“Hello, Uncle Paolo,” I say with a smile, hoping he can’t see how nervous I am. I ignore Strauss and Laszlo. If they aren’t interested in talking to me, I’m not interested in talking to them. I’ll pass their little test, but I don’t have to make any friends while doing it.
“Hello, Pia. Sylvia.” He nods to my mother.
“We should get started,” Strauss says primly.
Uncle Paolo leads us to the back of the menagerie. I expect the Corpus duo to follow, but they wait until Mother and I go, and then they shadow us like jaguars stalking their prey.
I sense which cage Uncle Paolo is heading for even before he reaches it, and my stomach knots. I hope he’ll turn and stop at the tarantula or snake terrariums, but he goes on—and stops at the ocelot cage, just as I feared.
I see Jinx inside, with her new kitten that Uncle Jonas named Sneeze. Jinx is seventy-three years old, our only immortal ocelot. She was bred to a mortal male that had been recently injected with an experimental strain of Immortis, and the scientists had hoped their offspring would have some trace of elysia. But Sneeze was born completely normal, further proving that an immortal must mate with another immortal if they are to pass on their eternality to their offspring.
Jinx and Sneeze are lying by their water dish, Jinx dragging her rough tongue over his back and head. The kitten mews at her in annoyance and then gives his trademark sneeze. They look so peaceful and content that I want to run away right now, before Uncle Paolo can tell me what today’s test is. But I can’t. I have to keep thinking about the Immortis team and the spot on it reserved for me—if I can only pass this test.
“Pia,” says Uncle Paolo, after inspecting a chart on the wall that describes Sneeze’s development. “Tell me what we have here.”
I read the chart, then sum up what it says. “Sneeze—”
“Subject 294, Pia. Or, if you prefer, juvenile male ocelot. But not Sneeze. Never name your subjects, Pia.” He shoots a sidelong look at Strauss as if afraid she’ll pounce.
Except for Subject 77. You named her.
“Right. Subject 294 is a male ocelot, Leopardis pardalis, two weeks and three days old. Subject 294 tested positive for feline immunodeficiency virus, inherited from the mother, Subject 282, but seems to be tolerating the virus exceptionally well.” The feline form of HIV, FIV usually isn’t fatal to its carriers, and it might not affect them for years.
“Excellent, excellent,” murmurs Uncle Paolo. “Well, Pia, you no doubt suspect what the nature of this test will be.”
“Yes,” I reply softly. I sense that Uncle Jonas and Aunt Harriet are watching now, but I keep my eyes on Sneeze. He is trying to trap his mother’s tail between his paws, but she keeps twitching it away.
“Pia, this is to be your last Wickham test.”
“The last one?” I do my best to look surprised. Strauss is watching me like a hawk.
“Yes. If you pass this test, you will be made a fully entitled member of the elysia research team, and you will be told the secret formula to which you owe your existence.”
“Immortis,” I whisper.
He nods. “That is why this test is so very important. I want you to think about it and be absolutely sure you are ready. There can be no going back after this, Pia.”
“Okay.”
He hands me a syringe. “Pentobarbital,” he says simply.
From down the aisle, I hear a little gasp from Aunt Harriet. My heart falls. I had expected something bad, but not as bad as this. “You want me to…” I choke on the words. I can’t even look at the kitten. “But the virus isn’t hurting him! He could live a perfectly normal life—”
“And pass the virus on to his offspring,” Uncle Paolo interrupts. “Dr. Zingre has been researching vaccines for FIV, and to do that he needs infected cadavers to examine.”
“Is there a problem here?” Laszlo asks sharply.
“No!” Uncle Paolo snaps. There is sweat beading his brow when he turns back to me. “We’ve all done it at one time or another. We’ve had to. Little Cambridge isn’t like most research facilities, Pia. It’s harder. Tougher. More important. While most scientists piddle away with malaria and cancer and a cure for warts, we, Pia, we deal with immortality. The eternality of our own species. There is nothing more important than that, Pia. The goal. Remember the goal.” He puts his hands on my arms and stares intently into my eyes. “The good of the species, Pia. That’s all that matters. The end justifies the means.”
This is not about Sneeze or finding a vaccine for FIV. It’s not even about Strauss and Laszlo and their threats. This is about me. Sure, this particular test was months, maybe even years off. But it was coming. One day, I’d have to prove myself.
Today is that day.
Am I strong enough? Can I prove myself worthy of my own race? All it takes is a quick plunge of the needle in my hand, a thrust of the thumb to inject the chemical inside. And for Sneeze, it will be like falling asleep.
But when I force myself to look at him, playing with his mother’s tail, completely unwitting of his fate, my legs begin to tremble, and I only want to run and hide and cry. Strauss and Laszlo are watching my every move. I can’t look at Aunt Harriet. I have a feeling that if I do, I’ll lose it completely and start bawling right here.
“We have to be able to make the hard decisions, Pia,” Uncle Paolo continues. “If we couldn’t, then you wouldn’t even be here. This,” he points at the needle, “is your legacy and your destiny. You must learn to control your emotions and focus on the goal.”
Just a baby, I think, watching Sneeze.
“The final test is always the hardest, Pia,” says Uncle Paolo. “You must be absolutely certain. I want you to take your time. Think it through. Take a day. A week. Whatever you need. But you must reach a final decision. Progress or regress. Survival or extinction. Strength or weakness.”
“A week?” Strauss interrupts, her voice tight. “Isn’t that a bit…generous, Paolo?”
Uncle Paolo’s reply hisses through his teeth. “I’m already breaking a century’s worth of protocol by skipping to the end of the test series, Victoria. This is how the final test is done. Sloppy work makes for sloppy results. Let me do this my way—no, not my way. Little Cam’s way. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but some things can’t be rushed.”
For once, Strauss has no acid reply.
“Pia,” Uncle Paolo says. “It’s in your hands now. Your dream of an immortal race—it’s all in your hands.”
I don’t reply, but I grip the syringe until my fingers turn white.
“Come, Sylvia,” says Uncle Paolo, putting an arm around my mother. “Let’s give her some time.”
“Be strong,” says my mother, the words more warning than encouragement.
Laszlo follows them out, but Strauss lingers. She takes my arm, her nails digging into my wrist, and I realize that she does know I can feel pain. I sense Aunt Harriet starting toward us.
“We created you,” Strauss whispers. “We can destroy you. So get on with it.”
“Ahem.” Aunt Harriet’s hand comes down on my shoulder. “I believe she understands, Victoria.”
Strauss’s eyes rise to meet Aunt Harriet’s, and she forces the lines of anger from her face, though her gaze remains as steely as ever. “Harriet. Good to see you again.”
Aunt Harriet says nothing.
“Well,” Strauss steps back and straightens her white jacket. “I’ll be sure to tell Evie you said hello.”
Aunt Harriet’s lips tighten, but she says nothing.
After she’s gone, I sink to the floor and stare at the pair of ocelots. They are so innocent, so unaware that I hold death in my hands, it’s nauseating.
“It’s a terrible thing to ask anyone to do,” says Aunt Harriet.
“Who’s Evie?”
“An old colleague of mine. Nobody important,” Aunt Harriet replies quickly. “So will you do it?”
“Eventually. Not today.” I’m not ready yet, just like Uncle Paolo
said. I need time to prepare myself, to steel my nerves and my stomach. And I don’t want to give Strauss the satisfaction of seeing me “get on with it” too soon.
“I think it’s barbaric. What do they want you to prove, anyway? What will they ask of you next, once you’ve shown you are beyond morality?”
Morality. Not a word oft spoken in Little Cam. It’s filed away with words like love and San Francisco. “I don’t know. But it can’t be worse than this, can it?”
“How can I know? I know less than you do. I’m new here, remember?”
“He’s only a baby.”
Aunt Harriet watches me watching Sneeze, then she sits beside me, legs folded, hands knotted beneath her chin. “You don’t want to do it.”
“Of course I don’t!”
“That’s good. It means you’re human.”
I stare at her, feeling the tears redden the rims of my eyes. “If I were truly human, all I’d care about would be the advancement of the species, like Uncle Paolo, and not some stupid kitten.”
Aunt Harriet’s lips tighten. “That’s what they’ve taught you, I suppose. Ah, well, how can I come in from the wild yonder you’ve never even heard of, telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, when you’ve got all these brilliant scientists to do it already? Still, you don’t want to listen to them, do you? You wish there was another way.”
I nod, unable to trust my own voice.
“That’s your moral compass, Pia.”
“My what?”
“Moral compass. They’re trying to force it to point the wrong way, but it keeps fighting, keeps swinging in the opposite direction. Don’t you feel it?”
I do, and I wonder how she knows. It’s exactly how I feel.
“Your moral compass,” she confirms.
“Are you saying I shouldn’t do it?” I ask, holding up the syringe. “That I should give up everything—give up all my dreams—for one insignificant life?”
“You should…” She hesitates, and there are things storming behind her eyes that I can’t understand. I’m generally good at reading people, but Aunt Harriet closes to me like a thundercloud blocking out the sun. “You should think long and hard about it, Pia,” she says at last. “And above all, consider the cost. Ask yourself what it is they are demanding of you. Look at who Pia is now, and ponder who it is they want you to be.”
“Perfect,” I reply immediately. “They want me to be perfect.”
“Perfect,” she repeats hollowly, “is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“A man named Plato once said something similar. I don’t suppose they’ve told you about Plato, hmm? Ah, I see not. Should have guessed it. Well, be sure not to mention him to anyone or we’ll both be in trouble. I think I’ve got plenty of potential troubles to deal with for now, thank you, so keep it mum.”
She rises and brushes the straw and dust from her jeans.
As she begins to go, I call out, “Aunt Harriet?”
“Yes?”
“Everyone who comes to Little Cam has to take a test like this. So what was yours?”
She turns her head so that her frizzy red hair covers her expression. “I don’t know what you mean.”
With that, she strides hurriedly out of the menagerie, leaving me alone with the animals and the needle in my hands.
TWENTY-TWO
It’s two in the afternoon, which is when I usually hit the gym, but instead I’m stuck shadowing Uncle Paolo as he gives our guests a tour of Little Cam. There’s a restlessness tugging at me all day, and I find myself staring longingly at the jungle whenever we go outside. I half hope Eio will appear on the other side of the fence, but he doesn’t, which is just as well. Who knows what Strauss and Laszlo would have to say about a wild, shirtless boy knocking on the front gates, asking for Pia?
I’m not the only project that Corpus came to check up on. There are dozens of others run by the scientists who aren’t on the Immortis team. Most of them research medicinal uses for the native plants, and some of their projects have even resulted in new medicines. If Little Cam were ever discovered by the wrong people, these are the only projects they would find out about—biomedical research important enough to be kept secret but harmless enough to allay suspicions.
I try to keep as much distance between Strauss and Laszlo and myself as possible. The sight of them reminds me of the syringe tucked in my sock drawer in my bedroom.
Eventually we end up in a room packed with cages of rats. Most of them are descendents of Roosevelt. The thought of that particular rat brings a knot to my stomach. We have dozens of immortal rats in Little Cam, but none of them are as special as Roosevelt was. He was the first, just as I am the first.
The scientists had to put a stop to the breeding of the immortal rats years ago, when it became evident that Little Cam would soon be overrun otherwise. The excess of immortal rats couldn’t be released, in case one was found and its unusual abilities discovered. Of course, now that we know elysia is lethal to immortals, we could use it to control the population of rats. I wonder if Uncle Paolo has thought of that yet.
Uncle Paolo is introducing Strauss and Laszlo to a cage of albinos when Laszlo signals for him to be quiet. He pulls a beeping satellite phone from his satchel, but the racket of the rats is too loud for him to hear anything. Laszlo makes his way out of the room and shuts the door.
Seconds later the door reopens.
“We’re moving out!” Laszlo yells.
“What?” Strauss’s eyes widen. “What’s going on?”
“That was Gerard, back in Rio. Several Genisect suits just landed and are sniffing around, trying to pick up our trail. We have to clear out. Now, while we still have time to throw them off the trail to Little Cam.”
Strauss rushes to the door, Uncle Paolo and me following.
“So they’re leaving? Just like that?” I ask in a low voice as we walk briskly down the hall.
“This is no small matter, Pia.” Uncle Paolo’s face is white. “It may already be too late. Corpus will have to move fast if they’re to lead Genisect away from Little Cam.”
“What is Genisect, anyway?”
“A rival corporation,” Uncle Paolo replies. “Remember when I told you that there are people out there who’d kill everyone in Little Cam just to get to you? That’s Genisect.”
I imagine men with guns invading our compound and shooting everyone while I stand helpless to stop them, and I shiver. “So that’s the end of the big Corpus visit then.” Somehow it seems anticlimactic to have worked up such a sweat over a visit that lasted less than twenty-four hours.
“You just need to focus on your test, Pia. This changes nothing.”
Once we’re outside, he runs to help load the Jeeps, and I’m left alone. I find a place to sit in the shade of a capirona tree by the drive and watch. It’s pure chaos. Even Strauss is running, with her polka-dot valise slung over her shoulder like a sack of bananas. I remember what she said about this Genisect starting World War III to get to me, and, strangely, all I can think is: There have already been two world wars?
To my surprise, I see Uncle Smithy climbing into the Jeeps with them, carrying his own suitcases. He must be returning to the outside at last. I can’t let him go without saying good-bye.
I run to the Jeep and reach over the side, putting my hand on Uncle Smithy’s arm.
“Uncle Smithy! You’re leaving us already?” I’d expected him to stay for a few more weeks, at least.
The old scientist smiles and pats my hand. His skin is as thin and fragile as a butterfly’s wing, and his fingers look strange without his token paintbrush in their grasp. It’s a wonder to think those frail hands could have painted so many beautiful things in his time here.
“This is farewell, Pia.”
“Where will you go?”
“Home. Don’t worry about me. Corpus takes excellent care of its retirees. I plan to sit in a recliner and snooze the rest of my days away. Don’t look
so horrified, dear. It’s exactly what I want to do.”
It’s been a long time since I had to say good-bye to anyone; the last person was Aunt Claire, the medical doctor who preceded Aunt Brigid. “I’ll miss you. I’ll miss our painting sessions.”
Uncle Smithy studies my face and slowly shakes his head. “Forty-three years I gave this place. Forty-three years of this godforsaken jungle, but I don’t regret a moment of it.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he takes my hand and squeezes it, his grip surprisingly strong for one so old, “it meant I got to touch eternity. You are our hope, Pia. Don’t let us down.”
Unable to reply for the knot in my throat, I nod. Though I hate to think it, I have a feeling those words were planted by someone other than Uncle Smithy. They’re just too perfectly timed with the test given to me this morning. But I don’t hold it against him. Uncle Smithy has never been anything but kind to me, and I will miss him.
The Jeeps are ready to roll out. Strauss yells for the drivers to step on it, and the gates creak open. It’s been less than an hour since Laszlo got the call.
The vehicles thunder into the jungle at a breakneck speed, and in minutes the roar of the engines fades away, replaced by birdsong and monkey chatter.
Little Cam is left dizzied by the whirlwind visit, and everyone looks a little dazed as we stand around the gate, staring after the Jeeps. Yesterday morning, they showed up out of nowhere, and now they’re gone, as if they’d never been here at all.
Well, almost. They did leave some evidence of their visit behind, and it’s buried in my sock drawer.
When I think about the test, a chill runs down my spine. I want to be glad that Strauss and Laszlo are gone, but all I can feel is overwhelming sadness. How long can I put it off? Or should I go ahead and get it over with?
I try to see the test from a rational, scientific point of view. It’s all for the greater good. Who knows? Maybe Uncle Sergei will find a vaccine for FIV from studying Sneeze’s cells.
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