The Taking 02: Hover (8 page)

My mind flashes to the first time I saw her, when Dad introduced her as my new trainer. She was the very image of what an Engineer should be—confident and sharp, from her pinned back black hair to her pressed uniform, everything about her on that day oozed leadership. I remember how she looked me in the eye every time she spoke to me, just like any respectable Operative. Now, she’s yet to look up. I’m not even sure she realizes we’re here.

“Cybil?” I say as I sit down on the edge of her bed. She snatches the trinket and backs up against her headboard, her eyes wide with fear. “It’s okay. It’s me, Ari. Do you remember me?” The whole thing is so pitiful that I wish I could give her a hug, but I know that would be too much for her right now. Finally after a long moment, I reach out my hand, like you would when trying to pet an animal for the first time. “Cybil, it’s Ari. Ari Alexander.”

“Alexander? Alexander!” She rises onto her knees and edges toward me. “Alexander, Alexander. I’m supposed to…no wait…I can’t remember. I can’t…” She cups her arms around her head and begins to sway from right to left. “Why can’t I remember? What have they done to me? No memory. Alexander.” Her eyes flash up to mine and she’s in my face before I can respond. “I know that name.”

Jackson takes a step toward us and I toss up my hand to stop him. She needs to know that I’m not afraid of her, that I’m a friend. “Yes,” I say, holding her gaze. “I’m Ari Alexander. You were my trainer.”

She slumps back onto the bed, her legs crossed in front of her. “No, that’s not right. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Okay, so why are you here? Do you know?”

Cybil lowers her voice. “I’m here for Alexander.” And then as though someone could hear her, two female Ancients enter the room, both wearing all white. Cybil cowers at seeing them and pushes herself off the bed and into the corner of the room. “No. I didn’t mean it. I won’t say anything else. Please don’t—” And then before she can continue, one of the Ancients braces Cybil while the other injects something into her arm.

I step forward, but Jackson gently holds me back. “Don’t,” he says. “They’re just trying to relax her. Her levels are too high. Look.” He points to a monitor beside her bed, where sure enough her heart rate is off the charts. Still, I can’t handle seeing Cybil, someone I have always known as so strong, looking so weak. I edge closer to them, shaking Jackson off.

“Is that necessary?” I ask.

One of them turns to me, her expression full of genuine concern. “Unfortunately, she has been unstable since coming here. We fear her mind isn’t processing where she is or what’s happening. She keeps talking about a mission and then her eyes dart around as though she’s said too much. A few others have had issues adjusting as well, but nothing like this. And her progress isn’t improving.”

The other female has Cybil back in her bed, and the sight is almost enough to make me want to cry. She’s curled up in a ball, shaking so violently the frame rattles against the wall behind her. I don’t know how this could happen to someone so completely in control. This isn’t Cybil. She’s strong. She’s intelligent. She’s—

My eyes snap up from the floor and back to Cybil, scrutinizing her body, her face, her eyes. Her lips twitch just a touch—hardly noticeable, unless you’re trained to notice things, like me, which she knows. I watch her for another long moment, while the Ancients run more tests. Her expression is completely blank, almost catatonic. But she smiled, I know it. The Cybil I know is fiercely smart and her job back home was Special Ops Assistant to Dad. I remember when she brought me to the viewing lab, with all its T-screens trained on Latent Ancients on Earth. She has spent most of her career watching the Latent Ancients blend in to our world. Plus, she worked directly for Dad. Is it possible that she’s here on some mission from him? If so, it’s entirely possible that she’s faking all of this. She’s smart enough to do it. But then why would she pretend in front of me? Unless…

I spin around, surveying the room, searching for some sign of a camera, but find nothing. Maybe they have other ways of monitoring the room or maybe their cameras are smaller. Regardless, Cybil would never let on what she’s doing while she’s being watched.

Jackson touches my arm. “Are you all right?”

I nod, returning my attention to Cybil. “Perfect. Is she allowed to leave the room? I think she might do better if she were outside and allowed to see where she is.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me, so I let all my thoughts move from me to him, hoping they are clear. His eyes shift from suspicion to understanding. “Not yet. They won’t allow her to leave. But you can visit her. Maybe that would help.” He lifts a finger to his mouth and then his ear before discreetly motioning around the room. So they are listening to what we say. That’s fine. I can play this game.

“Great.” I walk over to Cybil and bend down until we are face to face. “I’m coming back tomorrow. I plan to help you.” The words are innocent enough, but Cybil’s eyes instantly brighten. She understands what I’m saying. Maybe I’m not alone in this after all. Confidence grows within me, and for the first time, I allow the reality of what I’m about to do set in.

I’m going to kill Zeus.

Chapter 10

Jackson and I walk back through the Vortex in silence. I can hear the RES assignees training behind the double doors, and I wonder what they’re doing, if Madison is in there.

“Should I go on to RES training?” I ask.

Jackson shakes his head. “Not today. It’s almost over now, anyway. I’ll make sure you’re caught up for tomorrow.”

We walk the rest of the way to our house in silence, the sight of Cybil making me so homesick it hurts.

I remember the very first day of Field Training, or F.T., like it happened only moments ago. Gretchen and I went into the gym, both of us so nervous we refused to talk. The gym had nothing in it on that day and it was huge, so, so huge. We had never been inside the gym as it was restricted for F.T. use only, but every day you could hear what went on inside. Occasionally Gretchen and I would stop by the doors to listen in to what they were doing, and then we’d pretend we were in there and she’d say, “I can totally master limits. No problem.” And she’d go into some spiel about the mental mechanics of limits and how all you have to do is train your brain to know that it’s a simulation. I’d half listen to her as they started up combat training, because combat was always my favorite. I wanted to prove, even at a very young age, that I was tough, but on that day—our first day of F.T.—all that toughness was pushed to the very back of my mind, replaced by worry and fear. It was one thing to train with Dad, a complete other to face my fellow classmates or, worse, Operatives.

Gretchen and I took our seats on the floor with the other twenty-three F.T. students. Looking back, I thought nothing of Jackson, who even then must have been traveling back and forth from Loge to Earth, even then an RES. I didn’t know he would be the opponent he grew to be or that he would be my greatest rival for top seed—something that seems so stupid to me now. I knew he was smart. Grades were always announced after every test, something intended by our professors to make us work harder, but really it just humiliated the kids who just didn’t understand the material. But Jackson never had to worry about that. His grades were exceptional, and always better than mine. Still, I didn’t worry about him as a potential threat because I had trained with Dad, I was the future commander, and I knew how to play my part well.

Looking back, I was an idiot. I was arrogant and sure of things I knew next to nothing about. I thought that because I was trained with my future in mind, I would always be the best.

Coach addressed the class that day with four Operatives, all sent to help him begin our training. He sectioned us into four groups and we took turns fighting the Operatives in basic hand-to-hand combat. I remember being put in the same group as Jackson and barely watching when he took the mat. Maybe I was distracted by Gretchen, who had taken the mat beside ours, and I was worried. Or maybe I just didn’t think he would show anything worth my attention. But then I heard a body hit the mat hard from in front of me, and I spun around to see Jackson had flipped the Op over and was preparing the final strike, when Coach called the fight. A hush moved over the room as all eyes focused in on Jackson. He was smart and athletic and fit, but still, he was from Landings, which meant we had overlooked him—all of us. I had always felt for Landings people, though that didn’t change the fact that I still felt those of us from Process were more capable, more driven—better.

Jackson was the only student to win a fight that day. A Landings boy, the only one to win. No one could believe it, least of all me. As it happened, class ended before I had a chance to fight. I told myself I would have also won. Of course I would have won. I was Ari Alexander, after all.

Now, I feel sure that I would have lost and lost big. Because my training supported my belief that I was above everyone else—at least in terms of ability. Sure, Dad was hard. Sure, Dad told me over and over that I needed to be better. But he also taught me that because of who I was, with his help, I would get there. I was taught to think and act as though I knew nothing of being an Operative, but at the same time, I was also taught that I was already above average, already great.

Jackson’s skill is self-imposed. He is good not because he was taught that he was great, but because he was taught—is taught—that he was nowhere near enough. And that difference is why I feel sure that if I’m going to survive here on Loge and stand a chance of getting back home, I need to think less like Ari and more like Jackson.

We enter the house and Jackson says he’s going to grab something, for me to meet him out back.

I walk outside, taking in the flowers and the grass, the stone carvings that Vill must have made. The fence is high, and I’m unable to see over it. I wonder if anyone can hear us back here or if it’s private.

I hear the back door close and turn around to see Jackson coming toward me, a ball in his hand. “Can anyone hear me out here?” I whisper.

He laughs. “Zeus is the only one who cares to listen to what people are saying. Here,” he says, motioning around to the other houses, “we have each other’s backs. You’re safe.”

For some reason his words give me goose bumps. He had always said Logeans were kind beings, but I had no idea they were also so loyal to one other. It’s a nice change from what we often see back home, where people argue over everything and anything. “Good.” I start toward him, excitement in my voice, but I can’t help it. “See, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think Cybil was faking.” Jackson turns his head just a touch in a way that says he definitely thinks I’m crazy and each word is only further proving his theory. I wave an annoyed hand at him. “Don’t judge yet. You haven’t heard me out. Listen. She smiled when they put her back into her bed. Just a twitch, but I saw it and she knew I saw it. She did it for me, to let me know.”

“Ari, she was medicated. She likely—”

“No, trust me. I know Cybil. She’s been trained for this sort of thing.” I lower my voice still more and edge closer to him. “Lancaster said two Operatives were sent here. Maybe Cybil is one of them. Maybe she can help.”

He shrugs. “It’s possible.”

“Maybe we can have Cybil fake an episode like the one you mentioned the night we tried the first plan. Zeus goes there and so do we. We apprehend a few of the guards on the way, then kill Zeus, and slip back out before anyone realizes what has happened.”

“That won’t work,” Jackson says, tossing the ball from one hand to the other. “The Vortex is monitored. The moment we take out a guard, someone will know, and Zeus will be notified.”

I sigh. “Then what? We have to think of something.”

“We will,” Jackson says.

“When?”

“Ari, we have one go at this. One shot. We mess that up and everything is ruined. We can’t rush this, do you understand? We have to think it through. Make sure all our bases are covered.”

I release a breath. “You’re right. I just feel like we’re speeding toward our doom, doing nothing.”

“Everything we do has a purpose. Even this.” He holds out the ball.

“Okay, fine, what’s this about.” I motion to the ball.

He tosses it again. “Today the RES would have worked on reflexes. I don’t want you to get behind, so…”

“Okay, you’re going to throw a ball and I have to catch it?”

“Something like that.” He steps closer to me. “The ball is a distraction. I need you to focus on what I’m doing and what the ball is doing, using your reflexes to their max to maintain order with both. Make sense?”

“Not really,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be better if you just hit me and I have to block it or something?”

Jackson crosses his arms, a smirk on his face. “Let me get this straight. You want me to hit you?”

“Would it be better if I hit you?”

At this he breaks into hysterical laughter. “I’d like to see you try. Remember, Ms. Commander, I was never allowed to show my abilities back in Sydia. I’m faster than you and stronger than you. You can’t hit me.”

A smile stretches across my face just before I lunge for him.

Jackson jumps out of the way and wraps one of my arms behind my back. He leans close into my ear, his breath on my neck. “Tell me you’ve got more than that, Alexander.” A tingly feeling spreads from my neck down my spine, settling over me, and I have to force myself to draw a breath so I can focus enough to separate myself from him.

I brush my hair out of my face and peer up at him. “How did you do that? I barely saw you move.”

“Technique.” He grins.

I roll my eyes, but can’t help but smile back. It’s nice to see him joking around, acting so normal.

“Well are you going to just stand there with that stupid smirk on your face or are you going to teach me these techniques?”

“I’ll teach you,” he says.

He tosses the ball around in his hands, his muscles flexing with each move, and then suddenly he chucks the ball into the air. I have no idea when I decided to move, but moments after the ball released from Jackson’s hand I darted left, somehow knowing which way it would go. I grab the ball with one hand and toss it into the other, before throwing it back to Jackson with a nod. “Again.” He bounces the ball on the ground, never letting his eyes leave mine and then fakes right before tossing it to his left. I lurch forward as the ball begins its decline to the ground and then dive forward, only to end up covered in dirt and grass, the ball a few feet away from me.

“You’re faster than that.” Jackson reaches out to help me stand. “You can’t focus only on the ball. Remember, I’m the one deciding where the ball will go. It doesn’t have a mind of its own. Sure, feeling the ball will help you, but that isn’t enough. You need to anticipate my moves. Watch me, not the ball.”

We go again and again, Jackson throwing the ball around and me catching it, until I’m moving almost as quickly as he releases the ball, guessing his moves as soon as he makes them. He dribbles to ball on the ground, night settling in overhead. “Now you’re ready for tomorrow.”

“What will they use tomorrow? A ball, like this?”

He tosses the ball to the other side of the yard and holds open the door for me. “Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll see.”