Read Remnants 13 - Survival Online
Authors: Katherine Alice Applegate
Remnants 13 - Survival (7 page)
Her.
Her head.
Not theirs. Never theirs. This was her body. Only hers. She didn’t have to share. Didn’t want to.
Wasn’t going to.
Letting Amelia have control had been a mistake. Now it was time to get control back.
Now, while Amelia was asleep. While her guard was down.
Tate remembered how she’d let Amelia take control by sort of shrinking down. She decided to try reversing the process.
While Charlie kept blathering about how weird the whole situation was, she visualized her disembodied self. She was tiny, the size of a Little People action figure. She imagined herself growing back to her real size, gaining in power, getting strong enough to push Amelia aside.
She tried to open her eyes.
Nothing.
Tate was sick with worry. She concentrated like she’d never concentrated before. It was like trying to bend a spoon with your mind. It wasn’t working! Tate was giving in to despair when —
Her right eyelid fluttered open and then closed.
Had she done that?
Tate felt her confidence surge.
She tried again. This time she was certain she opened her right eye. For some reason, she was having more trouble on the left —
“Quit it….” Amelia mumbled sleepily. Tate felt her control on the eye slip slightly — as if Amelia had reached out in her sleep and strengthened her grip.
Yago had fallen silent. Apparently, he was aware of Tate’s struggle.
Charlie chatted on. <
chapter>>
<
Right,
Tate thought.
Good advice.
She took a moment to prepare herself. Then she performed something like a mental leap. She imagined herself grabbing hold of her entire body — eyes, arms, legs, head, hands. At the same time, she imagined Amelia shrinking into irrelevance, turning into one of those Little People dolls that ride up the elevator in the plastic garage.
Tate knew immediately, that it had worked. She felt something like her body rushing up to embrace her — as if it recognized her, or knew who was supposed to be boss. Tate was relieved — until she felt the searing pain that wasn’t just in her foot but had traveled about halfway to her knee. It was a moment’s sensation and then she was the one sleeping.
Tate dreamed.
She was walking the permanent dusk of the dust-choked Earth, shoulder to shoulder with one of the ragged creatures. Surrounding them was a band of maybe fifteen others — some big, some small.
Maybe the small ones were children. She didn’t know.
The creature closest to Tate was clearly human, but the soot-covered skin, matted hair, and bulky clothes made it impossible for her to guess whether it was male or female.
They plodded silently along, each step raising a poof of dust. Somehow Tate knew the creature’s feelings. She could feel emotions radiating off the band like waves of heat. Feelings so intense they made her sick.
Hunger.
Thirst.
Fear.
Fear was the strongest. The pathetic creatures were afraid of so many things. Of the future.
Of one another. But most of all, of the thing that was in front of them. Of the — the Source.
Tate looked up, scanning the blighted landscape for this thing that frightened the creatures so badly. This — this Source.
Something glinting dully on the horizon. Something metallic. She squinted, trying to make it out, trying to guess what could be shining in all of this dusty gloom.
And then —
wham!
Instant close-up. She was there, standing next to the Source, and the filthy band was still miles behind her.
Tate stared, slowly taking in the huge mass that towered above her, reducing her to complete insignificance.
It was Mother.
Tate had seen her from the outside only a few times before, on the pointless “scientific”
missions Jobs had arranged after they’d landed the ship on the ruined Earth. Still, she recognized the graceless bulk immediately. It had all of the poetry of a very oversized tin can.
Only — this wasn’t a dream-memory of Mother’s time on Earth. Something was … off.
The ship had crashed. A gaping hole in one side exposed what looked like the bridge. Debris littered the ground nearby. The enormous engines were entirely buried. Ash drifted over the ship, further obscuring her. Her metallic skin was dulled and pockmarked with age. The bridge window was sandblasted opaque.
Tate shivered.
How had Mother gotten here?
Hmmmmmmmm.
A deep resonant sound surrounded Tate. Was it the ship’s engines? No. Tate didn’t need an engineer to tell her those engines would never fire again.
Hmmmmmmmm.
A chilling toneless drone.
Tate spun around.
The filthy creatures stood in a circle all around her. Dozens of them. Their eyes shone strangely in their ash-covered faces.
Surprise hit Tate like a sucker punch to the gut. She knew a few of these faces, 2Face. Jobs.
Mo’Steel. Olga.
Her friends were there, inexplicably mixed in with the dusty, wild creatures — as if they had somehow become part of their band. There was Violet, practically unrecognizable, her hair matted into woolly-looking dreadlocks. Mo had an ugly pink scar on his throat that looked as if someone had tried to cut his head off and almost succeeded.
“Mo!” Tate cried. “What’s happened? Why is Mother here? Are you okay?”
The swirling wind carried off Tate’s words. Her friends, the dust creatures — everyone seemed unaware of her presence. They moved as a group, bowing double before Mother, putting their foreheads in the choking ash and continuing to hum softly as one. The sound seemed to give voice to their fear.
Mmmmmmm.
Mmmmmmm.
<
Tate woke up — and felt instantly on alert. Would Amelia try to wrest control of her body away from her? Because that wasn’t happening.
<
Amelia didn’t respond.
Charlie chuckled. <
It’s like one bone for a pack of dogs, one nanny for a crowd of yuppie moms —>>
<
<
“Why isn’t Amelia talking?” Tate asked shortly as she eased herself into a sitting position. She was in a bad mood. Very bad. The pain in her leg was immense.
<
“Why?” Tate tried stretching her leg straight out, but that only made the pain worse.
<> Yago said.
“I can’t disagree there,” Tate said.
Charlie laughed strangely. <
Like I’m finally thinking clearly. Like I escaped from a total obsession with food, food, food.>>
“Speaking of hunger,” Tate said shortly. “We need to talk about Duncan.”
<
“Where do you think he is?” Tate said as patiently as possible.
<
“But the hunger,” Tate said. “He’ll come after us — me — eventually, won’t he?”
<
<
There was a short pause during which Tate silently willed Yago to keep his mouth shut. She wanted — they needed — Amelia’s help.
“What makes you say that?” Tate asked as steadily as possible. She couldn’t imagine Amelia was very happy about losing control of her body. She was braced for an attack; she was ready to fight Amelia off if it came to that. She wondered if she should try to talk to Amelia, set some ground rules — or if that would just add to the hostilities.
<
“Okay, so let’s be ready,” Tate said. “Obviously, fighting him isn’t going to work. None of us can control the Mouth.”
<
<
on eating you?>> Amelia asked snidely.
<
“How can we slow him down?” Tate demanded, deliberately cutting them both off.
Heavy silence.
“Amelia, Charlie, don’t you know anything about these — these things?” Tate asked impatiently.
<
“You
were
one!” Tate said.
<
<
<
“You’re saying we should — what? Remove oxygen from the air?” Tate repeated.
<
<
<
<> Charlie said.
<
Turned her into nothing more than a computer, a tool. Someone should have done it a lot earlier Just — pulled the plug.>>
<had
been someone else,>> Charlie said fearfully. <
Yago laughed. <
what if Mother had fooled her? What if this was Mother’s way of luring her back…
“Stop,” Tate told herself firmly. One paranoid personality was enough. And Charlie was already playing that role. She’d witnessed Mother’s decline. She’d felt Mother’s mourning. That hadn’t been fake.
“Fine,” she said out loud. “Amelia, you’ll have to tell me what to do.”
<
It hurt. Each step sent shooting pains radiating up toward her hip. The aching raw pain was concentrated in her calf now. Her foot was like something dead, a piece of meat. She could barely feel it hitting the floor. Something in the region of her shoe was starting to smell not so good.
She was walking toward the same chair she’d sat in for god knows how long while Mother tortured her. Her body recoiled. The pain, the images of suffering were still bright in her mind.
The voices in her head fell silent. Even Yago was quiet. He had to be scared. Tate guessed he was too proud to beg in front of the others. She felt very alone as she slowly approached the chair and slipped into the seat.
She felt the connection with the computer immediately. Mother wasn’t playing games this time.
“My name is Daughter,” the computer said, and her voice was kittenish. “How may I serve you?”
Tate was tense. Was Mother playing games with her? “Is this a joke?” she demanded.
<
<
“Oh, god,” Tate said. “I’m starting to miss Mother.”
Amelia chuckled. <
“Five percent?” Tate asked. “That doesn’t sound like much.”
<
“Yeah, but five percent? What’s the point? If it won’t hurt us, it won’t hurt Duncan.”
Something about this plan was bothering Tate, but she couldn’t quite place it. Her brain was fuzzy with fatigue and pain.
<
“Great,” Tate muttered. She gave Daughter the order. And then she realized something. She wanted to win this battle with Duncan. She wanted to live. She wondered vaguely if she was losing her mind.
“Now what?” she wondered out loud.
<
“Whose fault is that?” Tate asked peevishly. “You burned my foot, Amelia, my cheek — and now you have the nerve to blame me?”
<
“What do you suggest?” Tate demanded.
Silence. A mocking sort of silence. Tate was missing something obvious …
<
The computer.
Tate hadn’t had control of a computer since before the Rock. For a long moment she just sat, dizzy with the possibilities. Then she croaked, “Water.”
A tall glass appeared in Tate’s shaking hand. She gulped it down greedily, sat panting for a moment, retched, and threw up on her melted and scorched shoes.
