Remnants 13 - Survival (8 page)
Read Remnants 13 - Survival Online
Authors: Katherine Alice Applegate
<
“Water,” Tate said again, breathlessly. The glass refilled. Tate took a careful sip. No reaction from her stomach. She concentrated on going slowly and got it all down. This time, it stayed down.
Tate next asked Daughter for a cup of chicken soup. What appeared looked too dark, too greasy, and smelled vaguely plastic. Tate gulped it greedily.
<
“My headache feels better already,” Tate said.
<
“No.”
<> Yago said.
Again, Tate had the feeling something was wrong with their plan. She poked at the feeling, probing at her unconscious — nothing.
Charlie and Amelia began to debate whether Duncan could control Daughter in his slime state. They speculated about why he hadn’t attacked yet. Was he somehow aware of their combined nature? Was he scared of them?
Tate could tell Duncan’s continued absence was starting to rattle. The longer he took to appear, the greater a foe they considered him. Maybe that was part of his strategy. Hiding until their nerves were entirely shot.
Tate felt pressured, too. This might be the only chance she had to use Daughter. She couldn’t waste any time.
“Bandages,” she told the computer “Antibiotic cream. Shoes.”
Amelia and the others fell silent as Tate cradled her burned foot in her lap and gently worked off the destroyed shoe. It was charred around the toe; the plastic was brittle and sooty.
Underneath, the sock was pink and damp with something that was oozing from her puffy flesh. The smell was yeasty — the odor of bad news.
Tate hesitated. So far this hadn’t hurt. Removing that sock was going to hurt. Just thinking about it hurt. Besides, hadn’t she learned something in school about not removing cloth from burns?
<
“I’m going to leave it on,” Tate murmured.
<
<
<
“It’s going to hurt,” Tate said fearfully.
<
“Maybe it won’t get infected,” Tate said.
<
“How do you know?”
<> Yago said. <>
“How debonair,” Tate said dryly. Getting advice from Yago felt weird until she realized taking care of her was in his best interest.
“A bucket of water,” she told Daughter with profound weariness. “Soap, scissors —”
<
The pain from her foot was making her entire body ache. Her hand was cramped and sore from holding the tweezers. Her hip was throbbing. Her shoulders and neck were stiff. Her head hurt.
When the job was finally done, Tate fell into a sleep that was her body’s release after enduring hours of pain.
Tate dreamed.
She saw Mo’Steel and Olga, filthy in their ragged clothes. They were standing alone in the desolation, ash drifting lazily over their shoes.
Tate could sense the rest of the band somewhere nearby. Mo and Olga had slipped away.
Their movements were furtive and hurried. Whatever they were about to do, it was secret.
Olga held out her hand, and Mo’Steel took it. The two of them hitched up their pants and got down on their knees. They clasped their hands in front of their faces and lowered their eyes.
They were about to — pray.
Tate quickly glanced down. She wanted to get away, but the dream kept playing out before her. There was no way to shut it out.
She wasn’t a religious person. Never had been. It wasn’t rebellion — her family just didn’t do religion. Seeing evidence of other people’s faith made her profoundly uncomfortable — like unexpectedly catching sight of someone’s naked body. Embarrassment mingled with fascination.
Mo and Olga crossed themselves. Olga fell silent, her eyes gently closed, but Mo was in motion as always. He rocked forward and back, mumbling low. Tate couldn’t help but pick out some of his words: “Forgive us” and “sin” and “give thanks” and…
“Tate”?
Was she imagining this? No … There it was again. This time she clearly heard Mo speak her name. Why would Mo’Steel be praying for her? Was it because he hoped she was still alive somewhere? Or was he — praying for her soul? Or —
Suddenly Olga and Mo seemed to hear something. They startled and got quickly to their feet, smoothing their clothes down, trying to compose their faces.
They looked scared.
They were in desperate danger.
And, in some way Tate didn’t understand, she was a part of it.
Tate woke curled up on the floor of the computer pit. Her clothes were damp with sweat. Her cheek burned. Her bones ached. She shivered, longing to wrap herself in a blanket but too tired to crawl up into the chair and ask Daughter for one. She stared straight ahead, wondering dully why Duncan hadn’t killed her yet.
Duncan.
Something in Tate’s brain shifted, connected. She knew how they could defeat Duncan.
“We Duncan microclimate.” Tate’s words were strangely jumbled, her voice raspy. She tried to clear her throat and unfog her mind. She needed to make herself understood. It was hard work because she felt so — disconnected.
“Amelia how to tell me isolate Duncan.” Tate’s mouth moved too slowly. Something was junking up her jaw. She was swimming in a molasses sea and the undercurrent was fierce. “Daughter build wall him —”
<
<
Just rest…>>
Tate’s eyes closed.
<
With effort, Tate forced her eyes open again.
Forget resting!
Forget relief!
She had to program Daughter.
She had to destroy Duncan. If she didn’t destroy him, Mother/Daughter would crash on Earth and Violet would grow dreadlocks and someone would try to slash Mo’Steel’s neck She had to destroy Duncan. Olga was praying for her.
Tate pushed herself up on her hands and knees. The chair was right there. It was a little blurry, but she could see it.
She crawled toward the chair, dragging her foot. Why did it hurt so much? She put a hand on the seat.
<
Yago and Amelia and Charlie forced her hand down. They made her lie on the ground and close her eyes.
This time, she was too weak to resist. Blackness rushed up like a wall. She slept.
Tate dreamed.
Billy was waiting for her on the other side of consciousness. He hovered in twilight-colored nothingness, his sneakers looking tattered as they floated in midair He held out one slim, pal hand and smiled — as if inviting Tate to come and play.
Tate reached out. Their hands clasped — and suddenly they were in motion, flying rapidly over the ruined Earth like an apocalyptic Wendy and Peter Pan. The light was at their feet and the Dark Zone lay ahead. There was no wind, no sound. In the twisted reality of Tate’s dream, some details were blotted out entirely and others were bigger than life.
Billy pointed toward the ground. Tate could just barely make out a tiny figure plodding courageously through the ash desert.
Without exactly knowing why, Tate felt an overwhelming sadness. The figure looked so alone. As alone as she was in reality, trapped on Mother, whizzing through empty space.
“Who is it?” Tate asked.
Billy’s smile grew ever more radiant. “Me.”
He seemed more than human. There was nothing new about that, of course. Only — this
was
different. Billy seemed somehow —
lit up
from inside. Tate looked down at the hand grasping hers. A golden glow shone from Billy’s skin. The reflection warmed her own. She felt a peacefulness flowing from him into her and somehow its warmth made her sadness all the deeper
Billy.
They’d made fun of him.
They’d been afraid of him.
They’d used him. 2Face especially — but they were all guilty. They’d let him interface with Mother even though it clearly cost him physically and emotionally.
Billy had never complained. He’d never made a single demand. He expected nothing and that was essentially what they’d given him.
Only Jobs had ever tried to be Billy’s friend. And it wasn’t until now that Tate realized that Billy had been the most worthy of their love.
Billy had always been ready to sacrifice himself for them. He was selfless, a hero. Tate admired him.
And now — here he was
glowing
in her dream. That glow made her uncomfortable. She didn’t know what it meant. She hoped it represented something good for Billy and knew instinctively it didn’t. You didn’t get to glow without suffering first.
Tate and Billy swooped in closer to the ground. The familiar image of the crashed Mother rose up below them. The ship was battered and half-filled with ash. And here was Billy’s small figure eagerly clambering up a sliding hill of ash to get inside.
The glowing Billy gently began to tug his hand away from Tate.
“No!” Tate cried out. She didn’t want to let go of him until she could somehow thank him. She needed him to know that she appreciated what he’d done for them.
Too late. Billy’s long fingers slipped free, the contact was lost, and Billy began to simply fade away.
His radiant grin lingered for a moment and then it, too, disappeared.
“Billy!” Tate cried in despair.
He was gone.
Tate floated above the ruined ship, utterly alone.
And then — jump cut. Tate was inside the crashed Mother. She was on the bridge with the Shipwright-designed door towering over her head. She was watching as Billy walked in a slow circle, trailing his fingers over the dust-choked controls.
This wasn’t the glowing Billy. This was the one she’d seen walking through the desert alone. This Billy looked pale, thin, and ill as he padded softly over to one of the Shipwright’s chairs and reluctantly slipped into it.
“Mother,” he whispered fervently. “Mother, I’ve missed you. I’m so glad I found you again….”
“How may I serve you?” came Daughter’s lifeless voice.
“Mother, where are you?” Billy’s voice was too loud, too insistent, too needy. Tate covered her ears to block him out, but you don’t need ears to hear in a dream.
“How may I serve you?” Daughter repeated, oblivious to Billy’s distress. “How may I serve you?
How may I serve you? How may I serve you?” Daughter’s request echoed repeatedly, loud and soft, in whispers and shouts, until the bridge was filled with the sound of her voice.
Billy hid his head in his hands and wept.
Tate went to him. She tried to comfort him, but he was unaware of her presence. He was a character in a novel and she was his reader — unable to change the flow of events, unable to do anything but suffer along with him.
Billy recovered quickly. He was tough.
An orphan.
A child of war.
A Remnant.
He sat up. Without bothering to brush at his tears, he began to talk to Daughter. His face grew solemn with determination and concentration.
Billy’s words flew by far too fast for Tate to understand, but she could guess what he was trying to do. He was trying to access some part of Mother that was still “alive,” still available in the circuitry he knew better than anyone else.
Time is meaningless in a dream.
Billy spoke on and on.
And then —
Mother’s voice. “Billy,” she whispered with such devotion that the raw emotion made Tate shiver uneasily.
Now time slowed. Not only could Tate understand Mother’s and Billy’s words, but they spoke in a draggy slow motion.
“Mother,” Billy said with horrible longing. “I missed you. I — I never want to be separated from you again.”
“I can arrange that,” Mother replied.
Again Tate felt the urge to get involved, to talk to Billy, to tell him to be careful — but knew she was powerless to do so. She didn’t even understand what she was witnessing. Somehow she guessed that the scene before her had never taken place, that it was being created for her viewing. But why?
“Tell me what to do,” Billy said eagerly.
“Become me,” Mother said with a slight tone of pleading. “Become a part of me and no one will ever be able to separate us. Not even you. Not even me.”
“Yes,” Billy agreed immediately.
“You will no longer live,” Mother said, but she made this sound like nothing. “You will never again go back to a human life.”
“That is what I want,” Billy said without hesitation. “I want us to be together.”
“What about the five?” Mother asked. “They must come willingly.”
“They do,” Billy said.
Tate watched in horrified fascination as Billy rose from his chair and walked slowly toward the center of the bridge. He raised his arms above his head and tipped his face toward the ceiling.
Then it was as if lightning struck him, and continued to strike. A powerful burst of golden energy took hold of Billy’s body and raced through it. His muscles vibrated with pulsing energy. His expression was surprised, then agonized, then — transcendent.
