A few of the screens spring to life in a blur: it’s like waking up, disoriented, from three separate perspectives. Once the images steady out, different iterations of the same scene show Phoenix, Cass, and Lonan, all alert and together in the same bleak, poorly lit room. I see Alexa in the background, sleeping in the corner behind Cass. Only the guys have had their heads screwed with, apparently, or maybe they’re the only ones my father wants to talk to right now. Pellegrin must have done the procedure on Phoenix and Lonan as soon as they were brought in, up in his lab.
Dad types some numbers on a keypad, and each of the three screens takes on a faint red tint. Virtual gauges and dials line the bottom of each display, along with heart rate and blood pressure monitors and a whole mess of numbers. “The fact that you’re hearing me in your heads right now is completely normal,” Dad says, into the microphone once again. “This happens every day, all the time. No need to question it. I am not your enemy.” He flips a switch and the screens go back to their normal colors.
None of the guys react, or show even the slightest bit of recognition that Dad’s said anything. It’s a little frightening, how very normal they act. “Did you just—like—brainwash them?”
“That’s the only time I’ll do it, sweetheart, I promise,” my father says. “It’s just that the girls are in there now”—he gestures to Alexa, on-screen—“which means Ava and Stark aren’t trying to pin them down anymore. We may not have a lot of time to work with, and I didn’t want to waste it jumping through hoops.”
I understand, and I trust him when he promises, but it does not sit comfortably. He and Pellegrin watch me, as if they’re waiting on my permission—as if my permission means anything here. “Fine,” I say. “I get it. Let’s go.”
Dad nods. “Lonan,” he says, “I understand you’ve come to this island to pirate my science and lock the Wolves out of a project I’ve been developing for more than half a decade, yes?” Every gauge on Lonan’s screen spikes. His perspective blips to stained gray concrete. The way Phoenix and Cass stare him down, I wouldn’t want to meet eyes with them, either.
This is not where I expected Dad to start. “How did you—” I say, just as Lonan says, “What did Eden tell you?”
My father looks at me. “Eden doesn’t share secrets,” he says. I can’t quite tell if he’s impressed that I’ve known about Lonan’s secret mission and haven’t mentioned it, or vaguely distressed. “Stéphane Monroe has been in touch once a month, like clockwork, through Resistance channels, since the Allied Forces first formed.” The name is vaguely familiar—I recognize it from Wolfpack propaganda, from a series of anti-Alliance graffiti art sprayed on a wall near barracks. Someone took great care in painting all the ways they hope this one man will die. “Always asking if I’m ready to give it up, my life’s work. Always pressuring me to change my mind.”
Lonan doesn’t immediately respond—not to Dad, anyway. Cass and Phoenix are quiet but urgent, their questions tripping all over each other. They leave hardly any space for Lonan to explain. When things finally settle on their end, Lonan asks, “So what changed your mind? Why give it up now?”
“Giving the project over has never been a question,” Dad says. “It’s who Stéphane wants me to give it to that’s been the issue. Also, the timing.” He slides a stool over from his work island to the microphone, perches lightly on it. “The habitat isn’t fully developed—even as recently as last week, we’ve been dealing with water leaks in one of our community chambers, and that’s not the only issue. Stéphane is intent on getting my research into as many hands as possible; I’m sure he told you this, and I’m sure you bought into it like everyone else.” Dad sighs. “No fault of yours; it’s on him for not presenting all the angles.”
Lonan’s vitals spike again, not as drastically as before. “You don’t believe in developing as many habitats as possible?” He sounds defensive for the first time, challenging. “You’d rather watch most of the world’s population be flooded out from the vantage point of your safe little bubble?”
“Not at all,” Dad says. “I don’t believe in spreading research that isn’t fully developed. He’s rushing me on this, and believe me, it will lead to disaster if he tries to throw hundreds of copycat habitats together as fast as he possibly can. Half a million people could drown if we push this too quickly, if it isn’t thoroughly tested, if it is anything less than perfect. I refuse to stand by and watch it happen.”
Lonan is quiet on the other end, vitals evening out. “So what’s the alternative? And again, why now, if it isn’t ready to go?”
Dad motions for me to hand him his field guide, and I do. He flips to the title page, one I’ve never paid as much attention to, and gives it back to me. At a glance, it looks like Dad has sketched in a simple map of the world. Now, though, I see the continents aren’t simply drawn with solid lines, but more Morse code. Three locations are marked with tiny pinpoint dots—one in Europe, one in New Zealand, one in South Africa—and each has a name beside it. These, I’ve noticed. I’ve known the names forever, colleagues from Dad’s university days. An inscription, plain English in the middle of the page, reads: For those who travel straight and narrow, for those who go steady and slow, for those who do good and do well.
This book, I realize—it was not meant for me.
It was only supposed to look like it was meant for me.
That it isn’t mine, mine alone, feels a little like the earth crumbling under my feet.
“There are exactly three engineers I trust to do right by my research, and Stéphane refuses to consider a single one of them,” Dad says. “He wants to use his guys, and who can blame him? Everyone wants to go with someone he trusts. But this is my research, and I’m familiar enough with his guys to know they’re not as careful as they should be. My people won’t rush it, and it’d be a while before we could make it available to the public at large—but at least we could save a remnant if it came down to it. Noah’s ark for humanity, that’s how I think of it, as many cultures represented as possible. Scientists, too. Engineers.”
Pellegrin clears his throat. “Ava’s pinged me twice,” he says, tapping the face of his sleek black wristband. “Just so you know.”
My father nods. “When Eden showed up on our shores, I knew the only way she could have found the island was if she’d used the fail-safe I’d hidden with her, my old logbook,” he says, “to answer why now.” All my secrets, laid bare: Has Lonan made the connection yet that this man he’s talking to is my father? More important, will he forgive that I’ve kept such a colossal detail from him? “The gulag Wolves wouldn’t have had the first clue what any of my notes meant,” my father goes on, “but here at HQ? They’re smarter than that. If they’d found the book on her, and if they’d picked it apart like they do with every other thing, that would’ve been the end.”
Of his plans, he doesn’t have to say.
Of him.
“I risked some emergency correspondence,” he continues. “Through Eduardo, at your Resistance island, to my guys. To Zhornov.”
My breath catches, and from the looks of their vitals, all three of the guys are equally affected by the name. My father has been in touch with Zhornov—on purpose?