Vitro (23 page)

“What?” Sophie asked. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s broken,” she whispered.
“What’s broken?” Andreyev asked.
“The vents to leech the gas from the chamber.” She turned a dial. “And the valve to shut off the gas.” She looked up, her face white. “There’s no way to turn it off.”
“How is that even possible?” Sophie asked.
“Someone would have had to manually cut the line.”
“Sabotage?”
Moira slammed her hand against the panel, her shoulders heaving as she breathed in and out. “This whole building is filling up with hydrogen cyanide. We have to get everyone out now. Hana, go tell the others to bring stretchers!” Moira yelled. “And the kids will need oxygen, fast! We have to get them out of there now.”
Andreyev turned to his bodyguards “Find those cowardly doctors and drag them back by their hair if you must.”
His men looked sour at leaving him alone, but they went. Sophie had to give the Russian credit; he didn’t need a computer chip to inspire obedience. He had an air of authority that made Strauss look like a fourth grade bully.
Moira pointed at a door down the hall. “Sophie, open that supply closet. There should be towels inside. Take them out and tie one around your face.”
She obeyed with alacrity, tossing a towel to Moira and
Dr. Hashimoto. With the cloths secured over their mouths and noses, they plunged in and began carrying out the rest of the bodies. Sophie hoped they weren’t carrying corpses, but it was difficult to tell. Andreyev tied an apron he’d found over his face and worked alongside them, carrying Vitros out of the poisonous room and into the relatively clearer hallway, though Sophie could see the gas escaping to fill the basement. She worked feverishly; she was too small to carry anyone, so she took them by the arms and dragged them instead. Nearly all the Vitros had been evacuated when Sophie reached the last two figures slumped against the wall.

Her mind turned inside out. Her lungs went flat as her breath rushed from her lips.
Jim.

“He’s okay!” Sophie said fiercely. “Both of them. They’ll be fine. Won’t they?”
“Let’s get them out of here.”
With Andreyev’s and Dr. Hashimoto’s help, they carried Jim and Lux out of the room and laid them in the hallway with the Vitros.
Sophie dropped to her knees beside Jim, and finally let loose the tension that had been exploding in her chest since the moment she’d seen him slumped in the chamber. She couldn’t help it; she burst into sobs, tears of relief mingling with tears of fear, that she had found him only to lose him again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning over him and pressing her forehead to his, whispering into his hair. “I’m sorry for the things I said. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it at all. Jim, Jim, please wake up. Please.”
All the horror she’d felt when she’d seen his plane burst into flames rushed back to her now at double strength, a tidal wave that overpowered her and sucked her into a maelstrom of terror and savage desperation. She cradled his face in her hands and willed him back to life, willed her own life into him, had to stop herself from digging her nails into his skin.
“JIM!” She screamed his name, feeling herself lose all control. It was too much too fast too soon without a moment to breathe and she was drowning in panic. Someone was pulling at her, trying to release her grip on Jim, saying words she did not understand.
“Sophie. Sophie!”
It was her mother, her not-mother, her lie of a mother. “No!” she said, and she pressed her hands to his chest and began pumping. “He’s not dead—he’s not! I won’t let it happen! You hear me, Jim Julien? I won’t let you!”
“Come on,” Sophie said, over and over with each press of Jim’s sternum. “C’mon, c’mon.”
“Sophie.” Moira’s eyes were deep wells of pain. “Sophie, stop. He’s gone.”
“No. No, he isn’t. If I just—”
“Sophie, stop. We have to go. It’s getting too dangerous down here.” She coughed. The air was getting thicker with hydrogen cyanide. Before long, the entire basement level would be a gas chamber.
But Sophie couldn’t leave him. Losing him twice in one day would kill her. Her heart felt like it would burst into pieces it was pounding so hard, her pulse a hammer against her skull.
“He’s Jim,” Sophie sobbed. “My Jim!”
“I know. I know, baby.”
“I’m not your baby.” Sophie pulled away and shoved Moira backward. “You’re not my mom and I’m not your baby!”
“You’re right!” Moira held up her hands. “I’m not. I didn’t give birth to you. My genes are not your genes. But Sophie. I do love you.”
It was Andreyev who finally wrestled her away and put her in Moira’s arms. Her mother held her tight while the Russian felt for a pulse. The grim set of his lips brought a dry heave to Sophie’s chest. She doubled over, gasping for breath. Maybe the gas had gotten to her. Maybe she was dying. Maybe she would wake up and all of this would be a nightmare she could forget.
Down the hall, a few of the Vitros began to cough. Sophie’s heart leaped. Maybe it’s not too late.
“I must save him,” Sophie heard one whisper. She looked over. It was Lux. She began to crawl toward Jim like a broken wind-up toy.
“Lux, no.” Moira took two strides and pulled her away, held her in one arm and Sophie in the other, the girls cradled against her as if they were four years old. Their hair curled together into an indistinguishable tangle on Moira’s chest.
“Connie, go down the hall. Third door on the left—there should be some oxygen tanks and masks in the closet. He needs oxygen fast.”
He nodded and stepped around the bodies on the floor to reach it. With a wild twist of her body, Sophie broke free of Moira and ran after him, because she couldn’t bear standing still, watching Jim and Lux, hoping for a sign of life. She needed to help, needed to move, do something. She scrubbed the tears from her eyes with her shirt and gritted her teeth, channeling the pressure inside of her into movement.
Andreyev found the tanks and handed two of them to her. It took another minute to locate the masks, which she draped around her neck. Then, feeling like an astronaut preparing to dive into space, she tramped back to Moira and held out the equipment. Setting Lux down, Moira deftly connected the mask’s tubes to a tank and opened the valve to release the oxygen; she pressed it to Jim’s face.
She heard a sudden gasp behind her, and turned her head to see Jim’s chest rising. Her heart fluttered and the tension in her own chest rushed out of her in a loud exhalation, and then she jumped when she heard Lux do the same. Her twin’s face had finally relaxed. She stared at Jim’s face greedily, timing her own breaths with his as if she could somehow transfer air into his lungs by sheer force of will. Sophie watched her, transfixed.
“He’s coming back to us,” Moira said, sounding relieved herself, and Sophie wondered if she’d forgotten that just hours earlier, she’d been ready to sacrifice Jim for Sophie’s sake.
Dr. Hashimoto and the bodyguards appeared down the hall, trailing a posse of shame-faced doctors. Moira didn’t even look up. She set her mouth in a hard line and focused on bringing Jim back to life. The other doctors silently set to work, fetching oxygen, moving the Vitros onto gurneys they wheeled out of the elevator.
Sophie’s thoughts strayed to Nicholas. Where was he? It seemed that no one had seen him since Moira sent him to undo the damage he’d wrought on the newborn Vitros, but obviously he hadn’t followed through. It made Sophie nervous, not knowing what he was up to. But they couldn’t very well launch a search party now; they had to focus on resuscitating the Vitros.
One by one, all of the others awoke and were taken away by the doctors, who were all wearing surgical masks to protect them from the gas. Jim’s eyes finally opened, and he moaned, but Moira hushed him and kept the mask on his face.
Behind them, the elevator door opened and the doctor named Rogers tumbled out, shouting for Moira, his surgical mask puffing in and out as he yelled.
“What now?” she called, her face weary.
Dr. Rogers rushed to her. “It’s not good!” he said.
“What a shock. What is it?”
“It’s Strauss. She’s not happy. She’s got all the guards outside, armed, and she’s ready to make a statement. You’ve really pissed her off, and Moira,” Dr. Rogers winced and dropped his gaze. “I think she means to make an example of you.”

Sophie’s eyes were fixed on Jim as they walked—well,

limped , more like. He seemed to be recovering steadily, now that he was breathing cleaner air. “You’re alive. I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“Crazy, right? I’m as shocked as you are.” He was trying very hard not to think about what had happened in the basement of that building. Everything else that had happened on the island—that had ever happened to him in his life—paled in comparison to the horror of being trapped in that room. The bitter, almond scent of the gas seemed to cling to him, assuring that every few seconds his mind slipped backward into the gas chamber and a feeling of panic swelled in his chest. He had to fight it back each time, and the effort was exhausting.

“Hm. Must have slipped my mind between being nearly shot and nearly gassed to death. In a freaking gas chamber. Like this is some kind of fascist prison.”

She looked away, her face scarlet. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”
“Makes two of us,” he said with a crooked grin. “And I’m glad you’re not dead. From what I can tell, you saved our lives.”
“Well. Me and . . . and Mom.”
He scrunched his eyebrows inquisitively; there was too much underlying weight in her tone for him to believe that was the whole story. She shook her head at his look and said, “I’ll tell you later. Listen, what I said to you on the beach back there—I didn’t really . . . I just want to say . . .”
He studied her face, his throat tightening when he thought of their fight. He’d been shocked at how deeply her words had pierced him—he hadn’t realized how much power she had over him, to be able to hurt him like that. I care about her more than I knew. Overcome suddenly with a feeling that terrified him as much as it excited him, he took her hand and squeezed it tight. “I know. Me too.”
They crossed the atrium, flanked by Moira, a crowd of doctors, and a man with two bodyguards who Sophie pointed out as Andreyev, the Russian investor. Jim examined the man sidelong as they walked; he looked weary and slightly shell shocked, much like Jim felt. Though, of course, Jim could easily add to his list of ailments the side effects of hydrogen cyanide and near suffocation. He felt as if his brain had been reduced to sludge and was currently sloshing painfully around in his skull. He checked on Lux; she was pale and barely lucid, but faring better than he was.
When they stepped outside, they all froze, like a crowd of war refugees. Strauss was waiting with a dozen guards in a line behind her. Each one had a rifle pressed to his shoulder and the barrels were all aimed at the doctors and those with them.
The gurneys bearing the more helpless Vitros sat on the grass, with a few doctors moving frantically among them, their eyes glancing worriedly at Strauss’s guards. Andreyev’s bodyguards smoothly slid in front of him, their hands straying to the lapels of their coats, but even if they managed to reach whatever firearms they had hidden, they would be no match for Strauss’s men. Several of the doctors raised their hands in immediate surrender.
“Moira.” Strauss’s voice was soft, dangerous. The floodlights turned her white pantsuit a sickly yellow. “This little drama of yours has gone on long enough. Constantin, I cannot express how disappointed I am in the way you have been treated on this island. I assure you, Corpus will make reparations.”
“Hm,” Andreyev said, his face expressionless.
“We won’t let you kill them,” Sophie said, stepping forward—a poorly planned move, Jim thought, since it left him swaying on his feet as the world spun; he was dangerously close to toppling over and taking Lux down with him. “The Vitros have done nothing wrong. They need help, not a gas chamber.”
“Are you going to get your pet under control,” Strauss said to Moira, not once looking at Sophie, “or shall I?” She raised her handgun threateningly.
“She’s right,” said Moira. “I won’t let you harm them.”
“This place, all of it, belongs to Corpus, not you. I make the calls.”
“And I’m telling you I won’t let you harm them.”
“If I have to forcibly remove you, I will.”
“Then you’ll have to forcibly remove me, too,” said Sophie, stepping closer to her mother.
“And me,” said Dr. Hashimoto unexpectedly. She joined Sophie and Moira.
One by one, then all in a rush, the other doctors stepped forward. Even the bespectacled one who’d turned on the gas after Strauss conferred control of the project to him—what was his name? Michalski. His hands were visibly trembling, but he stood beside Moira and held his ground.
The doctors, with Sophie in their midst, formed a protective hedge in front of the Vitros. Strauss looked angrier with each one’s pronouncement of support for Moira and her skin seemed to grow tighter and tighter over her cheekbones as her opposition swelled.
“Each and every one of you is expendable,” Strauss spat. “I have no qualms about removing you all. Once I shut this place down for good, you will all be fired. No relocation, no reassignment, no pension, nothing. In fact . . . I could have you all shot here and now. There is no law on Skin Island but what I make. You know I can do it.”
Sophie reached out and took Moira’s hand. Then Moira took Dr. Michalski’s. Down the line, the doctors grasped hands and stared silently at Strauss and her guards, daring them to fire.
All except Sophie, who looked over her shoulder at Jim.
Jim sighed deeply. The last thing he wanted to do was get tangled up in some Gandhian protest. He didn’t want to get shot for the sake of some miserable lab subjects he didn’t know. But he did know Sophie, and now Lux, he supposed. If he had to get shot over something, it might as well be for the sake of a friend.
Maybe getting involved was the stupid thing to do, but it had never stopped him in the past. And if Skin Island had showed him one thing in the brief time he had been there, it was that the world had plenty of heartless, detached bastards—and it could really use a few more idiot heroes.
So he took Sophie’s hand and stood beside her with his other arm wrapped around Lux. She was still shaking and a little wobbly on her feet, but she was proving her resilience. She looked at him with clear eyes, eyes less innocent than they had been an hour ago. The world had given Lux a cruel reception and she was growing up fast.
Jim drew a deep breath and turned to face Strauss and the dozen rifles aimed at him. Sophie squeezed his hand; he squeezed hers back.
For a long moment, Strauss said nothing. He imagined her running a hundred different responses through her mind, trying to find a way to cow them into submission. The guards glanced uncertainly at her, waiting for an order.
Together, in silence, they waited.
Only one person stood apart from it all—well, three, if you counted Andreyev’s bodyguards. The Russian stood a short distance ahead of the line of doctors, between them and Strauss’s men. He seemed unperturbed by the amount of firearms being brandished about, and looked lost in thought, as if he were sitting in the back of a movie theater watching with halfhearted interest as they all played out their drama. His bodyguards, on the other hand, were tensed like a pair of panthers, ready to spring at the first sign of gunfire.
Jim realized Sophie was staring hard at Andreyev, her eyes pouring pressure onto the Russian’s shoulders. Why? What did she want him to do? Is this what it came down to—one man whose decision could tip the scales for or against them?
“Constantin,” Strauss said his name slowly, “come with me. I am afraid what I must do next will not be pleasant, and it would be best if you were not caught up in it. These employees have proven too insubordinate to be trusted, and so Corpus must act.”
“As one of Corpus’s foremost investors, Miss Strauss,” Andreyev said, his accent almost a purr, “I believe I have a say in what Corpus will and will not do, wouldn’t you say?” He slowly shifted into motion, crossing the grass to stand on the other side of Lux, completing the defensive line against Strauss.
Her eyes widened slightly when she realized he had chosen his side—and it was apparently not the side she had predicted. “I don’t understand.”
“Understand this, Miss Strauss. Young Sophie here has apprised me of some very interesting facts regarding Skin Island’s past—and its original purpose. In light of this information, I would like to double my current contributions to the Vitro project, under three circumstances. One,” he lifted a finger. “Full control of the project will go to Dr. Crue. And by full control, I mean I don’t want you to have a say in so much as the color of the wallpaper.”
“Mr. Andreyev! I—”
Two,” he steamrolled right over Strauss’s angry interjection, “I want every possible effort to be made in reversing the mind-control you have put over these poor children, and I want my funds to be channeled not into the making of Vitros but into utilizing the neurotechnology that has imprisoned them to explore its therapeutic and curative abilities. There is a great deal of potential in that, I think, and I am curious to see what Dr. Crue can make of it.”
Strauss’s eyes bulged, but she said nothing. Down the line, Moira Crue let out a soft cry, and she turned to stare at Sophie with wide eyes. Sophie looked up at Jim and gave him a small smile. He returned it and squeezed her hand again.
“And three,” Andreyev turned to Sophie and Jim. “I want these young people to be given their freedom. They must be allowed to leave this place with no harm done to them.”
Jim resisted the urge to crawl across the ground and kiss the man’s thousand-dollar golf shoes. He wondered what the Russian words for “can I buy you a drink” might be.
Strauss cocked her head and studied him with a bemused look, as if she was wondering where the punch line was, as if she couldn’t believe he was actually serious. But the look he gave her in return was cool and smooth as Russian vodka.
“If this is your decision,” Strauss said, “to reject everything I have offered you here, why did you come in the first place?”
“I came because I was curious. And because I cannot afford to have weapons such as these—” he gestured at the sedated Vitros “—in the hands of my enemies. I will admit, at first I was intrigued when I read the dossier you sent me last month. Only a fool would not consider the advantages of the particular services your company offers, and I wanted to see these Vitros for myself, to see whether this imprinting could really be done. Still. You think that because I deal in arms, that because I fund your weapons research and your . . . special project in South America, that I am a coldhearted bastard who would sit by while children are turned into robots, made to serve with no capacity for their own choice?” He shook his head slowly. “I am a businessman, yes. But I am not a monster.”
Jim was surprised Strauss’s death grip on her hand gun hadn’t already dented the metal. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as they waited for her to speak. The silence was filled by the rushing surf and windswept leaves of the palm trees. Even the moon, suspended high above them, was poised in suspense.
At last, Strauss relented. Her capitulation was evident even before she spoke; she folded visibly, like a tent robbed of its supports. “So be it, but this is entirely on your head, Constantin. I will take no responsibility when this plan of yours fails.”
He nodded amiably as everyone breathed out in relief. The guards behind Strauss seemed very grateful to be lowering their weapons. Andreyev crossed to Moira, took her hand in his and kissed it. “Dr. Crue, I should be honored to invest in your technology. I think you will find I can be a very resourceful supporter.”
Moira actually blushed. “Constantin, I . . . I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, Moira. You must thank your bold and persuasive young impostor,” he said, ignoring Strauss and shifting his gaze to Sophie. His back was now to Strauss, as if he’d dismissed her already. “Miss Crue. My regards.” He gave her a small, stiff bow—and then it was Sophie who was blushing.
Jim gave a soft, impatient grunt, and Andreyev’s eyes flickered his way.
“Not to be rude,” Jim said, “but now that we’re all sorted out, I wondered if we might discuss the issue of my plane? Now, the way I see it—and the way my insurance company might see it—someone here is responsible for it being blown up. So I was just wondering if—”
Sophie elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Jim. This isn’t the time.”
“What? All I’m saying is—”
“If you want to talk to the person responsible for your stupid plane,” said a voice behind them, “perhaps you’d like to talk to me?”
They all turned to see Nicholas leaning the doorway, absently tapping a device against his leg. In his other hand was a sleek black pistol. “Or perhaps you’d like to talk about the bomb I have planted inside.”