We reach a door with another security pad, though this time there’s no one there to wave us through. This door is different from the others—it’s round, designed to dilate open. If it were a regular door I might be able to force it, but these are the kinds of doors they use on ships as fail-safes. Airtight, absolutely secure.
Flynn comes to a halt beside it and turns to me expectantly. Finally we’ve reached a place with no others, no witnesses. Nobody here but us. I wait, but Flynn does nothing, simply gazes evenly at me. I get the uneasy impression I could stand here forever waiting for him to speak and he would never crack. I clear my throat. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Open the door.”
“It needs a key, and I don’t have one.” My terror is dimming to a kind of dull numbness, my whole body aching with tension and grief.
“You are incorrect,” the Flynn-thing says coldly, the dilated pupils fixed on my face. “You have had a key all this time.”
I swallow, my eyes blurring. Hearing his voice is like a constant searing fire—knowing it’s not him in there, that he’s not speaking to me. “What? How could I—” But then I stop short, heart pounding in the silence. Because I do have a key. I have the ident chip we found the first time Flynn brought me here—I reach into my pocket to fish it out.
Though my skin crawls, I force myself to go nearer to the Flynn-thing to examine the security pad. There are numbers for a password, but also a small rectangular indentation on the bottom right. I press the ident chip into the slot, and it fits perfectly. The keys all light up green with a cheery beep, and then the door whooshes open.
The inside is so bright that for an instant my eyes are too dazzled to see. A hand between my shoulder blades propels me forward, and the touch is so like Flynn’s—and so unlike it at the same time—that I’m too dumbfounded to resist. I stumble over the lip and into the room, blinking.
Flynn follows, and the door whooshes closed again. I turn, heart seizing in alarm. I’m trapped. But before I can react, Flynn goes crumpling to the ground.
I give a wordless shout and throw myself down next to him, grabbing at him before his head can hit the solid plastene floor.
“What the—Flynn? Flynn, wake up. Please.” I give him a shake, but his head lolls back. I bend my head close, putting my ear to his lips—he’s breathing, but only barely. His pulse is slow.
Cradling him against me, I lift my head and look around. I’d expected machinery, transmitters, a central hub crawling with technicians. Instead, the room is empty. We’re in a large white dome with no visible light source, despite the brightness reflected off the curved walls. The floor and ceiling are made of plastene panels that tingle to the touch, as if they’re somehow conductive, except that plastene is an insulator by design.
As I draw in a ragged breath only to have the sound swallowed by the space, I remember another property of plastene: it muffles noise. No matter how loud I scream in here, no one’s ever going to hear me.
My fingers run through Flynn’s hair, desperate for his touch even if he’s unconscious. Even if he’s not him anymore. Don’t leave me here alone, Romeo.
Then, as if in answer to the thought, a breeze traces along the back of my neck. I shiver in response, jerking to the side. There’s nothing there, and when I lift a hand to rub at my neck I realize the collar of my shirt would prevent a breeze from reaching my skin. Nevertheless, the hairs are rising on my neck and my arms.
I know this sensation too well to ignore it.
We’re not alone.
“I know you’re there,” I say, trying to sound harsh and competent. “Show yourself. Now.” But no one answers; all I can hear is my own breathing.
The light is too bright to be sure, but for an instant I think I see a faint green glow hovering only a few feet in front of my face.
Then Flynn stirs with a tiny groan, and my attention snaps back down. He lifts his head from my lap, pressing one hand against the floor.
“Flynn?” I duck my head to try to see his face. I can’t afford to hope.
His eyes open, showing me only blackness, and my heart sinks. I swallow the sob that wants to escape, and scramble back from him, getting my feet under me and reaching for the gun he dropped when he collapsed. He finishes picking himself up slowly.
“We are sorry,” Flynn whispers, almost to himself, his movements slow and measured.
“Sorry?” I stare at the creature, the gun clenched in my grip, though I can’t make my arm lift it.
The Flynn-creature finally swings his gaze over toward me. “Yes. We—I—” The word is slow to leave his lips, as though it feels wrong. “I am sorry. You must listen, we don’t have much time. The others will know I have interfered.”
I press my back against the sealed door. “Others,” I repeat, so confused I’m only able to echo his words. “You mean you’re not the thing that took Flynn?”