Project Snow

by Cherita Smith

  Fear bangs against her ribs, tries to break free. Another scream builds in her chest. It escapes with only a squeak before Hunter's hand clamps down on her mouth.

  "I'm sorry," he whispers. "But you cannot lose it right now. It will be death for us both, do you understand?"

  Amara nods, sudden, hot tears dripping onto Hunter's hand. She nods again.

  "Good," Hunter says. "Good. Now I'm going to let go, and you're not going to scream, are you?"

  Amara swallows her scream and shakes her head no. Hunter removes his hand slowly. He watches her intently for a long moment, his body taut and ready to spring into action should she give in to her terror after all.

  "Are you going to kill me too?" Amara asks with a whimper, blinking back tears that won't stop, unable to look away from the tangle of bodies revealed in the half-light of the door.

  "What? No, of course not. Of course not. I'm saving you." Hunter brushes her tears away.

  With an eye on Amara, he secures the observation deck, making sure the door is locked tight. Then he pulls her from the medlab and down the white marble hall. He holds up his hand to the wall at the passageway's end; the blue light of an unseen scanner slides down once.

  A panel in the wall glides open and they both stumble through, into the bright light of a spiral stairwell. The outer wall curves in an arc of thick glass, a forest of green and the violet-pink sky stretching beyond. The spiral of floors rushes up to Amara, twisting her stomach into a similar shape. Her legs buckle. Hunter grabs her with steady arms and holds her up.

  Amara breathes in around her panic and fear, then nods again. "I'm okay. I can do this, let's go."

  She and Hunter rush down flight after flight of stairs, slipping through doors and down halls like wraiths. The world fades into movement and sound, each scene blurring into the next, a surreal landscape of half-remembered dreams and too-present nightmares.

  A blast of humid air slaps Amara from her shock, forcing a gasp from her. She clangs behind Hunter along a metal catwalk that sways with each step. Far beneath them, terraced rows of green stalks glisten under the glare of U.V. lights and the rumbling drizzle of an artificial monsoon. The pungent scent of fertile earth nearly knocks her out. She's glad, for it means she's still alive.

  They enter a vast space even muggier than the AgRoom. The air hisses with steam from a labyrinth of huge pipes below. The catwalk ends at a wide tube for transporting freight. Stepping inside, Amara is instantly grateful for the cooler air, although the copper scent of the pipes lingers in her nose like a whiff of spilled blood.

  The tube hums along whisper smooth, until it drops with a sudden jolt. The door opens onto another white hall, a stark background for the dark figure of Chancellor Amir.

  Amir fixes his black eyes on Hunter. "Excellent work Guardsman, thank you."

  Amara flinches as if she's been slapped, her face the look of heartbreak itself. Her eyes lock on Hunter, who looks nearly as stricken by Amir's words as her, even more so when his fellow Guardsmen remove Amara from the tube and force her down the hall, away from him.

  * * *

  The Guardsmen follow Amir to another tube, Amara secured between them. This tube drops quickly, descending deep into the bowels of the earth, to unknown floors and parts of the Tower Amara didn't even know existed. Under normal conditions, she'd be unable to contain her excitement. But nothing will be normal again.

  Now, the adrenaline that floods through her veins and pricks at her skin is the rush of pure fear, an icy snake coiling its way around her heart. The tube spits them out into an equally cold vestibule.

  "Welcome, Chancellor,” a digi voice echoes through the barren chamber.

  Two massive doors slide open with a groan of disuse. Amir holds out his hand to Amara, a gesture that says 'shall we?’

  It is a gesture Amara knows well, something Amir would do when they travelled through the Tower. Normally, Amara would take his hand and let him guide her, relishing the intimate connection with this man whom she loves like a father.

  Now, Amara steps forward and gives Amir as scathing a glare as she can, willing as much betrayal and hurt into her eyes as she can muster. Fear recedes to the background for the briefest of moments and Amara sails through the doorway, ignoring Amir's outstretched hand.

  It is Amir's turn to flinch from the shock of the hurt.

  Amara steps into a narrow hall of pink stone. Mossy patches and quartz sconces line the rough-hewn walls, while a salty tang fills the air. Amir signals to the Guardsmen to stay, and the enormous metal doors clank shut behind the Chancellor and the princess.

  The two walk in silence until they reach a cavernous space arched high overhead. Crystal stalactites hang from the ceiling sharp as scalpels, emitting a rosy glow. The path ends with a small footbridge that curves up and over a bubbling stream of water.

  Amara trails after Amir, dread pounding her heart like a drum. The queen's holo plays in her mind: Bring me her heart... the Chancellor will await your arrival...

  Is she walking to her death?

  On the other side of the bridge, another towering door creaks open for Amir. Amara follows him into a semi-circular room, smooth stone walls lined with sconces and shelves. Along one wall, large armchairs are grouped in front of an arched fireplace fit for a giant. Amir takes a seat, inviting Amara to take the other with a wave of his hand.

  Amara sits, never taking her wary eyes off Amir. "What is this place?"

  "This place?" Amir looks around as if seeing it for the first time. "Underground. These are old mines from before. Now, it's used for storage. The Hall of Records."

  "This is the Hall of Records? Oh." A long silence unfolds as Amara picks at her chair. Finally: "Why do you want me dead?" Tears sting her eyes as the words fall from her lips.

  "I don't want you dead, Amara," Amir says sadly. "Why would I want that? Of all the girls, you remind me of the queen the most."

  Amara's eyes narrow and her nose crinkles.

  The look of disdain sparks a wan smile from Amir. "Try not to look so horrified. I only meant your curiosity. You have the same passion, the same desire to learn and soak up the world around you that she had. It is what made her such a brilliant scientist." Amir's words fall on the air, his eyes distant and hazy as he revisits the past. "But that was long ago. Now I fear that spark has been replaced with madness."

  "Is that why she wants my heart?" The words are a strangled sob in her throat.

  "She wants your heart because she is dying, and your heart is the only thing that will keep her alive. At least, until your heart begins to give out too. It is the sole reason you and your sisters exist. You are the product of a project called SNOW—Synthetic Neural-Organic Womb, designed with the express purpose of engineering the queen's own embryos."

  Amara reels with the shock of this information. "So... what? We're like spare parts for her?"

  "Something like that, I'm afraid..." The usually unflappable Amir lets out a heavy, despairing sigh. "Do you know how your mother cured the infection? She had a natural immunity, we think connected to this heart condition she has. She tried her hardest to manipulate that immunity into a cure, to no avail. Then, a new technology was made available: genetic modification, or Engineering as you've come to know it.

  "Zoya tried several things with this new technology as well, but ultimately she found the only thing that worked was to code her own genetic material into others' embryos, which conferred her natural immunity onto them. Unfortunately, immunity was not all she imparted—it was soon discovered that all of the Engineered bore a direct connection to Zoya, somewhat like an aetheric uplink. Her well-being determines everyone else's. So you see, Zoya cannot die, for if she dies, the City dies with her.

  "Only, now we've come to an impasse. Your mother, I fear, has gone mad. She is drunk on power and the people are unhappy. They grow more restless by the day—there are whispers of a coup, a plot to overthrow the Court and murder the queen. If something is not done, she will destro
y us all, whether she receives a new heart or not. But there is a solution, a small ray of hope. That hope is you, Amara."

  "My heart," Amara says flatly, avoiding his gaze.

  "No, my dear, not that. I never intended for that to be your fate. That is why I assigned that particular Guardsman to escort you today. Hunter? Even though I knew of your inappropriate relationship. Because of that relationship, as I knew he would attempt to rescue you. I needed it to look like you'd escaped."

  "Why?"

  "For this." Amir brandishes a tiny white box with a golden apple engraved on its lid. "This chip contains all of your mother's memories, her feelings and thoughts and dreams. Her essence, or consciousness, if you will. I believe that if you were to implant this chip, since you share her exact genetic material..."

  "Her clone, right? We're just versions of her, second-hand copies? Expendable spare parts." Amara clenches her jaw, tears of sadness and anger battling for release.

  "Technically, yes. Genetically. But yet, you are each unique, not unlike identical twins. Which is why you would need to implant her essence. Then the mad queen could be allowed to die, but Zoya herself would live on through you. I believe it is the only way to save everyone, including your sisters."

  "If I do this, then I won't be me anymore?"

  "I honestly don't know."

  "And what if it doesn't work?"

  "Again, I don't know. But it is the only solution we have."

  Amara eyes the white box, traces the golden apple while contemplating her choice. "And if I do this, my sisters will be okay?"

  "You have my word."

  "And Hunter?"

  "I will make sure he is safe as well."

  "And if I say no? Then I die?"

  "I'm so sorry, my dear..." Amir's jaw now clenches against the watery sting in his eyes, but he gives her hand a tight squeeze and places a small kiss on the top of her head. He's reluctant to let her go, wishing more than anything he could hold onto her forever. But he can't, so he pulls away in a rush. "But I could not take that chance. You were already given the implant yesterday, as part of your prelim."

  Amara's lungs fill with something tighter than air as she remembers the tiny silver pill given to her by Dr. Bannerjee, the pill she took so mindlessly, with not a single question asked. She remembers the bloody vision during her medscan, and wonders if that was a side effect? Before she can process the thought, a sharp prick pierces her neck. Her body grows heavy, her eyelids droop as if weighted.

  Amir continues to speak, but his words grow distant, mere echoes in water. Cryo... temporary... revive. He hovers over Amara, his dark eyes like two bottomless wells of grief.

  Even as she sinks into those wells, Amara struggles to stay conscious. Amir's eyes morph into her sisters' dark doe eyes, so like her own. Then, into a pair of green eyes sharp like a knife, flecked with delicate gold threads that glitter through her mind until her mind is no more.

  IV. Epilogue

  THE ARCHAEOLOGIST WATCHES his team pull up the mysterious box, his excitement warming him despite the tundra's icy cold. The whole thing takes longer than he would like on account of the thick layers of ice, but the box is now ready for transport.

  He rides in the back with the box, unwilling to leave its side. Wild fantasies of what it could contain run away in his mind. Ancient jewels and treasure, perhaps. Or perhaps something mundane, the detritus from a long-ago life.

  It takes more effort and time to unload the box, to get it in the lab and thaw it, but finally it is ready. The box stands on an exam table, longer than a man, the aged wood water-logged and warped with time. There is an inscription on the lid, a script that could possibly be Mesoamerican. He isn't sure, but the inscription has already been photographed and uploaded, the appropriate experts called in to work.

  The archaeologist admires the box in its unsullied state a final time before his assistant gently pries the lid open. The rotting wood falls away, revealing a strikingly modern-looking metal box. Shock turns to fear, which then turns to dread—please, oh please, don't let this be an elaborate hoax.

  He reprimands himself, tells himself who would plant a hoax out here? The cost alone. Reminds himself that the wood is genuinely old, so this metal box must be at least that old too.

  The urge to run his fingers along the box overwhelms him, so awed is he by the seamless joints, the manufactured perfection. What is this box? Where did it come from? Who made it? And why? And how? Questions of time and place crowd in his mind, jostle for space.

  He notices another inscription engraved in the metal. It looks like no language he's ever seen, except maybe Cuneiform? Scratches of lines and what could be pictograms (is that a sun?), too orderly to be anything but some sort of written script. He makes a mental note as he leans in close, his hand absently reaching out to his assistant for the camera. His breath fogs up the metal inscription, so he waits for it to condense and dry before he begins to document the box.

  A groan shudders through the research lab, unsettling the two men. Just when they're ready to resume, another groan ripples through the room, causing their supplies to rattle and shake.

  "An earthquake?" the assistant wonders, ignoring the fear of the box building inside him.

  The archaeologist shakes his head. "Didn't really feel like one." He gets back to his documentation process.

  A third groan erupts through the room, this one forceful enough to make things fall from the shelves. It's immediately followed by the ear-shattering screech of metal on metal and an angry, pneumatic hiss. The men rush to the phone on the wall near the door, ready to figure out what's going on. Volcano? Lab explosion?

  Wheezing breaths from the box's direction sends shudders of fear more cold than their Arctic home down both men's backs. They turn around at the same time.

  A girl sits up in the box, unlike any girl they've ever seen. She is taller than both men, to start, with dark hair and dark skin and dark eyes that shimmer and ripple in the light, her color a morphing, changing thing. The rainbow on an oil slick. Perhaps it is the goo that covers her, plastering her hair to her head. Her large eyes stare at the men in horrified wonder. She opens her full lips, but coughs up phlegm when she tries to speak. She tries again, and in a strangely lyrical voice that is almost too high for their ears, she says, "Hunter?"

  The men hear only a musical tone.

  "Holy shit," the assistant says.

  Amara hears only a guttural growl. But she does hear, which means she is not dead after all.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading! If you have the time, please consider leaving a review. Reviews are incredibly helpful to authors and readers alike, so I thank you in advance!

  I loved writing this story so much, I'm turning it into a full-length series of novels! Want to know when the first full book is released? Sign up for updates today—you'll also get an exclusive FREE copy of The First Will Be Poetic, a deliciously dark YA paranormal with a heart-stopping mythological twist:

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  About the Author

  CHERITA SMITH is a writer of fictional words, doer of magical deeds, lover of social justice, dope street art & pretty, girly things. A Los Angeles native, she writes speculative fiction of all kinds: dystopian, science fiction, paranormal & urban fantasy. Dark, lush and haunting prose, with a dash of creepy-thriller and a sprinkle of fairytale-myth — that’s her jam.

  In the not-too-distant past, her bread and butter came from online marketing and fundraising for nonprofit organizations. She did a lot of writing then too, only none of it was speculative and it was (mostly) non-fiction.

  Learn more about the author at cheritasmith.com.

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