“Is it going to affect us a lot, that my father isn’t there to give directives in the moment?” I ask. Earlier, when Pellegrin told me the plan, he mentioned Dad would be coaching the guys so their behavior would appear convincingly sense-altered. Also, with a close eye on all the monitors in his office, he’d be watching through the guys’ perspectives for subtleties of our meeting with Dr. Marieke and Zhornov—his intel could make or break my attempt at transferring the bloodlock, as far as perfectly timing it goes.
Pellegrin shakes his head. He’s a little bit frantic, and it sets my nerves on edge. “No, no, that won’t work now.” I see him running equations in his brain, which—no doubt—runs extremely complicated equations far more efficiently than mine ever worked basic ones. “It isn’t going to ruin us,” he finally says. “But it will make your job more difficult. Lonan won’t be able to give you the all-clear signal anymore, so you’ll need to pay extremely close attention—in a subtle way, though. They will be under the impression that you’re sense-altered, so you can’t look too alert, or appear to be assessing the room by your own volition.”
The news just keeps getting better and better.
The island is clearly visible out of the port-side windows now. It is unusually long and narrow, all sandy white beach and no visible sign of the enormous habitat structure I know lies just beneath it. A menacing wall of jagged black rocks juts out, a barrier that sits forty or fifty yards out from the shore. At the very tip, there’s a break in the barrier where an odd structure bobs in the water.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Geodesic sphere,” Pellegrin replies. “It’s a giant cage used for trapping fish. Fish swim in through the small triangular openings, then hook themselves on the baited barbs attached to a couple of poles inside.”
The bulk of it is under the surface, I gather, like an iceberg of steel—like the habitat itself. Zhornov’s monthly catch is probably enough fish to feed an entire sector, and yet we lived on cold oats and whatever leftover moldy scraps the Wolves tossed our way. How many dead fish go to waste, and how many prisoners starve, simply because a few men have such an appetite for power?
Unlike the island we sailed from, this one is almost completely devoid of trees. It is almost as if the kingpins had it commissioned for themselves: enough sand, dumped into a pile in the middle of the ocean, and they’ve created their own sandcastle empire.
The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that that’s not far from what actually happened here. It’s definitely man-made, but in a different way—and for a different purpose—from the one we just came from. I know from Dad’s blueprints that the island surface was meant as a vacation home for those who’ll eventually live, full-time, underneath it. Bonus points that it looks like a regular island, at a glance, making it much more difficult for the uninvited to find. It would never show up on any of the prewar nautical maps—it is the perfect place for a kingpin to live as if he is actual royalty.
Two rows of perfectly spaced palm trees mirror each other down the entire length of the island, starting at the tip near the geodesic sphere and dead-ending at a sprawling mansion made of glass. Even from here, I can tell the lawn is perfectly manicured, the pillows on their outdoor furniture perfectly plump.
It must be nice, killing the world in order to live in this sort of oasis, and not having an ounce of remorse over it.
I am struck by this: I would take the ability to feel remorse over the bliss of having my own private oasis. In a heartbeat, I would take it.
“We’ll dock here, where Zhornov and Dr. Marieke will receive us,” Pellegrin says. In the time I’ve been dwelling on sociopaths and their dream homes, he has drawn out an elaborate map on a party napkin. It isn’t a bird’s-eye view, but as if the entire Atlas iceberg has been sliced top to bottom.
“Most likely, we’ll be escorted through here when we enter.” He draws the tiniest, most perfect asterisk I’ve ever seen, on one end of the mansion, close to where we are to dock. “The entrance to the habitat is quite grand, and extremely safe”—another tiny asterisk—“so I assume Zhornov and Marieke will accompany you at least that far before splitting from you.”
That they’ll be splitting from us does not come as a surprise. The whole reason we’re present at this meeting—as far as Zhornov’s concerned, anyway—is to give a virtual demonstration for Dr. Marieke of how secure the habitat is. My father must have been extremely convincing, if the kingpins are willing to treat Dr. Marieke as if he has a choice in the matter. Whether he actually has a choice in the matter is less clear. Surely they know an eager and willing scientist is far more valuable than one who is simply trying not to die? At any rate, this meeting is being held under the pretense that Dr. Marieke must be convinced to join Dad’s team, which implies he can decline.
I glance over my shoulder, make sure we’re truly alone down here. Even with Ava dead, we can’t be too careful. If Stark or Gray overheard, it would ruin everything. “Dr. Marieke knows I have the—he knows about the transfer?” My fingers settle over the vial in my pocket, an instinct.
“Dr. Marieke knows everything,” Pellegrin affirms. “You’ll need to be extremely alert, and fast—look for an opening and give him the bloodlock the first chance you get. He’s prepared, ready for it at any time. Don’t try to get his attention first, and don’t expect him to acknowledge you after it’s done.” He sighs, like the whole weight of the world is falling off his shoulders, only it isn’t going far—now it rests on mine.
“Trust him, Eden. Your father does.” A patch of brilliant sunlight sets his eyes on fire. “He’s well aware of what’s at stake here.”
He: I’m pretty sure Pellegrin means Dr. Marieke, not my father, and yet I can’t hear it any other way. My father is well aware of what’s at stake here.
Of how drastically this vial full of blood—and so much more than blood—has the power to heal the world.
Of how he will die, and I will die, and probably all of us will die, if we are discovered as the traitors we are.
But even in this drowning, desperate world, where power triumphs at the expense of love, where throats bleed and Wolves run wild, I want to live.
So I cannot be found out, and I will not fail.
EIGHTY-FOUR
I AM SURROUNDED by war faces: Lonan, his ice-blue eyes cool and hard. Cass, whose intensity radiates from his skin like summer heat on asphalt. Even laid-back Phoenix wears grave focus as an armor, his usual nonchalance buried deep inside so nothing vulnerable peeks through the cracks. Pellegrin looks more or less the same—which is not to say he isn’t intimidating.