Emerson blinked at me, as if he’d been the one staring at the bright light. “What?”
“You always pick that one. The year you were born.” Emerson was a good twenty-five years younger than Dr. Jacobs and at least a decade younger than Dr. Laughlin. He’d been the last to join this circus of experimentation and blood sport. And he seemed to actually care about Adam and me, possibly because we represented his life’s work, but it didn’t feel like that. I didn’t mind him. Other than the fact that he’d signed up to play in this field, but at least his method let people choose to participate rather than forcing it on unwilling subjects.
Then again, maybe I was just more willing to cut him slack. Kind of a side effect of someone saving your life, I suppose.
“Oh, sorry.” He tucked his pen light away, only to pull out a temporal thermometer, running it across my forehead. “Ninety-nine,” he said absently, writing that down as well.
I waited, not moving, holding my breath for the verdict.
“You know,” he said to me, “people like Justine don’t do anything without a dozen reasons.”
I stared at him, surprised by the shift in conversation. “What?”
He shrugged. “Just letting you know.”
In effect, warning me. Of something I already knew but I couldn’t acknowledge, not even to him.
“And you’re different?” I asked. I thought he was all right, but that didn’t mean I was about to trust him.
He grinned, unashamed. “At least I’m up-front about it.”
That was true. If Ariane, the top competitor, disappeared, and there were serious concerns about Ford’s emotional and psychological problems—common knowledge among the Committee, according to Justine—then that left Emerson as the last man standing, so to speak. He’d have to overcome the mark against him for choosing me as his candidate. But the big point had already been made with me today (you can enhance anyone, including someone with an emotional connection to the target). It would then be driven home with a separate demonstration, post-trials, from Adam (and look what happens when you choose someone who’s already strong and trained).
At least, that was the plan.
But I also knew that, thanks to Justine, Emerson had plans beyond the trials for his creation with the pharma companies. He’d thoroughly documented my recovery from the brink of death, and the healthcare market was eager for the next miracle drug, no matter what it happened to be, including pieces of alien genetic material.
There were these pesky side effects: DNA alterations, new powers, the increased possibility of strokes and/or brain damage, blinding headaches, the occasional test subject hemorrhaging to death, etc. But he seemed to think all of that could be worked out in development, while he was sitting on his pile of millions.
“I’m just saying, there’s frying pan into the fire and then there’s frying pan into the volcano.” His tone was casual as he tucked his thermometer back into his lab coat. I could take or leave his advice; he didn’t care beyond whatever had motivated him to say something in the first place.
I nodded. I got what he was saying. A bigger cage was still a cage, and that was what Justine’s promised future would likely be. But I was kind of hoping this one, whatever it turned out to be, would have bars easier to slip through.
He studied the page in front of him. “As soon as you’re done tomorrow, mission accomplished and all, we could start reducing the injections, wean you off before trouble really starts,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “The earlier we start, the better your chance of survival.”
I stiffened. This wasn’t the first time he’d made the suggestion, and I should have known he’d feel compelled to bring it up again.
Weaning myself off the injections might mean a better chance of survival, yes, but it would also mean saying good-bye to all my newly acquired abilities. And that feeling, finally, of being enough.
A wave of possessiveness swept through me. No, I needed to be this new, better version of myself.
I shook my head. “No. I’m good,” I said firmly.
He gave me an exasperated look. “Why did I know you were going to say that? Zane—”
I cut him off. “So, my numbers are okay still?” I tipped my head toward the pad of paper, refusing to continue the previous conversation.
Emerson’s shoulders slumped in response, but he didn’t pursue the topic any further. “Yeah. For now,” he said, tearing the top page off and stuffing it into his pants pocket, and then the pad of paper after it. “But you should rest. Tomorrow’s going to take a toll.” He hesitated. “You’ll need to come back after it’s all over, right away.”
I nodded. Going too long without an injection was just as dangerous as too many at once. So was giving myself an injection without someone to monitor my possible reaction.