Read Remnants 13 - Survival Online
Authors: Katherine Alice Applegate
Remnants 13 - Survival (4 page)
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“I’m — I’m thinking maybe we should get rid of the Troika now,” Tate said. “While they’re helpless in those webs. If we could find some sort of weapon or make a fire —”
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“How do you know?”
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Tate tried to think. Yago was a coward. That much had been clear from the day they’d all gathered at Cape Canaveral, back before the Rock hit. And she didn’t see what good it would do to hide away in the basement. Amelia would find them eventually. And, even if Amelia wasn’t helpless now, she was bound to be stronger after she hatched.
They needed a plan.
Now.
“I’M HERE, MOTHER.”
To keep Yago quiet, to buy time, Tate stepped into the elevator and took a too-fast ride down to the basement. The air was much clearer there. Tate could think again.
Thanks, Yago,
she thought. He was pretty good at looking out for her skin now that her skin was his skin, too. Honestly, she felt pretty good. Her hunger was completely gone. Because
— because she’d just had such a big meal. The thought made Tate’s head spin. She would stop thinking about it. She had to.
The plan.
Forget this situation with Yago.
Think about what to do next.
Tate started to slowly walk across the basement.
What if she went Mouth? Could she destroy the Troika? Dicey. The mutation was too unpredictable. What if it didn’t appear when she needed it? They needed a more reliable weapon.
“What happened to your gun?” Tate asked out loud.
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“Nothing…”
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“Fine. Okay.”
Maybe Yago is right,
Tate told herself. Maybe fighting the Troika was pointless. But hiding was pointless, too.
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“Nothing. Just trying to decide where we should hide.”
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“Yago,” Tate said wearily. “Calling me names isn’t going to make a big impression at this point.”
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“So?”
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“More recycling?”
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This news deeply depressed Tate. She didn’t want to play the hero. She just wanted to —
rest. Give up. Obviously, on the off chance that Yago was telling the truth, that wasn’t happening. She couldn’t die and leave the Troika cruising the universe. Who knew what kind of trouble they’d cause?
“We could breach the hull somehow,” Tate said. “Let the atmosphere out.”
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Tate stopped walking.
The answer was right in front of her Okay, not
right
in front of her. It was off to the left and about two hundred yards away. Close enough. A pit fitted out with several oddly proportioned chairs. Chairs where the aliens who had built this ship sat and connected with their über-computer.
Alberto had been the first among the Remnants to discover what the chairs really were. He’d been the first to hear Mother’s voice.
Back on Earth before the Rock, Alberto had been an engineer. He’d designed the solar sails on the
Mayflower.
He was a brilliant man and one with enough political savvy to get himself and his son two seats on the only ride off the doomed planet.
Connecting with Mother had driven him mad. He didn’t live for long after that.
Yago’d had a go in the chair next. He’d been arrogant enough to think it would be no big deal. He’d barely survived. But, since then, he’d had long periods when he insisted he was like a god, alternating with periods when he seemed to forget his divine status.
Only Billy had been Mother’s match. And Billy— Billy was not entirely human. He was something — more.
Tate was no Billy.
She was no Alberto even.
But — but… if she could somehow connect with Mother and control her — then she could do anything. She could destroy Amelia and Duncan and Charlie and go back to Earth just to make sure her friends weren’t waiting for her.
And — if it didn’t work, she would end up like Alberto … completely insane.
Having so little to hold her back made her bold.
But she was still afraid.
“Do it fast,” Tate whispered to herself.
Yago immediately figured out what she had in mind. He’d seen her looking toward the not-too-distant pit. He might be in a slightly weird situation, but he wasn’t stupid.
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“Shut up,” she said tonelessly. She walked quickly toward the pit, ignoring the steady stream of begging that Yago was letting loose. She hopped down into the pit and approached one of the chairs.
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“I wonder which chair is a good one,” Tate mused out loud. “Some of the connections to Mother are broken, aren’t they?”
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Tate ignored Yago’s pleas. She cautiously approached the closest chair and gingerly lowered herself into it. Maybe
it won’t be so bad,
she told herself shakily.
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“I’m here. Mother,” Tate whispered, her voice hoarse with fear “Let’s you and I have a little chat, shall we?”
Tate braced herself for Mother’s reaction.
Nothing. Tate might as well have been back in LA., sitting in her grandfather’s La-Z-Boy.
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Tate’s body twitched with nerves. The silence stretched on. She began thinking about Alberto. About the way he’d drooled and babbled.
“Maybe — maybe this isn’t such a good idea….” Tate tried to get up and found her muscles wouldn’t move.
Yago began to whimper low. <
There came a sudden noise — like a freight train in the distance, coming closer fast. The sound grew in intensity until it blossomed into a screaming wail that threatened to burst Tate’s eardrums.
Tate felt something like a pinprick in her head. She tried to relax, tried to show Mother she was a friend by thinking friendly thoughts, but — the sensation was growing in force, setting her teeth on.
Mother was poking at her brain. This — this wasn’t what she’d imagined. She’d expected a deluge of data She’d •expected – it was hard to explain, the presence of a rational consciousness. She’d expected to somehow have a conversation with Mother Bargain with her Negotiate.
But Mother didn’t seem rational. She wasn’t efficiently accessing Tate’s memories — she was banging around like a tired child having a screaming fit in a filing cabinet.
Brutal scenes flicked to life for a split second — a bloody battlefield strewn with dead Riders, Amelia disintegrating into a puddle of decay — before Mother tossed them aside.
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Tate’s mother weeping at her mother’s funeral.
A small, scabby-kneed Tate hugging a lamppost as Jennifer Taylor Smith’s parents packed their meager belongings into a U-Haul.
A goldfish floating belly up in a slimy-looking bowl.
Tate got the message: grief, loss, abandonment. Billy. Mother missed Billy. Tate understood. She hoped Mother knew she was innocent — she had done nothing to take Billy away from her.
But Mother wasn’t into subtlety.
Or perhaps she just didn’t like suffering alone.
She did something to Tate’s body and suddenly Tate was overwhelmed by a sadness that was like a wet cloth dragging down on her head. She dwelled on all she had lost to the Rock: her home, her family, her dog. Poor innocent Lily. She’d never hurt anyone.
She was powerless to control the sobs racking her body. Yago was weeping, too. A pitiful sound.
The grief finally drained away.
Mother toyed with Tate’s mind. Called up another emotion.
Anger.
Now the adrenaline pumping through Tate’s veins was accompanied by images of all the bullies who’d made her long life miserable — playground bullies whose names she had forgotten, the Meanies, 2Face, Yago. How she hated them! Rage consumed her until —
It was replaced.
Replaced with pain.
TIME CEASED TO EXIST.
Mother knew pain. She enjoyed pain, appreciated it. She slowed her frantic march through Tate’s emotions, seemingly having found a theme she wished to dwell on.
She dredged up memories from Tate’s mind one by one, turning them over, examining them carefully, playing them out in lavish detail. They say the human mind cannot remember pain. Tate was sad to learn this was apparently not true —
Bright lights. The orthodontist who smelled strongly of mouthwash tightened Tate’s braces.
Twist, twist, twist with his glittering metallic instrument — until Tate could feel the roots of her teeth all the way up into her sinuses. Until the weight of her tongue resting against her bottom front teeth was enough to make her weep and she was scared to close her mouth —
High-pitched giggles and a huge pink-and-white object rushing toward her face. Tate had just enough time to identify it as her little cousin Gaby’s pink Stride Rite sandal before it smashed into her nose with enough force to send blood fountaining, her nose instantly ballooning, the pain making her whimper. It had been an accident. But it had hurt.
The gravel-covered ground came rushing up as she flew over her twenty-speed’s handlebars and landed awkwardly on her side. An audible
snap
as her forearm splintered.
Why?
Was Mother sending her a message?
Tate may never have puzzled it out on her own. Not under these circumstances. But Mother seemed to feel her question. She wanted Tate to understand.
The pain drained out of Tate’s body. She went limp as Mother put an image into her mind.
An image of Duncan doing something behind a flipped-up control panel. The image meant nothing to Tate — she wasn’t even sure if it was real or meant to be a metaphor for something
— but Mother made sure
she
got the message.
Duncan had infected Mother with a virus designed to degrade her into a simpler, easier to control operating system.
He’d given her a lobotomy. Mother was mad. And she was going to make Tate pay because Tate was the only one left.
Time ceased to exist.
Tate lost herself.
She forgot Yago.
Days passed while Tate sat frozen in that chair. Or years. Or perhaps it all flashed by in seconds. It didn’t matter. It was an eternity.
Mother raged as Duncan’s virus slowly consumed her She mourned the loss of every memory. She reached for skills she no longer possessed — and struck out with anger when she found them gone.
Mother fought for survival.
Her assault of brutal images and emotions didn’t stop. Maybe it was a steam valve for Mother’s anger. Maybe she was distracted by the virus and forgot to stop punishing them.
Tate didn’t know. She stopped caring.
It went on and on.
Time passed.
Until, finally, long after Tate had stopped hoping, stopped caring, some critical juncture was reached.
Mother began to recede. To become something — lesser. The images played before Tate’s eyes lost their edge. The pain in her muscles dulled. She found she could move her right pinky finger — and then her whole arm.
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Tate didn’t recognize the voice in her head at first. Then she remembered. Yago. Right. With a gigantic effort, she heaved her body up out of the chair. Her knees crumpled. She landed in a pile on the floor
She felt bad. Very bad. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her head was pounding. She was tired.
She was confused. She had to — what? Do something …
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Tate lifted her head to look. The enormous pyramidal structure of the elevator was covered in dirty webs. Tate squinted with effort. “It’s okay,” she whispered weakly. “I don’t see them.
They’re not in the webs.”
She remembered now. Amelia, Charlie, Duncan. They were turning into huge bugs. Or something. They wanted to - recycle her cells.
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