Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) (17 page)

I stumble upstairs and into my billet, thinking about unintended consequences. It’s futile. The thought of food nauseates me, so I crawl into my loft bed, curl into a ball, and sob.

Chapter Twenty One

Several people comment on my wan appearance the next day, but I dodge conversation and then bury myself in my work. On some level, I know I’m working for redemption, thinking that if I can contribute to eradicating the locusts, I’ll have made up for my role in destroying Bulrush. Despite Keegan’s reservations, I find Dr. Allaway’s work promising and I initiate two separate experiments using the virus he’s identified. I spend long hours hunched over a microscope and injecting locusts in the animal lab the next several days. Even though my encounter with Halla weighs me down, I’m excited by the potential of my new approach.

I’m there late Thursday night, long after everyone else has gone, entering data when I begin to transpose numbers and realize I need a break. Rubbing my eyes, I wander down to the lounge area shared by our division and a weapons lab, and help myself to some of the Alert beverage in the refrigerator. Feeling more energized, I return to the lab, glass in hand, and pass Torina’s workstation. She has left her computer on, processing some gargantuan task. After a moment’s hesitation, I sit at her desk and activate the display.

I’m not interested in the numbers clicking past in patterns too rapid to absorb, so after a moment’s hesitation, I flick to the genome registry. I’m interested in Halla’s DNA. Is there a gene for betrayal, a gene that makes it more likely person A will be a traitor than person B, like there are genes for leadership ability and beauty and strength? Is it dominant or recessive? Has Little Loudon inherited the tendency? I’m familiar with the huge body of research related to isolating genes that control positive behaviors and abilities that our leaders want to perpetuate and increase, but there’s been less investigation of the negatives like cowardice, laziness, and traitorism. Not a word, but I don’t care.

Nothing comes up when I say “Halla Westin.” Not too surprising, I guess. She’s living under a new name, just like I am. Without a DNA sample, I won’t be able to locate her. Names are changeable; DNA is not. If I had a sample to enter, the database would give me her new name. The system is amazingly fast considering the total number of genomic records it holds—listed at the bottom of the display—an accumulation of hundreds of millions of DNA samples since registration was mandated fifty years ago. The database only keeps growing since files are never eliminated; at least, that’s the theory. The fact that I couldn’t locate my parents’ records makes me doubt the total accuracy of the database. As I watch, the total ticks up by two: new births.
Wow
.

On a whim, I say Wyck’s name and his genomic record flickers onto the display. It’s a gross invasion of privacy, and against the law, but I peek anyway. Not surprisingly, he shows the characteristic genotypic polymorphisms that code for strong impulsiveness and inventiveness. I’m astonished to see that he also has twice as many copies of the nurturing gene complex, FosB, as normal.
Huh.
Who’d’ve guessed? I’m tempted to enter Saben’s name, or Fiere’s or Alexander’s but I can’t afford to demonstrate any knowledge of Bulrush or Defiance members. Derrika’s never met them. I wish I could look up Keegan’s genomic print and analyze what combination of genes resulted in his warped personality, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got the system rigged to alert him when someone searches for his name in any context, so I don't.  I pull up my new name and look at the print, wondering whose DNA is credited to Everly Jax now that mine is associated with Derrika Ealy. Maybe Minister Fonner and Minister Alden constructed a false print, splicing bits and pieces of various people’s DNA records. I’ll ask, if there’s ever an opportunity.

After fifteen minutes of distracting myself this way, when I’ve finished my drink, I diminish the display and return to my data entry. It takes another two hours and it’s well after midnight when I secure the lab and leave. A half-moon lights the sky and I can see clearly enough when I exit the MSFP building. The streets are empty, except for an IPF vehicle patrolling a block away, and they’re slowly releasing the day’s heat. I walk quickly, a bit unnerved by the silence and emptiness. No people, no ACVs, none of the hustle and bustle of daytime.

A
tink
sounds behind me, and I glance around. No one. The wind might have rolled a piece of trash against a pole or metal railing. I pick up my pace. My building looms ahead, shedding its aqueous light on the street and I relax. Then, the scuff of a footstep—I’m sure it’s a footstep—comes from my left. I study the shadows but can discern nothing unusual or threatening. Still . . . Keegan’s story about Notelmo’s murder on his own doorstep zips through my mind. Uncaring if I look paranoid or foolish, I break into a run. The doorway of my building beckons, promising safety.

Footsteps pound behind me. I push myself faster.

I am two steps away from the door when a hand grabs my shoulder. Its grip is iron, tilting me to the right, slowing me. I twist into it and rip free, ending up facing my attacker. He’s on me, too close for me to see his face, and he gets both arms around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides, before I can react. His momentum pushes me backwards and my back thuds against the cool wall. The assailant’s weight smashes into me and drives the air from my lungs. “Unh.”

I don’t have air to scream, but I wiggle and kick, trying to drive my knee into his groin. He’s ready for the move, though, and my knee lands on his thigh.

“Everly.
Everly
.”

His voice, his smell, sift into my consciousness. I know them. My panic abates a little but my heart still hammers in my chest.

“It’s okay. It’s me.”

He leans back enough for me to see his face to confirm what my other senses have already told me.

“Saben?” My voice trembles.

“In the flesh.” He smiles his lovely smile, his gold eyes warm, and suddenly I’m smiling, too, happiness cascading through me like cataracts of sunshine.

He looses his hold and I punch his upper arm, hard. “You scared me to death.”

Rubbing the spot, he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to go in.” He jerks his head, his hair much shorter than I remember, toward the lighted doorway. “Too many imagers and recorders."

I frown and shrink away. “How did you find me?” The memory of him in IPF uniform at my trial comes howling back. “You’re IPF.” Despite that and the way he almost tackled me, I don’t really feel threatened by him. But then, I never felt threatened by Halla, either. The smart move would be to launch a punch into his solar plexus and dash for the door which is only ten feet away. I stay put.

“I can explain, but not here.” He takes my arm and urges me back the way we came. “I know a place.”

Grabbing my hand, he leads me through the dark streets, turning time and again with confidence until we come to a large, bowl shaped structure. A stadium, I realize. There’s an electrified fence, but he deactivates the charge with the sweep of a disc hung around his neck.

“One of the benefits of being IPF, I suppose.”

He lets my sarcasm slide and waits for me to sidle through the narrow opening before re-arming the fence. “I have no taste for soldiering or the military life, but there are benefits.” He draws me toward a dark archway and we traverse a short tunnel before coming out on a field. Saben illuminates a powerful torch and sweeps it so I can see the dusty green of fake turf and the ghostly outline of a diamond.

“My father played baseball here,” Saben says, using the beam to light our way up into the stands. We climb concrete steps and settle on folding metal seats about a third of the way up. The metal has cooled enough that it chills my butt and thighs through my intelli-textile jumpsuit which quickly compensates. “In college, for two years before the first wave hit and schools began closing down. He had digital recordings of all his games, even some from high school, and we used to sit and watch them together. He narrated all of them, and by the time I was ten I could talk pop flies, sacrifice bunts, curve balls, and designated hitters like I’d actually played the game. He always said that one of the worst effects of the pandemic was the decline of ‘America’s game,’ the death of baseball.

“He used to bring me down here when I was little and we’d play catch on the infield.” He gives a wry smile. “I wasn’t much better at throwing a baseball than I was at physics, but I sure loved that time with my dad. I come here sometimes.”

We sit side by side, thighs touching lightly. I have so many questions. I start with, “How did you find me? How did you know I’m me. I mean—” I gesture to my new hair and altered face.

“I was part of the Premier’s protection detail a week ago and you crossed the street in front of me. There was something about the way you walked. It felt so familiar. Then, you put your chin in the air”—he demonstrates by thrusting his square chin upwards—“and I knew.”

Betrayed by my chin. “Huh,” is all I can say, hoping no one else can identify me that easily.

“I saw you go into the MSFP building and waited outside that afternoon. I followed you back to the apartment building and was able to access records telling me who the newest occupants were. Derrika, huh? I like Everly better.” His voice is soft, intimate.

I look around. The stadium remains deserted. “
Ssh
. I have to be Derrika. You know what will happen if anyone finds out—you were at the trial.”

“The trial. The way you looked at me—”

“You were in an IPF uniform! How was I supposed to look? I thought you betrayed Bulrush, that you gave away our location. Now I know—”

“It was Halla.”

I stare at him astonished. Then, my brain sorts the puzzle pieces into a coherent whole. “You. You gave me that address. You knew.”

He nods, golden hair gleaming in the moonlight. “I knew you thought it was me, that I was the traitor. The look on your face when you spotted me—glad at first, then confused, and finally furious, hurt . . . I don’t know how to describe it. But I could read your face, and I knew. You never made any secret of your distrust of me, of a geneborn hooked up with ‘outlaws.’ I set out to find the truth. When I did . . . I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I told you it was Halla. You needed to see for yourself. Did you talk to her?”

Tears well up. “No. I couldn’t.”

Putting an arm around my shoulders, he draws me against his side. “I’m sorry.”

I sniffle. “Me, too. So, how come you’re alive? How did you come to be an IPF officer?”

He keeps his arm draped across my shoulders and I nestle against him as he talks. I hadn’t realized how much I miss human contact.

“After we got separated in the swarm, and I heard them take you, I almost gave up. I was still losing blood. I couldn’t stand, but I managed to drag myself out of sight before the swarm passed, and get word to my parents.”

His parents! I forgot they lived in Atlanta.

“They helped?”

“Of course. They came to get me, found a doctor to treat me and paid her enough to make sure she wouldn’t betray us, and nursed me back to health. When I was stronger, they arranged for me to get my IPF commission. When I ran off eighteen months ago, they put it about that I’d traveled to an outpost to assist with security and protection. Total bullshit, of course, but it enabled them to save face and protected me at the same time. When I was recovered, they concocted a story about me coming back from the outpost, wounded by outlaws, and ready to accept my commission in the IPF and do my formal military service. Funnily enough, my Bulrush training makes me a pretty damned good soldier. My superiors put my proficiency with weapons and tactics down to my time at the outpost, but it’s really what Alexander and Fiere and Idris taught me.

“I didn’t have an option, Ev—Derrika.” I feel his eyes on my face, wanting me to believe him, to believe
in
him. “By the time I was mostly healed, I knew that Bulrush was scattered, that you were a prisoner, that Alexander was in the wind and some of the others dead. I had some notion that I might be able to help you if I was a soldier. It’s why I came to the trial—to see if there was any way to free you. When I saw you there, looking so scared—”

“That was my ‘meek and timid’ face. Vestor insisted.”

“—and then so furious and hurt when you saw me . . . Well, it was all I could do not to pull out my beamer and blast away at everyone in that courtroom until you could walk out, free. I was devastated when I heard about your sentence.” His arm tightens painfully. “But then your convoy was attacked and you were freed. I couldn’t believe it. Who set it up?”

“Idris. The Defiance. And they had good intel—was that you?”

He shakes his head. “No. I would have, but no. How in the world did you end up at the Ministry, like this?”

He means my Derrika Ealy persona. I explain it all, how the Defiance rescued me, meeting Idris again, helping Fiere, the carnivorous locusts, my epiphany, my conversation with Minister Fonner . . . everything. I feel like I’m shedding pounds, like being able to share my experiences with Saben has lightened a burden I didn’t even realize I was carrying.

“You’re the bravest person I know,” he states matter-of-factly when I finish.

Impulsively, I reach up and kiss him. When our lips meet, a fire ignites, raging instantly, hotter and more fierce than when we first kissed outside the RESCO. He molds me to him with a hand tangled in my hair and an arm clamped around my shoulders. It’s not close enough. I shift until I’m straddling him, my hands on either side of his face, knees uncomfortably mashed against the bleachers. His hands drop to my hips and he pulls me closer as our kiss deepens. My head whirls and I’m lost in the fountain of sensations exploding throughout my body. Saben groans against my lips and it inflames me. I throw my head back as he plants kisses down my neck, lingering at the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. I shiver.