Текст книги "The Infinite Sea"

Автор книги: Rick Yancey

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

51

MY REACTION IS months in the making. And instantaneous.

I leap across the table, drive my knee hard into his chest, and knock him straight back onto the floor. I land on top of him and smash the heel of my bloody hand into his aristocratic nose, rotating my shoulders into the blow to maximize the impact, textbook perfect, just like my trainers at Camp Haven taught me. Drill after drill after drill until there’s no need to think: Muscles retain memory, too. His nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. This is the point, the instructors told me, when a wise soldier withdraws. Hand-to-hand is unpredictable and every second you remain engaged increases the risk. Getting off the X was the expression. Vincit qui patitur.

But there’s no getting off this particular X. The clock’s down to the final tick; I’m out of time. The door flies open and soldiers pour into the room. I’m taken down quick and hard, yanked off Vosch and thrown face-first onto the floor, a shin pressed against my neck. I smell blood. Not mine, his.

“You disappoint me,” he whispers in my ear. “I told you rage wasn’t the answer.”

They pull me to my feet. The lower half of Vosch’s face is covered in blood. It smears his cheeks like war paint. His eyes are already swelling, giving him a weird, piglike appearance.

He turns to the squad leader standing beside him, a slender, fair-skinned recruit with blond hair and soulful dark eyes.

“Prep her.”

52

HALLWAY: LOW CEILINGS, flickering fluorescents, cinder-block walls. The press of bodies around me, one in front, one behind, two on either side holding my arms. The squeak of rubber-soled shoes against the gray concrete floor and the faint odor of sweat and the bittersweet smell of recycled air. Stairwell: metal rails painted gray like the floors, cobwebs fluttering in corners, dusty yellow lightbulbs in wire cages, descending into warmer, mustier air. Another hall: unmarked doors and large red stripes running down each gray wall and signs that read NO ACCESS and AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Room: small, windowless. Cabinets on one wall, a hospital bed in the middle, vital signs monitor beside it, screen dark. On either side of the bed, two people wearing white coats. A middle-aged man, a younger woman, forcing smiles.

The door clangs shut. I’m alone with the White Coats, except for the blond recruit standing at the door behind me.

“Easy or hard,” the man in the white coat says. “Your choice.”

“Hard,” I say. I whip around and drop the recruit with a punch to the throat. His sidearm clatters onto the tile. I scoop it up and turn back to the White Coats.

“There’s no escape,” the man says calmly. “You know that.”

I do know that. But escaping isn’t the reason I need the gun. Not escaping in the sense he means it. I’m not taking hostages and I’m not killing anyone. Killing human beings is the enemy’s goal. Behind me, the kid writhes on the floor, making hiccupping, gurgling sounds. I may have fractured his larynx.

I glance up at the camera mounted in the far corner of the room. Is he watching? Thanks to Wonderland, he knows me better than anyone on Earth. He must know why I took the gun:

I’m mated. And it’s too late to resign the game.

I press the cold muzzle against my temple. The woman’s mouth comes open. She takes a step toward me.

“Marika.” Kind eyes. Soft voice. “She’s alive because you are. If you aren’t, she won’t be.”

It clicks then. He told me rage isn’t the answer, and rage is the only explanation for him hitting the kill switch when I upended the board. That’s what I thought when it happened. It never occurred to me that he might be bluffing.

And it should have. There’s no way he’d give up his leverage. Why didn’t I see that? I’m the one blinded by rage, not him.

I’m dizzy; the room won’t stay still. Bluffs inside bluffs, feints within counterfeints. I’m in a game in which I don’t know the rules or even the object. Teacup is alive because I am. I’m alive because she is.

“Take me to her,” I say to the woman. I want proof that that one fundamental assumption is true.

“Not going to happen,” the man says. “So now what?”

Good question. But the issue has to be pressed and pressed hard, as hard as I press the gun against my temple. “Take me to her or I swear to God I’ll do it.”

“You can’t,” the young woman says. Soft voice. Kind eyes. Hand outstretched.

She’s right. I can’t. It could be a lie; Teacup could be dead. But a chance remains that she’s alive, and if I’m gone, there’s no reason to keep her that way. The risk is unacceptable.

This is the bind. This is the trap. This is where the road of impossible promises dead-ends. This is the only possible outcome of the antiquated belief that the insignificant life of a seven-year-old kid still matters.

I’m sorry, Teacup. I should have finished this back in the woods.

I lower the gun.

53

THE MONITOR FLICKERS on. Pulse, blood pressure, breathing, temperature. The kid I took down is back up, leaning against the door, one hand massaging his throat, the other holding the gun. He glowers at me lying on the bed.

“Something to help you relax,” the woman with the soft voice and kind eyes murmurs. “A little stick.”

The bite of the needle. The walls disappear into colorless nothing. A thousand years pass. I am ground to dust beneath the heel of time. Their voices lumber, their faces expand. The thin foam beneath me dissolves. I am floating on an unbounded ocean of white.

A disembodied voice emerges from the fog. “And now let’s return to the problem of rats, shall we?”

Vosch. I don’t see him. His voice has no source. It originates from everywhere and nowhere, as if he’s inside me.

“You’ve lost your home. And the lovely one—the only one—that you’ve found to replace it is infested with vermin. What can you do? What are your choices? Resign yourself to live peaceably with the destructive pests or exterminate them before they can destroy your new home? Do you say to yourself, ‘Rats are disgusting creatures, but nevertheless they are living things with the same rights as me’? Or do you say, ‘We are incompatible, these rats and I. If I am to live here, these vermin must die’?”

From a thousand miles away, I hear the monitor beeping, marking the beat of my heart. The sea undulates. I rise and fall with each roll of the surface.

“But it isn’t really about the rats.” His voice pounds, dense, thick as thunder. “It never was. The necessity of exterminating them is a given. It’s the method that troubles you. The real issue, the fundamental problem, is rocks.”

The white curtain peels away. I’m still floating, but now I’m far above the Earth in a black void awash with stars, and the sun kissing the horizon paints the planet’s surface beneath me a shimmering gold. The monitor beeps frantically, and a voice says, “Oh, crap,” and then Vosch’s: “Breathe, Marika. You’re perfectly safe.”

Perfectly safe. So that’s why they sedated me. If they hadn’t, my heart probably would have stopped from shock. The effect is three-dimensional, indistinguishable from reality, except I would not be breathing in space. Or hearing Vosch’s voice in a place where sound does not exist.

“This is the Earth as it was sixty-six million years ago. Beautiful, isn’t it? Edenic. Unspoiled. The atmosphere before you poisoned it. The water before you fouled it. The land lush with life before you, rodents that you are, shredded it to pieces to feed your voracious appetites and build your filthy nests. It may have remained pristine for another sixty-six million years, unsullied by your mammalian gluttony, if not for a chance encounter with an alien visitor one-quarter the size of Manhattan.”

It whizzes past me, pockmarked and craggy, blotting out the stars as it barrels toward the planet. When it breaks through the atmosphere, the lower half of the asteroid begins to glow. Bright yellow, then white.

“And thus the fate of the world is decided. By a rock.”

Now I’m standing on the shores of a vast, shallow sea, watching the asteroid fall, a tiny dot, a pebble, insignificant.

“When the dust from the impact has settled, three-quarters of all life on Earth will be gone. The world ends. The world begins again. Humanity owes its existence to a bit of cosmic whimsy. To a rock. It really is remarkable when you think about it.”

The ground shudders. A distant boom, then an eerie silence.

“And therein lies the conundrum, the riddle you’ve been avoiding, because confronting the problem shakes apart the very foundation, doesn’t it? It defies explanation. It renders all that’s happened impossibly discordant, absurd, nonsensical.”

The sea roils; steam whips and swirls. The water is boiling away. A massive wall of dust and pulverized stone roars toward me, blotting out the sky. The air is filled with high-pitched screeching, like the screams of a dying animal.

“I don’t have to state the obvious, do I? The question has been bothering you for a very long time.”

I can’t move. I know it isn’t real, but my panic is as the thundering wall of steam and dust bears down. A million years of evolution has taught me to trust my senses, and the primitive part of my brain is deaf to the rational part that screams in a high pitch like a dying animal, Not real not real not real not real.

“Electromagnetic pulses. Giant metal rods raining from the sky. Viral plague . . .” His voice rises with each word and the words are like thunderclaps or the heel of a boot slamming down. “Sleeper agents implanted in human bodies. Armies of brainwashed children. What is this? That’s the central question. The only one that really matters: Why bother with any of it when all you need is a very, very big rock?”

The wave rolls over me, and I drown.

54

I’M BURIED FOR MILLENNIA.

Miles above me, the world wakes. In the cool shadows pooling on the rain forest floor, a ratlike creature digs for tender roots. Its descendants will tame fire, invent the wheel, discover mathematics, create poetry, reroute rivers, level forests, build cities, explore deep space. For now, the only important business is finding food and staying alive long enough to make more ratlike creatures.

Annihilated in fire and dust, the world is reborn in a hungry rodent digging in the dirt.

The clock ticks. Nervously, the creature sniffs the warm, moist air. The metronomic beat of the clock speeds up, and I rise toward the surface. When I emerge from the dust, the creature has transformed: It’s sitting in a chair beside my bed, wearing a pair of jeans stiff with dirt and a torn T-shirt. Stoop-shouldered, unshaven, hollow-eyed inventor of the wheel, inheritor, caretaker, prodigal.

My father.

The beep-beep of the monitor. The dripping IV and the stiff sheets and the hard pillow and the lines snaking from my arms. And the man sitting beside the bed, sallow and sweaty, covered with grime, restless, nervously plucking at his shirt, bloodshot eyes and wet, swollen lips.

“Marika.”

I close my eyes. It’s not him. It’s the drug Vosch pumped into you.

Again: “Marika.”

“Shut up. You’re not real.”

“Marika, there’s something I want to tell you. Something you should know.”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me,” I say to Vosch. I know he’s watching.

“I forgive you,” my father says.

I can’t catch my breath. There’s a sharp pain in my chest, like a knife driving home.

“Please,” I beg Vosch. “Please don’t do this.”

“You had to leave,” my father says. “You didn’t have a choice, and anyway, what happened is my own damn fault. You didn’t make me a drunk.”

Instinctively, I press my hands against my ears. But his voice isn’t in the room; it’s in me.

“I didn’t last long after you left,” my father tries to reassure me. “Only a couple hours.”

We made it as far as Cincinnati. A little over a hundred miles. Then his stash ran out. He begged me not to leave him, but I knew if I didn’t find some alcohol fast, he’d die. I found some—a bottle of vodka tucked underneath a mattress—after breaking into sixteen houses, if you can call it breaking in, since every house was abandoned and all I had to do was step through a broken window. I was so happy to find that bottle, I actually kissed it.

But I was too late. He was dead by the time I made it back to our camp.

“I know you beat yourself up over that, but I would’ve died either way, Marika. Either way. You did what you thought you had to do.”

There’s no hiding from his voice. No running from it, either. I open my eyes and look straight into his. “I know this is a lie. You aren’t real.”

He smiles. The same smile as when I made a particularly good move in a match. The delighted teacher.

“That’s what I’ve come to tell you!” He rubs his long fingers against his thighs, and I can see the dirt encrusted beneath the nails. “That’s the lesson, Marika. That’s what they want you to understand.”

Warm hand against cool skin: He’s touching my arm. The last time I felt his hand was against my cheek, in hard, stinging slaps while the other hand held me still. Bitch! Don’t leave me. Don’t you ever leave me, bitch! Each bitch! punctuated by a slap. His mind was gone. Seeing things that weren’t there in the profound darkness that slammed down every night. Hearing things in the awful silence that threatened to crush you every day. On the night he died, he woke up screaming, clawing at his eyes. He could feel bugs inside them, crawling.

Those same swollen eyes staring at me now. And the claw marks beneath them still fresh. Another circle, another silver cord: Now I am the one seeing things, hearing things, feeling things that aren’t there in awful silence.

“First they taught us not to trust them,” he whispers. “Then they taught us not to trust each other. Now they’re teaching us we can’t even trust ourselves.”

And I whisper back, “I don’t understand.”

He’s fading away. As I drop deeper into lightless depths, my father fades into depthless light. He kisses me on the forehead. A benediction. A curse.

“You belong to them now.”

55

THE CHAIR IS EMPTY AGAIN. I’m alone. Then I remind myself I was alone when the chair wasn’t empty. I wait for the pounding of my heart to subside. I will myself to stay calm, to control my breathing. The drug will work its way through my system and I’ll be fine. You’re safe, I tell myself. Perfectly safe.

The blond recruit I punched in the throat comes in. He’s carrying a tray of food: a slab of gray mystery meat, potatoes, a mushy pile of beans, and a tall glass of orange juice. He sets the tray by the bed, pushes the button to raise me to a sitting position, rotates the tray in front of me, then stands there, arms crossed, as if he’s waiting for something.

“Let me know how it tastes,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t eat solid food for three more weeks.”

His skin is fair, which makes his brown, deep-set eyes seem even darker. He isn’t big, not buff like Zombie or blocky like Poundcake. He’s tall and lean, a swimmer’s body. There’s a quiet intensity about him, in the way he carries himself but especially in the eyes, a carefully contained force coiled just beneath the surface.

I’m not sure what he expects me to say. “Sorry.”

“Sucker punch.” Drumming his fingers on his forearm. “You’re not going to eat?”

I shake my head. “Not hungry.”

Is the food real? Is the kid who brings the food real? The uncertainty of my own experience is crushing. I am drowning in an infinite sea. Sinking slowly, the weight of the lightless depths forcing me down, forcing the air from my lungs, squeezing the blood from my heart.

“Drink the juice,” he scolds. “They said you should at least drink the juice.”

“Why?” I manage to choke out. “What’s in the juice?”

“A little paranoid?”

“A little.”

“They just drained about a pint of blood from you. So they said make sure you drink the juice.”

I have no memory of their taking my blood. Did that happen while I was “talking” to my father? “Why are they draining my blood?”

Dead-eyed stare. “Let’s see if I can remember. They tell me everything.”

“What did they tell you? Why am I here?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he says. Then: “They told us you’re a VIP. Very important prisoner.” Shaking his head. “I don’t get it. In the good old days, Dorothys just . . . disappeared.”

“I’m not a Dorothy.”

He shrugs. “I don’t ask questions.”

But I need him to answer some. “Do you know what happened to Teacup?”

“Ran away with the spoon, what I heard.”

“That was the dish.”

“I was making a joke.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well. Fuck you.”

“The little girl who choppered in with me. Badly wounded. I need to know if she’s alive.”

Nodding seriously. “I’ll get right on that.”

I’m going about this wrong. I was never good with people. My nickname in middle school was Her Majesty Marika and a dozen variations of the same. Maybe I should establish a rapport beyond eff-you. “My name’s Ringer.”

“That’s wonderful. You must be very satisfied with that.”

“You look familiar. Were you at Camp Haven?”

He starts to say something. Stops himself. “I have orders not to talk to you.”

I almost say Then why are you? But I catch myself. “It’s probably a good idea. They don’t want you to know what I know.”

“Oh, I know what you know: It’s all a lie, we’ve been tricked by the enemy, they’re using us to wipe out survivors, blah, blah, blah. Typical Dorothy crap.”

“I used to think all that,” I admit. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“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.

“That is the messenger.”

From this height, I can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl, only that it’s a small child. Nugget’s age? Younger?

“Central Kansas,” Vosch goes on. “Yesterday at approximately thirteen hundred hours.”

Another figure comes into view on the porch steps. After a minute, someone else comes out. The child begins to run toward them.

“That isn’t Teacup,” I whisper.

“No.”

Crashing through the brittle chaff toward the adults who watch motionlessly, and one of them holds a gun, and there is no sound, which somehow makes it more terrible.

“It’s the ancient instinct: In times of great danger, be wary of strangers. Trust no one outside your circle.”

My body tenses. I know how this ends; I lived it. The man with the gun: me. The child crashing toward him: Teacup.

The child falls. Gets up. Runs. Falls again.

“But there’s another instinct, far older, as old as life itself, nearly impossible for the human mind to override: Protect the young at all costs. Preserve the future.”

The child breaks through the wheat into the yard and falls for the last time. The one with the gun doesn’t lower it, but his companion races to the fallen child and scoops it off the frozen ground. The gunman blocks their way back into the house. The tableau holds for several seconds.

“It’s all about risk,” Vosch observes. “You realized that long ago. So of course you know who will win the argument. After all, how much risk does a little child pose? Protect the young. Preserve the future.”

The person carrying the child sidesteps the one with the gun and rushes up the steps into the house. The gunman drops his head as if in prayer, then lifts his head as if in supplication. Then he turns and goes inside. The minutes spin out.

Beside me, Vosch murmurs, “The world is a clock.”

The farmhouse, the outbuildings, the silo, the brown fields, and the blur of numbers as the time display at the bottom of the screen ticks off the seconds by the hundredths. I know what’s coming but still I flinch when the silent flash whites out the scene. Then roiling dust and debris and billowing smoke: The wheat is burning, consumed in a matter of seconds, tender fodder for the fire, and where the buildings used to be, a crater, a black hole bored into the Earth. The feed goes black. The screen retracts. The lights stay dim.

“I want you to understand,” Vosch says gently. “You’ve wondered why we kept the little ones, the ones too young to fight.”

“I don’t understand.” Tiny figure in acres of brown, dressed in denim overalls, barefoot, running through the wheat.

He misreads my confusion. “The device inside the child’s body is calibrated to detect minute fluctuations in carbon dioxide, the chief component of human breath. When the CO2 reaches a certain threshold, indicating the presence of multiple targets, the device detonates.”

“No,” I whisper. They brought him inside, wrapped him in a warm blanket, brought him water, washed his face. The group gathered around him, bathing him in their breath. “They’d be just as dead if you dropped a bomb.”

“It isn’t about the dead,” he snaps impatiently. “It never was.”

The lights come up, the door comes open, and Claire comes in wheeling a metal cart, followed by her white-coated buddy and Razor, who looks at me and then looks away. That got to me more than the cart with its array of syringes: He couldn’t bring himself to look at me.

“It doesn’t change anything.” My voice rising. “I don’t care what you do. I don’t even care about Teacup anymore. I’ll kill myself before I help you.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not helping me.”