Immurement: The Undergrounders Series Book One (A Young Adult Science Fiction Dystopian Novel) (20 page)

“Derry Connolly. Who are you?”

Before he can respond, Mason appears behind him.

“Sven!” Mason exclaims.

My jaw drops. Slivers of disconnected thoughts spin around in my brain. Then it hits me. Sven’s the military clone planning to flee the Craniopolis with us.

A grin opens up on Sven’s rugged face. “You made it!”

I watch the two clones embrace and slap each other between the shoulder blades. It’s a strangely human gesture, despite how cold and unfeeling Mason comes across most of the time.

“How’d you know it was me who docked?” Mason asks, when they pull apart.

“I intercepted Ramesh’s expiration upload,” Sven says. “When the docking request came through, I realized he must have picked you up before he expired.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry. I know how much he meant to you.”

Mason’s eyes cloud over. “We had to use his chip. Mine’s been deactivated.”

I cast a nervous glance around the hangar. “Won’t the Sweepers wonder who flew the Hovermedes back in?”

Sven turns and blinks, as if he’s only just remembered I’m here. “I took care of that. I adjusted the time of Ramesh’s expiration so it looks like he was already docked.”

Mason nods thoughtfully, his brow pleated with concern. “So what’s the plan to get us out of here?”

Sven jabs a finger in the direction of the overhead doors. “I brought the Crematauto for Ramesh’s remains. You two can hide in the back.”

I glance over at the sleek, black vehicle, shaped like a beetle with multiple ridges running its length. “My dog goes too.”

Sven throws Tucker a bemused look. I get the feeling he’s never seen a dog before. “I need to follow procedures and take Ramesh to the Crematorium first,” he says. “Then we can figure out how to get you to the biotic pods.”

I jump out over the side of the cart and slap my thigh for Tucker to follow. “What are the biotic pods?”

“Our living quarters,” Mason says. “They’re contaminant-controlled, which keeps our immune systems boosted to maximum levels.”

“You can brief her on the way.” Sven gestures toward the Hovermedes. “Let’s unload Ramesh.”

Mason, Tucker, and I cram into the back of the Crematauto. There are no windows and no handles on the inside—a grim reminder of the vehicle’s purpose. Somewhere in the darkness, Ramesh’s body lies wedged between us. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to him. “I was wrong about you.” I draw my knees up to my chin and hug them. Mason could be next to expire. I only hope we find Jakob and get out of here before that happens.

The Crematauto glides effortlessly forward without a sound.

“Is it magnetically powered?” I ask Mason.

“Everything in the Craniopolis draws from the earth’s magnetic fields. Free, clean energy for the masses.” He lets out a snort. “The Sweepers got some things right.”

I bite my lip. I wonder if Mason feels conflicted about the Sweepers’ vision for the world too. Ramesh certainly thought the regeneration program had its merits. Somehow, the Sweepers convinced him that anarchy is a bigger threat to freedom than their iron-fisted regime. And most of the clones have never been outside the Craniopolis to know any better. Not me. I know what it is to fear the shadow of the Sweepers’ ships, as dark as the hearts that drive them. We’re in hell’s laboratory now, and once I’ve found Jakob and Owen, I intend to shut it down.

“We’re approaching the Crematorium,” Sven says. “It’s after hours, but there could still be an incineration in progress. Sit tight for a few minutes.”

The Crematauto slows and I hear the whoosh of doors opening. We move forward again, and then roll to a soundless stop. A leaden terror fills my chest. This is the twisted heart of the Sweepers’ lair—a final resting place of sorts, for evidence of what they’ve spawned. In a matter of minutes, the only trace of Ramesh’s existence will be the knowledge the Sweepers have gleaned from him to use in future cloning programs.

“You okay?” Mason whispers.

I give him a halfhearted thumbs-up. Tucker lets out a low growl as the door of the Crematorium seals shut behind us.

“All clear in here,” Sven says. “I locked the entry doors.”

Mason pulls his brows together. “Cameras?”

“I fed the security loop some dummied-up stills.”

Mason grunts as he climbs out over me. I turn and look at the shape that is Ramesh’s body, contorted like a draped tree limb beneath the dark cloth. Tentatively, I reach out and lay a hand on him. This can't be how things are supposed to be. I don’t know how yet, but I have to find a way to stop this happening.

I clamber out and take in my surroundings. The room is long and low-ceilinged, a strange high-gloss, bluish-white hue, with two recessed bays, each of which houses a steel bed in front of what could pass for an oversized pizza oven. I stand, rooted to the spot, feeling woozy all at once. Mason jerks his thumb in the direction of my gaze. “Cremation chambers.”

Heat crawls across the back of my neck. “I figured as much.”

I glance up at the cameras mounted to the six-inch-steel conduit pipes running along the ceiling. The eyes of the Sweepers are everywhere. I hope Sven is as competent as he says he is when it comes to rigging this equipment. I’m half-expecting the double doors to swing open and a line of Sweepers to advance toward us, weapons pointed. The sooner we get out of here, the better.

Sven dons an apron and walks around to the back of the Crematauto. I avert my eyes and head to the double doors at the far end of the Crematorium. I’ve said my good-byes already; there’s nothing more I can say or do, other than make good on my promise. I lean my shoulder against the wall and stare at the floor, marked off in a painted yellow grid. The Sweepers aren’t invincible. I just need to find a way to bring them down.

“Those squares are linked to a software program,” Mason says, coming up behind me. “Security can pinpoint movement in the Craniopolis.”

“For your own protection, no doubt.” I throw him a scathing look.

“It’s hi-tech.” He smirks. “Unlike bunker life.”

“There’s nothing here to be proud of.”

Mason’s smile fades. “Listen to me, Derry. We’re going to need the Sweepers’ expertise to rebuild civilization. The Craniopolis isn’t just a cloning facility. Brilliant minds have been working on all sorts of invaluable research here.”

I give a sarcastic laugh. “So they’re monsters with obese IQs. I’d rather take my chances with the Rogues.”

“
They’re
Neanderthals—out of control.”

“I don’t want to control them. I want us all to be free.”

Mason nods thoughtfully. “What if I told you the Sweepers could rehabilitate subversives?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Sweepers can superimpose genetic codes with new segments of DNA. Think about the possibilities, Derry. They could stabilize the Rogues’ violent propensities.”

I take a step backward. Mason’s words orbit around my brain. “You told me you hated what they’re doing.” My voice cracks. “Now you’re defending lobotomies for the Rogues?”

Tucker sits back on his haunches, gives a low growl, and trains his eyes on Mason.

“I’m only talking about fixing what’s broken. Subversives have deviant traits that turn them into criminals. Things go wrong with humans too, you know.” A deep flush creeps up Mason’s neck. “There are good scientists down here, men and women who can help make the future a better—”

“Now you sound as crazy as the Sweepers,” I yell.

Tucker gives another, more menacing, growl, and then jumps up, barking furiously.

“Down, boy,” I reach for his collar, to keep him from lunging at Mason. He snarls at me in a way he’s never done before and I realize, too late, that I’ve misread his warning.

With a loud whoosh the doors to the Crematorium swing open.

Someone gives a feeble clap. “Magnificent! A most rousing speech to rally the heathens, Mason!”

My feet fuse to the floor at the raspy voice that wafts into the room. Tucker strains at his collar. I yank him back, my heart pounding.

A shrunken man with an unnatural stoop steps into view. My skin crawls with a new level of fear. My gun’s in the Crematauto, along with the rest of the weapons. I fumble around in my pocket and latch onto my switchblade. A trickle of sweat runs down behind my ears. The man standing in the entry looks freakishly old and frail. Tucker could take him down in a heartbeat, but my brain sounds an inner caution. He probably didn’t come alone.

Before I even finish my thought, the doorway darkens and four armed men in black fatigues troop through. Big-shouldered, faces set like flint on necks thick as tree stumps.
Schutz Clones!
I tighten my grip on Tucker and command him to stay. One false move and he’ll end up another carcass waiting to be incinerated. He minds me, but tension radiates through his collar.

“Welcome to the Craniopolis,” the old man says. “My apologies for the modest welcoming committee, but your timing is most unfortunate. Everyone is at the unveiling of our new Hovermedes prototype.” His body shakes out a shallow breath, as he shuffles toward me. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Lyong.”

I slide my gaze in Mason’s direction. His face registers confusion. Then a flicker of recognition.

“What … happened to you?” he asks, in a half-whisper.

Dr. Lyong jerks to a stop in front of me and lets out a long, trembling sigh. It’s all I can do not to gag. His breath smells of decaying compost.

“Restructuring DNA proved more complex than I had hoped.” Dr. Lyong runs a finger under his beaked nose and waves it dismissively in Mason’s direction. The skin is stretched so tight over his hand I can see the grape-colored veins forking out beneath it. He barely looks human.

I can’t repress a shudder.

He must have sensed me recoil because he tilts his head until his icy eyes are locked on me. “Do I disgust you, Miss. Connolly?”

I’m thrown off by the fact that he knows my name. I wonder who told him.
Owen?
When I open my mouth to respond, Mason cuts me off.

“You did this … to
yourself
?”

Dr. Lyong eyes him disdainfully, and smooths a string of lank, gray hair behind a shriveled ear. “Two weeks ago I attempted to reverse the abnormal DNA structure of the aging process. I miscalculated the base pairings rules in the transcription. Regrettably, my cells retained considerable damage as a result.” He curls his lip, studying Mason’s reaction. “A minor setback. I’ve since inverted the sequencing and halted the process.”

“A minor setback?” Mason growls. “Is that what you call molecular ossification too? Ramesh is dead, thanks to you.”

A sterile smile flicks across the doctor’s lips. “You, Mason, always were ungrateful for what I endowed you with.” He pauses, his eyes radiating a chill that makes me quake. “You demonstrate a complete lack of understanding of what I am accomplishing for humankind—
every
strain of humankind.” The thin skin on his brow rumples. “The galaxy is unstable. Planets are in meltdown as we speak. Our moon’s volatile tidal forces will ravage the earth’s crust again; it is only a matter of when. It is imperative that we humans develop alternative processes of regeneration. The science behind you, Mason, holds the key to our future.”

Mason’s fingers curl into a fist at his side. “You’re experimenting with lives—
my life,
for what it’s worth.” He sways back on his heels, his eyes glowing like embers. As if on cue, the Schutz Clones train their weapons on him. For the first time, I notice the sheathed knives dangling from their belts.

Dr. Lyong waves a bony finger in the air again. “
Your
life? You forget your place. Clones were created to serve a purpose. You have no will.”

Mason moves his jaw grimly side to side. I can tell he’s on the verge of lunging at Dr. Lyong, but he doesn’t stand a chance. There’s at least ten feet between them. The fatigue-clad bodyguards will pump him full of lead before he gets within striking distance. I peer out at the doctor from under my matted hair.

But I could do it.

My eyes dart around the room and settle on Sven. I signal over my shoulder with a slight incline of my head. He blinks, slow and deliberate, as if to indicate he knows what I have in mind—which is remarkable because it’s more than I’ve figured out. I only know the weapons are behind me, and so is he. I wish Big Ed were here right now. It’s times like this I rely most on his wisdom.

Everyone’s afraid, Derry. You have to find your courage and act anyway.

Slowly, I uncurl my fingers from Tucker’s collar and tap a finger on his neck to command him to stay. In the same instant, I propel myself forward with a bloodcurdling yell.

I slam into the doctor, my fist connecting with his windpipe. He totters and I spin him around in a headlock to face the Schutz Clones. Their seamed faces register confusion.

“Nobody move!” I yell, pressing my switchblade to the paper-thin skin on the doctor’s neck. He makes an incoherent sound that dissolves into a choking gurgle against my forearm. I keep my eyes trained on the Schutz Clones.

“Drop your weapons, or he dies,” I say, hoping I still have a live hostage in my arms.

They take aim at me, their expressions a frozen cocktail of disbelief and rage. Tucker bares his teeth and snarls. There’s an agonizing beat of silence, and then, behind me, I hear the door of the Crematauto open.

A jolt of hope goes through me. If Sven can get to the weapons, there’s a chance we can pull this off.

Mason’s voice cracks like a whip in the space between us. “You heard her,” he says, staring fixedly at the Schutz Clones. “Put down your guns. You can end this now if you’ll help us.”

I suck in my breath and tighten my forearm around the doctor’s neck. I only hope Mason knows what he’s doing. Trying to negotiate with a bunch of Schutz Clones could backfire. They’re used to following orders, not thinking for themselves.

“I’m one of you,” Mason continues in an even tone. “And so is Sven.”

The Schutz Clones hold their positions, a blank look in their eyes. My forearm aches, but I don’t dare twitch in case I trigger a volley of fire. Despite what a lightweight the doctor is, I can’t hold this position for much longer. “Ten seconds,” I say. “Then he dies.”