences of actions happen in every world. The Fixed, he called these moments. You can change your future all you want, but you will never get away from walking certain paths.
The blood roars in my ears. My heart attempts to lap itself in beats. Somewhere inside my soul, too honest for artifice, too deep for excuses, I know this is my Fixed. However I choose to live my life, in whatever world parallel to this one, I will always end up here, at this moment.
Metal clatters down the hall, and I snap to attention. I scan the corridor and duck into a relief room, heart pounding in an entirely different way.
I take a deep breath, count to one hundred, and then slip back into the corridor. Nobody. Good.
Of their own volition, my feet start moving. There’s no question which way to go. Even if I hadn’t dreamed about the purple and green corridor every night, there’s that invisible hand, tugging me in the right direction.
I’m not going quickly enough. Something pushes between my shoulders, urging me faster, faster. I start trotting and then break into a full-out run, holding the picnic basket tightly. My sneakered feet slap loudly against the pale-green tile, but I’ll risk the extra noise. I have to. The hand of Fate won’t allow otherwise.
The wait lounges flash by, and sure enough, I see emerald carpets and purple amethyst couches.
Green and purple. Purple and green.
By now, it no longer seems strange that the combination of colors feels so familiar. That it resonates so deeply inside me. Sweat drenches my back, making my shirt cling to my skin. I make a left, go through the double swinging doors, bypass another set of elevator capsules, open the emergency exit, and descend down, down, down an endless set of stairs.
And then, I enter a hallway and stop dead in my tracks. Stretchers line the wall, holding people. No, not people. Bodies. Corpses, with their hands clasped across their chests. All lying perfectly, deadly still.
The hair stands on my neck, and my bones melt into fluid. Where am I? Did I stumble into a morgue?
I rub my arms. The air is chilly, at least ten degrees cooler than above ground, and smells too clean, too sterile. Like the entire hallway was doused with sanitizer.
This isn’t right. I must’ve taken a wrong turn because these corpses weren’t in my vision. And yet, I continue walking down the hallway. Because that unseen force is still here, still tugging me down the path.
I see it. A door. Just like the one in my vision.
It is metal, locked up tighter than a tomb with its blinking-purple-light security system, its pale green box of personal identity scans. Two long strips of green and purple, twisted together, bisect the walls on either side of the door. The exit signs flash purple; the grating over the lights is green.
The message couldn’t be clearer. This is where the colors lead. This is where you’re meant to be. This is the place to which you’ve been called.
I’m here. I found it. Now what?
I look up the corridor, my breath erupting in pants. I don’t know what I expected. Fireworks, a symphony orchestra? Instead, it’s just a hallway. Just a door. Locked, with no way for me to get inside.
Clearly I’m not going to turn around and go back. My only choice is to find a spot and hide. Stake out the door and wait for something to happen. But where?
There’s nothing else in the hallway. No twisted metal plant, no laundry carts, no trash chutes. Could I conceal myself underneath the stretchers? I crouch down and examine the crisscrossing metal rods. It wouldn’t hide a three-legged mouse, much less a person.
Frustrated, I stand. That’s when I notice some of the stretchers hold more than one corpse. The bodies are crammed together, side-by-side on the narrow mattresses, as if the administration ran out of beds and thought the corpses wouldn’t mind.
I shiver. A sick feeling starts in my stomach and climbs into my throat, all acidic and sharp and burning. Not just because of the cavalier treatment of the dead bodies. But also because I’ve realized there’s only one spot for me to hide. One spot where I can stake out the door and remain concealed.
On one of the stretchers, snuggled against a dead body.
12
I breathe too fast. I gulp the air as if I’m storing up for a famine, and it’s still not enough. Faster and faster. Pant, pant, pant.
Slow down, my brain screams. I can’t hyperventilate, not now. I have a mission to accomplish.
I focus on a single detail—the hourglass insignia edging the white sheets. The old symbol of the Future Memory Agency. Weird. I thought FuMA didn’t exist anymore. I thought all of their old equipment was stowed away or trashed. So what are their sheets doing here?
I don’t know the answer, but thinking about the anomaly slows my breathing enough for me to scan the faces of the corpses closest to the locked door. In the third stretcher, I see a girl about my age, with black hair arranged in a tidy braid. She looks like she has a mixed heritage, like me, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
For some reason, these details are important in choosing which corpse to share a bed with.
Taking a deep breath, I pull a stun gun from the picnic basket—something else I swiped from Mikey’s office—and stow the basket under the stretcher. Then, I close my eyes and jump. Only I launch myself too hard and sprawl across the stretcher. Skin touching the corpse’s skin.
Ew. I leap off her, and my foot smacks into the wall, sending the stretcher careening across the corridor and disrupting the precise line of hospital beds.
At that moment, I hear a loud swoosh of air rushing through a tunnel, signaling the arrival of the elevator capsule. Hurriedly, I push the stretcher back into line and lie down on the mattress, pulling the sheet over my body. My shoulder brushes against the girl’s. Even through our shirts, I can feel her coldness. Th
e smell of formaldehyde winds into my nostrils.
I scream inside my head, and my stomach lurches. The nausea climbs up my throat, and I’m gagging, gagging, gagging. I’m touching her. A dead girl. In a straight line from shoulder to waist.
I turn my head to the side and breathe shallowly. Oh Fates. I’ve got to get ahold of myself. They’ll be here any moment, and I can’t mess this up because I’m being squeamish.
Sweat breaks out on my neck, and I grip the gun tightly against my thigh. I have only a small window to act, and I need to be ready.
The capsule arrives, and I hear voices. Male and female, businesslike and authoritative, discussing a report that hasn’t been filed. Good. They’re scientists. At least one of them is. Scientists won’t be carrying weapons like the guards. They won’t be expecting me to force my way into the room. They’re more likely to succumb to the threat of electrocution.
I close my eyes, feel the reassuring weight of the gun at my side, and try not to move. Try not to breathe. Try to appear dead.
The voices get closer, and the argument becomes more spirited. I crack open my eyes and peek at them.
The woman wears a crisp navy uniform, which means she’s an official, not a scientist. A high-ranking one, too, if the metal bars pinned to the shoulder of her suit are any indication. She has brown hair that falls to her shoulders before curving out like a damn question mark.
Just my luck. MK Rivers.
“Bottom line, the chairwoman wants the reports on her com, first thing every Monday morning,” MK says. “I don’t care what you do to make it happen. Just ensure that it does.”
“With all due respect, MK, I don’t report to the chairwoman,” the man says. His name tag says PRESTON, and he has black hair, eyes that come to a crease at the corners, and a square jaw. Scruff on his chin that reminds me of Mikey, but maybe that’s because he’s approximately Mikey’s age, somewhere around thirty.
He looks familiar. I know this man from somewhere. Is he one of Mikey’s friends? A covert member of the Underground? Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe he looks familiar because I’ve glimpsed him at Dresden’s side in the news feeds, and one day, he’ll destroy us all.
“The chairwoman is consulted heavily on all TechRA projects. For all intents and purposes, she is your boss.” MK’s voice is low and surprisingly gentle. She doesn’t sound like I expected, given the bars on her shoulders. “If that’s not enough, you know this is personal for her. This girl means everything to her. The reports would ease her mind, and frankly, she’ll be a better boss for me. Maybe she won’t yell as much if she’s consistently updated.”
My heart thrums against my ribs, so hard I worry my body is vibrating the stretcher. Olivia. They have to be talking about Olivia. My old friend is ensconced behind that locked door, and she’s calling to me for help.
“What’s this?” Preston says suddenly, his voice coming directly above me. The stretcher beneath me moves.
Fike. I must not have realigned the stretcher properly. Don’t wiggle, I order myself.
“What’s the matter?” MK asks.
“Nothing. I don’t think.”
I feel the scientist’s eyes like a solid object, pushing and prodding my face. I lie as still as possible. Not twitching. Not breathing. But he stands over me too long. The pressure in my lungs builds too much. Climbing, climbing, climbing. When I can’t bear it anymore, I take a tiny sip of air.
Oh Fates. My chest rises. He must see it. I’m done for.
But he doesn’t say anything. I hear a small sound that might be a gurgle in his throat, and then, the security system beeps. The door clicks open. “Coming?” MK asks impatiently.
“Right away,” he says.
I feel a light pressure on my arm above my elbow, and then he walks away, his footsteps pattering the ground like raindrops.
My heart jumps into my throat. Did he squeeze my arm? He must know I’m not one of the corpses. And yet, he didn’t turn me in. Why? Who is he?
As I debate the possibilities, the door closes. MK and the mysterious guy are gone. I’ve lost my chance to threaten them. Lost my chance to get inside. Lost my chance to rescue Olivia.
Disappointment floods me. I should’ve jumped from the stretcher; I should’ve acted. But the surprise at seeing MK rendered me useless.
I flex my fingers around the stun gun. Next time, I’ll be ready.
13
I lie back on the stretcher and wait.
Twenty times, I brush against my bedmate’s arm, and twenty times, I cross my arms over my chest, vowing not to touch her again. Twenty times, my mind drifts, and twenty times, my arm drops. Her skin presses against mine, disturbingly cold, and I yelp, silent and desperate, inside my head. Then the cycle starts all over again.
MK and the scientist come back out. I hold my breath, bracing for another signal from Preston, a meaningful throat-clearing or a touch of his hand, but there’s nothing. When they reach the elevator capsules, I hear MK’s voice. “So, it’s settled. You’ll file that report next Monday, like we discussed. The chairwoman is very anxious about the girl’s condition.”
The man’s answer is lost in the whoosh of the capsules.
Two hours later, my legs are hot, my neck is sweaty, and the hand wrapped around the stun gun is sticky. I was more comfortable hanging upside down over a cage of mice.
Dear Fates. How did I end up in this situation? There’s no telling if anyone else is coming today. How long am I going to wait? I could be at home, drinking a tall glass of gingerade, eating spaghetti from the Meal Assembler and dreaming that it’s pappardelle.
And my legs would still ache with the compulsion to run down a particular hallway. Olivia Dresden would still be trapped, wondering why I haven’t responded to her call.
I have to stay. Who knows if I’ll be able to sneak down here a second time? I owe my old friend at least this much.
I readjust my grip on the gun, and then I hear it. The whoosh of the elevators. Someone’s here. Finally.
My muscles bunch like I’m about to swim one of Logan’s meets. I’ve got this.
The capsule doors open, and a figure walks out. He’s dressed in cargo pants and a thermal shirt, and his hair falls over his eyes.
All the breath and resolve flee my body. My bones turn to water, and the determination encasing my heart trembles. Wouldn’t you know it? Tanner Callahan. Exactly who I don’t need.
My mind whirls, trying to process this twist of fate. I can’t exactly follow through now. I already ruined his experiment. Can I threaten him with bodily harm, too? What will he think of me? Does it matter? It shouldn’t. This isn’t about him. It’s about Olivia. Right?
I need about a year to puzzle this out, but time doesn’t have the good manners to slow down. Tanner marches right by me and strides to the security system. In a matter of seconds, he’ll disappear inside the room. I have to act. Now.
My plan hasn’t changed. Threaten to stun the scientist, get inside that room. It makes no difference that the scientist happens to be Tanner. None.
Quickly, before I change my mind, I launch myself off the stretcher and point the stun gun at his back.
The stretcher crashes into the wall, and he turns at the noise, his eyes widening. “Jessa? What are you doing here—”
“Get me into that room, or I’ll stun you.”
He looks at the gun and lifts his arms slowly into the air. But instead of backing away like he’s supposed to, instead of breaking into a sweat and fumbling with the security system, he walks toward me.
Fike. This is so not in the plan.
“Stay where you are! Don’t come any closer!”
“Or you’ll do what? If I’m lying inert on the floor, you won’t get into that room.”
I tighten my grip. Damn him and his logic. It’s not like I haven’t considered the dilemma. I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to the second part of my plan.
“There’s another setting on this gun—the tort mo
de.” My voice shakes as though I’m the one being threatened. “It will focus the electricity on a single part of your body. You won’t be knocked out, but you will feel excruciating pain.”
“The tort setting?” He lifts his eyebrows. “Don’t you mean torture? Torture of a living thing. Of another human being. You’re not going to tort me, Jessa.”
“I will if you don’t do what I say.”
He stops in front of me, close enough for the metal barrel to brush against his chest.
Close enough to kiss me.
“I don’t believe you,” he whispers. The way his eyes capture mine, it’s like he sees all the memories stuffed inside my body. From the time I watched my sister plunge a needle into her chest to now, when I stand before him, a torture device in my hands and trembling in my heart.
“You can’t even bear for lab mice to be confined in their cages,” he says, his voice steady and sure.
My mouth falls open, and it takes two tries to push out the words. “What…what do you know about the mice?”
“I know you broke into my lab, Jessa.” He moves closer, even though I would’ve sworn there weren’t any more steps between us. “I know you opened the cage and let my mice loose.”
I think about denying it, but there’s no point. The problem with Tanner Callahan is that he thinks he’s always right. The bigger problem is that he usually is.
“How did you know?” I look at the computer-embedded tiles, unable to meet his gaze.
“It was when you did the heel-flip trick. Something about the arch of your body felt so familiar. I went back and re-watched the vids. Sure, your hair was hidden and your face was covered. But you can’t change the shape of your body. You can’t disguise the way you move. It was you.”
My face burns. He knows the shape of my body. What does this mean, exactly? Is he talking about my overall height and form? Or, um, something more specific? Something…having to do with my curves? “I thought you didn’t see my heel-flip trick,” I manage to say.