Dangerous (10 page)

“Oh, Miss Koelsch,” Howell said with an indulgent smile

and then didn’t answer the question. “After this meeting, you

might call your parents to say you earned a bonus week of spe-

cialized training.”

“We need to keep together,” said Wilder, “figure out what

the tokens are doing to us and why.”

I blinked. This tone was new for Wilder.

“So far we’ve learned that each token contained likely tril-

lions of nanites,” said Howell.

“Trillions of what?” asked Ruth.

Dangerous

“Nanorobots,” I said. “Microscopic robots engineered to

perform functions at a molecular level.”

Howell beamed at me. “Exactly. We found nanites in your

spinal fluid. As soon as we extract them, they shut down, so it

appears they only function while in the body their token in-

habits. It would be impossible to extract them all. They take

up residence in the brain and other organ systems, altering the

cells of your body.”

Ruth went to sit on the arm of the sofa, tripped, and shat-

tered a metal-and-glass side table.

“Oops,” she said, crawling out of the pile of broken glass.

She looked at her hands and knees. Not a scratch.

During my sleepless night, I’d wondered if Howell had

lied to us—if somehow she herself had manufactured the tokens

and deliberately infected us with them. But this technology was

beyond space elevators. I looked at my palm, remembering how

the token had passed through my skin without a mark. The

technology was so alien, I got goose bumps.

“You should remain here until we figure out what the na-

nites do and how to remove them,” Howell was saying.

“Can you cut out the token?” Mi-sun asked, but even as she

said it, she put a protective hand over her chest. I knew how she

felt. My token was starting to feel unnaturally right in my chest,

like an organ I couldn’t live without.

“Removing the token would not remove the nanites loose

in your body, Miss Hwang. Besides, the scans show that the

token is linked with your heart. Any attempt at retrieval would

put you at risk for heart failure.”

“I would take my son home right now and have my own

doctor remove the thingie,” said GT. He unwrapped a stick of

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Shannon Hale

gum, broke off half, and slipped it into his mouth. “But I believe

there’s no way to remove it without killing you. And you should

know, there are plenty of people who would be willing to do

just that.”

“So you want us to keep this on the down low,” said Ruth.

“No, I don’t want you to keep it on the ‘down low.’ I don’t

want you to keep it anywhere. If you tell
anyone
, that rumor will

spread until those people I’m talking about decide to make the

big score by treasure hunting in your body. My son is at risk by

association. If any of you talks, I will make sure you face the

consequences.”

GT had such a comfortable tone of voice, so relaxed and

trustworthy, it took me a minute to realize he’d just implied that

if we weren’t murdered for blabbing about the tokens, then he’d

see to it himself. My heartbeat pounded pain in my brain.

Howell cleared her throat, reached for her juggling balls,

then reconsidered. “Perhaps it will help if we make a promise

to keep this secret?”

We all took turns affirming our solidarity.

“‘To be thus is nothing,’” Jacques added. “‘But to be safely

thus.’”

“What was that, son?” GT tilted his head as if he thought

he’d been insulted.

Jacques flushed and mumbled something.

“It’s from
Macbeth
,” I said.

GT looked between us, chewing his gum thoughtfully.

“Why is Wilder’s dad here?” Ruth asked.

“He happened to visit, and I felt an obligation to bring him

into early confidence,” said Howell. “Now, each of the tokens took

deliberate residence on top of your hearts. We’re not sure why—”

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Dangerous

“I bet Maisie’s figured it out,” Wilder said.

“What is your hypothesis, Miss Brown?” asked Howell.

I did kind of have one. “Well, maybe the token isn’t just a

nanite bag. It’s a machine too, and it’s powered by something

heart-related—blood flow or the repetitive beats. That’s why the

tokens were drawn there.”

“But how could something created for an other-planet spe-

cies work as intended inside us?” asked Jacques.

“I don’t know,” Howell said. “But we did find sloughed-off

skinlike cells on the tokens. I believe the species that made these

are also complex, intelligent, carbon-based oxygen-breathers.”

The adults were speculating on the token’s function

and adaptability when Wilder interrupted again. “What else,

Maisie?”

Why was he picking on me? I cut my eyes at him.

“Well . . .” I started. “Howell found the nanites in our spinal

fluid. Maybe the nanites are powered by the electricity in the

nervous system, and they’ve turned our nervous systems into a

network with the token as the router.”

Dragon blinked. “That’s quite a detailed hypothesis.”

I shrugged. “It was just an idea.”

Wilder was strolling to the door.

“What made you think to ask Miss Brown?” asked Howell.

He turned. “This morning she stripped an electron mi-

croscope down to its parts and rebuilt it. A lab guy says it works

better than before.”

“Mr. Wilder has become very observant,” said Howell. “He

suggested that we examine Mr. Ames’s skin for unusual bacte-

rial growth, and his guess was right on. The nanites from Mr.

Ames’s token appear to trigger mutation in the bacteria living

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Shannon Hale

on his skin. The new bacteria produce a polymer. Unfortunate-

ly, when removed from him, the bacteria die immediately.”

“So maybe the nanites not only trigger the bacteria’s muta-

tion,” I said, “but turn Jacques’s skin into a micro-atmosphere

perfectly suited for keeping those bacteria alive.”

Wilder pointed a gun finger at me.

I pretended indifference to my blush. “What are the na-

nites changing us into, Wilder?”

“I don’t think we’re changing into something so much as

for
something.”

“For what, then?”

“For action. So we’d better be prepared.” And he left.

As if called, Ruth, Jacques, and Mi-sun followed him. It

felt risky—wrong even—to be away from Wilder, and I actually

gripped the sofa arm to keep myself from going too. I wasn’t

experiencing any inclination to start taking over the world in

advance of an alien army. The only change I felt, beyond the

headache, was an increased awareness, I guess, of Wilder. Or

was that my own idiotic girl self?

The other staff and GT left as well, leaving me and Howell.

“I’d like to call my parents now,” I said.

“Interesting that you are the only one who recalled to ask,”

she said.

She indicated the land line on her desk.

My mom answered.

“¿Es la Peligrosa? ¡Hija mí, cómo te extraño!”

There was a few seconds delay between when I spoke and

when she responded, as if I were calling from across an ocean.

Maybe it was a buffer—someone was listening, ready to cut me

off if I spoke out of turn. The thought made my back prickle.

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Dangerous

“Is Dad there?” I spoke softly, afraid my voice would crack

and then there’d be no stopping the tears.

She conferenced in my dad at work.

“Our group took first place in the team competitions,” I

said. “Howell—Dr. Bonnie Howell—she wants to keep the five

of us here for more specialized training.”

“Do you want to?” Mom asked.

“It’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Maisie, you haven’t been . . .
contenta
, lately.” She used

the Spanish word for content or happy, as if it were too stark, too

uncomfortable to say it in English. I hadn’t realized that she’d

noticed. “Are you now? How do you feel?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sound exhausted.”

“When you were a baby, we had to call the police on you,”

said Dad. “You were constantly resisting a rest.”

“Heard it,” I said.

“Come home the minute you want to,” Mom said.

My old, comfortable, small life was waiting. Part of me was

tempted to run back to it, pull a bedspread over my head, and

pretend that nothing had changed.

“I need to stay. I want to.” And I meant it.

I trusted my parents way more than GT, but I didn’t break

my promise. Speaking about all the drama to
Mami y Papi

would make it feel dangerously real. Besides, if they knew, they

would come for me at once.

When I hung up, Howell came back in and unloaded a

long box into my hand. She sat on her desk and began reflecting

a mirror onto the ceiling.

“Um, did you want me to put this somewhere?” I asked.

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Shannon Hale

“It’s for you.
I
have no use for it,” she said as if I’d said some-

thing foolish.

I opened it. I gasped.

“A Rover,” I whispered.

It was a robotic arm, nicknamed Rover because the inven-

tor had called it “a one-armed man’s best friend.” Raw metal,

skeletal and fierce looking, it was not meant to just resemble a

human arm like Ms. Pincher—it was meant to be
awesome
.

And yet I had an inkling that it could be better.

For the next two days, I felt a hot, crazy, whirling sensation,

as if the whole world were on fast forward and I had to keep

thinking fast enough just to survive. The diversion seemed to

separate me from both my headache and my freakish yearning

for Wilder. Every material I requested, one of my new white-

coat groupies would go fetch. I imagined a basement in HAL

where Rumplestiltskin spun straw into spools of gold wire and

titanium dioxide nanotubes.

I programmed a computer inside the arm to recognize,

amplify, and interpret my brain patterns so I could control the

arm with my thoughts. It should have been impossible to train

my nervous system into believing I had an arm, but maybe all

those nanites were working for me on the inside.

I’d say, “What’s an experimental, low-weight, renewable

power source?” or “I need to understand the nervous system,”

and my groupies would talk me through it. Pieces of what they

said would click, and I’d build from the idea. Or they helped me

build, since my ideas raged faster than my one-handed ability.

Howell’s engineers had been working on a strong, stretchy

fabric to use as the “muscles” for the space station’s robotic arm,

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Dangerous

so we looped some of that inside Rover and covered the titanium

tungsten skeleton with flesh-colored plastic for waterproofing.

“This little pump pulls in water vapor from the air,” I

showed my groupies when the upgrades were complete. “The

water functions as an electron battery. This bracelet is made

of photovoltaic cells, and in concert with the titanium dioxide

nanotubes, they catalyze a directed electron drift. On demand

those electrons can be snatched up and used for electricity.”

“Um . . . how?” Dragon asked, unblinking.

“I . . . I can’t seem to find the words. I tried writing it down

and I couldn’t. I just . . .
know
.”

It reminded me of the time I’d tried to describe an astound-

ing dream to Luther, but in the retelling it turned into a boring,

senseless story. Dreams have their own language, we decided,

and you are only fluent while you’re asleep. In the same way, it

seemed my token had taught me a language of technology, and

I was only fluent inside my head.

I couldn’t tell them, but I could show them. I slipped the

arm over my right elbow, sensing where each pincher would

connect with certain nerves. I opened and closed the fingers.

My
fingers. I raised my hand and waved.

“Meet Fido,” I said.

Everyone applauded. Except Wilder. I could sense him

standing behind me.

“How’s your head?” he asked.

“Pain’s gone,” I said. “Whatever my nanites were trying to

do in there seems to have resolved.”

“Then let’s go play,” he said. “We’ve got some things to

show you.”

81

C h a p t e r 1 2

I followed Wilder outside. Now that the boot campers were

gone, Wilder had claimed the acres of scrub surrounding HAL

as the fireteam’s playground. Ruth was tossing a half-destroyed

SUV as if it were a doggie toy.

“Whoa,” I said.

“I know, right?” She set it down with a grating squeak and

came over by me in the shade. I sat up straighter. Her attention

felt like an honor.

“Ugh, I hate the heat,” she said, batting at her long red hair.

“Why don’t you pull your hair back? Or cut it? That must

weigh a ton.”

She took a bottle of polish out of her pocket and began to

paint her nails. “‘What pretty hair,’ people always say. If I lost

the hair, what would I have left?”