I’ve been standing outside the door staring at a smooth, polished stone wall for at least fifteen minutes before I check my wrist for a summons.
Still nothing.
When I’m with Anderson I don’t have a lot of flexibility to look around, but standing here has given me time to freely examine my surroundings. The stretch of the hallway is eerily quiet, empty of doctors or soldiers in a way that unsettles me. There are long, vertical grates underfoot where the floor should be, and I’ve been standing here long enough to have become attuned to the incessant drips and mechanical roars that fill the background.
I glance at my wrist again. Glance around the hall.
The walls aren’t gray, like I originally thought. It turns out they’re a dull white. Heavy shadows make them appear darker than they are—and in fact, make this entire floor appear darker. The overhead lights are unusual honeycomb clusters arranged along both the walls and ceilings. The oddly shaped lights scatter illumination, casting oblong hexagons in all directions, plunging some walls into complete darkness. I take a cautious step forward, peering more closely at a rectangle of blackness I’d previously ignored.
It’s a hallway, I realize, cast entirely in shadow.
I feel a sudden compulsion to explore its depths, and I have to physically stop myself from stepping forward. My duty is here, at this door. It’s not my business to explore or ask questions unless I’ve been explicitly asked to explore or ask questions.
My eyelids flutter.
Heat presses down on me, flames like fingers digging into my mind. Heat travels down my spine, wraps around my tailbone. And then shoots upward, fast and strong, forcing my eyes open. I’m breathing hard, spinning around.
Confused.
Suddenly, it makes perfect sense that I should explore the darkened hallway. Suddenly there seems no need at all to question my motives or any possible consequences for my actions.
But I’ve only taken a single step into the darkness when I’m pushed aggressively back. A girl’s face peers out at me.
“Did you need something?” she says.
I throw up my hands, then I hesitate. I might not be authorized to hurt this person.
She steps forward. She’s wearing civilian clothes, but doesn’t appear to be armed. I wait for her to speak, and she doesn’t.
“Who are you?” I demand. “Who gave you the authority to be down here?”
“I am Valentina Castillo. I have authority everywhere.” I drop my hands.
Valentina Castillo is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America, Santiago Castillo. I don’t know what Valentina is supposed to look like, so this girl might be an impostor. Then again, if I take a risk and I’m wrong—
I could be executed.
I peer around her and see nothing but blackness. My curiosity—and unease—is growing by the minute.
I glance at my wrist. Still no summons. “Who are you?” she says.
“I am Juliette Ferrars. I am a supreme soldier for our North American commander. Let me pass.”
Valentina stares at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe.
I hear a dull click, like the sound of something opening, and I spin around, looking for the source of the sound. There’s no one.
“You have unlocked your message, Juliette Ferrars.” “What message?”
“Juliette? Juliette.”
Valentina’s voice changes. She suddenly sounds like she’s scared and breathless, like she’s on the move. Her voice echoes. I hear the sounds of
footsteps pounding the floor, but they seem far away, like she’s not the only one running.
“Viste, there wasn’t much time,” she says, her Spanish accent getting thicker. “This was the best I could do. I have a plan, but no sé si será posible. Este mensaje es en caso de emergencia.
“They took Lena and Nicolás down in this direction,” she says, pointing toward the darkness. “I’m on my way to try and find them. But if I can’t—” Her voice begins to fade. The light illuminating her face begins to glitch,
almost like she’s disappearing.
“Wait—” I say, reaching out. “Where are you—”
My hand moves straight through her and I gasp. She has no form. Her face is an illusion.
A hologram.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice beginning to warp. “I’m sorry. This was the best I could do.”
Once her form evaporates completely, I push into the darkness, heart pounding. I don’t understand what’s happening, but if the daughter of the supreme commander of South America is in trouble, I have a duty to find her and protect her.
I know that my loyalty is to Anderson, but that strange, familiar heat is still pressing against the inside of my mind, quieting the impulse telling me to turn around. I find I’m grateful for it. I realize, distantly, that my mind is a strange mess of contradictions, but I don’t have more than a moment to dwell on it.
This hall is far too dark for easy access, but I’d observed earlier that what I once thought were decorative grooves in the walls were actually inset doors, so here, instead of relying on my eyes, I use my hands.
I run my fingers along the wall as I walk, waiting for a disruption in the pattern. It’s a long hallway—I expect there to be multiple doors to sort through—but there appears to be little in this direction. Nothing visible by touch or sight, at least. When I finally feel the familiar pattern of a door, I hesitate.
I press both my hands against the wall, prepared to destroy it if I have to, when it suddenly fissures open beneath my hands, as if it was waiting for me.
Expecting me.
I move into the room, my senses heightened. Dim blue light pulses out along the floors, but other than that, the space is almost completely dark. I keep moving, and even though I don’t need to use a gun, I reach for the rifle strapped across my back. I walk slowly, my soft boots soundless, and follow the distant, pulsing lights. As I move deeper into the room, lights begin to flicker on.
Overhead lights in that familiar honeycomb pattern flare to life, shattering the floor in unusual slants of light. The vast dimensions of the room begin to take shape. I stare up at the massive dome-shaped room, at the empty tank of water taking up an entire wall. There are abandoned desks, their respective chairs askew. Touchpads are stacked precariously on floors and desks, papers and binders piling everywhere. This place looks haunted. Deserted.
But it’s clear it was once in full use.
Safety goggles hang from a nearby rack. Lab coats from another. There are large, empty glass cases standing upright in seemingly random and intermittent locations, and as I move even farther into the room, I notice a steady purple glow emanating from somewhere nearby.
I round the corner, and there’s the source:
Eight glass cylinders, each as tall as the room and as wide as a desk, are arranged in a perfect line, straight across the laboratory. Five of them contain human figures. Three on the end remain empty. The purple light originates from within the individual cylinders, and as I approach, I realize the bodies are suspended in the air, bound entirely by light.
There are three boys I don’t recognize. One girl I don’t recognize. The other—
I step closer to the tank and gasp.
Valentina.
“What are you doing here?”
I spin around, rifle up and aimed in the direction of the voice. I drop my gun when I see Anderson’s face. In an instant, the pervasive heat retreats from my head.
My mind is returned to me.
My mind, my name, my station, my place—my shameful, disloyal, reckless behavior. Horror and fear flood through me, coloring my features. How do I explain what I do not understand?
Anderson’s face remains stony.
“Sir,” I say quickly. “This young woman is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America. As a servant of The Reestablishment, I felt compelled to help her.”
Anderson only stares at me.
Finally, he says: “How do you know that this girl is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America?”
I shake my head. “Sir, there was . . . some kind of vision. Standing in the hallway. She told me that she was Valentina Castillo, and that she needed help. She knew my name. She told me where to go.”
Anderson exhales, his shoulders releasing their tension. “This is not the daughter of a supreme commander of The Reestablishment,” he says quietly. “You were misled by a practice exercise.”
Renewed mortification sends a fresh heat to my face. Anderson sighs.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I thought— I thought it was my duty to help her, sir.” Anderson meets my eyes again. “Of course you did.”
I hold my head steady, but shame sears me from within. “And?” he says. “What did you think?”
Anderson gestures at the line of glass cylinders, at the figures displayed within.
“I think it’s a beautiful display, sir.”
Anderson almost smiles. He takes a step closer, studying me. “A beautiful display, indeed.”
I swallow.
His voice changes, becomes soft. Gentle. “You would never betray me, would you, Juliette?”
“No, sir,” I say quickly. “Never.”
“Tell me something,” he says, lifting his hand to my face. The backs of his knuckles graze my cheek, trail down my jawline. “Would you die for me?”
My heart is thundering in my chest. “Yes, sir.”
He takes my face in his hand now, his thumb brushing, gently, across my chin. “Would you do anything for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet, you deliberately disobeyed me.” He drops his hand. My face feels suddenly cold. “I asked you to wait outside,” he says quietly. “I did
not ask you to wander. I did not ask you to speak. I did not ask you to think for yourself or to save anyone who claimed to need saving. Did I?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you forget,” he says, “that I am your master?” “No, sir.”
“Liar,” he cries.
My heart is in my throat. I swallow hard. Say nothing.
“I will ask you one more time,” he says, locking eyes with me. “Did you forget that I am your master?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
His eyes flash. “Should I remind you, Juliette? Should I remind you to whom you owe your life and your loyalty?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, but I sound breathless. I feel sick with fear. Feverish.
Heat prickles my skin.
He retrieves a blade from inside his jacket pocket. Carefully, he unfolds it, the metal glinting in the neon light.
He presses the hilt into my right hand.
He takes my left hand and explores it with both of his own, tracing the lines of my palm and the shapes of my fingers, the seams of my knuckles. Sensations spiral through me, wonderful and horrible.
He presses down lightly on my index finger. He meets my eyes. “This one,” he says. “Give it to me.”
My heart is in my throat. In my gut. Beating behind my eyes.
“Cut it off. Place it in my hand. And all will be forgiven.” “Yes, sir,” I whisper.
With shaking hands, I press the blade to the tender skin at the base of my finger. The blade is so sharp it pierces the flesh instantly, and with a stifled, agonized cry I press it deeper, hesitating only when I feel resistance. Knife against bone. The pain explodes through me, blinding me.
I fall on one knee.
There’s blood everywhere.
I’m breathing so hard I’m heaving, trying desperately not to vomit from either the pain or the horror. I clench my teeth so hard it sends shocks of fresh pain upward, straight to my brain, and the distraction is helpful. I have to press my bloodied hand against the dirty floor to keep it steady, but with one final, desperate cry, I cut through the bone.
The knife falls from my trembling hand, clattering to the floor. My index finger is still hanging on to my hand by a single scrap of flesh, and I rip it off in a quick, violent motion. My body is shaking so excessively I can hardly stand, but somehow I manage to deposit the finger in Anderson’s outstretched palm before collapsing to the ground.
“Good girl,” he says softly. “Good girl.” It’s all I hear him say before I black out.
