Pru senses my hesitation outside the pharmacy. She takes her own weight and, with one hand resting on my shoulder for balance, tries her luck at a few steps. She understands my hunger as I understand her hatred for me at this moment. Without a word, she stumbles into the pharmacy, and I let her go, drawn to the smell of food like a vulture.
I take two steps toward the restaurant, pause, and turn around. I just watched Julius fade into oblivion as he saved us from being captured; we cannot split up now. With a grunt, I ignore the churning in my stomach and follow Pru into the pharmacy.
“Let me get it,” I say, telling Pru to wait by the door. “If they see your face, they might get a little … uneasy.” She obliges, not because she knows I’m right, but because she is tottering and walking like a stiff-armed zombie.
Gauze. Alcohol. Butterfly sutures. What else? I grab a small tube of the expensive wound repair serum that my lab invented a few years ago. Its label boasts of the ability to erase scars if used on wounds immediately. Pru’s wound is several hours old by now, the brilliant cells already beginning their own healing process. But this stuff will make the healing much quicker.
As I’m approaching the checkout arch that marks the exit, my heart rate jumps. The Director will be paying for this. I’ve never had money of my own, never bought anything without the approval of Center staff. No one from the Center watches my thoughts now. No one will walk out and snatch me if I get too close to the silver door again. That is, if we are not discovered before we get there.
I dart under the arch, purchases in hand. The arch turns yellow—is this normal? I’ve seen checkout arches turn green, yellow, and sometimes red. Red is bad, meaning insufficient funds. Yellow? I’ve never paid enough attention to see what happens after the arch turns yellow.
I don’t wait to find out. I’m hustling toward Pru, who is pushing herself off the wall. We slip into the crowd on the balcony just as the arch turns red and starts flashing. Someone from inside the pharmacy starts yelling. I hear the words stolen chip as we round the corner.
A yank on Pru’s arm and we’re inside the Thai Garden, smells murdering my focus and calling me toward a table. But we have to hurry. The Director! Even though he isn’t here, he’s still with us, keeping us from having what we want! His words echo in my mind, “I will never truly leave you.”
Did he know I’d stolen the chip? How does he always know? I dig the chip out of my pocket and toss it against the wall of the restaurant, where it plinks and lands on its edge, sliding out of sight.
I’m swallowing mouthfuls of saliva as I push Pru through the tables toward the back of the restaurant. There is no garden in here as the sign claims. Alarms are still sounding outside. A few people look up from their meals. Their eyes follow us, then glance at the noises outside the restaurant. Then back at us. The connection is made.
Grubby hands grab me. A huge man. How did he move so fast?
“Little thief,” he gurgles over partially swallowed food. How sickening. He jerks my forearm toward him, scanning the inside of my wrist. “No chip, so you thought you’d steal someone’s?” He loops his fingers around Pru’s elbow; she’s too tired to resist.
Assessing the size of my captor and the rattling shrieks of the alarms, I feel like escape is unlikely.
My entire life I’ve been tossed from one trap to the next. Getting out of the Center hasn’t given me the freedom I’d wanted. Marcus, I’m sorry; I thought it would be worth it. His face hovers in my mind as onlookers gather. A short man wearing striped pants and a net over his head appears from a back hallway and adds his shouts to the mix.
“Let me go!”
“Not a chance. Cops’ll be here soon.”
I’m starting to panic at the thought of the Director showing up to claim his lost chip and sending me directly to the rehab facility to have my brain wiped. This man clearly doesn’t know what I am nor does the Center’s symbol on our shirts mean anything to him. “Don’t touch me, generic.”
“Generic, huh? What does that make you, sweetheart? Extra special?” He moves closer to me, his sweaty, lumpy frame nearly touching mine.
“Get away from me.” I attempt to snatch my arm free.
“You ain’t leavin’ ‘less you pay up, Special.”
More people have congregated near the entrance, hemming us in. A young man at a table nearby still eats, ignoring the commotion.
A man from the crowd steps in, snatches the money chip from under a chair, and smiles at me. He wears a jacket and dirty white shoes. Wrinkles fork across a face that resembles the rind of an orange. He looks disgusting and completely untouched by the benefits of science.
“Thanks, sister,” he says and pockets the chip. He then slips away before I can ask him why he called me his sister.
“You ain’t got any other cards?” The big man asks. “Last chance. Cops almost here.”
Cops! I know that these men are used to control crime out here. Am I a criminal again so soon? I can’t go back to the Director!
“I have one other.” Unsure what good it will do, I slip the other token from the Director’s desk, the silver coin-like medallion, out of my pocket. Maybe it has some value and can pay for the medical supplies.
The big man snatches the coin out of my hand, studies it, his other hand still clamped to my wrist.
His eyes get big, then narrow, then land on me. He suddenly looks terrified; his grip loosens, and he steps back. “Why didn’t you say something?” He holds the coin back out to me stiffly, as if glad to be rid of it. He doesn’t look so big anymore. “Step back everyone. This woman is M’s.”
A rustle and everyone is walking away quickly. The restaurant owner turns his frown into a weak smile. “Sorry,” he says in a thick accent and tips his head at me. He vanishes back into the kitchens.
I stand a little straighter, trying to act like I know what’s going on. Pru groans, hands on knees, her strength failing. The young man at the table is staring hard at me now, his fork forgotten in his hand. For a second, I bristle at his penetrating stare. I’m both alarmed and annoyed by how attractive he is, reminded of the way predators in nature attract their prey. For some reason, I stare back for a moment, waiting for him to break. He doesn’t.
Guilty now for staring at that boy, I glance at the coin in my hand. The shimmering letters SI. According to the large man, who is now sinking onto his chair again, this coin belongs to a person named M. But who is M? I am both pleased and a little scared that I took this coin from the Director’s office. It saved me this time, anyway.
But the wailing of alarms still punctures the backdrop of noise.
The boy is suddenly beside me. “Might want to get moving.” His voice is soft and low, not deep like Marcus’, but it startles me as if he’s stung me.
Two glide boards slam to a halt in front of the restaurant. The looping police lights blind me.
“Cops!” shouts a man outside the restaurant and people start sprinting in all directions like a hive of kicked bees.
“Is everyone guilty? Why are they all running?”
“Everyone’s guilty of something,” the boy mutters.
“Yo, girl!” The big man calls to me from where he has just jumped up from his chair once again. “Get gone! Run!” He points a huge finger in the direction of the kitchen.
The boy beside me nods in that direction, too. His brown eyes linger on Pru.
Curious that these people are now helping us, I grab onto Pru and we shuffle down the hallway where the hair-netted man disappeared. Before we’re clear of the main room, we hear the sound of feet pursuing us. As we turn the corner into the kitchen, I glance back to see two men in black barreling toward us. I’m not sure Pru will make it this time. Julius is not here to head these men off.
To save her is to sacrifice myself for her freedom—freedom she doesn’t even want.
I let go of Pru’s elbow, moving ahead, reminding myself that she wants to get caught. The justification feels solid as I leave her behin
d.
Then I hit a patch of freshly mopped, greasy tile and slam into the wall. My fingers press off the paint and I run again, adrenaline burning my face, igniting my guilt. Someone else catches the spot and falls with a thwap. Crushing my eyes shut, I hope the fall wasn’t Pru’s. I do not look back to see—because if I don’t see her, it’s easy enough to believe she will get away too. I sprint, trying not to think of what I’m doing, leaving her there.
Scrambling through steamy stoves and soapy sinks, I will myself to be faster than my pursuers, to not consider that I’ve just abandoned a wounded Order member. Julius saved us. Now, I can’t being myself to do the same. Shame burns my cheeks. The cook shouts at us in rapid, crisp peals as we snake through his kitchen.
A metal door bursts open and I’m in an inside alley of sorts. Wretched smells of rotting food send me running faster, hoping for cleaner air. Between the stores, I catch sight of the main balcony again, the reflection of blue lights warning me not to go that way. Up ahead, I see something better.
Employee elevators. But I can’t go to them.
Biting my lip, I shout and turn on my heels, looking for Pru. I’m surprised to see the young man ambling toward me, Pru stretched across his thin arms.
I’m too shocked to say anything as the boy rushes past me, then angles Pru’s long body into the elevator. I dart in beside them. The doors shut. No sign of the cops.
The only sound is our breathing. He saved her when I did not.
“Hit the 2B.”
I oblige, hitting the last button on the list. The bottom floor. The floor where Streamline Impressions waits. SI! The coin in my pocket, I suddenly realize, is from this place. It must be. Then whoever M is, he is connected to Streamline Impressions. And he is important enough that the Director has his coin. What if the Director is M? For all I know, he could be.
I think about asking this boy who M is, but I think I’m about to find out.
“Thank you,” I mutter, able to scan this boy’s features now that he stands beside me carrying the person I just abandoned. I make no excuses for my bold stare, roving over his features unapologetically. Buttery skin, short hair, near-perfect face. He could be gen-eng for all I know. His features certainly seem to have been selected for attractiveness. But his eyes are a deep brown, dark like mine shaft, not clear and blue like Marcus’. I see nothing in this boy’s eyes but a wall.
The boy nods, still recovering his breath. “You two are gen-eng, aren’t you?” he finally asks as we descend.
No sense denying it. He’s helping us, for some reason, even though he knows this.
“You two got out of rehab lately then?”
He’s talking about the others who have had their brains wiped and been let loose into society like reprogrammed butterflies. I remain silent. Let him think this is true.
“Well, whoever you are, I’ll get you to M.”
I’m bursting to know who M is, but all I say is, “Why did you help us?”
He attempts to turn toward me, but the tightness of the space and Pru’s long body prevent it. She is limp now, eyes closed. I’m impressed his ropy arms are still holding her. “M prefers if his work remains … untampered with.”
The elevator beeps open, removing the need to respond.
Following the boy out of the elevator, I sigh, ready for some answers, for some rest. I’m tired of talking to these people, scrambling to make it sound like I know what’s going on. My entire body aches, my breath smells like a festering sewer, and I’m feeling incompetent, a feeling that is foreign to me and disturbing to the core.
In less than a minute, we are before the silver door again. I half expect hands sent by the Center to grab me again, pull me away from the door and back to my imprisoned life. None do.
The woman with the long ponytail stands outside the door again, bowtie and plastic smile in place.
“Welcome to Streamline Impressions!” She doesn’t appear to notice Pru’s unconscious state. This sends a shiver up my spine. No time to question it now; we’re going in.
Seventeen
The smell of orchids. The trickle of water. The sudden absence of the mall sounds. The last time I set foot in here, I did not make it past the help desk. I was still a dog on a leash the last time. Now, my leash has been severed. No one can yank me back.
We approach the sleek desk, the boy still carrying Pru. His arms, though thin, do not shake yet.
“Denise,” he says to the woman sitting at the desk, his tone authoritarian, not soft like it was moments ago.
A woman with dyed white hair looks up at him. Her smile is as white as her hair and just as fake. She could be fifty; she could be half that, her age masked by science. By work like mine.
“Hello, Tyson!” she coos. So she knows this boy. Her long fingernails flicker through the air in a playful way that tugs my upper lip into a sneer. “What on earth did you do to that poor girl?” She ignores me entirely.
“M available?”
She turns her head, angling spidery eyelashes at him. “You know M doesn’t take customers personally.”
“Cut it, Denise.”
“Oh, fine then. You know I’m playing with you, Ty.” She taps on a screen I can’t see, her face temporarily lit up with an electronic glow. “It appears he’ll be available in a half hour.” She peels open a forced smile.
“Thanks,” he says. “I’m taking them to the back. Got to clean this one up.”
Denise lifts a hand as if to tell him this isn’t a good idea, but nothing more than a small cough escapes her lips. The boy, Ty, snaps his head back toward her, silencing any protests.
We walk through the empty waiting room and down a bright hallway lined with doors on either side. At the end is a single door marked “No Entry.” Ty bends, lets Pru’s feet touch the floor, and holds her limp upper body with one arm. Reaching out a hand, he places his palm flat on the wall until a circle glows around it. A palm panel.
“This way.” With a grunt, he hefts Pru up again, sending her feet through the door first. Curiosity tugs me along. For now, this boy does not appear to be an enemy.
In this limited access area, the light is harsh, the walls dark, the floor bare concrete. No more orchids, no more gentle colors. We’ve entered a large room labyrinthed with cubicles. I follow the boy to the left, through a series of abrupt turns and into a vacant workspace. A rolling chair, a desk, a dormant t-screen monitor. The tech here is promising, at least. Immediately, I wonder what kind of work is done here, if I could be of use here.
Ty sets Pru’s limp body down on the empty desk.
“Let’s see those supplies.”
I step up to Pru, not handing him anything. I begin unpackaging a strip of gauze. “I’ll do it,” I say to his questioning glance. I’m better at this than you are, generic. He crosses his arms and watches as I clean Pru’s face and neck, careful to dab off the blood in her ear and eyebrow. Conscious that I’m being watched, I take my time, delicately applying the butterfly stitches as if to a loved one. Even though Pru is anything but.
“Ever met him before?” the boy asks suddenly, eyes narrow.
“Who?” I throw the trash away in an empty can by the rolling chair.
“M.” He tilts his head, his jaw smooth like he needs no razor. He is my age, I decide, or very near it. “Because I don’t know either of you, and I know everyone who has one of those coins. If you want to tell me where you got it now, we might avoid some trouble.”
I’m momentarily distracted by the veins I can see branching down this boy’s well-formed arm. “No,” I admit. “I stole the coin.”
This raises his brows. Good or bad, I can’t tell.
“M will see you now,” the white-haired woman says, her head popping around the edge of the cubicle like a ghost’s.
“All right. Better leave her there.” Ty looks down at Pru a moment, as if trying to decide whether she will wake up any time soon.
First Julius, now Pru. I walk away from her, following Ty throu
gh the maze of soft walls. We approach the far side of the large room and a lone door with nothing to mark it.
Ty turns to me. “Just in case you’re expecting kindness, M isn’t exactly Santa Claus.”
Who? He touches a space beside the door. Another palm panel. This man uses Center science, and I’m not sure if that makes me want to trust him or hate him. It’s what I’m used to, but it’s also what I’m running from. What other kinds of Center science does this man employ?
The door opens from the inside. “Tyson, come in.” A voice from an owner I cannot see.
“Found two of those escaped gen-eng. They had a coin.” He glances back at me. “Here’s one of them.”
My heart lurches. This is a trap. Escaped gen-eng! So the Center did release this information! How many people in this city are after us? This coin in my pocket was in the Director’s desk, after all. This is just one stop on the way back to him, I guess.
As I tense to run, Ty senses my intention and tucks a hand right under my armpit and tugs me into the dark room.
Whoever this M character is, I’m about to find out.
The inside of this room is a web of wires and screens. A man holding a large gun stands beside the door. A scowl weighs on his scruffy chin. At the back of the room is another gunman propped against a stool, his dark skin and the low light hiding his expression. The sight of the guns makes me uncomfortable.
But another man, a large silhouette, sits in front of a trio of screens.
He spins, his fleshy visage is shapeless and smooth, skin maybe as dark as mine, but it’s hard to tell in here. Eyes peer out from his cushioned face, and a smile plays on his lips. A ring of dark hair covers his large head, which reflects a blue hue from the screens behind him.
When he stands, the boy beside me stiffens. After Ty pulls me in, the man with the gun reaches out to shut the door, plunging us into the darkness of the screen-lit room. Only once the door is shut do lights fade on from above, columns of light spearing the shadows.
The Veritas Project Page 13