Collide (5 page)

The air was thick with exhaust and humidity. She glanced at the sky. Heavy grey clouds hugged the coastal mountain range flanking this part of the city, normal for Northern California. Strong winds whipped up from the ocean and burned her cheeks. She pulled the long trench coat closer to her, desperate to block out the draft. Strolling away from the water, she kept her head down and fought against the relentless current of air as it rushed through the valley she temporarily called home.

What am I doing?

She’d thought of little else over the past weeks, analyzing her decision to continue the Order’s work. Yes, she needed them. They gave her comfort in the beginning, completed her training. They were her family.

Things changed with the continued missions, the doctor’s death. More and more she questioned the Order’s purpose. Not to mention their lack of support for the one thing she still desperately clung to—revenge. The Architect needed the vengeance to release her from her doubt, the mistrust and guilt. Until she had some release, these unexpected emotions continued to cloud her judgment.

She fingered the smooth picture hidden in her pocket and focused. The photograph was the one thing she’d kept after the “episode” that closed the lab, her only token of a forgotten childhood.

The Creator had destroyed the other memories from her past: her mother’s locket and her father’s favorite book. Nothing that held meaning was spared.

He didn’t know about the photo claimed from a frame he’d discarded. With luck, he never would. The Architect had buried every thought of the picture, her friends, her life. The secret had remained hidden for the past ten years. It needed to stay secure for a lifetime more.

The wind tousled the leaves at her feet and they rose up around her.

Out for a stroll?
the Creator asked.

Not a
real
question of course; an accusation. The air stiffened. Silence screamed the Architect’s frustration as she emptied each thought, imagining a metal shield between herself and the mental invasion.
What do you want?
she asked. Each word dripped with anger.

Remember your mission, soldier
. His voice boomed through her mind.
You will follow your orders
.

The threat lingered too long before the Architect replied.
Yes, sir
. She swallowed hard.
The Order must be protected.
Regardless of the cost she’d pay.

Good. It’s time for your next target.

Yes, sir
. The Architect unwillingly pictured her friends from the tattered old photo.

We must eliminate the group.

She shivered involuntarily.
Why now?

Blame the girl.

Confusion riddled the Architect’s mind.
Sir?

She’s the threat. Protect the Order
.

Yes
, she said before she could resist.
I will kill her
.

No, not yet. Stop her. Hurt her by killing her friends. Then bring her to me.

As the silent monsters in her head warred, urging her to ignore her orders, the Creator left her thoughts. Compliance wasn’t optional. She would do what was expected as always. Turning back toward the studio, she caught a glimpse of the distant sun as it began to set beyond the ocean, its golden rays of light reflected off the buildings and the pavement. The beauty of the scene caught her by surprise and she gasped. A lifetime ago she would’ve stopped walking, gazed into the sky and appreciated the landscape around her; she would’ve laughed and sang.

She would’ve held out hope.

Not anymore. Now, there was only death.

The Architect took another deep breath. Salt lingered in the air, biting at her skin. A strange combination of exhaust and ocean filled her senses. The scent made her dizzy as she strode back to the warehouse-like building, climbed the narrow stairs and entered the boarding house.

Long, dark shadows covered the hardwood floor as the sun dipped below the horizon. The Architect pulled herself free from her coat and sank into the oversized chair adjacent to her desk. She smoothed out the wrinkles now evident across the precious picture and stared at the faces, allowing them to imprint deeply into her thoughts.

Five children, none older than six or seven, sat in a single row of hard chairs as four adults stood behind them. Everyone smiled, innocent and naive like a class picture from some long-forgotten moment in time.

“Why were we so happy?” she asked to the empty room. “Didn’t we understand the truth?”

The answer came before the question was fully shaped.
No
. They were too young.

She ran her thumb against the paper, remembering each child in vivid detail. The first was a girl with the pale skin and green eyes. The Architect had never seen someone like her before joining the experiments. The girl didn’t smile; she just glared at the camera from beneath her unruly red hair. The boy sitting next to her could have been her twin—same green eyes, same fair skin. The similarities ended there; where the girl was a ginger, the boy had ebony black hair that stood at odd angles around his young face. He smiled up from the picture, his expression carrying a hint of mischief.

It paled in comparison to the boy who sat next to him. Older than the others, his eyes held a determination along with the mischievousness. Blue and deep, he appeared to be strangely alive in the photograph. His hair, a blond windswept mop on the top of his head, and tanned skin gave him the appearance of a young Hollywood actor. He possessed a charm that seeped through the paper. He was clearly the leader of the group back then.

When there was a leader. And they were a group.

The Architect’s eyes moved to the next child—a fierce-looking girl, out of place among the others. Her skin was the color of midnight. Her hair was a wild chestnut mass extending too far to either side. Untamed. Fiery eyes, more amber than brown, sparkled with a life force that refused to be contained.

The Architect rested her gaze on the image, taking in every detail. The small dimple in her checks. The angular bone structure. The uncontrollable spirit radiating from her cells.
Where did you go?
Tears filled her eyes as she lost herself in the past.

Two heartbeats passed before her sight traveled to the last girl. Her blonde hair resembled the leader’s. Her eyes mimicked a golden sky, while her skin made her look like Malibu Barbie. Even at five, she exemplified the American definition of beauty. The Architect stared, ignoring the water that now dropped from her eyes and spilled across her cheekbones. A moment passed. And another. Until she looked at the four adults, their lab coats reflecting the flash from the camera.

The Architect wiped her cheeks and put the picture back into the desk drawer. She had no room for these memories. Everyone had made their choices, including her.

And everyone would have to deal with the consequences.

Project Stargate 2.0

The Solomon Experiments

Dr. LeMercier’s Personal Journal –

Aug. 16, 2002

Day 48:

The five have been chosen—finally. The team believes these to be the strongest, the most ruthless and the most loyal. I concur. Though, I wonder about the training ahead, the rigor the chosen will endure. The commitment I will force them to make. Can they, can any child, accomplish the tasks required?

The siblings show the most promise. But the colored girl, I worry about her. She’s special, yes. Surprising, even. She sees events before they unfold, predicts outcomes with exceptional precision. She is the ultimate strategist, a game-maker, a chess master. A helpful skill, no doubt, but will it prove to be enough? She has not demonstrated the capacity to kill and I am not certain she ever will.

More, she may discover the true intent of the task ahead, long before her fellow recruits or the others. I cannot have her influence the events in any way. I must ensure her loyalty, somehow.

The girl has no family besides her father to use as a guarantee. I must bind her to this team, this mission.

Yes, that is the answer—the mission itself. I’ll draw out her emotions and connect them to the mission; force her blindness to the actual objectives. Just like I’ve done with Drs Harrison and Jennings. Just as I’ve done with Christyn.

The burden of secrets is difficult to bear, but a necessity if I am going to achieve success this time, if we are going to safeguard the country from the war that comes.

I won’t let the experiments fail again. We’ve come too far, built in too many precautions.

It has to be a success.

THE SKY BEGINS TO DARKEN AS I MY TEARS DRY AND MY EMOTIONS WANE
. I can’t catch my breath, can’t make myself focus and think. I force myself to stand and find the road toward town. I need to find Josh.

Grey streaks with fuchsia and orange as dusk draws near. The endless rain has stopped and spots of blue break through the massive cloud deck. Mom and Dad’s words bloom through me. “Find your brother.” “We’re in hiding.” “Must leave.” I walk along the road in a daze. My chest is heavy, each breath a labored response to the day’s events. Memories of my life in Cambria vanish as quickly as I can bring them forward, replaced by more macabre scenes of a world I don’t recognize. The landscapes pass in a fuchsia-filled blur. Panic wells in my throat, threatening to undo me.

And still I walk, mindless and numb.

My pocket vibrates as a ringing sound cuts through the haze.

Answer the phone
.

The voice—my voice—screams through the panic. I cling to it, praying for a focus that refuses to come. Fumbling through my bag, I grab the phone and punch the keypad. A strangled “Hello” escapes my lips.

“Dakota? Are you okay?” My brother’s voice eases some of the panic.

“Josh?”

“Hey! I’m trying to find you. Mom and Dad called and said you were in trouble. Their phone cut out before they could explain. Now they aren’t answering. What’s going on?”

“They’re . . .” My voice cracks. Again my chest feels heavy as my lungs force air through my body. My legs wobble, my hands shake.

“Dakota?”

I swallow back the tears that refuse to abate. “I don’t know, Josh. I . . .” The sound ends as the words get tangled in my throat.

“They’re what?”

“Dead.” The word is little more than a whisper.

“What? No! Where are you?”

My brain refuses to work.

“Dakota. Talk to me.”

“I . . . I don’t know. Near town.”

“Can you get somewhere safe?”

“Um,” I glance down the road, fragments of the images of the gunmen still present in my thoughts. The pictures spin too fast and panic again seizes my body, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. “The Coffee Shack. Fifteen minutes?” The words are barely recognizable, even to me.

“Okay,” Josh says in his best big brother voice. “I’ll meet you there. We’ll figure out what’s going on. I promise.”

Doubtful.

Josh has always known how to calm me down and force some sanity into my crazy moments. I take several deep breaths, wishing his big brother voice would work this time. The sun dips as dusk begins to settle and changes the landscape into darkened shades of grey and blue. My legs continue to wobble and shake and I begin walking toward town.

Why can’t I be as calm as Josh?