The Isle (15 page)

S
ipu plays with her cuffcomm until neon-green rectangles and squares light against the glass windshield. “Here is the governor's mansion,” she tells us, pointing to a rectangle facing west. She moves her finger to a square below it. “And here, the FATE Research Center.”

I trace over a short green line between both buildings. “And this connects the two? How far is it?”

“The causeway is only a mile,” she says. “Not a long walk from the lot.”

Ter reaches for a different square smack in the middle of the two but farther into the strait. “And what's this building?”

A grin tugs at one corner of Sipu's mouth. “A secret laboratory needs a secret docking lot, correct?”

Ter shakes his head in a
duh
sort of way, and laughs.
“Makes perfect sense,” he admits. “A hundred mobiles outside doesn't exactly scream ‘secret.'”

“The docking lot connects to the causeway, only accessible by fingerprint ID,” she goes on. “We'll follow the causeway to the lab, also accessible by fingerprint ID.”

Looking down at my own hands, I wonder,
How are we going to get that? I don't even have fingerprints to fake.

Ter asks the obvious question, and immediately Sipu reaches under her seat.

Opening up a metal box, she says, “We'll use these.” She lays something rubbery in both our palms. Under the reflected green light is a clear thimble made of gooey, jelly-like plastic.

I fit it over the stub of one knuckle and ask, “This is going to give us fingerprints?”

Ter ogles it, laughing. He already knows what it is.

“They're called Print Mimics. We bought them for my sister and her husband to use on a recon assignment, extras for the rest of us. The assignment bombed, though.” Sipu pauses here, stiffening. Her voice drops like she's holding something back, and her face is unreadable. “We haven't used them since.”

“And then what?” Ter asks. “How do we get the water into the quarantine area?”

Flipping off the projection, Sipu, in total darkness, says, “That I don't know.” The mobile rocks like a baby's cradle in the deep tide.

“You don't have a map of inside the lab?”

“I have many things, Terrence. I have DI uniforms, lab
coats, and yes, a map of the lab. What I don't have, however, is an invisibility shield,” she says, turning to face us. “How we plan on carrying a sack of green water around unnoticed, that's up to us.”

“I have an idea!” I say, bouncing in my seat. “In Quarantine, there were these metal barrels filled with water that we drank from. Every day, they were replaced. If we can find where they keep them, we could swap out their water for ours, right?”

Nodding, Ter leans forward. He looks at me. “That could work,” he says, and he taps my knee. “That could work.”

“It's perfect!” I insist. “And we were given these plastic cups to use. They were tiny. If we made sure to tell everyone to drink half a cup, it'd be about the same dosage that Callum gave me.”

“This is good,” Sipu says. “I like it. How many people were there? Do we have enough water?”

“I don't know how many people, honestly. . . . A ton? The room was as big as Nale's roof, Ter, and the mattresses were pushed together with no room between. There were people everywhere.”

“Whoa, that's, like, hundreds. Max, we're talking five.”

I begin to do the math in my head—since Ren was never so good at it, I actually kept track of our money, until I got too sick. “The tube Callum gave me was about two ounces. So, that times five hundred is . . .” I pause, figuring it out. “A thousand ounces. Maybe seven gallons? About one bag. We won't even need the second,” I say, patting it gently.

“We'll have to figure out where they store the barrels. The
lab's rainwater-collection system wasn't built to accommodate that many, so they must be bringing in outside water,” Sipu says.

Ter snaps his fingers. “Then shipments would come into the lot, right?”

“You're right. And they wouldn't keep barrels of fresh in the lab—it would be too tempting for the employees. I bet there's a supply closet accessible through the lot as well, where they hide the used barrels needing to be refilled.”

We all inhale and look at one another wide-eyed—the plan that's taking shape might actually work.

Sipu calls up another projection—this one of white square outlines within other square outlines. “Here's a map of the lab.”

I'm able to show Ter and Sipu the quarantine room even though it's not labeled, just from memory, by tracing my escape with Ren backward. Then, peering at the schematics, we memorize our route—the ID access point leads into the main hallway. That connects to another hallway, and the only way into Quarantine is by first passing through an entry station.

“We can't all bring them the barrels,” I realize, sinking into my seat. “Only one orderly came to change them out. Never three.” So badly do I want to be the one to give them the water. I want to watch their faces as they begin to feel better. I can't, though. It's not even a bad idea—it's just plain silly.

“I'll do it,” Ter offers. “It's a manual-labor job. Those usually go to brawny men like myself anyway.” He makes a muscle for me.

Eye roll.
I push him playfully.
I'm flirting
, I realize.
And I think I'm doing a good job.
I smile to myself in the dark. Then, a second later—

Wait. . . .
Did he start it?

“Good. Aven and I will hide here,” Sipu says, pointing to an inventory room. “I think we have a plan, you two.” She taps the steering wheel, excited. “We'll enter the lot, take prints. Then, we locate the supply closet and swap waters. Make it through the first and second access points. And, while you bring the barrel to Quarantine, Aven and I will be waiting in the inventory closet. Anything missing? Are we ready?”

“Ready,” Ter says.

I gulp. My throat is dry, but my palms are clammy.
Am I ready?
My fear could take over and ruin everything.

And then, something hits me: Maybe there's no such thing as “ready.” Maybe you just do it—or you don't.

“I'm ready,” I answer. The truth doesn't even matter.

I
nside the box is an empty glass vial. The white label stuck to it reads
HBNC
.

I'm shaking—
this can't be true—
but it's all coming together, and it don't matter that every bone in my body, every hair, muscle, sinew, and pore resists it.
Bellum Pestilentia—War by disease. Pestilence . . .

Blight.

Light pixels throw themselves onto the air. They form a holo of the governor himself, cropped from the shoulders up. In the image, he's holding the very vial that's sitting in this box. He looks directly at me, and he speaks.

“This is a message for the Tètai:

“Hyper Basilic Neoplasma Contagion—that is what I've named this virus, and it's taken me years to develop. Do not
for a moment doubt my intentions. This is a deadly biological agent. Hear this: If you will not provide me with the spring's location, I will release this virus, and then I will wait. As long as it takes for you to provide me with the cure, I will wait. The dead will be on your hands. It is within your power to stop this from happening.

“You know what I want.”

The holo repeats on a loop and Emilce drops the lid closed.

I turn nuclear. My insides go radioactive. I'm like the power plant upriver that infected everything.
The virus. Voss created the virus.
I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't swallow.
I can't . . . I can't . . . I can't—

“Why do you have this?” I ask, doubled over next to Emilce's cot, about to be sick. “Your husband sent it to the Tètai. How did you get it?”

“It was sent back, by one of them. A girl . . . Kita something,” she says nonchalantly. “Their way of spitting in his face, maybe.”

Now I'm really reeling.
Kitaneh knew.
She knew Voss would release the Blight, and she did nothing to stop him.
Does Derek know? Do Lucas and Sipu know?
Did everyone know, then sit back and watch as it all happened?

Emilce lowers the lid with one hand. “Take the box. Use it for your vengeance or your vigilante justice, I don't care which. Just use it.”

I'll use it.
The beast made of teeth bares its jaws. I'd forgotten it was still inside me, but here it is. Ready. Waiting. I take the box from her hands.

At the last moment, she pulls away.

“On one condition.” Emilce looks at the IV, watches as it drips the serum and a minuscule dose of everlasting life into her veins.

“You want me to kill you.” It's not a question. I already know that's what she wants.

Emilce nods. “Guilt,” she begins slowly, “is uniquely powerful. Some, it motivates into action. Others, like myself—steadfast inaction. By the time that girl had sent back the box, the virus was out. It was too late . . . if you believe in too late, and I did. Fear helped. How do you destroy the man you love and continue on, both of you alive?” She stops there and looks away. “I'd like to be dead when he finds out.”

I inhale, my palms wrung together in worry or in prayer, I'm not sure which.

I examine what's left of her body like a poor surgeon, unsure if I'm fit for the job.
This is also murder
, I realize, no longer breathing. But if I would kill the governor for vengeance, then I should have no qualms killing for mercy. She wants death. I should want it for her.

“All right,” I whisper.

I reach for her far arm. There, the tube's been taped and tucked under a loose flap of skin. “What's going to happen to you?” I ask, touching the inside of her elbow.

“I've never done this before. I couldn't say.”

She's made me laugh, this woman. I inhale, trying to keep my fingers still for her sake. Don't want to cause her any pain . . . beyond what's expected, that is. I pull, and the wire slips out. Around the hole, her flesh sags. A thin spot of dark blood pools against her skin.

“Perfect symmetry, isn't it?” she says, and I pause, curious. “I was the first to do nothing, and now I am the last.” Then, her breathing thins.

I watch as her eyes glaze over. A choke bubbles up from my throat. I don't let her go. “I'll stay,” I offer, because no one should have to die alone. Not even a monster's love.

“Special child,” she whispers in a daze. “Someday . . . forgive us.” Then, like burning driftwood that spits out sparks before it dies, I feel her reaching for me. Her arms pry at mine, gripping my shoulders and elbows. Begging, she croaks, “Find Miss Nale—she knows . . .” but the sentence collapses in her mouth.

Miss Nale knows what?

Emilce's body caves into the cot. Deep lines begin to form across her face, hard crags in the skin. Sunspots bloom on her cheeks. Her skin loosens. Her chest sputters weakly up and down.
She's still breathing
. “What does she know?” I ask, patting her hand gently. Emilce doesn't answer.

Her chest rises. It falls.

It doesn't rise again.

S
ipu's Omni slows—
we're here
.

The docking lot takes shape in the dark water, an outline of a massive concrete box. Behind it, a glass tube—the causeway that connects Voss's mansion to FATE—runs north-south along the coast. Red fluorescent squares of light glow inside from the flooring.

We hover in front of a garage door for a moment when, to the right, a red eye glints on. A beam fans up and down the Omni, flooding the cockpit with blood-colored light. “What's it doing?” I ask.

A very excited Ter answers first. “It's checking the mobile's bar code.”

For a split second, I'm worried.

“You didn't just paint this thing, right?” Ter asks Sipu,
joking in a serious kind of way.

The red light clicks off, answering for her, as she says, “Oh, it's real.” She pats the dash like a proud parent. “It's from one of our early run-ins with the DI. The driver didn't make it, but we salvaged the wreck. And Lucas did a little hacking, to give it a different bar code.” Sipu's jaw tightens as she says his name.

The garage door slides open sideways. She steers the mobile into an airlock as Ter examines every one of the Omni's nooks and crannies, like it's suddenly a brand-new mobile. Water drains away, leaving just enough to keep us afloat, and we enter the lot.

Behind us, the airlock closes.

For docking, a concrete plus sign divides the lot in four. Walking paths wrap the walls, leading to the causeway's entrance—the first ID checkpoint. The whole left is filled with mobiles of shapes and sizes I've never seen before—that side must be reserved for lab employees. To our right, one corner is filled with delivery truck boats. The other, closest to the checkpoint: DI Omnis. A pack of officers stand around, taking up space on the walking path.

“That's not good,” Ter says, also seeing them.

Sipu steers us past the delivery lot. It's filled with white boxes kept afloat by a necklace of inflated black rubber balloons.

“I think that's it,” Ter says, pointing to a door on our right, painted the same concrete gray as everything else. “It'd make sense to keep it near the delivery boats, and I don't see any other closets.”

Sipu slows the Omni. “I agree. Looks like it could be it.” Instead of continuing on toward the DI reserved lot, she swings right, bringing us between two white truck boats. “Ter, Aven, I'm dropping you off here,” she says, handing us a pair of scrubs and a DI uniform each. “Scrubs first, uniforms over them. You two fill the barrel, and I'll meet you in the lot up ahead. Seeing how many officers are here, I think it's best if I play escort. Also, make sure no one looks too closely at the ID cards on your uniforms.” She pauses, then holds out her hand. “Give me your Print Mimics—there are too many officers; you'll look suspicious. I'll pull prints for all of us.”

I hand her mine, Ter hands her his, and then she throws on her own DI uniform.

Squirming into the back, I glance over my shoulder. Only when I'm sure no one's watching do I layer up. I emerge, fabric chafing fabric, like a blue starchy butterfly . . . except if butterflies turned into caterpillars and not the other way around. “Girls are hardly ever DI,” I say to her, worried, eyeing my blue shirt and pants. “I don't think I've seen one in my life.”

“There are some women at the base, in the offices, mainly. But . . . you're not wrong. We'll have to be fast,” Sipu says casually, opening the moonroof.

Ter climbs out first. Hugging the plastic sack, I'm next, looking so ridiculous in this DI uniform—I'm
fourteen.

Sipu reverses out of the delivery lot.

With his head lowered, Ter tells me quietly, “Don't look. There's a camera by the ID check. Keep your back to it.”

I freeze awkwardly. With no fingernails, I bite into my thumb knuckle instead. Ter nudges my elbow toward the gray door.

I stop suddenly on the walkway.
I'm cold
, I realize.
I'm in three layers and I'm shaking
. Yellow bulbs dangle from the ceiling. They're attached to loose wires, just like—

I'm back in Quarantine.

Every point of light becomes a pinprick. At the back of my mind, a steel blade traces a line down my neck. It's like I'm looking through the eye of a needle—my fear's made everything small. I can't feel my heart . . . my lungs don't work.
Why did I come back here?

“What's wrong?” I hear Ter ask, but he sounds so far away. He's shaking me, but I'm someplace else. Somewhere he can't get to.

You came to bring them a cure
, I remind myself.
You came to get them out!

Since the blade is steel, I know what I have to do.

I have to turn myself into steel too. Maybe, sometimes, it's okay to fight fire with fire—
Ren isn't here to do it for you.
I pretend I'm the knife. Ignoring the cold, I cut the fear with myself. I cut it in halves, infinitely.

I make it too small for microscopes.

When I open my eyes again . . . the shivering has calmed. Over us, the bulbs are just electricity burning up. I breathe, in and out, to remind myself that I can.
Whoever said make-believe didn't work?

“I'm fine,” I tell Ter in a whisper I can barely hear myself. “It's over. I'm okay.”

Ter eyes me, wary as he tries the handle to the storage room. It doesn't budge. “Gimme some cover,” he says, and pulls off the fake ID card tagged to his front pocket. I move between him and the officers, and the camera.

Even though I'm faced away, I can still feel them standing behind me. I can feel the ID check, and the security cameras. My body is a living, breathing target. I might have cut my fear into pieces, but there are things bigger than myself—now, I'm afraid for
us
. What we're trying to do.

In the corner of my eye, the men in blue take final swigs from their canteen. “Break's over,” one says, before heading to the ID check. I hold my breath until they're gone, but the feeling of eyes on my back doesn't leave with them.

Ter continues wiggling the card between the door and the lock, jamming it up and down, until—

Click
.

It unlocks. When he looks back at me, he's wearing a wide smile. I can't force myself to smile back, though.
If someone were to recognize me
. . .

I turn the handle first and push past him into the dark storage room.

I'd be the reason we get caught. I'd be why we failed.

I shouldn't be here.

Just as Sipu's maps predicted, inside the room we find steel barrels upon more steel barrels. They're stacked as high as the ceiling. I watch, unmoving, as Ter brings one down.
I shouldn't be here
, I think again. He pops off the lid. Without saying a word, we pour the water. The bag jiggles in our hands until it's totally empty.

It's anxious too
. It's ready to finally do what it was put on this planet for.

My heart sinks.
The water needs to make it to Quarantine.
That's the most important thing. Not me, and not the promise I don't know how to keep.

Ter drags the half-full barrel onto a dolly. “Scrub time,” he reminds me, and I touch his arm.

“I think . . .” My eyes prickle with saltwater. “I think I shouldn't go. The security cameras, the officers—”

“Are you serious?” Ter cuts me off. “You can't be afraid. We couldn't have come up with a plan if it hadn't been for you. . . . I'm not leaving you behind. No.”

He doesn't get it.

Shaking my head, I say, “That's not even it, Ter. What if I'm recognized? What if we get caught and no one gets the water, all because I had to come along? It's more important that you and Sipu make it to Quarantine. I'm too big a risk.”

Saying those words . . . my chest aches knowing they're true.

One thing. Here I am, healthy for the first time in years, and I can't do this one thing.