Unleashed (2 page)

“You are better than her,” Dr. Alixter told me over and over again. “You are better than all of us. That's why you will succeed where we failed.”

The day I was born, the Diotech compound rejoiced. Or rather, the handful of people who knew about me rejoiced.

It had been almost one year since she escaped. One year since the boy lured her away from here. They had tried to apprehend her once before. Dr. Alixter and Director Raze sent their best men—their strongest men—into the past to find her, but they returned empty-handed. That was when they realized that they didn't need more men or even stronger men.

They needed me.

3: Caution

Dr. Alixter pops the vial into the reservoir of the injector with a definitive
snap
.

“You understand the risks.” His voice doesn't rise at the end of the sentence. It is a statement, not a question. Yet I answer it anyway.

“I understand the risks.”

“Gene DZ227 has not yet been fully tested and”—he coughs—“we don't know what the long-term effects are.”

I stare at the injector in his hand and the sparkling clear liquid bubbling inside of it. It represents everything I've wanted in my abridged life: Dr. Alixter's trust.

By injecting me, he is declaring that he has complete faith in me. That he truly believes I am not like the girl. I am different. I am loyal.

I will not run.

“My body is strong,” I tell him. “It can withstand any side effects.”

Dr. Alixter nods to the scientist standing next to him and hands him the injector. The scientist walks silently toward me, an almost dazed expression on his face. He pulls up my sleeve, exposing my left arm.

I've never seen this particular scientist before. He is new. I wonder how much he has been told about me, about the contents of the injector he holds. I wonder if he'll remember any of this tomorrow.

Chances are, he won't.

Memories are slippery on the Diotech compound. They can vanish in the blink of an eye.

Dr. Alixter says it's for the good of the company. The good of our cause as a whole. If Dr. Alixter says it, then it must be true.

The scientist presses the tip of the injector to my vein. I hear the unmistakable
whoosh
of the compressed air releasing. Then I feel a tiny pinch, and it's over. The vial is empty. The sparkling liquid is now swimming inside me, flowing through my veins, working fast to make me even more powerful than I was before.

I flex my muscles, willing it to spread faster.

I feel a slight humming underneath my skin. Is it the gene? Or my exhilaration at knowing it's in my blood. I am eager to try it out. To close my eyes and will myself to another time and place—just as my uploads have taught me to do. But I am a soldier, not a commander. I follow the orders. I don't give them. I will stay right here until I'm told otherwise.

Dr. Alixter knows best. He always knows best.

“You'll need an upload on how the technology works,” Dr. Alixter says.

I frown. Has he forgotten already? It's not like him to forget. “I have received every upload on the subject of transession.”

Dr. Alixter gazes into nothingness for a moment, as though he's fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then he blinks and smiles. “Very good. You'll need to practice before you leave. Small jumps. No more than three or four minutes and a few feet. Mark the ground and try to hit that spot every time. Precision is key. Error is unforgivable.”

“I don't make mistakes,” I remind him.

“Everyone makes mistakes. Even you.”

I fall silent, frustration welling up. I want so badly to make him see. To erase his doubts. I am not her. I will not fail him as she did. But I know better than to argue with Dr. Alixter.

“How are his vitals?” he asks the scientist.

The young man in the white coat taps on his DigiSlate, accessing the link to the nanosensors running through my blood—the microscopic robots that are constantly reporting information about my body. “Strong.”

“Once you leave this compound,” Dr. Alixter says, “your signal will be lost. We won't be able to track you.”

I drag my fingertip over the thin black line that runs across the crease of my left wrist. When I emerged from the womb and opened my eyes, it was the first thing I saw. An upload later informed me that it was there as a precaution. In case I turned out to be defective, too.

“I won't run away,” I tell Dr. Alixter, almost offended.

He laughs, but it seems to catch in his throat, causing him to gag.

“Can I get you some water?” the scientist asks. “Or a cold repressor?”

He brusquely waves the scientist away. “I'm fine,” he snaps. “That will be all. Report to Director Raze.”

Director Raze
.

Scientists don't report to Director Raze. Unless they've seen something they weren't authorized to see.

Tomorrow his memory of this will surely be gone.

“I know you won't run away,” Dr. Alixter says once the scientist has left. “What I mean is, we won't be able to
help
you. You will lose all communication with us. You will be completely on your own.”

“I can handle it.”

“Yes. But can you handle
her
?”

“Her?” I echo curiously, thinking that maybe he has forgotten again. “Her genes are inferior.”

“Her genes, yes,” Dr. Alixter agrees.

“I don't understand.”

With some effort, he stands up, wobbling slightly on his feet, and walks around the back of my chair, resting his hands on my shoulders. I continue to face forward, staring at the giant synthoglass womb that brought me into this world.

“There's something you need to know,” Dr. Alixter says, his voice suddenly graver than it was a minute ago. “Sera is unlike you and me. She is dangerous. She has been outside these compound walls for a long time and it has changed her. She will say anything she can to turn you against me.”

“I would never—”

His nails dig into my flesh. It doesn't hurt but the urgency surprises me. “Listen to me,” he growls. “She will tell you things—things that will make you feel conflicted. Things that will make you question what you know to be true. She will use whatever means possible to sway you from your mission. But you must remember, whatever she says is a lie. It's a manipulation. She is broken, and broken people lie.”

“Broken people lie,” I repeat mindlessly.

“Be careful. You are the most powerful weapon Diotech has now, but she will try to convince you that I am the enemy. She will try to turn you against me.” He pauses and his next words are weighted and purposeful. “Because she wants to
hurt
me.”

Instantly, I feel fire ignite in my chest. Red, hot rage burns me from the inside. My fists involuntarily tighten. My teeth gnash together. The sensation confuses me and fuels me at the same time.

“I will not let her hurt you,” I vow through my clenched jaw. “I will protect you.”

His fingernails loosen from my shoulders and he pats my head affectionately. “Very good.”

“When do I leave?”

“As soon as we locate her.”

“I can help,” I say eagerly. “I'll transesse wherever you want. I'll search everywhere.”

“That would be a waste of your skills. The historians are working on it. Tirelessly. She'll show up. She'll make a mistake. And when she does, we'll be ready.
You'll
be ready.” The last word barely makes it out of his mouth. It gets strangled by a wheezing sound that convulses his entire body.

I twist my neck to look at my creator. His face is pale and his eyes are watering. A small droplet of blood drips from his left nostril.

“Sir?” I ask in concern.

He walks uneasily toward the door. As he reaches out to press his fingertip to the panel, I notice his hand trembling. The heavy synthosteel that shields me from the outside world slides open, revealing a hallway I've seen but never entered.

As soon as he's through, the door begins to retract again. I hear the sound of Dr. Alixter retching just before the door seals shut, locking the acidic smell of bile inside the lab.

4: Disruptions

Today I am in the middle of the Amazon rain forest, fighting off a clan of armed poachers. I have no weapons save for the ones programmed into my DNA. I've been able to fight them off with my bare hands up until now but the simulation is changing, adapting to my skills, increasing in difficulty the more poachers I disarm.

I hear a crackling around me. They are encroaching from all sides. A swift glance gives me an estimate of twenty. No, thirty.

I can't take on thirty. Not at the same time. I look up, my perfect vision observing a canopy of leaves above me. Five poachers dive toward me at once, their machetes slashing inches from my face. Thinking fast, I leap into the air, grabbing on to a tree branch and wresting it free. As it snaps, I start to fall to the ground, holding the newly forged weapon in my hands. I land deftly on two feet and begin swinging. The first three go down instantly.

I watch their fatality meters in the corner of my vision as they tick down to zero.

But more arrive instantly.

I swing my branch, catching one in the neck. His vein bursts, sending a splatter of blood toward me. I wince in anticipation of the droplets hitting my face, but they never do.

All of a sudden, the simulation pauses. The poachers are frozen around me in varying stages of attack. The tiny droplets of crimson hang in the air like rain that forgot which way to fall.

Then my surroundings fade and I can see the transparent walls of the simulation chamber. The adaptive floor beneath my feet that spins and pivots with every move I make is now still.

Just outside the chamber, standing with his hand on the control panel, is Director Raze—the head of Diotech's security.

His face is grim and I immediately think he's come to tell me about Dr. Alixter. He must have taken a turn for the worse.

He has been on bed rest for the past week, locked inside a restricted ward somewhere else in the sector. I haven't been allowed to see him. My presence would cause too many questions from too many people and the Memory Coders are overwhelmed as it is. The doctors have been working day and night trying to diagnose his illness, but they've had no success as of yet. And until they do, they will not know how to cure him. Whatever is killing him is killing him fast.

The chamber unseals and I step out, keeping my wary eyes locked on Raze.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“What is it?” I am breathless. Not because of the effort exerted in the chamber, but because of my fear.

“Sit down,” Director Raze says, motioning to the nearby table where I eat my morning and evening meals. I lower into a chair and Raze takes the seat across from me.

I silently beg him not to keep me in suspense. If Dr. Alixter is gone I want to know. I can already feel his death fueling me. The wrath building up inside.

The girl is responsible for this. Her absence—her betrayal—caused him so much stress and grief. If she hadn't run away, if she hadn't succumbed to her own defect, he would be safe. He would be alive.

“Is he …
dead
?” I can barely get the word out. It hangs limp on my lips.

I understand what death is. I even know what it looks like from the several uploads I've received on the subject—each complete with graphic depictions of various human demises. Plus, I've killed plenty of people in my training simulations. But the thought of it happening in real life to someone I actually know is causing my throat to constrict.

“No,” Director Raze answers, putting an end to my misery. “There has been no change in his condition.”

I try not to let my relief show. Even though I care about Dr. Alixter, I am still a soldier and soldiers don't show emotion. Especially not in front of their superiors.

“What is it, then?”

“How is your transession training coming along?”

I blink in confusion. My transession training? He came in here and disrupted my simulation to ask about
that
?

“I'm able to hit my location mark every time now. Without any margin of error.”

He nods. “Good.”

“Why?” I ask warily.

He pulls a DigiSlate from his pocket and unrolls it, spinning it around for me to see what's on the screen. At first I can't make sense of what I'm looking at. It appears to be a crude, hand-drawn depiction of a young woman, sketched onto a yellowed, decomposing surface that resembles old-fashioned paper. Above her face, written in large block letters are the words,
WITCH TRIAL
, and below it, a date.

A date so deeply buried in the past, my mind struggles to comprehend it.

Raze lets out a long breath, one that it seems like he's been holding all his life. “We found her.”

5: Collection

I stare in wonderment at the date scrawled on the image that fills Raze's Slate:

October 6, 1609.

“1609?” I say in disbelief. I knew it was only a matter of time before she slipped up and made her whereabouts known but I never expected her to appear in the seventeenth century. “Why would she transesse to 1609?”

“We don't know,” Raze replies with a sigh that tells me it's a question he's asked himself more than once. “Apparently she thought it would be a safe place to hide. No satellites, no cams, no technology. But her face appeared on this witchcraft-trial pamphlet that our historians found in the archives earlier today.”

They'd been searching for months. Dr. Alixter hired a team of over twenty researchers whose sole job is to scour every news article, every historical tomb, every Web site for the past five centuries looking for someone who resembles her or an account that describes her unique abilities. And their efforts have finally paid off.