“Shut up!” Kim takes another syringe and stabs it into his heart. I watch, unable to think, unable to speak.
I don’t want him to die.
Nazarin’s heart starts again, and he gasps, his breathing hoarse.
“Oh, thank Christ.” Kim slumps against a counter. “I told them, I fucking told them not to ask me to put in so many!”
Nazarin’s eyes are still open and staring. “Is he OK?” I ask.
The skin around Kim’s eyes and mouth is tight. She doesn’t answer. My mouth goes dry. I stay quiet, watching her work, clasping my hands together and whispering incoherently. It isn’t a prayer, not really, but maybe it’s a whisper to the universe, a hope that things will somehow work out all right.
Three minutes pass, but it feels like three hours. Kim nods, and the map of Nazarin’s brain disappears. Nazarin slumps against the seat, his eyes closed again, breathing through his mouth. He seems calmer, but he’s still dripping with sweat and twitching. Kim injects him with another syringe, this time in the shoulder, and the frantic beating of his heart slows. After another minute, his eyelids flutter.
He sits up slowly. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a hovercar.”
“You nearly said hi to Saint Peter. You have too many bugs in your brain. As soon as this op’s done, come to me. I’ll get them out.”
“I like ’em.”
Her eyes go distant again. “No. Get them out. I spend my life doing this, but sometimes I wonder if we’re doing too much to our brains too fast. The more I find out about the mind, the more I realize I don’t know and probably never will.” She presses the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “That was too close, sweet pea.”
Nazarin reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m OK, Kim. I’m OK.”
Kim gives him a hug, clutching his broad back. There’s something between them. Nothing romantic. It’s that sort of friendship where the term “friend” doesn’t seem strong enough.
She pats him on the cheek. Her eyes shine with tears. “Your vitals are all good. You’ll need some eye drops to heal the whites of your eyes—you look a fright.”
She unhooks him from the machine. He stands up, but his knees are shaking. He leans against a metal bench of the lab, looking at me from under shadowed brows.
Kim motions to me. “It’s your turn now, Taema. If you still want to. I can understand if you don’t, after all that.”
This is the last thing I want to do. She sees it in my face. I look to Nazarin, but his gaze is inscrutable. He’s not weighing in. It’s up to me.
It’s another risk, but I’ve taken so many risks. For a moment, I do wonder if this is one risk too many. If this is my limit, and I can’t do any more.
I can do more. For Tila. For me.
Can we find what we need? Record proof that Ensi is the head of the Ratel? Find out where he stores Verve and what his plan is, and stop it in time? It feels impossible.
“It’ll be OK,” Kim says.
Tila’s words come to my lips again. “You can’t promise that.”
“No, I can’t. You’re right. Your implants are newer than his, and you have far fewer. Your heart functions on its own software so it’ll stay steady. I’ll have less trouble getting your implants to behave. That I can promise.”
Nazarin’s gaze is steady. His breathing returns to normal. He gulps a glass of water. I can tell what he’s thinking, it’s so clear on his face. We’ve come so far …
I close my eyes and clear my mind, a small Meditation. I bow my head down to my chest. I block out all sound, all sight. I focus on the soft whisper of my breath. In. Out. In. Out.
I can do this.
I sit in the Chair. Kim straps me in tight, and prepares another syringe.
She gives me a kiss on my cheek. She smells of antiseptic and artificial cherries. “See you soon, sweetness,” she says, and sticks the syringe in my arm.
TWENTY-THREE
TAEMA
My senses scramble. I float in space, but sight is sound and sound is touch and all is strange and beautiful. I feel butterfly wings on my taste buds and fireworks of feathers explode on the backs of my eyelids. Heartbeats pulse against me, crashing waves sending me bouncing against the soft red walls of my own skull. I feel the flashes as the neural dust within my mind sparkles, changing, merging into what I need it to be.
Memories fire at me, without warning, without prompting. I’m six, eating roasted butternut squash, laughing with Tila as Mom tells us a story over dinner. I’m ten, reading as Tila sleeps beside me. I’m seven, and we’ve fallen by the lake. I’ve scraped my hip, the pain blooming as though it’s just happened. We’re trying to drag ourselves upright but we keep slipping in the mud. Tila’s panting next to me, and above the birds call. She looks at me, and her eyes are deep and as familiar as my own.