Until the Beginning (18 page)

I’M NOT HUNGRY. FOOD IS THE LAST THING ON
my mind. I’m only eating to keep my strength up for whatever comes next. Because at the moment, I have no idea how things will play out.

I chew the pasta and vegetables that I found in the refrigerator in a bowl labeled “pasta salad.” It looks appetizing, but once in my mouth tastes like sawdust. I can’t get past what I just witnessed. I can’t believe that Whit told Avery—a man we don’t even know—things he never told me. The betrayal leaves me wounded, like a fiery brand has been pressed against my skin.

I shove these thoughts aside to think about later. It won’t help to dwell on them. I need to be thinking about things I can control. There are so many different scenarios I need to plan for. I categorize them in my mind.

Scenario 1: Avery wakes up in eight hours. There’s no way he’ll let us go while he’s still paralyzed, so that’s another four days of sitting around. And once he’s up and about,
if
he actually does keep his word, my clan will be released and he’ll help us get to our next destination—wherever that is. I’ll think about it once we’re outside the electric gates. Or maybe the clan has already decided. But that’s the rosy version of things. We could be stuck with:

Scenario 2: Avery awakes, we wait four days for the end of his death-sleep, and he decides to default on the deal. I find a way to escape, get Badger, and rescue my people without getting shot by Avery’s troops.

Scenario 3: Avery doesn’t awake. I find a way to escape, get Badger, and rescue my people without getting shot by Avery’s troops.

Whatever happens, I should prepare for the worst. While imprisoned in the house, I can at least locate Badger and scope the building for escape routes. I pat my back pocket to check that the scalpel’s still there, and make sure the back of my shirt is covering it. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s all I’ve got.

I sense someone approach from behind me and wait until I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and see the eyes of my former mentor, inches from my own.

“So what’s wrong with him?” I ask.

Whit doesn’t even have to ask what I’m talking about. “How did you know?”

“His hand shakes, and he tries to hide it.”

“He has Parkinson’s, stage one,” Whit responds.

I don’t remember reading about that in the EB. I wonder if it existed in 1983. “It’s a degenerative disease,” Whit fills in. “I didn’t know he had it when I offered him the Amrit. I didn’t know that’s why he was interested in buying it from us—he’d been working on options for life extension even before he was diagnosed. It’s just made the matter more . . . urgent for him.”

I nod, wondering if that would really have made a difference to Whit if the price was right. “You’ve gotten what you want from me,” I say, “now go away.”

Whit gives a slight shrug, and I can see in his eyes that it’s not true: He hasn’t gotten what he wants from me. He still needs me, or he’d be too chicken to come over and talk to me.

“Oh, of course,” I say, realization dawning. “You need more blood. Am I going to be your own personal supply from now on? Or, make that Avery’s?”

“No, of course not,” Whit says, looking pained. “We only need enough blood from you to serve as a sample for testing so that we can find a functional substitute.”

“So now you and Avery are a ‘we’? It’s comforting to hear that your new ‘partner’ knows more about the clan and our beliefs than I do.” I can’t tear my gaze from his neck—I’m longing to grab it and squeeze as hard as I can.

“Juneau, there are so many things I couldn’t tell you,” he says,
clasping his hands together like he’s pleading.

“Whit, there’s a difference between not telling me something and creating a whole system of lies.”

“Like, for example?” he asks.

“Don’t even get me started,” I say. “We already had this discussion up on the mountain.”

We sit in silence for a moment, and then I can’t hold it in any longer. “How can you say that the Yara is a lie when there is solid evidence that it works?”

“If you’re referring to Reading,” he says, “I didn’t tell Avery about that—or Blackwell either. I thought it would complicate the sale of Amrit if I mentioned a side effect that probably wouldn’t be discovered by most of its users.”

He gives me a significant look, and my stomach falls. “What do you mean, ‘side effect’?” My voice is hollow, like it’s coming from far away.

“Before we left for Alaska, we—I and your parents—noticed during our experiments that Amrit widens the brain’s sensory receptors. I had already been developing my theory of the existence of the Yara and its relationship with Gaia. After taking the Amrit, we found that we were able to actually tap into the Yara and Read, and in the case of your mother and I, Conjure. We discovered that only because it’s something we already believed in and practiced—in a way—in our everyday life. It just seemed to make sense. There might be other uses of the widened sensory receptors, or even other side effects, that we don’t even know about.”

I just stare at Whit, jaw dropped. “Our gifts are a side effect of the elixir,” I say. He nods.

More lies. I can’t believe it. But then again, what hasn’t been a lie up to this point?

Whit tries to pacify me. “I’m not saying the Yara doesn’t exist, Juneau. You know how everyone in the clan believes their own version of the Gaia story. Some have practically turned it into a religion, others, like myself and your father—”

“Don’t you ever compare yourself to him.”

Whit holds up a hand and nods. “Okay. But just hear me out. The Gaia and the Yara are constructs: devices that help explain something difficult to understand. The ideas of Gaia and the Yara embody concepts that most people don’t know about—or perhaps call by another name.

“It’s like describing the Yara to the children using circles. That’s putting a complicated idea into symbols they can understand. And even for adults, attaching the name Gaia to the complicated concept of the superorganism makes the whole thing more digestible. As does using the concept of being one with the Yara to explain the clan’s extrasensory perceptions.

“If what you’re asking is ‘Does one’s closeness to the Yara and to Gaia really affect how well we Read?’ my answer is no. However, the power of persuasion is great, and the more one believes in their skills, the more control they have over them. Thus, the value in teaching the clan that a closeness to the Yara and to Gaia strengthens their ability to Read.”

“Why couldn’t you just tell everyone the truth, and leave it up
to them to draw their own conclusions?”

“It’s not like I wasn’t telling them the truth. It’s more like I was telling the truth through metaphors. Through story,” Whit says.

“My dad knew this the whole time?” Heat flares across the surface of my skin as the weight of the betrayal sinks in. I push the bowl of pasta away. I can’t eat any more.

Whit eyes me sadly. “Yes, as did some of the elders. But after a while, it worked so well that they decided to embrace it. As Marx said, religion is the opiate of the people. Life is easier if they believe in an almost physical goddess and spiritual system.”

“Well, if our powers can just be put down to a chemical reaction, then why is it that you and Mom and I can Conjure? We all took the same elixir, didn’t we?”

“Your mother and I were the first to take the elixir, at your mother’s insistence. Your father gave it to us from the same batch. He watched over our bodies while we death-slept. And once we survived and tested immune to disease, your mother let your father take the elixir. In between time she adjusted the formula’s measurements to see if the painful side effects could be avoided. Less blood was used. And your father had an easier time with his death-sleep than we did. So that’s the formula we stuck with. You, of course, received the side effects of your mother’s consumption of Amrit, which I guess we could call the ‘powerful batch.’”

I shake my head. “I had always thought it was something innate in us—a sign that we were made to be leaders.”

Whit bites his lip. “I’m sorry to tell you, Juneau, that it all comes down to science. There is nothing else.”

I squeeze my temples with one hand and try to calm the raging storm inside me. “That’s enough,” I say.

“What’s enough?” Whit asks.

And something moves inside me . . . wells up from the deepest part of me and comes crashing to the surface. “That’s enough!” I yell. “That’s enough! Get away from me, you lying bastard. I don’t believe anything you say anymore. You’ve fed me lies since I was a baby. My whole life has been a farce. Just get away from me and stay away from me!” I’m screaming now, and Whit’s guard approaches, his weapon raised. O’Donnell rushes in from the front hallway.

“What’s going on?” he yells, and points his gun at me.

Whit backs up with his hands in the air. “Everything is okay,” he says to the guards.

“No, it’s not,” I say, looking from Whit to the guards and back. “It’ll never be okay—
we
will never be okay—again.”

I’M CLICKING RANDOM FILES ON AVERY’S DESKTOP
, when I hear footsteps outside the door. I leap out of the chair and dive behind a nearby leather couch. I gesture desperately at Poe to come down from his perch on a bookshelf. He sees me, but stays where he is. The door handle turns, and in walks one of the guards. I get just enough of a glimpse to recognize him as the guy who grabbed me in Salt Lake City—one of the guards accompanying Whit.

He walks to the desk, sits down in the chair, and dials a number on his cell phone. He waits. I wait. Poe stands still enough to pass as stuffed, if the guard can even see him in the darkened room.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says. “I was with Avery, so I couldn’t call before. The girl’s here.” He pauses. “Got it. I’ll turn the airstrip
lights on.” He hangs up.

What the hell was that about?
I think. This guy—one of Avery’s own guards—must be working as a double agent.

He types something into the computer, and takes his time, clicking around for a couple of minutes. He’s on his feet in a second, though, when a shriek comes from the kitchen. At first, I’m afraid that Juneau’s hurt, but she keeps yelling and I know that tone. It’s her pissed-off voice, and I am very glad that, for once, I’m not the one she’s mad at.

The guy runs out, slamming the door behind him. I stay hidden behind the couch for what seems like five minutes, then ease my way back to standing. I walk to the desk and click the computer’s mouse to get out of the screen saver: a photo of Avery kneeling next to a dead lion.
The guy’s obsessed with death,
I think as the desktop comes up. The window that’s open reads at the top “AHR Security Client Center *** Operator: Administrator.” Running across the upper nav are dozens of icons, and down the left are lists of locations with links like “Lights,” “Fences,” and “Ranch House.” A window with a CCTV image takes up the rest of the screen.

The camera shows the airstrip I spotted earlier today from the road. It’s all lit up in the image, and the link that was last clicked is under “Lights/Airstrip.” So the guard had finished what he was trying to do when Juneau distracted him. Which, I hope, means he’s not coming back.

I click on the link at the top of the “Fences” list, and then down each one under it, watching the images of sections of fence
flash by. All feature identical red lights blinking slowly atop the fence until I get to one section that has an orange exclamation mark next to its link. “Southeast corner” it reads, and the box perched atop this section of fence is dark. This must be the one that Juneau took out to reach her clan.

I wonder how many more of these security systems exist. There’s presumably one at the front gate, if not one in the barracks as well. More importantly, is anyone paying attention to them? And if they are, can any of them override this computer, since it’s got administrator access?

The double agent guy obviously didn’t think that anyone would notice the airstrip lights were turned on.
I might as well take the same chance,
I think, and one by one start clicking “disable” next to each of the fences.

I continue with the list under “Ranch House,” disabling all of the alarms and security locks. And then, with another click, I turn the airstrip lights back off.

I click the icon for “Perimeter Map” and get a scale model of the entire ranch, complete with roads, fences, and outbuildings. I zoom in to the eastern half of the ranch, and then even closer, studying the area around the ranch house, barracks, and something labeled “Guest Village,” which is in the area where Juneau’s clan must be located.

Finally, I pull back the window with the CCTV image of the airstrip in case the guard comes back. He’ll only see the screen he was on and, unless he clicks through, won’t be aware that anyone’s fooled with the fences.

I take a pen and piece of paper and write a note to Tallie. Folding it, I turn to see Poe still doing his stuffed-bird impression on the bookshelf. “Ready to play messenger raven again?” I whisper, and tuck the paper carefully into the pocket of his harness. I ease the window up, glad I disabled the alarms, and step out onto the porch, letting Poe hop out before me.

I close the window as quietly as I can, and then sit on the porch, holding the bird in my hands and closing my eyes. I connect to the Yara, think about the mountain woman with the wild red hair, and then throw Poe upward, as I’ve seen Juneau do.

He flaps his wings and flies off into the night.

I’VE BEEN SITTING IN THIS ROOM, WATCHING MY
guard stare at a television for the last two hours, thinking that this is the worst torture imaginable. The grunts and guttural noises he makes as he alternates between watching a football game and checking his cell phone are making me crazy. I’m beginning to think I’d rather be shot than spend another six hours with a TV-watching Neanderthal.

I brought it on myself. The guards decided to separate Whit and me after I attacked him. O’Donnell said there was a bedroom assigned to me, but when he made it clear that he’d be staying with me inside the room, I refused.

I asked if I could see Badger. Another no. And he didn’t even answer me when I asked if we could go outside. So we came down here to the “media room” as he calls it. I tried to watch television,
but it gave me a throbbing pain between my eyes.

I scoped the room for anything I could use to Read, but there’s no fire, no water, not even a potted plant. In our yurts, the floors were dirt, we had fires in our stoves: Nature was all around us. This room doesn’t even smell natural. There’s a sweet artificial smell—like dying flowers—that’s making my headache even worse.

Unable to do anything useful, I’m distracting myself with a book on jaguars—the books in the room are all about hunting and animals—sitting on the couch the farthest away from the windows, as per my guard’s instructions. I don’t know what he thinks I’m going to do—break the glass and use a shard to persuade him to let me go? An idea I wouldn’t completely dismiss if it weren’t for Badger being kept hostage somewhere in the house.

As the minutes go by, O’Donnell gets more and more nervous, until he’s just sitting there staring at his phone. I’m almost relieved when it finally rings: The tension in the room’s as thick as goat curd.

“Yes? Where are you?” he asks anxiously, and then yells, “What the hell?”

He’s on his feet in an instant, and grabbing me by the arm, says, “You. Come with me, and keep quiet.” Pocketing the phone, he shoves me down the hallway, through the room of heads, past the front hall, and into a dimly lit office. He closes the door quietly behind us, and then throws himself in front of a computer sitting on a dark wooden desk the size of a rowboat.

He clicks a button, and the screen lights up. “What?!” he
exclaims in surprise when he sees a dark square on the screen. He clicks something else and the picture goes from black to hazy white, and a road appears with spotlights lining it on either side.

He picks up the phone and punches a couple of buttons. “You see it now?” he asks, and then breathes a sigh of relief. “I have no idea how that happened. They were on before. Must be some sort of glitch in the system.” He waits. “Gotcha. We’ll be right there.”

He hangs up and, taking me roughly by the arm, leads me into the hallway and out the front door.

It’s pitch-black outside. O’Donnell leans back in the door and flips a switch up and down while staring at a nonfunctioning light on the porch ceiling. “What the hell’s going on around here?” he mutters, and giving up, yanks me down the front steps.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“I have an errand to run, and you’re coming with me,” he says.

His grip is so tight it hurts, but I don’t let him know. He seems like the kind of man who would find it amusing to inflict pain on someone smaller than him. O’Donnell leads me to the same huge vehicle I was brought here in, steers me into the front seat, and closes the door behind me. He jumps behind the wheel and clicks a button, locking us inside.

We make our way up the drive, through the electric gate, and go west at the crossroad instead of south, where my clan is. “Where are we going?” I repeat, but O’Donnell doesn’t answer. He turns on the radio and drives.

I can’t see a thing beyond our headlights, the night is so dark.
But my driver seems to know the way by heart. After a while, he looks at his phone and murmurs, “Ten minutes. We’re almost there.”

We come over the top of a ridge, and spread below us is an airstrip, lit up on either side by white lights. I recognize it as the road I’d seen on the computer: O’Donnell just turned these lights on for someone. I check the sky and see flashing lights coming toward us—a plane flying low—and feel a surge of the shaky anxiety that almost crippled me in the Mojave.

This is a small plane, like the one I took to Los Angeles, but with no markings besides numbers on the tail. As we near, the plane eases down and lands on the runway, its tires screeching as it bounces a couple of times and then comes to a stop.

We follow the road in and park near the airplane, just as its stairway lowers, unfolds, and touches the ground. O’Donnell gets out of the car and comes to my side. He opens my door, and holding me tightly by the arm, marches me toward the plane. I look up at the door, and my heart plummets when I see a familiar figure appear in the doorway.

“Ah, Juneau,” Mr. Blackwell says. “So good to see you again.”