him at St. John’s lab in Rochester, New York—the forced nature of his
relaxed position was screamingly obvious. Mainly in the way he kept flexing his fists and cracking his knuckles.
“Dude has to justify
you
to everyone,” Adam continued with a smirk. “That’s going to take some time.”
“Shut up,” I snapped, even though he was exactly right. Adam was the more obvious candidate to represent Emerson Technology, Incorporated in the trials in just about every way
possible. He’d been recruited from the army. He’d had years to train and practice for these trials, not to mention the deliberate and gradual introduction of RSTS47—Emerson St.
John’s DNA-altering virus—to his body over the course of many months.
As opposed to dumping a whole bunch of it in at once and hoping for the best.
That was what had happened to me, and Emerson’s impulsive actions had saved me. The bullet wound and the resulting internal injuries had been healed within days.
The virus hadn’t been created for healing purposes, though; rather, transformative ones. So there were consequences. The least of which was simply that I hadn’t had a chance to
master the new skills I’d acquired. (My show downstairs, pulling the guard to his feet, had been to demonstrate that I possessed the abilities, that I had the right to be present. That was
it, which was good, because that was about all I was capable of. For the moment.)
But Justine, Emerson, and I were hoping that the Committee—as Emerson called them—would be intrigued enough to allow my candidacy, even with the creative answer Emerson had come up
with for my entrance qualifier.
If not, Adam would be sent instead, and while I had no doubt about his ability to win the trials—or at least make a good show of it—I was significantly less sure of his capacity to
accomplish our true mission here. Ariane didn’t trust easily. Or at all, really.
And evidently, Emerson and Justine agreed with me. For now.
“No news is good news at this point,” Justine said without looking up from her phone. “Jacobs is bound to strenuously object to your presence for the effect it will have on
Ariane.”
Her tone was flat, factual without a hint of empathy. But that was just Justine.
Hers was the first voice I’d heard upon waking up three weeks ago. “I don’t care. You weren’t authorized for this.” She, whoever she was, had been pissed about
something.
A doctor?
I had wondered vaguely. I hadn’t been awake, not entirely, my thoughts slipping away from me like those tiny fish in the lake up north, the ones Quinn and I had tried to
catch in our hands when we were little.
Quinn. Something about my brother. What was it? I couldn’t think. My head hurt, as if my skull had swollen to three times the normal size. More disturbingly, there was a low-level hum and
buzz inside my mind.
Then an image clicked into place behind my closed eyes. Quinn, his face pale, his arm in a makeshift sling. He’d been in the hospital? No, I’d been in the hospital. I remembered
that, sort of. The smell of antiseptic; the cool, unfamiliar sheets rough against my skin; and the pain, an unrelenting throb in my left side.
“You wanted a way to get to one of them, Justine. I’m giving it to you,” another voice, male and a little petulant, argued.
“We had people working on it. Now you’ve just compounded the problem. This boy will have people searching for him.” A weird tug at my left arm suggested that by “this
boy” the woman meant me.
“The hospital records have been modified. They’ll think he’s dead,” the man, who’d turned out to be Emerson St. John, had protested.
“Not without a body,” Justine had said, sounding like maybe she intended to make that happen.
I’d opened my eyes right then.
Justine looked like someone’s mom—a little soft through the middle, a rounded face, with dark red hair pulled back into a tight ponytail—and today, at the hotel, she
relaxed position was screamingly obvious. Mainly in the way he kept flexing his fists and cracking his knuckles.
“Dude has to justify
you
to everyone,” Adam continued with a smirk. “That’s going to take some time.”
“Shut up,” I snapped, even though he was exactly right. Adam was the more obvious candidate to represent Emerson Technology, Incorporated in the trials in just about every way
possible. He’d been recruited from the army. He’d had years to train and practice for these trials, not to mention the deliberate and gradual introduction of RSTS47—Emerson St.
John’s DNA-altering virus—to his body over the course of many months.
As opposed to dumping a whole bunch of it in at once and hoping for the best.
That was what had happened to me, and Emerson’s impulsive actions had saved me. The bullet wound and the resulting internal injuries had been healed within days.
The virus hadn’t been created for healing purposes, though; rather, transformative ones. So there were consequences. The least of which was simply that I hadn’t had a chance to
master the new skills I’d acquired. (My show downstairs, pulling the guard to his feet, had been to demonstrate that I possessed the abilities, that I had the right to be present. That was
it, which was good, because that was about all I was capable of. For the moment.)
But Justine, Emerson, and I were hoping that the Committee—as Emerson called them—would be intrigued enough to allow my candidacy, even with the creative answer Emerson had come up
with for my entrance qualifier.
If not, Adam would be sent instead, and while I had no doubt about his ability to win the trials—or at least make a good show of it—I was significantly less sure of his capacity to
accomplish our true mission here. Ariane didn’t trust easily. Or at all, really.
And evidently, Emerson and Justine agreed with me. For now.
“No news is good news at this point,” Justine said without looking up from her phone. “Jacobs is bound to strenuously object to your presence for the effect it will have on
Ariane.”
Her tone was flat, factual without a hint of empathy. But that was just Justine.
Hers was the first voice I’d heard upon waking up three weeks ago. “I don’t care. You weren’t authorized for this.” She, whoever she was, had been pissed about
something.
A doctor?
I had wondered vaguely. I hadn’t been awake, not entirely, my thoughts slipping away from me like those tiny fish in the lake up north, the ones Quinn and I had tried to
catch in our hands when we were little.
Quinn. Something about my brother. What was it? I couldn’t think. My head hurt, as if my skull had swollen to three times the normal size. More disturbingly, there was a low-level hum and
buzz inside my mind.
Then an image clicked into place behind my closed eyes. Quinn, his face pale, his arm in a makeshift sling. He’d been in the hospital? No, I’d been in the hospital. I remembered
that, sort of. The smell of antiseptic; the cool, unfamiliar sheets rough against my skin; and the pain, an unrelenting throb in my left side.
“You wanted a way to get to one of them, Justine. I’m giving it to you,” another voice, male and a little petulant, argued.
“We had people working on it. Now you’ve just compounded the problem. This boy will have people searching for him.” A weird tug at my left arm suggested that by “this
boy” the woman meant me.
“The hospital records have been modified. They’ll think he’s dead,” the man, who’d turned out to be Emerson St. John, had protested.
“Not without a body,” Justine had said, sounding like maybe she intended to make that happen.
I’d opened my eyes right then.
Justine looked like someone’s mom—a little soft through the middle, a rounded face, with dark red hair pulled back into a tight ponytail—and today, at the hotel, she
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