Resist

by Tracey Martin

  The only thing I can be certain of is that whatever these memories are about, they are connected to why Malone is testing me. That means I have to hide them. If he finds out I’m remembering events I’m not supposed to…

  The hairs on the back of my neck come to attention. It’s been made very clear to me what will happen if I screw up. Whatever my past transgressions, I hope my performance tonight will go a long way toward persuading Malone that I won’t do them again.

  “You cold?” Cole asks as he closes the car window.

  The guard waves us through the gate, and I shake my head. My gaze hovers over the armed men and women, the assault rifles they carry and the AAD—or aerial attack drone—protecting the station. My home is not a friendly place to outsiders.

  Or insiders, something within me whispers.

  “I’m fine.” I square my shoulders to project a confidence I don’t feel, and I flex my fingers, trying to work off some of my nervous energy.

  I’m not broken. I completed my mission. I have nothing to worry about.

  Yeah right. I can’t even believe my own lies, and if I can’t convince myself, how am I supposed to convince others?

  Aside from the guards, the camp is dead in the middle of the night. Yet it feels more oppressive than ever because I can’t stop thinking of what’s possibly to come. The wide-open space above ground is deceptive. The real camp is hidden below. I can feel its white-washed walls pressing in on me as I get out of the car, and I can hear the screams in the frigid mountain wind.

  I succeeded in my mission. I proved myself. Cole will hide my lapse in the stairwell.

  But what if it’s not enough?

  I rub my arms, burying my anxiety in my stomach. I’m stronger than this. If it’s not enough, I’ll simply deal with my fate a while longer. The one thing I will not do is ask to be trusted or beg for leniency. Whatever my faults, I’m not so weak, and I’m not going to let Malone or Cole or Fitzpatrick know how freaked out I am about being broken. Showing fear would only make them think that not only am I broken, my training has been insufficient.

  Three new employees approach from inside the nondescript building near where Cole parked. Two are more guards, but the man in the middle is higher level. I don’t know his name, but he’s not a mere foot soldier. He’s Malone’s second-in-command. Malone must have sent him so he didn’t have to meet us personally in the middle of the night.

  Damn it. No Malone means no change in orders, most likely. The dim spark of hope I nurtured for a reprieve tonight dies.

  I should have run when I had the chance.

  “Where’s Malone?” I ask.

  “In bed asleep if he’s lucky.” The man is older than Malone, with steel-gray hair and a prosthetic left eye. He stares at me with it like he can see into my brain and diagnose all my faulty circuits. As it is, he probably can tell how nervous I am.

  Cole hands over our equipment to the guards, who give it a cursory inspection. “I’ve already sent the files on to Malone, but the copies are also on the data stick.”

  The man nods. “Good. You’re dismissed, HY1-One. HY1-Seven, you’re being returned to your cell.”

  I grit my teeth, and Cole gives my hand a brief squeeze. I am not reassured, so perhaps it’s good that Malone isn’t here. I might have lost my resolution to not ask for leniency.

  “Move,” Malone’s number two says to the guards, and they nudge me forward. He stays behind with the car.

  At least they don’t bind my hands, I think as I open the building door. But of course they don’t bother to do that. Binding my hands would make it appear as though I’m a prisoner or being punished. Malone wants me to believe that’s not the reason for this treatment. That the reason I’m being separated is only for my unit’s protection.

  Until tonight, I had no reason to doubt that was part of it. But now?

  I have proof, I told Cole. In my memory, I had no hesitation condemning Malone and all of RedZone as criminals. So maybe this truly is about punishment. How can I tell until the rest of my memories return? But if they return, that could be bad too. That might just prove I’m broken and my unit should be protected from me.

  I’m not sure what to hope for anymore, but hope seems pretty futile anyway. I’d hoped I could return to my unit tonight, and that’s not happening either.

  The world’s most complacent quasi-prisoner, I lead the way inside and down to the bottommost level of the complex. From there, it’s a short hike to my destination, but more comfortable than walking outside. All the main buildings are connected underground. Only the residential areas and storage facilities are separated.

  The bright lights and harsh white walls of the corridor are especially unpleasant after the wide-open darkness above. But the cold, clinical appearance of this part of the building is better than what’s to come. That’s the part I dread.

  Just beneath my conscious awareness, my brain counts the steps as we walk. There are as many as I’d expect, yet the distance feels too short. We arrive at my destination too soon. There, the light becomes less intense, and the floor slopes downward toward another guard station. The guard in front of the heavy, locked doors casts a disapproving gaze on me as we approach, but she says nothing. On my other guards’ command, she remotely unlocks the next set of doors.

  My stomach twists, and I steel myself. I can hear the things down the corridor as the door slides open. Anguished screams and furious growls fill the space, wrapping around my heart. The Es rarely seem to sleep, and they don’t like when people enter their cellblock. No doubt because nothing good ever comes of it for them.

  I start moving before the reinforced door has finished opening so it doesn’t look like I’m hesitating, although I totally want to turn and run in the opposite direction. The corridor light flickers on once it detects our presence, and the worst of the yelling dies down beneath our footsteps. One voice—a sound somewhere between human and feline—seems to weep.

  My hands tense with the urge to curl, but I hold them steady. That sound breaks my heart even as the banging behind other closed doors chills me.

  This is E territory—the domain of the Errors. These are the creatures RedZone tried to create before people like me. Before they perfected the human-technology integration. Most of their early experiments died, but the unlucky ones who survived are locked up, supposedly for our safety as well as theirs. I don’t know why exactly Malone keeps them around, but I suppose they must somehow be useful scientifically.

  The Es don’t seem particularly pleased about that, and having endured some of RedZone’s testing, I can’t blame them. I’m not sure what’s worse actually—hearing the angry roars of some or the painful cries of others. That’s the worst part of being down here, the part I’d been dreading. I want to put some of the Es out of their misery, but I don’t even know if there’s a difference between those who are hurting and those who are filled with rage. For all I know, the ones whose cries tear me up inside are the ones whose metal hands would tear me up for real if they got out.

  Malone says I was corrupted. On my last mission, I spent too much time on the outside, and my programming—hell, my brain—was damaged by the experience. This is why RedZone had to erase some of my memories, and this is why Malone needs to test me and make sure I can be fixed. And by sending me down here for my unit’s “protection”, Malone is warning me that if I can’t be fixed, I will end up here permanently. Just another E.

  Some might say it’s better than being killed, but I do not want to end up in this prison. I want to be fixed, or barring that, I want to know what happened to me so I can fake being fixed.

  This morning, as I prepped for the Noble and Reese mission, I hadn’t the faintest idea what my transgressions might have been. Now I’m certain it’s something to do with that night in the motel and a boy named Kyle. I ran away and took some of my unit members with me. Was it Kyle who corru
pted me? He wasn’t one of us, but apparently he wasn’t normal either. Were any of the things I believed real? Did I really have proof that RedZone committed crimes?

  And if I believed Malone was doing terrible things and that I had to protect Kyle from him, then how did I end up back here? Just what parts of my life are the lies? The endless questions loop over and over in my head, and no matter how many times I ask them of myself, no more answers come.

  Without any sort of provocation, one of the Es slams against its cell door as we pass. I can’t stop myself from jumping with surprise, but the guards don’t notice my reaction. Their faces are white with fear, and they step away from the door. Inside the cell, the creature continues to bang rhythmically. I let out a breath, shaken but confident that there’s no way it can take down that door.

  The guards seem to realize it too, and one of them, pretending to be unfazed by the noise, pounds his fist against the door and tells the thing inside to shut up. Unsurprisingly, that makes it slam the door harder. Soon, other Es join the ruckus. The corridor descends into madness.

  The second guard unlocks my cell with trembling hands, and I step inside with my head held high. Though I have too many questions, damned if I’ll let any of these people find out what I’m thinking or feeling.

  But when the door shuts behind me with a clang, I close my eyes and allow myself to shiver. Whether it’s from fear or confusion or both, I can’t say. Outside my door, a new round of yelling and banging erupts as the men disappear down the hallway. I sink to the sparse cot against the far wall and rest my head on my knees. There’s a good part of me that wants to join the cacophony, screaming in my own frustration.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday Morning: Present

  The Es keep up their racket for over an hour—actually, seventy-one minutes—and despite me counting the passing seconds, it’s the longest hour I’ve endured in a while. Once they finally accept that their audience has left, the cellblock falls into an eerie silence.

  A low hum persists in the background, never changing, never ending. The lights are dim but never off. The effect produces a kind of mild sensory deprivation, and if I had to stay here long term, I’d go mad. Maybe that explains some of the Es’ behavior.

  As I lie on my back, staring at the white ceiling, my mind races. Although my memories have been wiped, supposedly for my own protection, I’m not sure I believe that anymore. Nor can I entirely believe they’re gone. Something is there, buried in the back of my brain. It has to be in order for me to have these memory flashes that I can’t understand.

  I have to make a decision too. Do I chase the memories and risk Malone finding out, or do I ignore these secrets and risk making a huge mistake? Cole would tell me to do the latter, I think. To be a good soldier and trust my superiors.

  Or would he? He was in those memories with me. He ran with me. So why is he here too? And what about the others—Summer and Jordan, Lev and Octavia? If they’re here, I haven’t seen them, but then, I haven’t been permitted to see many people. Perhaps that’s the first thing I should find out tomorrow. I can ask Cole about them. After all, it’s not as though I’m supposed to have forgotten them too. Just to have forgotten that they left with me.

  Depending on what Cole says, I’ll have a better idea of what happened. Although I’m trained to make tough decisions with incomplete intel, the more information I can gather, the better. That’s common sense.

  Satisfied, I close my eyes and will myself to rest. Sleep comes after a while, bringing more vivid memories.

  The gash on my knee alternately stings and burns. My lips tremble, and I hunch over, staring in horror at the blood spreading out from my wound, the little flecks of skin standing on end, the ugly dirt ground into my leg.

  It’s not only the pain that makes my tears spill over, although that’s a huge part of it. Everything feels so overwhelmingly hopeless. I want Leila, but the woman who used to take care of my unit has been sent away, and I’m stuck with this other lady. She says to call her Fitzpatrick. She’s not kind like Leila was.

  Fitzpatrick stands over me, and her stony expression declares I’ll get no sympathy from her. That makes me cry harder. “I want Leila.” I can’t stop the words from blubbering out.

  Big mistake. Fitzpatrick grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet. The pressure on my knee makes the pain wail, and I do too. Blood trickles down my shin. “HY1-Seven, are you a soldier or a baby?”

  I can’t answer. Leila would have called me her poor baby and cleaned up my cut.

  “What are you?” Fitzpatrick demands again.

  “I’m a soldier.” It’s the correct answer. The only acceptable one. I might actually be a baby, but I know how to respond even if I don’t know how to run without tripping over a tree root.

  Fitzpatrick puts her hands on her hips. Her posture terrifies me, and so does her voice. I only reach her waist, which makes her the biggest, scariest adult I’ve ever met. “Then stop acting like a baby. Stop being a failure. Do you know what happens to defective soldiers?”

  I don’t, so she shows me. Me and my entire unit. Fitzpatrick marches us down to the Es’ corridor and makes us see the mistakes of RedZone’s past. Half-metal humans, robots in flesh kept alive with scary machines that I don’t understand. But I do understand the missing limbs and distorted faces, the hoses and wires protruding from their heads, the lifeless stares that are only slightly less terrifying than the ones who scream in agony.

  Only after she reminds us that we could end up here does Fitzpatrick send me to the medics to get my knee cleaned up. I’ve dripped a trail of blood all over the camp by then.

  But her lesson sticks. I’m a soldier, not a defective baby.

  I never cry again, although I’ve come close.

  I awaken to the sound of a door opening somewhere in the cellblock. My eyes feel funny and I rub them, dismayed to find them wet with sympathy for my five-year-old self. Damn it. I hadn’t thought about that incident in a long time.

  I check my eyes again. They’re wet but not leaking. As long as they’re not leaking, I’m not crying.

  The dream is a bitter reminder, and it’s no surprise that I have Fitzpatrick to thank for my first exposure to the Es. She’s been tormenting me and the rest of my unit since we were moved out of the nursery and dropped into her care. She must feel vindicated that I’ve finally been locked up with the Es like she’d been predicting for fourteen years.

  My hands curl into fists. Bitch. I’m glad I shot her.

  Wait, what? I shot her?

  I freeze, replaying the thought in my mind and the certainty that comes with it. Yes, I’m quite sure I shot Fitzpatrick. Even though I can’t dredge up the specific details, the knowledge is rooted somewhere in my brain. I. Shot. Fitzpatrick.

  A grin breaks over my face, and I actually laugh out loud. Then reality, and all the implications, hit. My grin fades, and I bolt up in bed.

  Glee aside, this is pretty serious stuff. If I shot Fitzpatrick, how is it that I’m here? I’d have assumed such an act of insubordination would have ended with me dead. I mean, I know a lot of time and money went into creating and training me, but still. In the real world, outside the camp’s boundaries, that sort of behavior is punished harshly. And there’s not much that’s harsher outside the camp than inside.

  Look around, I remind myself. It’s not like I’ve gotten off without being punished. I’m locked up with the Es.

  Taking a deep breath, I wrap my arms around my legs. Right. Malone doesn’t have to do anything more permanent than erase my memories. There’s no need to shut me down if he can fix the fault in my behavior and leave me useful. In a way, it’s the perfect solution, assuming your version of punishment is about preventing further bad behavior and not just about retribution.

  One more thing becomes clear to me this morning: I need answers. I need my memories back. However dangerous it
is to poke around, I have to know what I did and why.

  I’m debating angles I could use to surreptitiously question Cole and Malone—and whoever else I’m allowed to talk to today—when a guard comes by to drop off my breakfast. Make that three guards, all well-armed. If I shot a high-ranking member of RedZone, at least I get why I’m considered so dangerous.

  Not long after I’m done eating, more guards arrive and tell me I’m supposed to meet with Malone. At last. Talking to Malone is my chance not just to start piecing together what I did, but also to convince him that I’m fixed, thus getting out of captivity.

  Of course, seeing as I shot Fitzpatrick, among other sins, successfully completing my mission last night might very well not be enough to earn my release. Now I’m torn and partially wish I didn’t remember that. I’d feel more optimistic then.

  I expect the guards are going to take me to Malone’s office, but instead of heading toward the center of the camp, we veer right. Briefly, I entertain the idea that they’re taking me toward the medical wing, but we pass it and keep going. Confused, I walk in silence until it dawns on me where we’re headed.

  The regular holding cells.

  My stomach twists. I don’t like this, though there’s no reason why I should be worried. Life can’t get much worse for me than it already is. In fact, merely being transferred to a regular cell and away from the Es would be an improvement. Somehow though, I suspect that’s not what this is about. The guard definitely said Malone wanted to meet.

  “In here.” One of the guards opens a door on my left.

  I step in to find three people standing by the business end of a one-way window, but the other side of it is dark. Cole nods at me. Next to him, a woman in a lab coat gives me a quick glance before returning her attention to the e-sheet she carries.

  The third person is Malone. As usual, he’s dressed in a nice suit, but his benevolent face is marred by the tiny stitches on his forehead. The smile he gives me is one of polite concern. It’s fatherly even. And it messes with my head.