Nova Project #1 by Emma Trevayne Page B

door.
    â€œGood morning,” says the doctor when he’s half inside the examination room. Shit. He hadn’t expected her to be young and female, though there’s no reason why. He certainly hadn’t expected her to be so pretty. He didn’t think about it at all, but now he’s thinking a lot about how to make his body behave. He reminds himself that she’s a doctor, good enough to work for Chimera. Let her do her job. Putting up with teenage boys can’t be fun for her, and her week is probably full of them.
    â€œI’m Dr. Spencer. I have your file.”
    He hears the tone of . . . something . . . in her voice. Surprise that he’s entered the competition at all? Curiosity over why he hasn’t been “fixed” yet? Longing to perform the surgery that will cure him? He’s not sure, but he’ll bet she doesn’t usually sound like that.
    â€œIt’s a big file,” he says. Dr. Spencer nods.
    â€œWell, let’s get started,” she says. “Shirt off, please.”
    â€œUh. Okay.” He’d expected her to say something. Fine, shirt off. It’s been a long time since he’s been half naked in front of a woman, and then it was only Anna. Luckily the color of his skin slightly hides the blush. Not completely, but a little.
    Nothing hides the scars.
    He is no stranger to doctors, hospitals, the tests they putyou through that seem to make no sense. He tracks a point of light with his eyes, touches his fingertips with his thumb, bends over to reach his toes. She points to a section of floor in the corner, different from the rest. More like the floor in a Chimera room, slightly springy, but this one is moving on its own, scrolling at a smooth, brisk walking pace. The sensor she sticks to him itches; she motions for him to step on, eyes already on the screen to see the dismal readings.
    He doesn’t know anyone else who’s had their medical yet, and so he doesn’t know whether the two hours it takes is normal. He touches machines and climbs into them, is scanned, prodded, stuck with needles that fill with precious blood. After the initial introduction, he doesn’t speak to Dr. Spencer except to answer questions or agree to her instructions. There’s no point, and he doesn’t want argumentative added to his history, though it’s likely already there. Tantrums had been forgiven in the early days. Who would expect a child to understand? But when he’d gotten old enough, and did understand, well, then it’d just been unfair.
    â€œAll done,” she says finally, her full lips twisting. Her mouth opens and closes, and he waits. “You know,” she says. It’s not a question.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAnd that’s why you play.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI don’t blame you,” she whispers, nearly inaudibly. She clears her throat. “But you need to stop.”
    â€œWhat?”
    She looks away, choosing one blank spot on the wall that is apparently more interesting than all the others. “How much time were you given?”
    He doesn’t need to pretend to remember. “The last doc I saw said I’d probably make it to twenty-one. Age, I mean, not level.”
    â€œHe might’ve been right about the level,” says Dr. Spencer. “You’re very good. But I think the other thing was . . . optimistic.”
    The filters suck all the air from the room. “Excuse me?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says, dragging her eyes back to his. “If you stop placing so much strain on yourself, and by that I mean you go home and start eating your meals in bed, you might have another year. I can’t recommend you for the competition. I can’t recommend you play at all.”
    â€œYou’re wrong,” he says, pulse thundering in his ears. He won’t measure it here in front of her. “I’m already at Level Twenty. I can make it.”
    â€œIf