Ashes by Estevan Vega Page A

We’ll get that fire back. My overseers wouldn’t have it any other way. But perhaps you shouldn’t focus your attention on the when as opposed to the how . Like, how will you handle 219’s powers when they do return?”
    Silence split the room.
    â€œMinor details, right, Manny? Minor details. Don’t panic. We just need the right thing to call those flames out again. Get me whatever data you have. I want to see what he’s been dreaming. We have spent a lot of money on project Morpheus. I need confirmation that the machine is still operating as it should.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Krane agreed. He stood up, gripped with fatigue. It had been a long morning.

8
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    KRANE HATED THE SOUND of Saul Hoven’s voice whenever he called him by the nickname Manny . Like they were friends. It was obvious why he did it. The same reason the low-lives in high school did it: to get under his skin, create a vile home, and live there.
    Along with the frustration, new doubts stumbled in. What right did he have to experiment on and cut open these children? These subjects ? Creatures Hoven liked assigning numbers to in order to subtly identify them. There was less of a responsibility when a life boiled down to a series of random digits. It was clear that there was no room for conscience in that mental sepulcher of his.  
    Get a grip , Emanuel. You’re on the brink of a regime change.  
    He figured the more he let Hoven’s agenda into his brain, the easier it would be when he was cutting holes into theirs or stitching up the boy’s chest. But was it only Hoven’s agenda or had it become his own just the same?
    Krane dragged his feet into the nearest restroom, ignoring the odd looks from patients and nurses. He knew he didn’t belong on their turf. Whenever they spotted him, there were snide looks and occasional grunts. No one up here fully knew what took place inside the Sanctuary, but there was enough knowledge for them to realize it wasn’t exactly friendly . Most left their curiosity at the front gate. But he’d been lost below so long that the upper level felt strange.
    He headed for one of the urinals. After draining himself, he moseyed toward the sink, gazing into the gaudy mirror bolted to the wall. A ripe whitehead waited to spread on his left cheek.
    â€œGreat,” he moaned, drawing nearer to the glass. “Just another thing to help me look terr-terrible. You can’t even insult yourself right, st-s-s-stupid skeleton.”
    The stuttering had come when he was six. Dad didn’t beat him raw. Mom actually baked cookies. He was the sore imperfection. He couldn’t form the words right, the sounds. So many syllables felt so awkward on his lips.
    Krane motioned both thumbs to the surface of the whitehead and pushed together until the pus squirted against the glass. The fresh spot was disgusting, but he’d bled out the imperfection. Now it was glaring at him, a wicked and judgmental stain.
    He needed to recharge, to rest, if such a thing were possible. The human body could only expel so much energy before going completely dead and needing more.
    â€œBrilliance is no good to anybody if it’s wasted,” his mentor had once said. During those long nights Krane had spent studying for tests, Henry Parker was there for him, going through the motions with him. He’d gone to school for medicine but learned so much more about surgery, about the blood, the mind. How to really ask questions and experiment. It was out of respect for a brilliant man that he offered his talents—the promise he made to himself to finish what Parker had begun, even though his mentor had forsaken it all years ago.  
    Nearly seven and a half years had been spent perfecting what was left behind. The legacy of genius reduced to machines and medicines and formulas and lab rooms. Rooms that seemed like dirty secrets now.    
    Krane recalled his first invitation. The