The Infinite Sea (24 page)

54

I’M BURIED FOR MILLENNIA.

Miles above me, the world wakes. In the cool shadows pooling on the rain forest floor, a ratlike creature digs for tender roots. Its descendants will tame fire, invent the wheel, discover mathematics, create poetry, reroute rivers, level forests, build cities, explore deep space. For now, the only important business is finding food and staying alive long enough to make more ratlike creatures.

Annihilated in fire and dust, the world is reborn in a hungry rodent digging in the dirt.

The clock ticks. Nervously, the creature sniffs the warm, moist air. The metronomic beat of the clock speeds up, and I rise toward the surface. When I emerge from the dust, the creature has transformed: It’s sitting in a chair beside my bed, wearing a pair of jeans stiff with dirt and a torn T-shirt. Stoop-shouldered, unshaven, hollow-eyed inventor of the wheel, inheritor, caretaker, prodigal.

My father.

The
beep-beep
of the monitor. The dripping IV and the stiff sheets and the hard pillow and the lines snaking from my arms. And the man sitting beside the bed, sallow and sweaty, covered with grime, restless, nervously plucking at his shirt, bloodshot eyes and wet, swollen lips.

“Marika.”

I close my eyes.
It’s not him. It’s the drug Vosch pumped into you.

Again: “Marika.”

“Shut up. You’re not real.”

“Marika, there’s something I want to tell you. Something you should know.”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me,” I say to Vosch. I know he’s watching.

“I forgive you,” my father says.

I can’t catch my breath. There’s a sharp pain in my chest, like a knife driving home.

“Please,” I beg Vosch. “Please don’t do this.”

“You had to leave,” my father says. “You didn’t have a choice, and anyway, what happened is my own damn fault. You didn’t make me a drunk.”

Instinctively, I press my hands against my ears. But his voice isn’t in the room; it’s in me.

“I didn’t last long after you left,” my father tries to reassure me. “Only a couple hours.”

We made it as far as Cincinnati. A little over a hundred miles. Then his stash ran out. He begged me not to leave him, but I knew if I didn’t find some alcohol fast, he’d die. I found some—a bottle of vodka tucked underneath a mattress—after breaking into sixteen houses, if you can call it breaking in, since every house was abandoned and all I had to do was step through a broken window. I was so happy to find that bottle, I actually kissed it.

But I was too late. He was dead by the time I made it back to our camp.

“I know you beat yourself up over that, but I would’ve died either way, Marika. Either way. You did what you thought you had to do.”

There’s no hiding from his voice. No running from it, either. I open my eyes and look straight into his. “I know this is a lie. You aren’t real.”

He smiles. The same smile as when I made a particularly good move in a match. The delighted teacher.

“That’s what I’ve come to tell you!” He rubs his long fingers against his thighs, and I can see the dirt encrusted beneath the nails. “That’s the lesson, Marika. That’s what they want you to understand.”

Warm hand against cool skin: He’s touching my arm. The last time I felt his hand was against my cheek, in hard, stinging slaps while the other hand held me still.
Bitch! Don’t leave me. Don’t you ever leave me, bitch!
Each
bitch!
punctuated by a slap. His mind was gone. Seeing things that weren’t there in the profound darkness that slammed down every night. Hearing things in the awful silence that threatened to crush you every day. On the night he died, he woke up screaming, clawing at his eyes. He could feel bugs inside them, crawling.

Those same swollen eyes staring at me now. And the claw marks beneath them still fresh. Another circle, another silver cord: Now I am the one seeing things, hearing things, feeling things that aren’t there in awful silence.

“First they taught us not to trust them,” he whispers. “Then they taught us not to trust each other. Now they’re teaching us we can’t even trust ourselves.”

And I whisper back, “I don’t understand.”

He’s fading away. As I drop deeper into lightless depths, my father fades into depthless light. He kisses me on the forehead. A benediction. A curse.

“You belong to them now.”

55

THE CHAIR IS EMPTY AGAIN.
I’m alone. Then I remind myself I was alone when the chair wasn’t empty. I wait for the pounding of my heart to subside. I will myself to stay calm, to control my breathing. The drug will work its way through my system and I’ll be fine.
You’re safe,
I tell myself.
Perfectly safe.

The blond recruit I punched in the throat comes in. He’s carrying a tray of food: a slab of gray mystery meat, potatoes, a mushy pile of beans, and a tall glass of orange juice. He sets the tray by the bed, pushes the button to raise me to a sitting position, rotates the tray in front of me, then stands there, arms crossed, as if he’s waiting for something.

“Let me know how it tastes,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t eat solid food for three more weeks.”

His skin is fair, which makes his brown, deep-set eyes seem even darker. He isn’t big, not buff like Zombie or blocky like Poundcake. He’s tall and lean, a swimmer’s body. There’s a quiet intensity about him, in the way he carries himself but especially in the eyes, a carefully contained force coiled just beneath the surface.

I’m not sure what he expects me to say. “Sorry.”

“Sucker punch.” Drumming his fingers on his forearm. “You’re not going to eat?”

I shake my head. “Not hungry.”

Is the food real? Is the kid who brings the food real? The uncertainty of my own experience is crushing. I am drowning in an infinite sea. Sinking slowly, the weight of the lightless depths forcing me down, forcing the air from my lungs, squeezing the blood from my heart.

“Drink the juice,” he scolds. “They said you should at least drink the juice.”

“Why?” I manage to choke out. “What’s in the juice?”

“A little paranoid?”

“A little.”

“They just drained about a pint of blood from you. So they said make sure you drink the juice.”

I have no memory of their taking my blood. Did that happen while I was “talking” to my father? “Why are they draining my blood?”

Dead-eyed stare. “Let’s see if I can remember. They tell me everything.”

“What did they tell you? Why am I here?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he says. Then: “They told us you’re a VIP. Very important prisoner.” Shaking his head. “I don’t get it. In the good old days, Dorothys just . . . disappeared.”

“I’m not a Dorothy.”

He shrugs. “I don’t ask questions.”

But I need him to answer some. “Do you know what happened to Teacup?”

“Ran away with the spoon, what I heard.”

“That was the dish.”

“I was making a joke.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well. Fuck you.”

“The little girl who choppered in with me. Badly wounded. I need to know if she’s alive.”

Nodding seriously. “I’ll get right on that.”

I’m going about this wrong. I was never good with people. My nickname in middle school was Her Majesty Marika and a dozen variations of the same. Maybe I should establish a rapport beyond
eff-you.
“My name’s Ringer.”

“That’s wonderful. You must be very satisfied with that.”

“You look familiar. Were you at Camp Haven?”

He starts to say something. Stops himself. “I have orders not to talk to you.”

I almost say
Then why are you?
But I catch myself. “It’s probably a good idea. They don’t want you to know what I know.”

“Oh, I know what you know: It’s all a lie, we’ve been tricked by the enemy, they’re using us to wipe out survivors, blah, blah, blah. Typical Dorothy crap.”

“I used to think all that,” I admit. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I will.” Rocks and rats and life-forms evolved beyond the need for physical bodies. I’ll figure it out, but probably too late, though it’s probably already too late. Why did they take my blood? Why is Vosch keeping me alive? What could I have that he could possibly need? Why do they need me, this blond kid, or any human? If they could genetically engineer a virus that kills nine out of ten people, why not ten out of ten? Or, as Vosch said, why bother with any of it, when all you need is a very big rock?

My head hurts. I’m dizzy. Nauseated. I miss being able to think clearly. It used to be my number one favorite thing.

“Drink your damn juice so I can go,” he says.

“Tell me your name and I’ll drink it.”

He hesitates, then: “Razor.”

I drink the juice. He picks up the tray and leaves. I got his name at least. A minor victory.

56

THE WOMAN IN
the white lab coat shows up. She says her name is Dr. Claire. Dark, wavy hair pulled back from her face. Eyes the color of an autumn sky. She smells like bitter almonds, which is also the odor of cyanide.

“Why did you take my blood?”

She smiles. “Because Ringer is so sweet, we decided to clone a hundred of her.” There is not a hint of sarcasm in her voice. She disconnects the IV and steps back quickly, as if she’s afraid I’ll leap from the bed and strangle her. Strangling her
did
occur to me, briefly, but I’d rather stab her to death with a pocketknife. I don’t know how many stabs that would take. A lot, probably.

“That’s another thing that doesn’t make sense,” I tell her. “Why download your consciousness into a human body when you can clone as many as you like in your mothership? Zero risk.” Especially since one of your downloads can go all Evan Walker on you and fall in love with a human girl.

“That’s a good point.” Nodding seriously. “I’ll bring that up at the next planning meeting. Maybe we need to rethink this whole hostile-takeover thingy.” She motions toward the door. “March.”

“Where?”

“You’ll find out. Don’t worry.” Claire adds, “You’re going to enjoy it.”

We don’t go far. Two doors down. The room is spare. A sink and a cabinet, a toilet and a shower stall.

“How long has it been since you’ve had a decent shower?” she asks.

“Camp Haven. The night before I shot my drill sergeant in the heart.”

“Did you?” she asks casually, as if I’d told her I used to live in San Francisco. “Towel right there. Toothbrush, comb, deodorant in the cabinet. I’ll be right on the other side of the door. Knock if you need anything.”

Alone, I open the cabinet. Roll-on antiperspirant. A comb. A travel-sized tube of toothpaste. A toothbrush in a plastic wrapper. No floss. I’d hoped there’d be floss. I waste a couple of minutes wondering how long it would take to sharpen the end of the toothbrush into a proper cutting instrument. Then I slip out of the jumpsuit and step into the shower, and I think of Zombie, not because I’m naked in a shower, but remembering him talking about Facebook and drive-thrus and tardy bells and the endless list of all things lost, like greasy fries and musty bookstores and hot showers. I turn the temperature as high as I can stand it and let the water rain over me until my fingertips pucker. Lavender soap. Fruity shampoo. The hard lump of the tiny transmitter rolls beneath my fingers.
You belong to them now.

I hurl the shampoo bottle against the shower wall. Slam my fist into the tile again and again until the skin on my knuckles splits open. My anger is greater than the sum of all lost things.

• • •

Vosch is waiting for me back in the room two doors down. He says nothing as Claire bandages my hand, silent until we’re alone.

“What did you accomplish?” he asks.

“I needed to prove something to myself.”

“Pain being the only true proof of life?”

I shake my head. “I know I’m alive.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Would you like to see her?”

“Teacup is dead.”

“Why do you think that?”

“There’s no reason to let her live.”

“That’s correct, if we proceed from the assumption that the only reason to keep her alive is to manipulate you. Really, the narcissism of today’s youth!”

He presses a button on the wall. A screen lowers from the ceiling.

“You can’t force me to help you.” Fighting down a rising sense of panic, of losing control of something I never had control over.

Vosch holds out his hand. In his palm is a shiny green object the size and shape of a large gel capsule. A hair-thin wire protrudes from one end. “This is the message.”

The lights dim. The screen flickers to life. The camera soars over a winter-killed field of wheat. In the distance, a farmhouse and a couple of outbuildings, a rusty silo. A tiny figure stumbles from a stand of trees bordering the field and lurches through the dry and broken stalks toward the cluster of buildings.

“That is the messenger.”

From this height, I can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl, only that it’s a small child. Nugget’s age? Younger?

“Central Kansas,” Vosch goes on. “Yesterday at approximately thirteen hundred hours.”

Another figure comes into view on the porch steps. After a minute, someone else comes out. The child begins to run toward them.

“That isn’t Teacup,” I whisper.

“No.”

Crashing through the brittle chaff toward the adults who watch motionlessly, and one of them holds a gun, and there is no sound, which somehow makes it more terrible.

“It’s the ancient instinct: In times of great danger, be wary of strangers. Trust no one outside your circle.”

My body tenses. I know how this ends; I lived it. The man with the gun: me. The child crashing toward him: Teacup.

The child falls. Gets up. Runs. Falls again.

“But there’s another instinct, far older, as old as life itself, nearly impossible for the human mind to override: Protect the young at all costs. Preserve the future.”

The child breaks through the wheat into the yard and falls for the last time. The one with the gun doesn’t lower it, but his companion races to the fallen child and scoops it off the frozen ground. The gunman blocks their way back into the house. The tableau holds for several seconds.

“It’s all about risk,” Vosch observes. “You realized that long ago. So of course you know who will win the argument. After all, how much risk does a little child pose?
Protect the young. Preserve the future.
”

The person carrying the child sidesteps the one with the gun and rushes up the steps into the house. The gunman drops his head as if in prayer, then lifts his head as if in supplication. Then he turns and goes inside. The minutes spin out.

Beside me, Vosch murmurs, “The world is a clock.”

The farmhouse, the outbuildings, the silo, the brown fields, and the blur of numbers as the time display at the bottom of the screen ticks off the seconds by the hundredths. I know what’s coming but still I flinch when the silent flash whites out the scene. Then roiling dust and debris and billowing smoke: The wheat is burning, consumed in a matter of seconds, tender fodder for the fire, and where the buildings used to be, a crater, a black hole bored into the Earth. The feed goes black. The screen retracts. The lights stay dim.

“I want you to understand,” Vosch says gently. “You’ve wondered why we kept the little ones, the ones too young to fight.”

“I don’t understand.” Tiny figure in acres of brown, dressed in denim overalls, barefoot, running through the wheat.

He misreads my confusion. “The device inside the child’s body is calibrated to detect minute fluctuations in carbon dioxide, the chief component of human breath. When the CO
2
reaches a certain threshold, indicating the presence of multiple targets, the device detonates.”

“No,” I whisper. They brought him inside, wrapped him in a warm blanket, brought him water, washed his face. The group gathered around him, bathing him in their breath. “They’d be just as dead if you dropped a bomb.”

“It isn’t about the dead,” he snaps impatiently. “It never was.”

The lights come up, the door comes open, and Claire comes in wheeling a metal cart, followed by her white-coated buddy and Razor, who looks at me and then looks away. That got to me more than the cart with its array of syringes: He couldn’t bring himself to look at me.

“It doesn’t change anything.” My voice rising. “I don’t care what you do. I don’t even care about Teacup anymore. I’ll kill myself before I help you.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not helping me.”