Memory Girl (29 page)

But I'm studying the misshapen woman—“Frost” the Uniform called her—searching for weaknesses so I can
escape. A Uniform hands Frost a key, which she pockets. Once I enter a building, I'll never leave.

Deliberately, I stumble, my legs buckling as I fall to my knees on ground.

“I can't move … not with the chains.” I hang my head, moaning. “I won't be able to walk. Could you unlock my hands?”

“Do I look brain-lacking?” Frost asks as if amused, pocketing the key.

“I promise to do whatever you say.” I rattle the chains and exaggerate moaning. “The pain is too much. Please unlock my hands.”

“You won't feel pain much longer,” she says in a bored tone. “You'll stay in chains until we reach the lab.”

Lab.
This word pierces my hopes.

The woman has a chain of her own, which she clips to my restraints, like leading ropes for the hoxen. She jerks me forward. “Follow.”

As if I have a choice!

Behind us, wheels rumble and sniffers whine, probably disappointed to miss out on a human snack. I bite my lip, not wanting to think about what lies ahead.

We go a few meters before Frost stops at an impassable thicket of thorny bushes at the base of a towering hill. She reaches through the bushes. A shrill beep makes me jump. She drags me through the bushes that move aside like sliding doors. I shut my eyes at the burst of blinding light. When I open my eyes, I'm staring at a doorway concealed in a hill.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Don't speak to me,” she says coolly.

We step into a hallway—not made of dirt or grassy roots
but walls so white I blink and a high ceiling that shimmers as bright as daylight. She tugs me to the right down a narrow hall that twists snake-like until we stop at a dark wooden door.

The room we enter has walls a golden shade of sunshine. There's a dining table, bookcase, large-screened viewing box at the center of a grouping of chairs, and cookery with double burners and large sinks.

Frost jerks me to another door, and once again, we're traveling through a twisty hallway. She won't talk or look at me—as if I'm not worth the effort of speech. In her cloud-white coverings, she reminds me of a half-melted ice statue. She's not a scientist, so she must work for them, an assistant to the scientists—like Milly's mother was when we—they—moved to the island.

“The Uniforms are wrong about me,” I tell her in my sweetest tone, hoping she'll realize I'm non-threatening and unshackle me. “I'd never hurt anyone, especially someone in my family. I'm not dangerous. Please let me go.”

“Quiet.” Her clipped tone invites no questions. But if I waited for invites I'd never learn anything.

“I'm friendly with Scientist Lila Farrow. If she knows I'm here she'll want to see me.”
But will she?
I worry.

“Her brother is eager to welcome you.” She chuckles, then shoves me forward. “We're almost there.”

Burnt hope is bitter to swallow. Frost jerks on the chain. I stumble, falling to my knees, which are bleeding through my pantons from my previous fall. They leave a stain on the white tiled floor as I struggle to my feet.

“Clumsy,” Frost mutters angrily as she yanks my chain again. I want to hail her with insults, but I get a memory of
Milly losing her temper and throwing a dish at her mother. Blood trickles from a cut on her mother's arm and Milly sobs, “I'm sorry.” But her mother shouts and confines her to her room without dinner.

Frost could do far worse to me.

I hold my temper.

We enter a passage where the walls are less bright and high ceiling lamps seem to hang in the air. The rush of activity visible through an opened door startles me. Rows of figures garbed alike in loose gray shirts with hoods and pantons in rough black fabric sit at stations, working with tubes, bottles, and mechanical devices. Most are youths I've never seen before, quicksilver hands moving with precision, synced with each other like playformers on a stage. They gaze straight ahead without glancing at me. Blank eyes, expressionless.

A narrow-faced boy with a crooked nose and thin lips, though, isn't quick or precise as he pours yellow liquid into a thumb-sized black tube. He hunches over at his table, his elbows poking out and his movements jerky. When I am only a few meters from him, his gaze shifts toward me—not with the vacant stare of the others but with a shock of awareness. A tube slips from his hands to the floor, shattering, yellow liquid spilling.

“Carlos!” Frost pulls out a slim, pencil-like device from a shirt pocket. “I warned you!”

He says nothing.

Frost aims the device, and a shock of blue electricity shoots out, striking Carlos in the chest. I smell burnt flesh. The boy's black eyes widen. His body convulses, a stream of liquid darkening his pantons. He's wet himself, but he doesn't move or utter a sound.

The flash of awareness is gone from his face, like flipping to a blank page in a book. He stares straight ahead, joining the rhythm of the other workers.

“What happened?” I ask, sickened by the burning smell.

“Punishment,” Frost says with a smile on half of her face.

“Is something wrong with him?” I keep my gaze on the electricity device in her hand as she slips it back into her pocket.

“The droll won't cause any more trouble.”

“Trouble? But he only dropped a tube.”

“Cease speaking, or I'll rip out your tongue.” Frost yanks on my chain, dragging me into the next door.

My arms burn with pain. But I won't cry. My thoughts keep going over the boy's name. Carlos? Haven't I heard it somewhere before?

Frost shoves me into a gray room that makes me feel like I'm being swallowed by fog. A tall, familiar man wearing a gold and purple robe sweeps across the tile floor toward me. Scientist Daniel Farrow.

“So it is you,” he says, with a narrowing of dark eyes. “My dear sister will be so disappointed to miss this.”

“Please,” I say, swallowing salty tears. “Tell her I'm here.”

“And ruin all my fun?” he says with a tight, pleased smile. “I think not.”

He stands beside a steel table with circular metal loops at the bottom and top. Not loops—restraints like the ones twisting my arms. There are no chairs, only the table and shelves of tubes, jars, coils, and gleaming sharp tools.

Nightmares come in many forms: some evolve from fears of falling, getting lost, or losing a loved one. Tools for cutting into skin are now my worst nightmare.

Carlos.

Now I remember where I heard his name. He was the youth who attacked Daisy and was Returned. Only he isn't dead. Are the others in the room Returned youths too? Still alive and working for the scientists? Or are they alive? What did Frost call him?
Droll.
Empty shells of the people they once were, like zombies in retro-century scarytales.

And soon I'll be one of them.

“Prepare for surgery,” Scientist Daniel orders Frost, holding a cutting tool between his bony fingers.

“So you're going ahead as usual?” Frost asks. “What about your sister?”

“She has already retired for the night, and I won't disturb her,” he says firmly. “Tomorrow I shall take pleasure in introducing her to the new droll.”

“I understand, Daniel.” Frost's voice is softer, her lashes fluttering, and the smooth half of her face is transformed with a feminine smile.

“Secure the subject to the table,” he orders, as if Returning is routine and I'm no more interesting than a test tube. But there's a look of satisfaction on his face, similar to Leader Cross when I've watched him play chess and announce to his opponent, “Checkmate.”

Metal clangs behind my back as Frost unfastens my restraints. My arms collapse to my sides, aching. Frost shoves me roughly toward the table. Her hands clamp on mine. I struggle, but she's stronger than she looks, and she tosses me to the table like I weigh no more than air.

“No! Wait!” I try to think of something—anything!—to stop this insanity.

When I try to roll off the table, Frost pins me down. I'm facing a tray with tools—assorted sizes and shapes, silver
gleaming and sharpened to slice skin. Fear jolts me. I realize what they're going to do. Cut into my brain—turn me into a worker droll like Carlos. That's why Arthur accused me of stealing Milly from him. I won't only lose myself, but I'll lose Milly too.

“Stop thrashing.” Scientist Daniel scowls as if I should be ashamed for such rude behavior. Well, excuse me for not wanting to become a zombie!

I strike a fierce kick at Frost's chin. She swears, then slams me against the table with such force that all the breath rushes out of me.

“Frost, sedate her,” Scientist Daniel orders in an annoyed tone.

“Gladly.” Frost aims a sharp needle at my arm, but I twist away. “Stay still!”

“Can't you handle a youth?” His eyes narrow with focus as he arranges instruments on a metal tray.

“She's more trouble than she looks.” Frost jumps back from my kick. “And stronger too.”

“You should have been better prepared.”

She gestures around the room. “The tools are organized on the tray. The sedative is in the syringe, and I've switched on the solar power.”

“But you shouldn't have unchained her until she was sedated. Surely the other assistants would show more foresight. You disappoint me.”

Frost presses her lips together, glaring down while she aims the needle at me.

“No!” I beg, writhing on the table. “Don't do this … please. Get Lila—she knows me.”

“Pathetic.” Frost purses her lips in disgust. “Hold still.”

I answer by kicking her elbow. She cries out, nearly dropping the needle. “You're no better than that savage you broke out of jail,” she growls. “Returning you is going to be my pleasure …. There!”

A pinprick stabs my shoulder. Everything spins and blurs. Voices swirl around me. Fingers press against my skin, tilt my head back, push me on my side. A light shines too bright. I try to shut my eyes but can't.

“Her hair is in the way,” a voice … the scientist … says.

“Should I tie it back?”

“Just get rid of it.”

“Gladly.”

Somewhere inside me, a girl is sobbing. I'm aware of the creak of an opening drawer. The ice woman lifts scissors, fitting her fingers through the handles. Cold metal presses against my skin. Snip, snip, snip. Curls of brown tossed away like trash.

“What can I do for you now?” Frost asks.

“Pass the Number Three for a prelim skull scan. If her bones show a high density, I may need Number Five.”

“It's ready, sir.”

“Administer the pain medi drip.”

Frost snorts. “Why waste medis on a Return?”

“It's your decision.” He squeezes his hands into stretchy gloves.

“She won't remember the pain—or anything else,” Frost says.

Her half-smile dooms me.

“One moment while I adjust the setting.” Scientist Daniel turns a crank on a metal wheel device.

“No rush. She's not going anywhere.” Frost leans so close
I can smell her breath, a sour odor, as if she's recently eaten something unripe or rotted.

“Would you like to know what's going to happen?” she asks me.

I'd rather spit in her face than admit my curiosity. I don't want to care or feel, and I long to float so far away that her noise is smaller than an insect's buzz. But her words hold me in a tight grip, ripping away my wings ….

“You're still numb, so the pain won't come quickly. Not until the scalpel cuts deep into the base of your neck … right here. Oh, what's this?” Chill seeps through me at her touch. “You've already had a memdenity? The improved skin-seal is so natural I didn't see the small incision. What we're going to do is similar to the memdenity procedure—only reverse. Instead of pouring memories into your brain, we'll withdraw memory cells, suctioning your memories like water through a straw. Sadly, there are risks. It's an evolving procedure, so you may lose the knowledge for speaking, eating, and bodily functions.”

“That only happened once.” Scientist Daniel frowns at Frost, rubbing a cloth over a spiked tool. “It was during the experimental stages and has never happened again. The procedure is 97% perfection.”

“Isn't that reassuring? You won't drool or soil your clothing,” Frost says, as if this is worthy of a celebraze. “You'll be as you were before this procedure—except you'll remember nothing. Not even your name.”

I won't forget. I won't.

“Your life here will be simple without the burden of memories. You'll contribute to ShareHaven in a useful role as a droll. Haven't you wondered who prepares the cease-age
patches and medi treatments? Scientists and assistants like myself have far more important duties.”

Fight, fight, FIGHT
! I struggle to release the screaming in my head. But my mouth can't open. My legs and arms are stone
. Lift, lift, move!
I can't. Nothing happens. Frost looms over me, half of her face smooth with contempt and the other half twisted like a monster. She murmurs something to the scientist as she reaches for a sharpening tool. My focus shimmers to the gleam of silver tools, jumping my thoughts somewhere else … another time … a memory.