Burn (16 page)

I find Leo in the atrium, laughing with Kellan, who looks like he needs the distraction of a goofy kid to take his mind off what he’s about to do—wield the power of life and death.

Leo, who’s wearing clean clothes that actually fit him along with a new pair of glasses, waves cheerfully when he sees me, and I head over there. “Where’s Christina?”

His smile falters as he meets me in the middle of the lobby. “I took her to my suite and let her use the shower. We got her some spare clothes from the infirmary. Just some scrubs she can wear until her clothes come back from the laundry. And I gave her one of my spare rooms.” His cheeks are a little pink, like he’s been caught stealing. It would be funny if I weren’t worried about Christina.

“Did she say anything? Did she seem okay?”

“She just said she wanted to sleep.”

“Does she know she has to stay in your suite until we come back for her, though?” I ask, eyeing Kellan. He’s set the scanner on the counter and is, at the moment, making sure he has a round in the chamber of his Glock. Those things have super-light triggers. “The H2 haven’t been granted any sort of status on the compound. It’s not safe for her to be out.” All it takes is one nervous guard, one twitch of the trigger finger, one bad moment to shatter everything.

Leo nods. “I’m not stupid. Besides, she already knew. She said she’d stay put.”

It’s as good as I’m going to get for now, but all of a sudden I’m anxious to get back to her. Instead, I have to gather all my fragmented thoughts and endure this board meeting, the first one I’ve ever attended . . . and I’m one of the board members now. I feel hollow. I miss my dad more than ever. He’s the one who should be dealing with The Fifty, not me.

We walk down the administrative hallway, past Brayton’s old office—his nameplate has been removed sometime in the past few hours—and past Angus’s, until the hallway ends in a set of double doors that have been propped open. The conference room is huge, with a round table that seats exactly fifty, plus rings of chairs around it for all the heirs and senior members of each family. There’s a secretary with a digital recorder, and microphones are positioned on the table in front of every seat. As we walk in, I see Race and Congers seated behind Brayton, whose eyes dart to me as soon as I enter.

In a semicircle around the two agents stand a row of armed Black Box guards. None of the other agents are in the room. The H2 look more like prisoners than guests, but they’re being pretty stoic about it. Rufus is looking murderous on the opposite side of the table, and other patriarchs and matriarchs are taking their seats behind placards showing the family name. Yang from China. Abe from Japan. Soto from Chile. Engel from Germany. Ndebeli from South Africa. Fifty families from all over the world, ruled by old men, old women . . . and two boys with responsibilities too big for our wiry shoulders.

I head over to my mom as she stands behind the Shirazi placard. She looks tired and stands stiffly. She’s removed the sling she was wearing to support her wounded shoulder, and is cradling that arm against her middle. Like me, she’s probably been pushing herself past the point of exhaustion, trying to find the answers that could save us. The unhappy set of her mouth and the strain on her face suggest she’s had about as much luck this afternoon as I have.

“I’m representing the Shirazis,” she tells me as we reach her. “My father is the patriarch, but he’s too ill to travel. You can sit here.” She points to the Archer placard, which is next to hers.

Leo sits behind the Thomas placard, which has been placed next to mine. We must look kind of pathetic, sitting here with no one behind us while most of the other families have at least one assistant or a whole herd of relatives behind them. The exception is Dr. Ackerman, who sits alone, staring at the H2 from his position next to Rufus Bishop. I wonder if the two of them see eye to eye.

A hush falls over the room as Angus strides in with Kellan at his side. Angus pauses when he reaches his own empty chair and faces Kellan, who switches on the scanner and waves it over Angus’s chest. The blue light turns back to yellow when Kellan angles it at the floor once more, and Angus addresses all of us. “Before we discuss urgent matters, we need to make sure all of us are who we say we are,” he says in a loud voice. “By now you’ve all been briefed, and I’ve spoken to many of you myself, so I know you’ll cooperate as Mr. Fisher does his job.”

He nods to Kellan and takes his seat. Kellan, whose hand shakes a little beneath the rapt attention of all members of The Fifty, scans himself, and then holds the device over our heads and slowly walks counterclockwise around the enormous table. His right hand is on his weapon. I watch the leaders as blue light cascades over their faces. Brayton eyes Kellan as he approaches, and my stomach draws tight, waiting for the light to hit him. But then the scanner turns the shadows beneath Brayton’s eyes deep and dark, the wrinkles around his mouth become navy blue, and some of my tension subsides. He’s definitely human. It doesn’t mean I trust him any more than before, though. It just means he’s not under the command of a parasitic alien.

Nor are the rest of The Fifty. Once Race and Congers scan red, Kellan leaves, and the debate begins.

God, it’s annoying.

Everybody has to have their say, and everyone has a complaint. Half of them want the H2 escorted off the premises, and at least a third appear to want them publicly executed. Rufus glares at me while he talks about “H2 collaborators and sympathizers.”

It’s so fucking petty, and finally the arguing wears through any patience I had left. “Didn’t
anyone
see the burned wreckage outside the west tunnel?” I shout. “Some of you flew over it just a few hours ago. Are you aware that ten men and women died there this afternoon? Do you know what killed them? A fucking alien spaceship like you can’t even imagine! The Sicarii could come back at any moment, and we’re rehashing the same H2 hate over and over. It’s pointless and useless right now.”

My mouth snaps shut when my mother’s fingers close around my wrist, and she tugs me down. Sometime during my rant, I jumped up from my chair. The members of The Fifty are either slack-jawed with shock or glaring with the offense. Rufus’s face is brick-red, and Brayton’s is paper-white.

Angus, though, is unruffled. He leans forward and speaks directly into his mic, the whiskers on his chin brushing over its surface and providing staticky punctuation to his words. “I think what Mr. Archer is trying to say is that the enemy of our enemy is our friend.” He glances over his shoulder at Congers and Race. “For the moment.”

The conversation gets more reasonable after that. The board finally votes to grant the Core agents basic privileges within the compound, including allowing them to carry their weapons, as long as they’re registered with the Black Box security staff. By the time that agreement is reached, my head feels like it’s going to explode, and I’m wondering if Christina ever got anything to eat for dinner, because I know I didn’t.

But we’re not done. We move on to discussing how the scanner will be used and who controls it, and that leads to another hour-long argument. Rufus thinks only humans should control the scanner. Brayton suggests that it should be kept in the vault at all times. Angus and I argue that it should be used in any way that enhances our security and prevents Sicarii infiltration, including scanning workers before they start their shifts in the factory, as well as random checks of people on the compound.

“The Sicarii could spread like a virus, for all we know right now,” says my mother, giving me a look out of the corner of her eye. “Until I’ve completed the autopsies and we’re confident of how they take over a host organism, we should be vigilant. They could take hold with a single touch, a sneeze, an unobserved moment between two people. A Sicarii could be as big as a human or as small as a germ.”

That’s enough to jolt people into cooperating. Several of them look like they want to hurl. Arms fold over stomachs and chests, hands discreetly cover mouths and noses like they’re wishing for hospital masks, and no one wants to be too close to anyone else.

It’s midnight when we adjourn, and I can’t remember the last time I slept or ate. Leo’s head is resting on his arms—he fell asleep about half an hour ago. The room spins as I rise from my chair, and my mom catches me when I sway and lowers me down again. While the rest of The Fifty funnel out of the room, Dr. Ackerman makes his way over to us.

“Young man, I think you’re trying to do too much,” he drawls as he takes my wrist and feels for my pulse.

“That’s because there’s too much to do,” I mumble, leaning forward to rest my forehead on the table. My lips are tingling, and I shiver.

Mom touches my back. “Then maybe you should let other people do a little of it,” she says gently. When I turn my head and look at her, she adds, “I walked by the computer lab on my way from the morgue. You were hunched over that computer—”

“Probably because I’d dozed off,” I admit. “I didn’t get a single thing accomplished. How are the autopsies going?”

Dr. Ackerman looks keenly interested as he peers at my mother. “I heard they’d brought the bodies that scanned orange here. Do you need some assistance as you examine them?”

My mother leans back in her chair and rubs her eyes. Her face crumples in pain, and she slowly lowers her hand. “In all honesty, I’ve only completed the external exam,” she says quietly as she gingerly moves her wounded left arm. “I made that germ statement because I don’t want anyone to underestimate the threat, but I don’t have any idea yet. I’ll resume the work tomorrow.”

My heart clutches. She’s been staring at the bodies of three men, two of whom she loved as friends. I wonder if she’s dreading actually finding out what the Sicarii do to a person, and how much it hurts. I slide my hand across the table and take hers. She accepts it, giving me a grateful smile.

“We’re dreadfully understaffed in the infirmary,” says Dr. Ackerman, “but if you need it, Mitra, I can help you. I know it’s important.”

I watch my mom, wondering if she trusts this guy. He was quiet during the debate, but he voted with Angus and me every time. He doesn’t seem to be a hard-liner like Rufus. “I might need some consultation on the actual dissection,” she says to him after a few moments.

I sit quietly, too tired to move as they make arrangements to meet tomorrow morning. Dr. Ackerman advises me to drink plenty of fluids and to prioritize sleep. As he’s telling me to drop by the infirmary tomorrow to have my blood pressure taken, the lights flicker. Dr. Ackerman looks around. “Well, that’s not good. I’ve got two patients on ventilators.”

Mom frowns. “You think there’s an issue with the solar panels?”

Dr. Ackerman stands up. “I don’t know. It happens sometimes, but right now I’d say we need the lights to stay on.” He strides out, his posture bent with fatigue. Everyone on this compound is both tired and jittery, a recipe for disaster.

After chatting with my mom for a few minutes about all the people I met this afternoon, who she knows well, who she trusts, who’s aligned with Rufus and who’s with Angus, I gather my strength and push myself up again, reaching over to wake Leo up.

A piercing alarm splinters the quiet, and the lights flicker again. Leo yelps and jumps to his feet, looking confused and bleary. My mother is wide-eyed as she gets up, too, and we all head for the door. Down the hallway, guards are shouting, and I break into a jog, adrenaline pouring through my veins. I reach the security desk near the main entrance several steps ahead of my mom and Leo. Kellan and the other guards are clustered together, talking urgently as they point to the surveillance screens behind the desk.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Kellan looks over his shoulder at me. “We’ve had a security breach,” he says in a tight voice. “I think someone just tried to steal the scanner.”

TWELVE

FOOTSTEPS GIVE US ABOUT THREE SECONDS’ WARNING
before two figures come running in from the far side of the atrium. Kellan’s got his weapon up in an instant. “Freeze,” he barks.

“We heard the alarm, and we saw someone running past the infirmary,” says Graham Congers, his voice desperate and angry, wincing as he raises his arms. His short brown hair is standing on end, and his shirt is buttoned wrong. Sung is next to him, looking winded but fierce, a soot-smeared undershirt clinging to his wiry frame.

Graham takes a step forward, his gaze riveted on Kellan’s. “We’re unarmed.”

“Why does that not reassure me?” Kellan says. “You’re Core agents.”

“And they’ve been in the hospital wing,” I say. “They were injured in the attack.”

“How do we know that’s where they were just now?” says Kellan.

“Don’t you have surveillance feeds?” asks Sung in a hoarse voice, his dark brown eyes full of frustration. “You’ll see there was someone in that hallway, and it wasn’t us.”

Kellan gestures to one of his colleagues behind the guard desk. “Check video of the infirmary hallway for the last ten minutes.”

My mom looks at the narrow-shouldered guard who’s staring at the monitors at the desk. “You didn’t see anything on the screens
before
the alarm?”

Kellan’s jaw ridges like he’s clenching his teeth. “We should have. We were watching the basement vault and the main corridors nonstop. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—and then the alarm went off. One of our guards called up from the basement that the door leading to the vault had been breached. He’s checking the vault itself right n—” Kellan’s fingers move toward his ear, and he sags a little, the slightest smile of relief flickering on his lips before it disappears again. “Okay. They have the scanner. The door to the vault room was open, but the alarm must have sent the thief running.”

“There’s nothing on the video, Kellan,” says the guard at the desk. “The infirmary corridor was clear the whole time.”

Leo frowns and joins the guy. “Could you have been hacked?” He reaches for the keyboard, and the guard lets him. Leo taps away for a few minutes, then rolls his eyes. “Seven minutes of video captures are gone. This thing’s looped.”