Z looked at his mother. Her dress was still clinging to her slip but she’d stopped fidgeting. The tears hadn’t yet spilled over onto her cheeks. There were wrinkles around her eyes that he’d never noticed before.
“Please,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. He knew how strong he was. If he held on tight enough, they could never force him to let go. He clamped his eyes shut as the first hot tears slipped out. “Please don’t let them—”
Just as a sob tore at his throat, a shadowy new thought slipped to the forefront of his mind.
This was a small, pathetic house in an inconsequential mining sector.
The people here were miserable and unimportant. His parents were weak and stupid—but he, he was destined for greatness. He was one of the few selected to serve the queen herself. It was an honor. The thought of lingering here a moment longer made him sick.
Z gasped and pulled away from his mother. Heat was crawling up his neck—spurred by mortification and shame. How could he think such things?
Worse yet, he was still thinking them, somewhere in his head. He couldn’t shake them entirely, no matter how much guilt they stirred up.
He turned to gape at the thaumaturges. The woman had a smile toying around her mouth. Though he’d first thought she was pretty, this new expression made him shudder.
“You will be given a new family soon enough,” she said, in a voice that lilted like a nursery rhyme. “We have means of making you accept this and come willingly, should we be inclined to use them.”
Z cringed, repulsed by the knowledge that she had seen these horrible thoughts. Not only seen them—she had created them. She had been manipulating him, and it had been so seamless, had intertwined with his own emotions so effortlessly. When his peers practiced mind control on one another or an instructor prodded him with thoughts of obedience, it felt like a new idea being etched into his brain. It was recognizable and, often, he found that with enough focus he could defy it.
This was a different level of manipulation, one that he couldn’t resist so easily. He knew it then. He would be forced to go with them, and he would become a puppet of Her Majesty, with no more willpower than a trained dog.
Behind him, he heard his bedroom door opening.
Ran had come out to watch—pulled by his curiosity.
Z tightened his jaw and tried his best to stifle his mounting despair. He would be brave—so his brother would not see his fear. He would be strong for him.
Some of the terror and dread did begin to fade once the decision was reached. Empowered by the knowledge that it was his choice—that the thaumaturges had not made it for him—he faced his mother and stood on his tiptoes to kiss her cheek. She grabbed at him before he could pull back and crushed him against her, pressing a frantic kiss against his hair. When she released him, just as quickly, the tears had begun to fall and she had to turn her face away to hide them.
He embraced his father too, just as briefly and just as fiercely so he would know how much love was put into it.
Then he squared his shoulders and stepped toward the thaumaturges.
The woman’s grin returned. “Welcome to the queen’s army.”
*
They said the anesthesia would give him such a deep, empty sleep that there would be no dreams, but they were wrong. He dreamed of needles burrowing into his skin. He dreamed of pliers gripping his teeth. He dreamed of hot ashes and smoke in his eyes. He dreamed of a white tundra, a cold he had never known, and a hunger barely satiated by dripping meat in his jaws.
Mostly, he dreamed of howls in the distance. Forlorn cries that went on and on and on.
The waking came slowly, like being pulled up from a pit of mud. The howls began to dim as he pried open his eyes. He was in the same room that he’d been in when the nameless nurse had stuck the needle into his arm, but he knew instantly that he was changed. The walls around him were a brighter, crisper white than he’d ever known. The sound of every machine and contraption reverberated in his skull. The scent of chemicals and ammonia invaded his nostrils, making him want to gag, but he was too weak.
His limbs were heavy on the exam table, his joints aching. He wore an oversize shirt that made him feel vulnerable and cold. There was a lump beneath his neck. Forcing his fumbling arm to move, he reached behind his head to find bandages there.
As his awareness sharpened, he struggled to recall what little information the nurse had given him.
All soldiers were modified to increase their effectiveness as members of the queen’s army. He would wake up improved.
He took in another breath and this time picked up on a new scent. No, two scents.
Two individual odors made up of pheromones and sweat and soap and chemicals. Coming closer.
The door opened and a man and a woman entered. The woman wore a white lab jacket and had spiky auburn hair.