Halfskin (19 page)

Cali had triggered a shutdown of their old generation biomites, the very technology that allowed M0ther to follow them, to monitor them, to pass along their location, health and activity to anyone with authority to receive it. Namely, Mr. Marcus Anderson. And now that all the old generation biomites were deactivated, they were invisible.

M0ther couldn’t see them.

Nix wasn’t ready for the shutdown. There were still too few new breeds to support his body without the assistance of the old generation ones. But there wasn’t a choice. If they stayed on the second floor, if Marcus shut them down with all the body guards around them and Cali and Nix survived, suspicion would drop like a hammer.

The new breeds would be discovered.

She had to get them away, to hide. To survive. Invisible, they could make their escape. But she couldn’t just wheel Nix out. She could barely stand and she was in much better shape than her brother and even that sudden loss about did her in. They needed to rest, give the new breeds time to flush their systems and take the place of old generation biomites, to keep their organs functioning, their muscles contracting, nervous systems firing.

Cali went to the sink, filled the pitcher with water and drank. She’d been to the bathroom multiple times, excreting the dead biomites that were filtered through the liver and kidneys. She filled a cup, bent the scrunchy elbow of a straw, and lifted Nix’s head. He wasn’t asleep, but conscious just enough to feel the plastic tip on his lips, to pull the water. She was constantly reminding him to drink, to drink more. She couldn’t move him to the bathroom, he had to do his business right there. In the bed.

She’d worry about that later.

Cali sat back down. Felt like she’d run a marathon. She wanted to sleep, needed it badly. Right now, she needed to watch, needed to wait for their opportunity. When Nix was ready to move, they’d have to move. Hiding inside the hospital wouldn’t last, even if she could manipulate the computer database. Eventually someone would come looking: they’d see past her illusions.

She closed her eyes.

She listened to the chatter of intercom calls and secure phones. She caught fragments of medical talk and concerned families in waiting rooms. She stayed open, listening. Watching.

Waiting.

39

Marcus marched out of the elevator.

His shoes hammered the floor. Coat unbuttoned. White shirt puffed over his belt and tie slightly undone. He went down the middle of the hall, eyes ahead. Others moved to the side. He turned the corner, hand out, punching open the door.

Several people were inside.

Most were dressed darkly, unassuming clothing that cloaked security guards from standing out in a crowd. Their chatter was cut still.

The balding man stopped. He looked around, hands on hips. He met all their eyes.

“Someone,” he said, drawing out the word, “tell me what the
hell
happened.”

The last word hissed with steam.

James was the only one in the room sitting. He worked his tongue to moisten his lips. He stood up. He explained that he might have been poisoned or maybe it was just bad food, but whatever it was… he couldn’t quite remember. Cali left the room to get something to eat, and then they were gone.

“What do you mean,
gone
?”

He shrugged.

“Use your training, son. Did the woman have her brother stuffed down her pants? Did she fold him up and tuck him into her bag? HOW THE HELL COULD HE BE GONE?”

Again, shrug. No one had answers.

One of the security agents, a tall skinny man with thinning hair, recounted what they knew. Marcus paced the room, listening while he peeked in the bathroom, looked at the bed, picked up a water pitcher. They’d interviewed everyone on the floor, no one had seen either of them leaving. The security camera was running a loop of them still in the room.

“How could they do that?” he asked.

“We’re looking into that?” the skinny man said.

She had no access to her laptop. Her phone, perhaps, had hacking capability but that would require a significant amount of time to set up and execute. Certainly, they’d know what she was doing if that was it.

Impossible. Just… impossible.
There was no way she could shut herself down, shut her brother’s biomites down, and disappear. Their bodies had to be somewhere. It was not possible to survive without biomites. She wasn’t halfskin, not like his reader reported. No, she was probably redline and that would be enough to cripple her. But the kid… he’d be dead.

The bodies have to be SOMEWHERE.

And she can’t make them invisible. M0ther is synchronized with the unique strands of artificial DNA strands that compose every single biomite in production, artificial DNA that allows them to function. Even if that was somehow sidestepped, even if she was able to recombine the biomite DNA, there was the mitochondria power supply. M0ther could follow that.

The woman was a brilliant scientist, but she couldn’t accomplish something like that. None of the biomite corporations were allowed to experiment with off-grid synthesis of biomite production without the consent of the government without risking loss of license. The Army Corp of Engineers had been working on developing invisi-biomites and hadn’t even come close.

Have I underestimated her?

No. Impossible.

Had to be another explanation.

“Sir?”

Marcus jerked around.

“They were last located in the elevator,” Skinny said. “The elevator went up and stopped on every floor. No one recognized them but there’s no evidence they went down. They might still be in the building. The exits are all covered and we’re going floor to floor.”

“Good,” Marcus said. “Check all the rooms, all the closets. I want everything turned over, I want IDs checked, I want every syringe, every cottonball, every last band-aid examined for these two people, do you understand?”

They nodded.

“Do not notify the Chicago police, not yet. If they’re still in the building, I want to handle this.”

They didn’t ask questions. They knew a media shitstorm was on the horizon. Once the media got wind of a problem, it got harder to solve. And if they heard that two people went off the grid and hadn’t been found—whether they were alive or not —going to create a landslide of legal issues.

This was a potential Hydra.

Marcus’s thighs were cold. Uncertainty swirled.

James’ eyes were still a bit hazy.

“Get him checked out,” Marcus said. “I want to know what happened to him so it doesn’t happen again. And get the doctor, now. Where is he?”

“On the way.”

“I want all the records of this Nixon Richards now. I want to see all the blood analysis, all the tests they ran since he arrived. Make those available ASAP. If his sister somehow tampered…” He stopped, not wanting to utter it out loud, even though they were all thinking it. “I’ll be in the doctor’s office.”

They moved out.

James was the last to go.

40

Chug-chug.

Chug-chug.

Machines. Chugging and pumping. Working in synchronicity, a majestic symphony of artificial sounds.

The sound of work.

A furnace glowed red hot, somewhere. A furnace burning with friction, with energy. He felt it, out there, warming the universe.

Vibrations jittered on the skin of an invisible membrane, a body that contained the identity known as Nix. It quivered and jiggled and sang. Somewhere, ants crawled along that barrier, their legs touching and marching and going
chug-chug.

Chug-chug.

Colors mixed with sound and energy. Primary colors shot like stars, crossing paths, running parallel, overlapping to make secondary colors. Sometimes they swirled and curved. He’d recognize a face, eyes and a nose, that would quickly melt away in the growing heat as the furnace pumped exhaust into the world. Sweat tracked the skin somewhere out there, tickling small hairs and tiny nerves.

He began to sink. Down he was going, down somewhere on a smooth ride, like an elevator taking him to the basement, dipping him in an essence that was warm and cleansing.

And slowly he went. Slowly he went.

Nix sank closer to where the furnace was burning.

He sensed there weren’t floors where the ride was going, it was just sinking and sinking and more sinking. To the center of the furnace where the
chug-chug
banged away.

Deeper, it went.

Hotter, it became.

Nix knew where the ride would lead if it did not stop. He knew it would take him to the center of existence, into the heart of the fire. To oblivion.

If it did not stop. Did not stop.

And the
chug-chug
rang like a gong.

It hammered.

It sang. It called. It created.

And it burned.

Nix felt the fabric of his life—his existence
—
was curling and graying like the edges of a parchment meeting the freshly struck tip of a match. He was thinning, fraying, and fading.

He could take no more.

If he went deeper.

He would be no longer—

But the ride began to slow—

Slow—

Stop.

Near a furnace, a surface red hot, filling everything with light. It surged like a belly, like breath filled it, a heart beating inside.

Beating to the
chug-chug.

Nix felt the elevator that held him so close to oblivion; it clung by a delicate thread that could be easily snipped by the edge of a butterfly wing. He waited, dangling precipitously close to touching the surface, a touch that would melt everything.

He felt his skin peel.

Bones char.

He melted into a fleshy puddle of goo that would leak through the cracks of the elevator floor and drip on the furnace and sizzle and evaporate and become nothing, become nothing, become—

And then it lifted.

Ever so slowly, he pulled away, lifted up. Carefully. Lovingly.

He inched away from death. Away from the furnace.

No longer a puddle.

And up he went where it was cooler. Where there were streaking colors and sounds, again. He remembered things. Remembered who he was, entertained thoughts of what he looked like and where he’d been. He wished he could hide in the lagoon, like he could call it up and go there, soak in the ocean’s buoyant grip and lay his head back, bathe in the soft droplets floating from the waterfall.

And upward he went—

Through the thoughts, through the colors and smells and images until—

Wake up, Nix.

He felt a membrane wrap around him, sealing him inside. Defining him. It felt like plastic wrap.

He recognized, finally, his body.

He opened his eyes in a dark room.

41

A face looked back from the mirror. Sunken eyes, caved cheeks. A cold sore—red and angry—shined on her upper lip. She ran the tip of her tongue over it, felt the sting.

Felt good.

Cali’s hands quivered on her eyes, her nerves quaking with doubt.

Biomites were artificial clones of biological cells. They required oxygen and nutrients. Food, something she hadn’t had in 36 hours. Or more. She had no appetite, figured she could go another 36 hours, if needed.

She was still drinking water. Her urine had cleared and lost the biomite smell—something like putty. She suspected the majority of old generation biomites had been flushed out.

The blinds were drawn. Darkness was outside. After midnight, somewhere in the range of 2:00 AM.

The hospital was quiet, except for the sounds of some of the suffering down the hall and the hushed tones of late-shift nurses. She programmed their computers to show their room was empty due to equipment failure. Nurses wouldn’t need to open the door until maintenance arrived in the morning.

She listened to the radio and phone chatter, eavesdropping on conversations but heard nothing except gossip and sorrow. No security guards reporting their positions.

No Marcus Anderson.

She dared not hope for the best. She wasn’t desperate enough to believe they’d gone to the streets of Chicago in search of them, leaving the doors wide open. Her head was stuffy, brain a bit sluggish as it readjusted to the flushing, but she wasn’t delusional.

They were out there.

I’m not delusional.

Nix looked good, his vitals improved. She thought she lost him shortly before midnight. His pulse faded. There was nothing she could do but wait. And he came back from the edge. The new breeds wouldn’t let him die, they kept him alive. His forehead was hot to touch, but that was good. They were fighting.