by Walter Jury
“She needs a doctor, Mom.” I don’t even try to control the tremble in my voice. I’m not sure whether it was the impact of the bullet or that she hit her head on the van’s roof as she fell, but she’s deeply unconscious. Her pulse is steady, and she’s breathing, but that’s all I can say. For all I know, she’s hemorrhaging and the parts that make her Christina are irreparably broken. For all I know, she’s dying quietly in my arms. “Sooner than thirty minutes,” I add.
“It’s the best I can do.”
“Can’t we take her to a hospital?”
“We can, but we’ll have to leave her there, and I guarantee you, the Core will find her quickly, and they will try to use her to get to us. And they won’t be gentle.”
I swallow hard. “So where are we going?”
“The family compound of one of The Fifty. A place where we can get some medical care for her, and some help getting where we need to go.”
“Aren’t we past the time for cryptic bullshit?” I snap. “Who the hell are these people?”
“I’m sorry. I wish your dad had explained all of this to you earlier.”
“Me too.” I know so little about my dad and this world I’m a part of, and it’s making me nuts. But— “It’s not like he knew any of this was going to happen.” How could he have anticipated what a fuck-up I would turn out to be?
Mom sighs. “Your father believed there are still about three billion humans left.”
“No, he said there were less than that. And that the number is dropping fast.” It reminds me of that screen in my dad’s lab, with one number jittering up while the second shrank in a jagged progression.
My mother gives me the saddest smile. “Most of those humans don’t know they’re members of an endangered species, just like most H2 don’t know they’re aliens. And maybe it wouldn’t matter to some, but the Core have been so covertly merciless over the years, so it clearly matters to them. And The Fifty are well aware of their humanity and carefully protect it. As you know, the Archers are members. My family, the Shirazis, are as well, the only members in southwest Asia. There are at least five families in China, three in India, and a scattering across Europe, Africa, and South America. There are no members of The Fifty from Australia. There are several families based here in the States, the largest and most powerful being the Alexanders, the Fishers, the McClarens, and the Bishops.”
I recognize several of those last names—George’s last name is Fisher, and the driver who died yesterday . . . Peter McClaren. “What about the Archers?” My dad’s parents died when I was little, and he was an only child. “Do I have family I don’t know about?”
My mother’s amber eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “No. You are the last of the Archers.”
It takes me a minute or two to remember to breathe. Brayton’s words echo in my head: Your bloodline has extended for centuries . . . Don’t do anything to jeopardize that. “Wait, Brayton said he was related to me,” I finally stammer. Not that I’d want to claim him as my family. Quite the opposite.
She nods. “Most of our families are interrelated, but Brayton is an Alexander, not an Archer. As you can imagine, over four hundred years, many of the lines have just . . . ended. But the ones that remain—their purity has been maintained, and that has meant arranged marriages. It’s one of the reasons the families stay in contact with one another.”
“What?”
She keeps her eyes on the road. “I know that must sound primitive to you, but you have to understand that we are essentially an endangered species, and it’s only been through careful breeding that we have survived.”
“Breeding?” Oh my God. “So, you and Dad . . .”
“Were lucky,” she answers quickly, and her smile contains a thousand memories. “When I came here to study, the Archers hosted me, and I met Fred when he was home for Christmas break that year. The attraction was instant.”
Something inside me loosens. I needed to hear that, for some reason, that my parents really loved each other, that I am not the product of cold and analytical breeding. “So The Fifty have some sort of—what? Government, or something?”
My mom shakes her head. “Not at all. The Fifty was formally established about a hundred and fifty years ago, though many of the families had forged alliances centuries before that. Because the Core is so deeply enmeshed with governments all over the world, the human families seized whatever power they could in private industry. Black Box has existed under one name or another since that time. It’s a front, I guess you could call it, a way of amassing capital and resources to defend ourselves from the Core, who have, throughout the centuries, picked off a large number of us through either official or unofficial methods.”
“Like what, assassinations?”
“It always looks like an accident,” she says grimly. “But they’ve also maliciously sabotaged, prosecuted, and imprisoned anyone who threatens to reveal their secrets. At this point, though, through Black Box, we have weapons, contacts, and clout. It’s been almost a stalemate for nearly fifty years, with neither side aggressing unless the other steps out of line.”
“Like I did yesterday,” I say in a hollow voice.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to handle this. We’ll be okay. But . . . when we’re with the Bishops, follow my lead and tell them Christina is human.”
“Why?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just easier that way.”
I can tell from looking at her that she’s not telling me something, and it trips my wire. “Cut the bullshit and start treating me like an adult. Right. The fuck. Now.”
Her eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
I lean forward. “I’m not twelve. And I’ve lived ten years in the last twenty-four hours.”
Her shoulders sag. “I know, Tate, so have I. I’m trying to do my best—”
“I get it! You’re my mom and you want to protect me. So did Dad.” My throat feels like it’s being squeezed by an invisible hand. “But I’m not helpless. And I need you to understand something he never did: This girl, right here? She’s important. I need to hear you acknowledge that, and to promise me you’ll help me save her.” My voice breaks and I grit my teeth.
“I’m doing everything I can, Tate, I—”
“But you need to let me do everything I can, Mom. It’s the only way we’re going to get through this. And if anything happens to Christina . . .” I clear my throat. “I want to know you understand that.”
“Okay,” she says softly. “I know you’re not helpless. You were amazing just now. I’m so proud of you. It’s . . . it’s very difficult to willingly expose your own child to danger. So be patient with me, please,” she finishes in a strained whisper.
My nostrils flare as I draw in a long breath. “I’m trying to. And I appreciate what you’ve told me so far. But I need to know all of it. Everything. Stop trying to protect me. I’m part of this, and I can help.”
She’s quiet for nearly a full minute before she says, “The Fifty have differing opinions on how to interface with the H2. Some prefer peace and negotiation, and some prefer a more aggressive strategy. Those differences mean the occasional feud. But we always help each other when it’s needed.”
“And now we’re going to get help from the Bishops. Tell me about them.”
Her knuckles are white over the steering wheel. “They have a compound in this area. Their patriarch, Rufus, knew your dad. The Bishops are originally from the same region in Britain as the Archers, and there have been close ties between the families ever since. But in general, they keep to themselves and are very suspicious of outsiders.”
“You told them there were three of us. One Archer, one Shirazi—and one Alexander.”
“They need to think Christina is human, Tate. It won’t be good if they know she’s H2.”
“How not good?”
“Fatally not good.
They’ve lost members of their family to the Core, and they’re not a forgiving bunch. We’re going to tell them she’s Brayton’s niece.”
My heart slams against my ribs as I look down at Christina’s pale face. “What’s going to keep them from fact-checking?”
My mother’s eyebrow arches. “When I said some of the families are feuding, that’s what I was talking about. Rufus and Brayton hate each other. Rufus may maintain some communication with the other families, but the Bishops and the Alexanders are basically enemies. It’s a long story for another time, but the result is that the Bishops won’t know or necessarily question that she’s a member of the Alexander family, because they haven’t had contact with them in years. She’s blond like the Alexanders, so that helps.”
Christina and Brayton look nothing alike, but I guess we can’t afford to be choosy right now. “Anything else I should know?”
“Two ears, one mouth. Listen more than you talk and let me handle the politics.” She holds up her hand when she senses I’m about to interrupt. “It’s too complicated to explain all the details. You’re smart, and you can follow my lead.”
My mouth snaps shut, and I nod.
Christina’s eyelids flutter, and a low whimper comes from her throat. She opens her eyes and stares up at me for a moment, but there’s nothing there, just this glazed, confused look that makes my stomach clench. Her eyes fall shut again, leaving me aching.
My mom’s phone buzzes, and she holds it to her ear. “Ready.” She watches the road as she listens. “Copy that.” Then she repeats a set of coordinates. “We’ll be there soon. Thank you.”
I program the coordinates into my dad’s phone. It’s a point inside the state forest. We’re only about a mile from there now. “You said we’d be on foot.”
She turns off the two-lane highway onto a single-lane gravel road. “I’m going to ditch the car. Not that it’s going to last much longer anyway. Can you carry her?”
“Yeah, but I’m worried about moving her around.”
“I’m sorry, Tate. They’ll be able to care for her as soon as we meet up. They’re bringing their medic.”
“They have their own medic?”
“They’re pretty self-sufficient,” she says as she pulls off the road at a spot that allows us to drive into the woods. I haven’t seen a house in at least half a mile.
“And does Race know they’re out here? Seems like he’ll show up on their doorstep if he thinks we’ve run there.”
“As long as there has been a grid, the Bishops have stayed off it. And your dad once told me he’d helped Rufus set up decoy compounds throughout the country. Basically, there’s a lot of evidence that the Bishops are elsewhere, but little evidence that they’re here.”
“This Rufus guy sounds completely paranoid.”
My mother shrugs. “For the moment, we should consider that a lucky break.”
She parks about thirty feet off the road, behind a fallen oak tree. When she turns off the engine, it makes this choking, shuddering sound that tells me it’s breathed its last. “I’m going to touch base with Angus McClaren and let him know where we are. He’s the CFO at Black Box and the patriarch of the McClarens.”
“And you trust him?”
She pivots in her seat and looks me in the eye. “I do. He’s one of the first people I called last night. He’s a good friend, a powerful member of The Fifty, and he’s not a huge fan of Rufus Bishop. Think of it as insurance.”
I nod, though I’m not sure what Angus McClaren—who’s probably in Chicago for the emergency board meeting George mentioned—can do for us if Rufus Bishop decides to hurt Christina.
While Mom hops out of the van with her phone already to her ear, I put on the backpack, reassured by the weight of the scanner inside, and lift Christina in my arms. Her head lolls in the crook of my neck, and she moans again.
My mom is hanging up as I get out. “Left a voicemail.” She puts her phone back in her pocket and takes Christina’s pulse, then pulls a small flashlight out of her shoulder bag and lifts each of Christina’s eyelids, shining the beam of light into them. “Pupils are equal, round, and reactive to light. It’s a good sign.” She puts the flashlight back in her bag, and then pauses and looks up at me. Her hand closes over my forearm. “I’m going to do my best for both of you.” Her eyes meet mine. “And I’ll ask for your help when I need it.”
“Okay.” I believe her. She could have tried to dump Christina, but instead she seems determined to save her. For me. It’s the only thing that feels good in all this badness. “And I’ll do whatever I can, if it means Christina gets what she needs.”
She gives me a small smile. “Sometimes you remind me so much of your father.” She pats my arm, takes my father’s phone from my hand, then turns around and begins hiking into the woods.
I follow, holding Christina tight, picking my way along and doing my best not to jostle her. She feels so light in my arms, like some part of her has flown away and all I’m carrying is a shell. So I murmur quietly to her as I walk, trying to lure her back to me. “Fall of my freshman year, Will talked me into going to a girls’ soccer game. I didn’t want to go. I knew it would mean hours of playing catch-up on my language studies, but you know Will. He can be pretty persuasive.”
I lift her a little higher. Her hair tickles my neck. “I went because he claimed the striker was a total hottie, but I walked away with a mad crush on the left winger.” There was something about the playful but defiant flash of her eyes, the brash, unapologetic toughness of her, that loud, vibrant laugh, those incredible legs, that gorgeous smile . . . Every second that ticked by dug my hole a little deeper.
I lean my cheek against her forehead. “Do you remember looking up into the stands? I think I held my breath for a whole minute, waiting for your eyes to land on me.” I take advantage of a patch of level terrain and look down at her. “And they did, for about a nanosecond. Then you saw the guy you were actually looking for and waved at him. I swore right then that someday, I would be the guy. I wanted to be the guy you looked for in the stands.”
God, that sounds so dumb. It’s absolutely true, though. It took a few years. And it didn’t go the way I wanted it to. Except . . . it went better. Because I became her friend, not a boyfriend of the month. By the time we finally went out a few months ago, I knew her well enough to know this was something to be careful with, something not to rush, something to hold close and take care of. “I don’t know how I got that lucky,” I mumble.
Christina shifts in my arms and sighs, and it almost brings me to my knees.
My mom finds a dirt trail, and we follow it while I continue to babble to my bleeding, unconscious girlfriend about all the moments that have added up to how I feel about her now. And I realize something as I walk along, holding her against my chest, but I can’t bear to say it out loud because, right now, it hurts too much.
We cross a footbridge over a rushing stream. It’s started to rain, but only a few drops reach us through the thick canopy of the trees. “Tate,” my mom calls back to me.
I raise my head to see three people standing by a newish-looking pickup truck with a capped bed parked at the side of a narrow road. A stout, middle-aged, auburn-haired woman spots us and nudges the gaunt, older guy next to her. He turns around and squints at us through thick-lensed glasses. The third guy, young, maybe early twenties, rushes forward when he sees us. He has fiery red hair and is extremely pale. I mean, weirdly so. As he comes near, I see that the bridge of his nose and his cheeks are covered in tiny freckles, but he still looks like some kind of albino.
“We were starting to wonder if you’d gotten picked up by the authorities,” Freckles says. He has his hand on his waist, maybe to keep his saggy jeans perched on his skinny hips. He’s got on a loose, long-sleeved, hooded jersey, which must be stifling in this steamy weather. He extends his hand as he approaches my mother. “David Bishop
.”
“Mitra Shirazi-Archer,” my mother says, shaking his hand. “This is my son, Tate, and his friend, Christina Alexander.”
David nods at me, but his eyes are already on Christina. “What happened to her?” he asks, coming toward us. The other two are walking up the trail, and their eyes are on Christina, too.
“The Core was in pursuit,” my mother answers. “She was shot.”
“She may have hit her head when she fell,” I say.
David’s eyes meet mine. They are totally bloodshot. I sincerely hope this dude isn’t high. Because, as I watch him turn his attention to Christina and probe for the pulse at her neck, I am getting the distinct impression that he is the medic.
“Bring her to the truck,” he says quietly.
The others introduce themselves as Esther and Timothy Bishop. With serious expressions, they escort us along the path. My mother walks close by my side as the rain begins to drip heavily through the leaves overhead. A cool drop hits the back of my neck and slides down my spine. Another hits Christina’s cheek, and she twitches. I brush my lips across her forehead as we take the last few steps to the pickup.
I am instantly relieved when I see that the truck bed is basically an ambulance bay. David climbs inside and helps me lay Christina on the stretcher in the center. I start to climb in as well, but he leans over her, crowding me out.
“You can sit up front,” he says, reaching for a small penlight from a tray of supplies on the side bench.
No way. “I’d rather—”
My mother’s hand on my arm is as good as a slap in the face. I promised her I’d let her handle the politics, so I slide myself off the tailgate.
“I’ll take good care of her,” David reassures me.
Timothy closes up the back of the truck while Esther gets in the driver’s seat. “We’re only about twenty minutes from the compound.” He comes around to the passenger side. “We’ve got an X-ray machine.”