Project Paper Doll: The Trials Page 6

  “You are so not ready for this,” Adam said in disgust.

  The lock disengaged on the door suddenly, loudly, in the relative quiet of the room. Even though we’d been expecting it, waiting for it, the sound froze us.

  Emerson came in, appearing more rumpled than usual, his hair standing up in tufts and his glasses pushed up on his forehead. His mouth was a thin grim line.

  Crap. This could not be good news.

  Even Justine slipped her phone into her pocket to pay attention for once.

  But before Emerson could say anything, he noticed me with the tissue stuffed against my nose. Again.

  “What happened here?” Emerson asked with a frown. He approached me, tossing the envelope toward the bed, but Adam, with a simple gesture, diverted it to land gently in his hand.

  “It’s nothing,” I said quickly. “It’s getting better. What did they say?”

  Emerson shook his head, ignoring the question to focus on me, checking the dilation of my eyes. “Have you been experiencing the headaches again?”

  How about all the time? Not that I was going to mention that.

  Behind Emerson, Adam ripped open the envelope without waiting for permission and pulled out a sheet of paper. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked with a laugh. “He’s my target?”

  “No,” Emerson said. “He’s Zane’s. Technically.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. I was in the trials. I felt a rush of relief, followed immediately by the falling sensation of panic. I’d fought hard for exactly this, but I hadn’t thought beyond this moment to the next obstacle or series of obstacles, which were looking pretty monumental at this point.

  But I would do it. I could do it. I wasn’t the same helpless human I’d been before.

  Adam looked up sharply. “No way. No way they’re letting him in.” He shoved the page back in the envelope. “I can win this for you,” he said to Emerson. Then he switched his attention to Justine. “I can get that girl to do whatever you want. I’m the better candidate,” Adam said with the supreme confidence of one who believes himself to be incontrovertibly right.

  “Not for what we want anymore,” Justine said calmly.

  “We still need you,” Emerson, always the peacemaker, said. “They’re going to be monitoring Zane very closely.” He gave me a worried look. “You’re going to have to—”

  “I didn’t sign up for this to be the fucking B-Team,” Adam snarled, his face distorted and red with anger. He was in love with the idea of being a supersoldier. I’d heard him talk about it night after night. And I kind of didn’t blame him. He’d fought for his country and then he’d given up two years and a chunk of his humanity to be the first in the line of new and improved. He didn’t deserve this outcome for all that work. Even if he was a total douche.

  Justine raised her eyebrows. “You signed up for whatever we tell you, soldier.”

  He stiffened. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. Then he dropped the envelope on the bed, like it was covered in filth, and stalked out of the room, the door banging shut after him.

  Emerson sighed after him and then sat down heavily in the desk chair.

  “I wasn’t kidding,” he said to me, scrubbing his face with his hands, as though he’d been downstairs for hours instead of minutes. “You’re going to have to be really careful. It’s not going to be as straightforward as we thought. Getting her alone long enough is going to be tricky.” He looked to Justine as if for confirmation or help.

  She waved away his concern. “That’s why we have Zane, isn’t it?” she asked, the threat implicit in her tone. If he can’t do this, then why are we sending him?

  I nodded quickly. “Yeah. I can do it.” As if there were even room for another answer now.

  Justine’s phone chirped, and she pulled it from her pocket, examining the screen with a frown. “I have to go. Keep me apprised.”

  She left hurriedly, not bothering with anything resembling good-bye or an explanation.

  St. John twisted back and forth in the chair, the base of it squeaking shrilly in the now otherwise silent room, before leaning forward to balance his elbows on his knees.

  “Is that any better?” he asked, tipping his head toward my nose.

  I shrugged, lowering the tissue. “Think so.” I didn’t want to commit either way. Needing another injection too soon would mean that my body was continuing to reject the changes rather than stabilizing.

  NuStasis was nothing to mess with. Emerson had shown me a video of a test animal, a rabbit, that had “destabilized.” I’d had nightmares. So much blood everywhere. It was nothing but a limp pile of fur and bone in the end.

  But that was not going to be me. My body would eventually adjust and accept the changes, as Adam’s had, and I’d be Zane 2.0 permanently, new and improved. Okay, yes, it was taking me far longer to stabilize than it had taken Adam, but that was probably just because of the way I’d started treatment.

  This had to work. I was determined to ignore any other possibility.

  Like reaching the point where my body would make the choice for me, rejecting all of my virus-altered DNA, and no amount of NuStasis injections would save me. Then, instead of the bloody rabbit stew, it would be me in the middle of that mess. Whatever was left of me, that is. Which wouldn’t be much.

  Running a hand through his rumpled hair, Emerson got up with a sigh and moved to crouch down in front of me. Then he pulled a pen light out from the inside of his coat. “Follow my finger.” He held up his index finger and waved it from right to left, with the light shining on me with blinding intensity.

  My eyes watering, I did my best. The new sensitivity was brutal. I wasn’t sure if this was something Ariane had had to deal with, or if she’d simply grown accustomed to it after years of practice.

  “What number am I thinking of?” he asked, pulling a small pad of hotel stationery he’d swiped out of his shirt pocket and jotting something down. Emerson was unorganized and kind of…all over the place. Not exactly the mastermind Dr. Jacobs was, but dude was obviously smart. Like one of those kid geniuses who’d never grown up. He was prone to impulse and not always thinking things through. A trait I was exceedingly grateful for, since it had resulted in me being alive still.

  “Seventy-two,” I said immediately.

  “Yes,” he said, startled.

  “You need to think of a new number.” I couldn’t really hear thoughts. Not reliably, anyway. Just bursts of random noise, like a bunch of people shouting all at once. It was usually strongest right after an injection. I could occasionally get a few words here and there, along with a blinding headache. It was mostly useless, more of an annoyance than anything.

  Emerson blinked at me, as if he’d been the one staring at the bright light. “What?”

  “You always pick that one. The year you were born.” Emerson was a good twenty-five years younger than Dr. Jacobs and at least a decade younger than Dr. Laughlin. He’d been the last to join this circus of experimentation and blood sport. And he seemed to actually care about Adam and me, possibly because we represented his life’s work, but it didn’t feel like that. I didn’t mind him. Other than the fact that he’d signed up to play in this field, but at least his method let people choose to participate rather than forcing it on unwilling subjects.

  Then again, maybe I was just more willing to cut him slack. Kind of a side effect of someone saving your life, I suppose.

  “Oh, sorry.” He tucked his pen light away, only to pull out a temporal thermometer, running it across my forehead. “Ninety-nine,” he said absently, writing that down as well.

  I waited, not moving, holding my breath for the verdict.

  “You know,” he said to me, “people like Justine don’t do anything without a dozen reasons.”

  I stared at him, surprised by the shift in conversation. “What?”

  He shrugged. “Just letting you know.”

  In effect, warning me. Of something I already knew but I couldn’t acknowledge, not
even to him.

  “And you’re different?” I asked. I thought he was all right, but that didn’t mean I was about to trust him.

  He grinned, unashamed. “At least I’m up-front about it.”

  That was true. If Ariane, the top competitor, disappeared, and there were serious concerns about Ford’s emotional and psychological problems—common knowledge among the Committee, according to Justine—then that left Emerson as the last man standing, so to speak. He’d have to overcome the mark against him for choosing me as his candidate. But the big point had already been made with me today (you can enhance anyone, including someone with an emotional connection to the target). It would then be driven home with a separate demonstration, post-trials, from Adam (and look what happens when you choose someone who’s already strong and trained).

  At least, that was the plan.

  But I also knew that, thanks to Justine, Emerson had plans beyond the trials for his creation with the pharma companies. He’d thoroughly documented my recovery from the brink of death, and the healthcare market was eager for the next miracle drug, no matter what it happened to be, including pieces of alien genetic material.

  There were these pesky side effects: DNA alterations, new powers, the increased possibility of strokes and/or brain damage, blinding headaches, the occasional test subject hemorrhaging to death, etc. But he seemed to think all of that could be worked out in development, while he was sitting on his pile of millions.

  “I’m just saying, there’s frying pan into the fire and then there’s frying pan into the volcano.” His tone was casual as he tucked his thermometer back into his lab coat. I could take or leave his advice; he didn’t care beyond whatever had motivated him to say something in the first place.

  I nodded. I got what he was saying. A bigger cage was still a cage, and that was what Justine’s promised future would likely be. But I was kind of hoping this one, whatever it turned out to be, would have bars easier to slip through.

  He studied the page in front of him. “As soon as you’re done tomorrow, mission accomplished and all, we could start reducing the injections, wean you off before trouble really starts,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “The earlier we start, the better your chance of survival.”

  I stiffened. This wasn’t the first time he’d made the suggestion, and I should have known he’d feel compelled to bring it up again.

  Weaning myself off the injections might mean a better chance of survival, yes, but it would also mean saying good-bye to all my newly acquired abilities. And that feeling, finally, of being enough.

  A wave of possessiveness swept through me. No, I needed to be this new, better version of myself.

  I shook my head. “No. I’m good,” I said firmly.

  He gave me an exasperated look. “Why did I know you were going to say that? Zane—”

  I cut him off. “So, my numbers are okay still?” I tipped my head toward the pad of paper, refusing to continue the previous conversation.

  Emerson’s shoulders slumped in response, but he didn’t pursue the topic any further. “Yeah. For now,” he said, tearing the top page off and stuffing it into his pants pocket, and then the pad of paper after it. “But you should rest. Tomorrow’s going to take a toll.” He hesitated. “You’ll need to come back after it’s all over, right away.”

  I nodded. Going too long without an injection was just as dangerous as too many at once. So was giving myself an injection without someone to monitor my possible reaction.

  Emerson grabbed the envelope off the bed, clearing it out of the way so I could lie down.

  I didn’t argue with him. The virus in NuStasis was still hard at work in me. And ironically, the super, juiced-up immune system that was the first side effect was now working against me, fighting off the “invaders,” the bits of alien cells, as an infection.

  I flopped back on the bed, thinking too late that I probably should have taken the tissue box off the desk. The white covers would show blood like none other.

  But I wasn’t about to get up again. The weariness that had become an all-too-familiar facet of my life the last three weeks was pulling me down, pinning me against the thick mattress. And thinking about tomorrow, the pinch of eagerness and sharp stabs of anxiety, only exhausted me further.

  I would convince Ariane. I had to.

  “Call me right away if your symptoms get worse,” Emerson said on his way out the door.

  “With what phone?” I asked, summoning enough energy to make myself heard. The hotel phone had been removed before I’d even walked in. Justine didn’t want me making contact with anyone without her knowledge and supervision, afraid I might give something away even unintentionally.

  He paused, tucking the envelope under his arm. “Right. I’ll come and check on you.”

  “Fine,” I mumbled.

  I shouldn’t have reminded him of my lack of a phone. The more freedom I had, the more room I had to maneuver, assuming there was somewhere to maneuver to. But whatever. I was tired of thinking twelve steps ahead. Unlike Ariane, I hadn’t had the years of training for it, nor did it come naturally. I had to work at it. And I could only hope, for her sake and mine, I was getting better at it.

  AMAZING WHAT A GUN BEING pointed at you will do for clearing the fog of shock and emotion from your mind. Add three more and my thoughts were practically crystalline, transcendent even.

  “If she tries anything, shoot her.” That had been Dr. Jacobs’s final order. He’d stepped out into the hallway outside the conference room just long enough to give the instruction, not shouted but uttered with teeth-gritting contempt for me.

  So now the four guards who’d removed me from the conference room—the same ones who’d accompanied me to the hotel in the first place—were all jammed in a shockingly nice hotel room with me.

  My shoulders ached from my hunched position in the desk chair—my knees drawn up to my chest—but I didn’t dare make an adjustment.

  Dr. Jacobs wouldn’t be pleased to return from protesting St. John’s trickery to find me riddled with bullet holes. But I’d decided to take him at his word. The urge to not die had suddenly rekindled itself in me with such ferocity, I was surprised I wasn’t hot to the touch from it.

  Zane was alive. And here. Neither of which I would have classified as possible prior to today. Just thinking about him and his sudden reappearance made fear and longing surge inside me, loosening my grip on my power.

  The desk lamp beside me, a strange wooden block with an equally square lamp shade that probably made sense in the designer’s mind, wobbled. The bulb sizzled and popped inside.

  My guards eyed the lamp and then me. “Stop,” said the nervous one from the van, his finger hovering above his trigger.

  Anger sparked to life inside me, catching on the resentment like dusty curtains in the flame of a forgotten candle. They were keeping me here, away from the answers I needed, holding me prisoner. But they were not nearly as effective a barrier as the glass cage at GTX had been. And the fear in his voice tempted me, whispered at me to push further, to really show him something to be afraid of. Four of them? I could manage that easily, especially now that I’d been practicing.

  The blend of human emotion and the cool, practical knowledge that I could do more, be more, and beat them was a volatile mix. My human side was screaming, dying to punish them for their role in all of this, and my alien half was more than willing to show them exactly how outmatched they were.

  I let out a slow breath, concentrating on my control. Letting my emotions rule would not serve me in this circumstance. If I proved capable of dispatching four guards, Jacobs would only call for eight. And I wasn’t leaving here without understanding what was going on. Period.

  So I forced myself to do what I’d been taught: evaluate what you know, consider each fact individually and as part of a larger whole, determine the potential ramifications, and devise next steps.

  First, unless Emerson St. John had perfected not only cloning but also some kind of
advanced growth process—so unlikely—it was Zane I’d seen downstairs. The same person I’d known in Wingate.

  In terms of his outward appearance, at least. But my Zane—was it wrong that I still thought of him that way? I wasn’t sure—had been completely human. Definitely not capable of picking that guard up with just his mind.

  The most logical answer was simply what St. John had implied: he’d selected Zane as a candidate for “enhancement” through his formula, the virus he’d engineered to deliver and insert alien DNA into an existing human.

  That also fit, I realized, with another detail: Zane’s body missing from the parking lot and/or hospital, and staff being unable to confirm what exactly had happened to him.

  Somehow, St. John had found Zane in time to save him, likely by introducing the alien DNA into his system. Our ability to heal rapidly would be an enormous advantage in saving someone on the brink of death, if such a thing were possible.

  But that wasn’t the big question. The real question—with those changes—was Zane still…Zane?

  He’d looked right at me. Just for a second, but that was long enough. No meaningful glance, no expressive pleading with his eyes, just…nothing.

  Zane was alive, yes, but possibly so damaged that he was no longer himself. And while I should have been relieved to find him breathing, the knowledge that he was no longer the same was almost worse.

  And then, beyond that—in yet another level of horribleness that must be considered—there was a second question that I couldn’t shake, one I desperately needed an answer for: why? Why save Zane and bring him here as a potential competitor?

  It was deliberate, not a happy coincidence; I had no doubt of that. St. John had been looking right at me when he talked about the advantages of his approach. In fact, thinking about it now, I had to wonder if St. John had held Zane out of the room until he was sure I was there.

  So it wasn’t just saving a mortally wounded sixteen-year-old male. It was saving this one.