by Jack Alden
Dr. Quorn scratches out notes the entire time, and doesn’t comment when I finish. He simply nods and moves on to this next question. “When did you begin primary education?”
It goes on for a while, so long that by the time he puts his pen down and tells me we’re done for the day, I figure it must already be night. My head hurts, and my eyes are heavy. I feel like I’ve been sitting in this chair for hours, answering useless questions about things and people I’ll never get to have in my life again. President Dogan really knows how to drive the knife in.
Dr. Quorn shakes my hand and presses a button on the wall. A moment later, the door opens and another person I don’t know arrives to collect me. He wheels me to a new room. It’s larger, darker, and has a huge, tinted window running along one wall. In the middle of the room sits an enormous tube-shaped machine. The sight of it makes my mouth run dry. Surely, they’re not going to make me get in that thing.
“Remove your clothing and undergarments, please.”
“Huh?” I must have zoned out completely just trying to calm down. “Wh—”
The young man who brought me here points to my shirt and says, “Remove your clothing and undergarments, please.”
I blink. “Is that really necessary?”
He doesn’t explain, simply nods.
“Well, can I have some privacy then?”
He steps out of the room without a word. Once he’s gone, I slowly undress, using my arms and hands to cover myself. I’m wary about separating from the Viper, so I keep it close to me, hidden inside my boot and piled under my clothes by the table. I glance around, unsure of what to do now, when the air in the room crackles around the sound of the man’s voice.
“Put on the robe provided and lie on the table, please.”
So much for privacy. The robe is folded on the table. It’s thin, papery, so I’m careful not to tear it as I pull it on. It’s open in the back. I lie down on the table and wait. A second later, the door opens and the man re-enters.
“We are going to do a scan now,” he says and holds up a syringe. “You will be fully encased in the machine, but there is no reason to be alarmed. We need you to remain as still as possible and control your breathing until the scan is finished.” He taps the syringe. “This is for your nerves.”
“Okay,” I say, silently telling my heart to calm down. I try to keep my breathing as controlled as possible as the needle goes in with a pinch. The man then presses a button and the table I’m on suddenly starts to move. It carries me backward toward a large tunnel-like machine.
“Close your eyes,” the man tells me. “The scan will go faster for you if you try to sleep.”
That might be okay. It might be possible. I’m exhausted enough, but my heart won’t stop pounding. I close my eyes and take a breath. Sleep, I tell myself. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Maybe if I say it enough times, my brain will listen, like some form of hypnosis, and I’ll sleep right through this thing.
Sleep.
***
I wake up in my room.
The sound of knocking pulls me up and out of my bed. My head is throbbing. The back of my neck stings and everything seems hazy. I’m so tired that I’m surprised I woke up at all.
“What…?”
I look around, confused. Wait. The last thing I remember is being encased in a machine, a deafening whirring sound whipping around my head.
“How did I get here?”
My head won’t stop throbbing, like a hammering pulse behind my eyes. I press my fingers to the back of my neck and hiss. It’s sore to the touch. That’s when it hits me—the Viper. I panic, throwing the blankets off me and tossing my pillow aside.
“Where is it?”
My heart pounds. What did they do to me? They knocked me out. They knocked me out and stripped out my microchip, stole the Viper. Without it, I’m vulnerable. Without it, what tiny bit of leverage I had is gone. My eyes start to water.
Then my hand knocks cold metal and my heart plunges into my stomach. It burns for a minute as I force in a breath, then it slowly makes its way back up, back to normal. I take another breath and pull the sheathed Viper from under the sheet. I steel myself as I send it a silent command to unsheathe. With a whir and click, the metallic sheath retracts into the base, and I let out a long sigh. I pull the dagger to my chest and close my eyes, feel a drop of moisture drip down my cheek. I wipe it away and tell myself to be calm.
You’re just tired, Dagger, I tell myself. You just slept too long, so things are fuzzy. You’re okay. Everything is okay.
I try to make myself believe it, but there’s a stirring in my gut—a foreboding feeling I can’t shake. I should be able to remember how I got here. I look down at myself and see that I’m wearing a set of pajamas from the closet. I don’t remember putting them on. I don’t remember anything. I should be able to remember.
The knocking sounds again. I place the Viper back under my pillow and head for the other room. When I pull the door open, Calixa is standing on the other side. She smiles at me. She actually smiles.
“Running late this morning, I see,” she says, shaking her head.
“What do you mean?” The light feels like needles in my eyes. I cup a hand over my forehead. It helps but not much. “Who…what, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to escort you to the medical wing,” she tells me, then frowns. “It should be on your schedule.” She takes a step toward me. “Are you all right?”
I shake my head. “What are you talking about? I just got back from the medical wing.”
Her frown deepens. “When? Who took you?”
“What do you mean? You took me.”
“When?”
“This morning,” I say. “Or I guess yesterday morning now. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. Why are you acting so weird about it?”
“Dagger,” she says, frown unmoved, “there was nothing on your schedule yesterday. I didn’t see you.”
I stare at her, then a tired laugh works its way up. “You’re messing with me,” I say.
“No.”
“Look, any other day, I’d be in awe of you actually having a sense of humor, but my head is killing me right now and laughing makes it worse.”
She doesn’t crack, not even a hint of a smile. “Your last medical assessment was two days ago.”
“You mean my first medical assessment,” I say, “and that can’t be right. There’s no way I slept for two days.” I rub one eye. “Then again, I’m really tired, so—”
“No.” Calixa shakes her head. She glances quickly around the hallway then says, “May I come in?”
I frown, but then I realize why. She wants to get away from the cameras. I nod and step to the side, and as soon as she’s in, I close the door behind her. “What’s going on?”
“Dagger,” she says, turning toward me, “your first medical assessment was eight days ago. You’ve had three more since then.”
My throat goes dry and, suddenly, it feels like the walls of my enormous room are closing in on me. The whole place shrinks around me and my voice comes out as little more than a croak of sound. “What?”
7
I watch my blood spurt into the tube, bubble, and begin to rise. It fills quickly, and the nurse pops the tube off to exchange it for another.
“What’s that for?”
She looks up at me, surprised. “What is what for?”
“That tube?” I ask her. “Each one has some kind of liquid at the bottom. What’s it for? Why do you need so much blood?”
“Oh,” she says with a tight smile, “you don’t need to worry about that. This is all standard.”
“Well, I think I do need to worry about it,” I tell her, “because it’s my blood, and I want to know what you’re using it for.”
She stiffens. Her eyes dart to the side, to the window. A doctor stands on the other side, looking over some sort of chart. He isn’t paying attention. She glances down to my boot then, the one with the Viper. The handle i
s visible, sticking out the top. Then she looks at me.
My instinct is to tell her I’m not going to hurt her, but I don’t. Her fear, I realize, is something I can use to my advantage. I raise a brow as she switches the tube again, and she clears her throat.
“Um,” she says, “the liquid at the bottom is a serum. Each serum serves a different purpose, depending on what tests are to be done on the blood sample.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “What kind of tests are being done?”
“I don’t think—”
“Look, I don’t care what you think,” I say. “I’m forgetting things. I want to know what you’re doing to me.”
She glances to the window again. This time, the doctor is watching us. A moment later, he’s in the room.
“Prudence,” he says, waving for the nurse to leave, “we’re just about finished up here.” He pops off the vial and pulls the needle in my arm free. “We’ll have someone escort you to imagining.”
I feel sick to my stomach. Nothing about the exchange settles my fears or clears my doubt. It only makes everything worse.
***
My head feels fuzzy when the automated table slides me from the machine. I try to sit up, but I’m sluggish. It’s weird, like trying to claw your way up to the surface from somewhere far below. It doesn’t make any sense.
I can just make out the blurry form of a white coat. Thick words thump against my ears. “My, she is valuable, isn’t she?”
Who is valuable? Me? What does that mean? And what’s with the knocking? It beats at me from all sides, bumping against my brain. It won’t stop. I close my eyes and try to drown it out, but it keeps going. Beating. Beating. Beating.
“Stop it!” I shout, and suddenly, I’m sitting up. My room snaps into focus, and I’m alone. I’m in my bed, and the knocking is coming from the other room, from the door. I already know who it is. It’s Calixa. Another day has passed. Or two. Or three. I don’t know. I don’t know.
Fear hits me so hard I can’t breathe. My eyes burn and water. My chest tightens until it hurts. I cup my forehead and curl into myself, rocking back and forth on top of the bed. “What the hell is happening to me?”
***
“Gaps in your short-term memory are normal with the type of exhaustion you’ve been experiencing,” Dr. Quorn says. “Not to mention the many examinations you’ve undergone recently.”
“But—”
“It stems from a variety of factors,” he says, tapping his pen against his notepad. “Your life has taken a dramatic turn over the last few weeks, Dagger. You have changed location and surroundings, not to mention your entire routine. You are constantly learning new things, undergoing rigorous medical and psychological testing, and having blood drawn daily. It is natural to be stressed and exhausted under such circumstances. You shouldn’t be alarmed.”
“Only being able to remember bits and pieces of the last few days seems like a cause for alarm,” I tell him, rubbing my hands over my face. My eyes itch. They feel heavy. I feel like I haven’t slept in days, despite the fact that I always seem to be waking up in my bed. I must be sleeping. I just can’t remember getting there. I can’t remember closing my eyes.
“You said the missing pieces were coming back to you,” he says. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, but the fact that they’re missing to begin with is the problem.”
He offers a placating smile. It annoys me. “As I said, Dagger, you shouldn’t be alarmed. You’re exhausted, and everything here is new to you. It’s natural for your brain to be overwhelmed. Once you become accustomed to your new routines and surroundings, your brain should adjust and the exhaustion should begin to wane. You will level out. You simply need to be patient and give yourself time.”
It feels like shallow reassurance, the kind you give when you know something bad is going to happen but you don’t want anyone to panic. It feels like a pat on the head, like a hushing touch. Like a lie. I don’t trust it, but there’s nothing I can do. I can’t argue. I can’t refuse any more tests. That was part of the deal I made. They aren’t up for debate. They’re mandatory.
I sigh. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he says. “Now, are you ready to begin?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” He readies his pen. “What is your name?”
***
My feet drag with every step I take. I don’t even try to keep up with Calixa. She’s rigid as usual, marching along the halls, leading me back to my room. When we reach my door, she turns toward me.
“I will see you tomorrow,” she says.
I nod. “Okay.”
Her brow dips the slightest bit, her eyes searching my face. “Do you need anything?”
I shake my head and yawn. “Just bed.”
“Very well.” She doesn’t move, just continues to stare at me.
“I’m fine, really,” I tell her. “Stop worrying.” Without thinking, I shove her shoulder. It’s a playful touch, something that, once done, feels far too familiar for two people who’ve never spent more than a few elevator rides and hallway walks together. “Sorry.”
She smiles. It’s subtle but there. “Get some rest, Dagger,” she says, then turns and marches off. I watch her go, surprised when she stops at the end of the hall and turns back. We share a moment, one hard look that says a lot more than any of the shallow words we’ve exchanged, then she’s gone.
It stays with me, that look. The concern in her eyes pricks at me. It haunts. I think about it as I enter my room, as I make my way from the door to the bedroom, as I avoid taking a shower, avoid eating a meal. I think about it when I strip my clothes off and collapse on my pillow. I think about it when I tuck the Viper under my pillow and when I dust my fingers over the sore spot on the back of my neck and the bruises on my inner arms. I think about it when Dr. Quorn’s words repeat in my head, telling me not to be alarmed.
I think about it as I close my eyes, and I wonder if I should be concerned, too, despite the reassurances not only from Dr. Quorn but the other doctors too. I wonder who’s lying to me. Who’s telling the truth?
Who can I trust?
***
My reflection doesn’t look right. It doesn’t look like me. My cheeks are thinner. I think I might be losing weight. I don’t like it. I don’t want to be different. I want to be me, the me I’ve always been—the me I recognize.
Despite how tired I am, I drop to the floor and do a push-up, then another and another. Up and down until my arms give out, until I can’t catch my breath. I stand up again and look at myself in the mirror again.
Look strong, I tell myself. Look like yourself.
I don’t. I don’t look like myself at all. I look broken.
I stretch my arms overhead and crack my neck to both sides. The sting at the back catches me off guard like it always does, and I can’t help touching it. The flesh is sore under the rub of my fingertips. I don’t know why. At first, I thought they’d stripped me of my microchip, but I know it’s still there because the Viper still responds to me. It obeys every command.
I pull it from my boot and whirl it in my hand.
Unsheathe, I think, and the built-in sheath instantly retracts. I sheathe and unsheathe it over and over, toss it into the air and catch it with ease, with my eyes closed. It’s like a part of me now, an extension of my arm. It knows me, and I know it, and lately, it seems that’s all I know.
It’s comforting, because one thing, at least, hasn’t changed. I’m still a Leary. My blood is still my blood. The Viper proves it, and that has to be enough.
***
My head is throbbing. It never seems to stop anymore. “Prudence Dagger Leary.”
Dr. Quorn nods. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“And what is your birthday?”
“October 27, 2223.”
“Thank you,” he says, not looking up from his notepad. “Where were you born?”
“The North Side Valley Sector.” I lean
my head back against my chair and sigh.
“Something you’d like to say before we continue?”
I look up, catch his raised brow. “I just don’t understand why we have to keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“These questions,” I say. “Every other day, I come in and you make me answer the same questions over and over. What’s my name? Where was I born? What’s my earliest memory? And on and on, as if I’m going to wake up one day and forget the last eighteen years of my life. I don’t get it.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time, so long it seems like I’ve upset him. Then he asks, “How are you feeling, Dagger?”
I shrug. “Tired,” I tell him. “I’m tired all the time. I know you said it would pass, but it doesn’t feel like it’s going to. My head hurts.”
He hums, makes a note. “Have you been having any strange dreams?”
“Not that I remember,” I tell him. “Why?”
He doesn’t answer, simply carries on with his next question. “How is your memory? Are you still experiencing gaps? Is anything fuzzy?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “I wake up and can’t remember falling asleep. Sometimes I can’t even remember going back to my room.”
“I see.” We stare at each other for one long, tense moment. Then he says, “It will pass.”
“How do you know?”
He smiles. It’s tense, something borderline unsettling. “As I told you before, it’s natural given the many changes you’ve experienced lately. Once the medical testing lessens in frequency, you should begin to feel better.”
I want to believe him. I want to trust that things are going to get better so that the fear bubbling in my gut will settle, but I don’t. I don’t believe him. I don’t know that I believe anyone here. I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything, and he gives me the same tense smile.
“Back to the questions,” he says. “What is your mother’s name?”
***
My ears won’t stop ringing. Heat scorches my face. Dust burns in my eyes. I can’t breathe.