Revive (13 page)

So that must be where I come in. Although Malone's been hazy on the details, I hope he has more to go on than what he's revealed so far. “How did you learn this intel without also finding out if X is a boy or a girl?”

“Good question. Fisher didn't work alone, of course. A couple of her colleagues disappeared with her. We presumed they were all killed around the same time as she was, but apparently one of them survived and knew about the child. He's now deceased, but we found among his belongings a reference to a child Fisher had put up for adoption anonymously. It appears this colleague had found the child and had been following him or her over the years. The colleague was very careful to hide the child's identity, and by the time we got on the scene, his records had been mostly destroyed. But we found one more clue—the name of a college, Robert Treat. It's a small liberal arts school just outside of Boston. We believe X attends it.”

With another couple taps, the folder on the e-sheet opens, revealing the photos of Sarah Fisher, information about the college, and a briefing. “If X does attend the school,” Malone continues, “he or she will probably be either a sophomore or a junior this fall semester. This is a solo mission. You'll be enrolled there as a transfer student when the new semester starts the last week of August. Your assignment is to find X before the terrorists do.”

Before I can say anything, Malone's phone rings. He checks the number and raises a finger in my direction. “Apologies. This will just be a second.”

Water condenses on my glass. If it weren't so cold, I'd gulp the whole thing right now. A mix of anxiety, pride and Malone's super-powered AC are drying me out. Yet confronted with the details of what's expected of me, my excitement wanes. When Malone said “mission”, I was hoping to go somewhere exciting. Not Boston. And solo? I have to go alone for my first time?

“Is that about Project Pinpoint?” Malone's saying. “I'll call you back soon. I'm in a meeting.” He hangs up and puts the phone in his pocket. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem. I was thinking about X's father. There's not much to go on, but if we had a photo of him, that would help.”

“It would. Regrettably, we don't have one, and we don't know who he is.” Malone leans closer. “It's going to be difficult; I won't lie. On top of that, you'll need to be discreet so if the organization hunting for X is watching the school, you don't give away any leads you discover. You can't even give away that you're anything other than a normal student. Now do you understand why I chose you?”

I push the e-sheet away. “Because I'm female, and that means people will feel more comfortable around me than they would around One. And to pull off this mission, I'll need to get people talking about themselves. People are more likely to talk about personal stuff with females.”

Malone sits back, smiling again. “Exactly. X is unlikely to know anyone is after them. But if our theory is correct, he or she must be aware of their unique healing capabilities, and they might prefer to keep them quiet. It's going to be a challenge in many ways. One of those ways will be fitting in among the normal students. They'll be far beneath you, but you can use that to your advantage. So don't worry. We have six weeks for you to prepare. I'm confident you can pull it off.”

Chapter Thirteen

Saturday Evening: Present

“Seven, can you hear me?”

Kyle. Where's Kyle? Did they get him too, or did he get away? Is he safe?

“Open your eyes.”

They caught me. Damn. I think they really caught me.

“Seven, open your eyes. You're home. You're safe.”

I know that voice. It's soft and friendly. Whatever I'm lying on is soft too. What happened to the garage? Guess I'm not dead.

“Does she have a concussion?”

Whoever answers mumbles. All I hear is “no” followed by noise.

The room is getting brighter. It hurts and I fight it, but my eyelids flutter. It takes a lot of effort to hold them open. All is too bright for a second, and I can't see. Then it passes, and the world resolves itself.

I bolt upright. “Where am I?”

Everything is white, white and painfully bright—the bed, the walls, the curtains. A hospital. I'm in a hospital.

Stay away from doctors!

“No!” I shove the sheet off my legs, dismayed to discover I'm in a medical gown, and try to get off the bed. But a jerking pain in my left arm stops me from moving too far. A tube sticks out of my forearm. Why am I attached to an IV?

“Seven, stop.”

Gasping, I do, distracted by the familiar voice and face. The man who approaches me is the only thing in here that's not a variation of white. He wears a dark suit and tie, and gray salts his thick coppery hair. He's tall but thin, with a face that reminds me of a mouse.

But he's no mouse. The name comes to me at once, hitting me over the head like a brick. “Malone?”

He smiles. Malone smiles a lot. I remember this. “Yes, welcome back, Seven. You've been injured, and you need to lie down. We're running some tests.”

I nod because all that jumping wore me out, yet something is still not right with me, and I struggle to figure out what. “Fitzpatrick! She said my memories were going to be erased. She said I might be pulled off the RTC mission. She said—”

“Hush. No one is going to erase your memories, and no one is pulling you off the mission. Relax. We need to figure out what happened to you.”

I lie back down, not feeling totally reassured. “That guy of yours drugged me.”

“I know, but rest for now.” Malone pulls the blanket back over me. “He was probably afraid of you.”

The pillow feels good, and I sink my head into it. How many hours have passed? Is Kyle waiting for me in a coffee shop in Boston? Maybe I can text him later and let him know everything is okay.

Kyle—something about him bugs me too. Something I need to remember, but so much is hazy.

I wiggle my left arm, hating the feel of the IV, longing to yank it out. I reach for it with my right hand and take a good look.

Oh, right. It's not an IV, is it? I should have known this, but I'm surprised anyway. My heart seems to fall into a pit in my stomach.

It's a wire. I'm plugged in.

I blink warily, and the room shifts into focus. It's not as bright as it was before, or maybe my pupils are no longer dilated. Sitting up, I stretch my muscles and discover my left arm is sore. No wonder. I'm no longer attached to anything. Medical tape and a piece of gauze cover the spot where the cable once poked through.

I flex my arm a few times, examining the uncovered skin for signs of a wire beneath it, but all I see are blue veins. Although it's close to the surface, the cable is well hidden among them.

“My name is not Sophia Hernandez.” I whisper to hear my own voice. Sadness spreads out from my chest, and my cheeks go hot with it. I liked being her more than I like being myself.

“No, it's not,” says a man in a white lab coat, entering the room.

I ball my hands into fists beneath the blanket, annoyed to have been overheard. The medic's face is familiar. I'm sure I've seen him around, but his name is a mystery, and I don't appreciate his smug tone.

“You should eat and drink something.” He points to the table by the bed. Now that he mentions it, I realize my throat is dry. “You remember who you really are?”

I take tiny sips of the water. “HY1-Seven.”

HY1: The first successful class of hybrids created at the camp. Full neural-technology integration, AKA biological computers. Not as strong, fast or physically tough as a Cyborg class, but independent and far more able to pass as a normal, naturally created human.

So far more able that until minutes ago, I actually believed I was one.

I rub my eyes and poke at the tuna fish sandwich. The bread has gotten soggy. Ugh. I can't remember the food at RTC, but I already miss it.

And Kyle. Shit. So much is gone from my memory, but his face before we separated and the taste of his lips—that's all way too clear.

Holes in my memory. Holes in my heart. Will I ever see him again? Should I want to see him again? I never figured out whether he could be trusted. That information probably fell into one of those memory holes.

The medic taps his e-sheet, oblivious to my oh-so-human turmoil. “You know what day it is?”

I don't much care what day it is. “December.”

“December what?”

I shrug and eat a bite even though I feel like puking.

The medic frowns and makes a note of my failure. “Eat,” he tells me, ignoring the fact that I already am. “Malone will be here shortly.”

Shortly turns out to be ten minutes, twenty-one seconds. Not that I'm counting consciously. It's as if parts of my brain are coming back online. Or, more likely, now that I know what my brain consists of, I'm fully aware of what it's doing.

I'm done eating by the time Malone appears at my bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” It's what he wants to hear. No one wants their robot—ninety-five percent human or not—to be sulky.

“How's your memory?”

“Swiss cheesy.”

Malone signals for the medic to leave then shuts the door after him. “I'm sorry to hear that. I'm also sorry to hear that bringing you in was traumatic.”

I cross my arms. “Your guy pointed a gun at me and drugged me.”

“That was unfortunate.” He pulls over a chair. “As I said, he was probably being extra cautious. For those who know about you, the HYs have a powerful reputation. You should be proud.”

I feel a hundred things at the moment, but proud is not one of them.

“We thought you might be having problems when your tracker went offline,” Malone says, “and when you ran initially, we didn't know what to expect. I would have handled the situation differently if I could have, but I was flying back from Amsterdam this morning. I wasn't made fully aware of what happened until you were on your way here.”

So that explains it. I wonder—if Malone had called me, would it have made any difference? Would it have triggered a memory earlier?

Malone unfolds an e-sheet and scans whatever's written on it. “I'm told you were hit on the head, and the tracker is not just offline, but missing. Do you have any idea how either of those things happened?”

I run my fingers over the back of my neck. So that's where that cut came from. A tracker would be SOP so my position could be monitored and I could be extracted if necessary. “No, I don't remember how either happened.”

Malone purses his lips. “You were with a man when my agents found you. Who is he?”

His voice is laden with suspicion. Here comes that puking sensation again. Could Kyle have removed my tracker? I'd thought maybe he was setting me up so those men could find me, but clearly not. Was he setting me up so
someone else
could find me, like the terrorist organization hunting X? “He's someone I knew at RTC. A student.”

“Do you remember anything else about him? Anything that might suggest he's working against us?”

“No.” Yes. But I have too many memories missing. I can't be certain if what I found in Kyle's room ever amounted to anything concrete, and since I can't, it's best to keep my mouth shut. I don't care if it's irrational. I want to defend Kyle. I want him to be on my side.

More importantly, if I confess what I found, the question will arise about why I didn't mention it before, and I'm in no state to explain myself.

I'm not sure Malone believes me, so I change the subject. “What happened to my memories?”

Malone sighs. “We don't know yet, though I suspect some of your circuitry got damaged. We ran some tests on you while you were out, and we should get answers soon. Memory loss usually isn't permanent, and if this is caused by anything related to the bump on your head, then there's a good chance everything will return in time.”

“Then am I going back to RTC?”

“Possibly. For now, as far as anyone at the college is concerned, you're with your family while you recover from a head injury. You mentioned your mission earlier. Do you remember why you were at the school?”

“Do you mean what my mission was? Yes, I remember that.”

Some of the tension eases from Malone's face. “Good. Do you remember if you found what you were looking for?”

Bad people are coming. Read Harris. Run!

This fragment of memory—or whatever it is—slams into me, stealing my breath. I dart up, my heart skipping, hands sweating, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

I regain control before my feet hit the floor, and I freeze. What was that about? Bad people—those were the men in South Station. Except they weren't bad at all. I have it figured out now. I'm not in danger from them. I was never in danger from them.

But X—is that what this memory fragment's about? Is it because of the organization searching for X?

Get. Out.

Stupid brain. Stupid damaged computer.

“Seven, what is it?” Malone jumped up when I did. He hovers over me, concern lining his face.

I pull my legs under me and catch a good whiff of my skin. On top of everything else, I need a shower. “I don't know. I think I did find something. It's bothering me, but I don't remember what it is. I mean, if I discovered who X is, I would have contacted you as soon as I had the chance. So it doesn't make sense.”

Malone adjusts the blanket around me. “It's possible you were compromised when you made the discovery, and that's how you got hurt. I'll have someone poke around at the college and try to figure out if any students have gone missing. Meantime, the doctors say the best thing for you is to get back into your normal routine. That should help bring your memories to the surface. Rest here for a little longer, and I'll send someone down to get you.”

But I don't feel like resting. I'm rest
less
. Once Malone leaves, I get out of bed and wander around the room. The tiles are cold under my bare feet, but I ignore the chill. More bits and pieces are coming back to me, but they're distant. Like it's another life.

At some point in the three and half months, one hundred four days, or 149,760 minutes while I was at RTC, I stopped pretending to be Sophia and started actually being her. Not the Sophia with the fake backstory and the faker dad who works for the government. But the real Sophia who helps Audrey with her physics homework, and who stuffs pickle chips in her frozen yogurt, and who likes nothing better on a Wednesday evening than to challenge Kyle to a game of Ultimate Siege II on his video game console.

And who sometimes honestly loses, damn him.

I guess it's because that Sophia is also Seven, just a Seven I didn't know I was or could be.

Pre-Sophia Seven is all work and no play. She can strategize and shoot and speak nine languages fluently, but she never plays a game for no other reason than the joy of playing. She knows how to waltz and tango, but she's never been to a formal dance. She's trained to endure sleep deprivation, block out pain and ignore the chill of cold tile on her bare heels. But she's not prepared for how to let go of having everything she didn't know she wanted.

Like a normal college student's life. Like Kyle. Like being human.

She killed, but she didn't live.

I close my eyes. She killed.
I
killed. Maybe they were horrible people we killed, but still. The act of having done it so effortlessly sickens me. I think I should have felt something then. How could I have been so
robot
? And if Malone or Fitzpatrick erase my memories, they will erase this new Sophia. Everything I became, all that I began to question, all I began to feel will be gone.

They will destroy me. I understand that now.

Dizziness rushes over me, and I grip the chair, waiting for it to pass. Where are my clothes? Where's my backpack? My phone with my friends' contact information in it?

I run around the room searching, but naturally it's not there. Malone or one of his lackeys have it, I'm sure. It's all locked away in some storage unit until it's determined whether I need it again. There's no way I'd be allowed to contact anyone from RTC unless I have to go back and finish the mission. Then, and only then, might Malone allow me to send people messages so we can keep up the appearance of my normality.

I laugh although it isn't funny. I want to go back so bad it hurts. Wouldn't Nine find that hilarious. I got to
go
, and it turned me into her.

Deflated, I sink onto the bed and spend the next several minutes wondering what Kyle is up to. I'm not even sure how much time has passed since I left Boston. He must be back on campus. Has he tried calling? If he didn't set me up, he'd be worried. Right? I'm worried about him even though I don't know whether I should be.

Poor Kyle. Poor me. I am a sulky robot, after all.

I'm too busy moping to see who it is when the door opens, and a moment later I can't move because I'm trapped in a hug. Then I recognize the arms gleefully wrapped around me and the voice that calls my name. Instead of relief, I feel slimy with guilt.