Revive (9 page)

The corridor seems clear, and I let my hand fall over one of the pamphlets as I relax. They're all produced by a company called Promethean 3.

That name sparks something like an itch in my brain, and I inadvertently scratch the back of my neck. Apparently, I have another cut back there, also bandaged, like the one on my forehead. What did I do to myself earlier?

Ignoring the wound, which is still tender when touched, I flip open one of the pamphlets.

Neural-Tech was pioneered and patented by scientists at Promethean 3 Biotechnologies. A breakthrough in medical technology, Neural-Tech combines cutting-edge techniques in brain research and computer science.

The brain and nervous system operate via electrochemical signals sent from cell to cell. Neural-Tech implants work along those same electrical signals. This means a Neural-Tech implant can stimulate normal brain functioning when natural biological processes fail. Thanks to neural-technology, exciting new treatments are now available for patients suffering from a variety of neurological conditions.

A brief diagram of a sodium-potassium ion pump follows, as do more diagrams of implants interacting with it. From there, the pamphlet goes on to specifically discuss how an implant works with someone suffering from ALS.

But never mind the diagrams, which are dumbed down to the point of absurdity. And never mind how I know the diagrams are dumbed down to the point of absurdity even though I have no conscious memory of ever learning this sort of thing.

What's important is it sparks another memory.

“It's a crude technology as it's used in medicine so far, but the public isn't ready for the full potential we have here. The human body is a biological machine; its brain operates on a binary system. A neuron fires, or it doesn't. On or off. Sure, it's a bit more complicated than that. Connections change—it's constantly rewiring itself—and the rate at which neurons fire varies. But in the end, it's all ones and zeros, and it's the most sophisticated computer in the world. And now we finally have the interface through which we can program it.”

I jerk back to the present and drop the pamphlet in its slot. That voice in my memory is the one I associate with the man I called Dad. The dad who isn't my dad. Does he have something to do with Promethean 3 Biotechnologies then? Kyle said I told him he worked for the government.

A dizzy spell passes over me. This time, I swear I feel the disorderly bits of memories in my head rearranging themselves. I want to scream with frustration.
Go! Finish this! Give me back myself!

Read Harris!

Damn it, brain. What the fucking hell is Harris?

I flip the brochure around, reading every bit of text, but there's nothing called Harris in any of it.

Kyle touches my arm. “Soph, we got incoming.”

Shuddering, I glance to where Kyle's looking. One of the men on my tail has returned, and he's heading for the door.

Run or fight remain our only options. As much as I'm getting sick of the running, fighting in the midst of the quiet waiting room has got to be the worst of the two choices. Too bad there's only one place to run.

I toss open the door on the opposite side of the room and find myself in the business end of the unit. Kyle looks around nervously because someone is going to stop us. They have to. Any second now.

From behind closed doors, machines hum and whir and grind. The hallway is lined with empty stretchers, IV stands and computers on carts. White lab-coated techs scurry from room to room, and I hope they're too busy to pay us any attention.

“Come on,” I say, and start jogging down the hall. There has to be another exit somewhere.

“Hey, excuse me!” An older woman steps out of a room in front of us, and she holds out her arms like a blockade. “You can't be back here.”

I don't slow down. “Sorry! We're looking for our sister,” I yell over my shoulder.

“She's picking up a phone,” Kyle says as we round the corner.

Great. We're going to have hospital security on us now too.

A clatter rings out somewhere behind us, and I wonder if it's our tail. This is no good. We need an option three: hide and regroup.

One exit sign, three flights of stairs and eight minutes later, I pull Kyle into some kind of prep room off a deserted corridor. It's dark in here, and our footsteps echo on the tiled floor. We're somewhere in the bowels of the hospital, and I haven't the faintest idea where. Makeshift rooms just big enough to hold a gurney, a chair and a blood pressure monitor line the walls. Slamming the curtain shut on one of them, I climb onto the gurney.

“Up,” I whisper. “Get your feet off the floor.”

He sits next to me, catching his breath. “This is crazy. Do you know where we are?”

“Not a clue, but I think we finally lost the men.”

Kyle rests his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, them. You still don't know who they are?”

“Things are being triggered, but nothing about
them
. It figures.”

We sit in silence for a moment. Maybe Kyle's catching his breath, but I'm listening to his. Listening and thinking. Kyle has never once suggested we go to the police or hospital security about the people chasing me. Isn't that weird? Logic tells me it is. Just like the stuff I found on his computer was weird. Just like him knowing about AnChlor was weird.

Meanwhile, I—Sophia—have lied to him in the past, despite liking him. And according to him, I asked him to come away with me today, but I have no reason to believe that. Why were we at South Station of all places? How did these men—who, for whatever reason, make me think BAD—find me there? Was it actually Kyle who suggested we go there so those men could grab me? And if so, why is he running with me now unless it's to keep an eye on me until they catch up again?

I rub the bandage on my head, then drag my fingers to the one on the back of my neck. Both new injuries. Both sore. But one I—or someone else—bandaged before the memory loss. How did I get hurt on the back of my neck?

It's time to try something new. I need to get out of this hospital and figure out how I'm being tracked. “We should split up.”

“What?” Kyle raises his head.

“Those guys are after me, and that means I'm putting you in danger.”

He swears. “So long as you have trouble, I'm sticking with you. Soph, you're missing huge chunks of your memory. There's no way I'm letting you out of my sight.”

“I have a lot of the important parts back.” But Kyle shakes his head, not believing my lie. “Look, I can take care of myself. Remember what I did at South Station?”

He laughs without much humor and rubs his wrist. “Not likely to forget.”

I scowl because the memory makes me as uneasy as it clearly makes him. “Okay, and I'm the one who's good at strategy. You said so yourself.”

I'm not sure I believe it, but it gets Kyle's attention. He sucks on his lip while he studies my face. “Playing Capture the Flag is a little different than this, don't you think?”

What does Capture the Flag have to do with anything?

“The point is, I know what I'm doing.” Not. “These guys aren't after you, so if we split up, you might distract them. For my sake.”

What I'll do if they decide to catch Kyle and use him as leverage against me, I don't know. I'm trusting they're completely uninterested in him, either because he's not interesting or because he's secretly working with them. Either way, if he's with me, there's a chance Kyle is in danger. If he's not, there's a chance he could be safe. That “could be” is important, especially if he's not one of my possibly many mysterious enemies.

But maybe Kyle's wondering the same thing about his safety because he doesn't look happy.

I take out my phone, turn it on and put the ringer to vibrate. “If you need me, you can reach me.”

“There's GPS in those things,” Kyle says. “They could use it to find you.”

I eye the phone warily. “They'd need a warrant to get that from the phone company, wouldn't they?”

“Depends on who
they
are. Or they could have put some kind of tracking app on it.”

“If I've had my phone all this time, how could they have put something on it?” Kyle stays silent, so I plunge ahead. “In half an hour, I'll meet you at the coffee shop where we were earlier. If I don't show up, go back to campus.”

“Do you even remember how to get to RTC?”

“Yes.” No. But how hard can it be? I could see the Charles River in that one memory. Besides, I have the phone. I can look it up if I need to.

Kyle runs his hand across my cheek, and the gesture makes me want to melt into the bed with him. He's so close I could count his every lash, but my eyelids are like lead. I'm struggling to keep them open. That's what the scent of his skin does to me.

Please, oh please, don't let him be the enemy I'm worried about. That would not be fair.

“I'll do it, I guess,” he says, sounding like he'd rather chew glass. “If that's what you want. But you promise me you're really getting better?”

“Promise.” It's true. Just not as fast as I want.

He hesitates, searching my face for something, and I realize that if I'm making a huge mistake, this might be the last time I see him. And if he is an enemy, this might be the last time—or the only time—I get to kiss him.

So I do.

Now I know one more thing, and it has nothing to do with missions or enemies or mutant students. It's this: whatever else happens with me and Kyle? I'm not regretting this kiss.

His lips are every bit as soft as I imagined. His hand rests against my cheek, and it's so hot it might leave a burn scar. The warmth of his touch spreads across my skin, seducing me into feelings of languid safety yet awakening my nerves at the same time. I want to pull him closer, wrap him around me like a blanket, and a slow moan slips up my throat.

“If that was supposed to convince me to leave you, you're not as good at strategy as you've made me believe.” Kyle breathes heavily.

Somehow we toppled over, and he's lying partway on top of me. The pressure of his body against mine makes it hard to think straight. His hair dangles in my face as he raises his head, and I tuck it behind his ears.

“It wasn't strategy. It was for good luck.”

“In that case, you can't have too much good luck.” He kisses me first this time, harder and hungrier. My body shifts beneath his, and every inch of his responds to my movement. If I don't get him away soon, I'm going to forget what I'm dealing with.

I cannot afford to forget anything else, so I put my hand on his chest and push him. “Go.”

“Soph—”

“Coffee shop. Half hour. We can do this.”

Kyle sits and runs his hands through his hair. “Yeah. You sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

Sighing, he slides off the bed. He adjusts his jacket, fiddles with his zipper. Stalls for time. Finally, with his hand hovering by the curtain, he turns back to me. “There's stuff you're not telling me, isn't there?”

Of course there is. It's so obvious I want to laugh at why he hasn't brought it up earlier. But that's not what I do. Not what I say. “There's stuff you're not telling me too.”

The words sound like an accusation, probably because they are, although I hadn't intended to make it one. A flicker of emotion passes over Kyle's face. Pain, but also fear. My words mean something to him that I don't entirely understand.

Then the moment of vulnerability fades. Kyle swallows. “Good luck then. I'd better see you soon.”

With that, he vanishes around the curtain. A pinprick of pain stabs me in the chest. Curling my hands around my jacket cuffs, I focus on his footsteps down the hall. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Eventually, I can't hear them anymore. I'm alone.

The thought makes my jaw clench. This is ridiculous. I may not know exactly who—or what—I am yet, but one thing is certain: Sophia-Seven-I am smart, strong and on a mission. There's no crying on missions. Not unless it's a trick to be used to my advantage.

Although I don't hear the gruff woman say that in my head, by this point I'm pretty sure she would.

I count away the seconds, giving Kyle a good five-minute lead. Then I slip off the bed, put my backpack on and head in the opposite direction from where he went.

As soon as I'm moving I feel better. In control. In the dark, deserted corridors it'll be easy to hear if someone's coming, so I'm not worried about being blindsided by the men. And since I don't need to concentrate on them, I mentally poke my brain for more memories. Unfortunately, the room in the back of my mind remains stubbornly disordered.

Giving up on that, I take the memories that have returned and try putting them in chronological order. Some are distinctly old. I feel young in them, and the faces of my friends—One, Nine and others—might be no more than five or six years in age. In others, they've grown but are still not as old as I currently am.

Then there are the memories I have of RTC, of hanging out with Kyle, doing homework with Audrey, being bored in classes. I replay them all because even the ones that seem insignificant might hide clues about how and why I ended up at South Station this morning. But no matter how many ways I arrange the pieces, I have a puzzle with significant missing chunks.

Frustrated and sweating under my jacket, I run out of empty corridor at last. Once again I have to be alert, so I let the most distracting memories go. As I check around a corner, it dawns on me that I'm more relaxed than I was with Kyle at my side. I miss his company, but I feel safer.

Part of me almost hopes the men do find me so I can fight them again. I'm convinced if I can just trust those instincts of mine, I can better them. Then maybe I can get some information.