“You’ll figure it out.”
“I will.” Rocks and rats and life-forms evolved beyond the need for physical bodies. I’ll figure it out, but probably too late, though it’s probably already too late. Why did they take my blood? Why is Vosch keeping me alive? What could I have that he could possibly need? Why do they need me, this blond kid, or any human? If they could genetically engineer a virus that kills nine out of ten people, why not ten out of ten? Or, as Vosch said, why bother with any of it, when all you need is a very big rock?
My head hurts. I’m dizzy. Nauseated. I miss being able to think clearly. It used to be my number one favorite thing.
“Drink your damn juice so I can go,” he says.
“Tell me your name and I’ll drink it.”
He hesitates, then: “Razor.”
I drink the juice. He picks up the tray and leaves. I got his name at least. A minor victory.
56
THE WOMAN IN the white lab coat shows up. She says her name is Dr. Claire. Dark, wavy hair pulled back from her face. Eyes the color of an autumn sky. She smells like bitter almonds, which is also the odor of cyanide.
“Why did you take my blood?”
She smiles. “Because Ringer is so sweet, we decided to clone a hundred of her.” There is not a hint of sarcasm in her voice. She disconnects the IV and steps back quickly, as if she’s afraid I’ll leap from the bed and strangle her. Strangling her did occur to me, briefly, but I’d rather stab her to death with a pocketknife. I don’t know how many stabs that would take. A lot, probably.
“That’s another thing that doesn’t make sense,” I tell her. “Why download your consciousness into a human body when you can clone as many as you like in your mothership? Zero risk.” Especially since one of your downloads can go all Evan Walker on you and fall in love with a human girl.
“That’s a good point.” Nodding seriously. “I’ll bring that up at the next planning meeting. Maybe we need to rethink this whole hostile-takeover thingy.” She motions toward the door. “March.”
“Where?”
“You’ll find out. Don’t worry.” Claire adds, “You’re going to enjoy it.”
We don’t go far. Two doors down. The room is spare. A sink and a cabinet, a toilet and a shower stall.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a decent shower?” she asks.
“Camp Haven. The night before I shot my drill sergeant in the heart.”
“Did you?” she asks casually, as if I’d told her I used to live in San Francisco. “Towel right there. Toothbrush, comb, deodorant in the cabinet. I’ll be right on the other side of the door. Knock if you need anything.”
Alone, I open the cabinet. Roll-on antiperspirant. A comb. A travel-sized tube of toothpaste. A toothbrush in a plastic wrapper. No floss. I’d hoped there’d be floss. I waste a couple of minutes wondering how long it would take to sharpen the end of the toothbrush into a proper cutting instrument. Then I slip out of the jumpsuit and step into the shower, and I think of Zombie, not because I’m naked in a shower, but remembering him talking about Facebook and drive-thrus and tardy bells and the endless list of all things lost, like greasy fries and musty bookstores and hot showers. I turn the temperature as high as I can stand it and let the water rain over me until my fingertips pucker. Lavender soap. Fruity shampoo. The hard lump of the tiny transmitter rolls beneath my fingers. You belong to them now.
I hurl the shampoo bottle against the shower wall. Slam my fist into the tile again and again until the skin on my knuckles splits open. My anger is greater than the sum of all lost things.
? ? ?
Vosch is waiting for me back in the room two doors down. He says nothing as Claire bandages my hand, silent until we’re alone.
“What did you accomplish?” he asks.
“I needed to prove something to myself.”
“Pain being the only true proof of life?”
I shake my head. “I know I’m alive.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Would you like to see her?”
“Teacup is dead.”
“Why do you think that?”
“There’s no reason to let her live.”
“That’s correct, if we proceed from the assumption that the only reason to keep her alive is to manipulate you. Really, the narcissism of today’s youth!”
He presses a button on the wall. A screen lowers from the ceiling.
“You can’t force me to help you.” Fighting down a rising sense of panic, of losing control of something I never had control over.
Vosch holds out his hand. In his palm is a shiny green object the size and shape of a large gel capsule. A hair-thin wire protrudes from one end. “This is the message.”
The lights dim. The screen flickers to life. The camera soars over a winter-killed field of wheat. In the distance, a farmhouse and a couple of outbuildings, a rusty silo. A tiny figure stumbles from a stand of trees bordering the field and lurches through the dry and broken stalks toward the cluster of buildings.