Not touch.
“I’m always tired,” I said. Vi wore a pair of men’s jeans that hung off her bony frame and a faded blue T-shirt. In the wild we scrounged for whatever food and clothing we could find. “The Director of Mountain Dale donated some clothes,” I said. “Nothing’s arrived yet?”
A sparkle entered her eyes. “Don’t I look good in these?” She gestured to her outfit.
She’d look good in anything. Or nothing. “Absolutely.” I moved toward her as she took a tiny step into my cramped quarters.
“Zenn—”
“Don’t,” I cut her off. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t in every relationship I had. I wouldn’t fake it with her anymore. We didn’t need a cache—or words—to communicate. She could read my every thought.
While my voice was more developed than my mind control, I could catch the gist of most people’s inner thoughts.
Especially Vi’s.
I focused on the ground as I felt her inner conflict, her inability to make decisions, even simple ones. I’d like to think it was just a side effect of Thane’s extreme brainwashing, her crazy-controlled life, or that making choices was a new thing for her. But all that would be a lie.
Vi just sucked at making decisions. Especially hard ones.
“I love you,” I whispered, looking directly into her eyes. “It is what it is. I can’t change it. I don’t want to change it.” I took a deep breath and prepared to say what I should’ve said long ago. “I can’t change you, either. I don’t want to. Not anymore.” I gathered her into my arms and was more than a little surprised when she let me.
For the first time since Jag had picked us up outside Freedom, I kissed her. I could lie and say it didn’t mean anything. But I was done lying. Kissing Vi was earth-shattering every—
single—
time.
The memory of her smooth, warm skin kept me sane during those long hours on my hoverboard. The smell of her hair gave me energy to talk to one more Director, endure one more sleepless night.
I’d do anything for Violet Schoenfeld.
She pulled away first. “I just came to tell you that Jag’s ready to start.”
I nodded, trying to bottle up my emotions before any more spilled out, revealing too much.
Vi traced her fingertips over my eyebrow. “I love you, Zenn Bower.” She turned and walked away, leaving her next words unsaid but screaming through my mind.
But I love Jag Barque, too.
Jag
3.
Two weeks ago, the night Gunn and I had rescued Vi and Zenn, Gunn had pulled me aside after everyone else had gone to their holes to sleep.
“Starr Messenger gave me this.” He held out a blood-crusted chip. “I haven’t been able to watch it,” he said. “My wrist-port shorted out.”
I didn’t need a cracking wrist-port to watch a microchip. “Let’s go see my brother.”
Pace manned the tech development for the Resistance in the second-largest cavern in the underground safe house. Since Ty’s death I don’t think he’d slept more than a few hours at a time. He hadn’t said as much, but I knew. His eyes told me things his mouth couldn’t say.
When Gunn and I showed him the chip, he pulled out an e-board. “Let’s see. From Starr, you say?”
“She’s the hot contact,” I told him. “I’ve dealt with her for years,” I explained to Gunner. “She used to send messages every week.”
“Every week?” he asked. “For how long?”
I shrugged. “Three years? Close to that. I wouldn’t know every intricacy of Freedom without her.”
“Here we go,” Pace said. The projection screen above the e-board brightened with Starr’s face. She’d done something funky with her hair. I liked it.
“Gunner,” Starr’s voice said, and it echoed weirdly from the projection. “I’m sorry about Trek.”
I cut a glance at Gunn, who frowned. “That’s what she starts with? Trek Whiting?”
Pace paused the vid. “Trek is a genius,” he said. “He’s our communications guru in Freedom.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Trek. Love him.”
But Gunn did not. He wore a sour expression and rolled his eyes. “So the guy can falsify a feed. Big deal.”
But it was a big deal, whether Gunn liked him or not. “What’s with you and Starr and Trek?”
“She’s my match, and they’re together.”
“Oh, well,” I said, the pieces aligning. “So you don’t like him.”
“He’s not my favorite person,” Gunn confirmed. “But I’ll deal. Keep going.”
Pace started the vid again. “Trek and I are still fully on board with the Resistance. When you get somewhere safe, make sure Jag Barque watches this.”
I leaned forward as the camera cut away from Starr. The image vibrated and the screen went dark. One breath later, a new stream started. This time the camera wasn’t in Starr’s room.
“That’s a laboratory,” Gunner whispered.
“Where?” I asked, scanning the long rows of counters in the vid.
He didn’t answer as the image zoomed in on one workstation. A man sat on a high stool, a piece of tech clutched in his hand. He wore a white coat, gloves, and a pair of protective goggles.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” Gunn said. “Most of his face is covered by those glasses.” The three of us leaned closer, anxious not to miss a thing.
The man—not much older than Pace—fiddled with his tech instrument. He glanced at the camera—right at it. “My name is Cash Whiting,” he whispered.
Gunn jerked away from the screen, and Pace paused the vid. “What?” Pace asked.
“Cash is Trek’s brother,” Gunn said. “He’s—well, Raine drained him and, uh, now he’s dead.”
I raised my eyebrows. “She killed him?”
“No, no,” Gunn said. “Zenn’s report said Thane did.”
“Why don’t I have that report?” I asked.
Pace put his hand on my arm. “You rescued Zenn two hours ago, bro. Give him five seconds to sleep before he downloads every report he’s filed in the past eight months.”
“Fine,” I said. “But no one gives me five seconds to sleep.”
Pace smirked. “I can give you some meds that will give you as long as you want.”
I waved him away. “Where did Cash Whiting work?” I asked Gunner.
“Evolutionary Rise,” he said. “Raine told me about an Alias list. His name was on it, with ‘Insubordinate’ behind it. And ‘Deceased.’ ”
I nodded my understanding as Pace restarted the vid. Cash leaned over his station, and the camera showed his view, as if it were perched on his shoulder.
A tray lay in front of him. He poked at something liquid and pushed the end of his tech instrument. Blue dye seeped into the tray, brightening little rectangles one at a time until they were all showing.
“Administration of DNA,” Cash whispered. “From someone with voice talent.” He covered the tray and placed it in a chamber at the back of the counter.
I sucked in a breath. I knew what the scientists did in the Evolutionary Rise. Entire floors had been dedicated to creating genetic copies of talented people.
“Whose?” Gunner asked, his pale face almost gray. “Whose DNA is that? There aren’t many voices in the world.”
I knew what he was really asking: Is that my DNA?
I put my hand on his arm. “I don’t know.”
On the video an alarm rang, and we all jumped.
“Time to see if Batch 4395 can support life,” Cash said, almost like he was making a video journal for his scientific records and not for us. Maybe he was.
“The embryos have been grown in the dark,” he continued. “The temperature was kept two degrees below normal standards. They’ve been starved of the DNA needed to create a voice box—until they receive this application of DNA from Subject 261.”