David Laughlin was, I realized with distaste, both younger and more attractive than the grainy photographs Zane and I had found online. His cheekbones had hollows beneath them in that fashionable manner, and his hair was highlighted with auburn streaks that were not the work of nature. Beneath his lab coat, which looked more like a fashion accessory, he wore an expensive-looking shirt with heavy cuff links and suit pants with a precise crease down the front. He was every bit the public persona he’d presented to the newspapers and other media organizations.
Two assistants—beautiful women in dark, tailored suits—trailed after him, tablet computers in hand, as if he might drop a word here or there and they would need to record it to ensure that it wasn’t lost to history.
It took everything I had to maintain what I hoped to be a relaxed but attentive expression. It would have been no problem for me to pretend in GTX with Dr. Jacobs. I was used to that. But here, in unfamiliar surroundings with unpredictable strangers, I could feel myself tensing up.
“Good evening, children!” he said, in a cultured British accent. I’d known he wasn’t American, but it was still startling to hear him. It reminded me, once again, how big this conspiracy was, how many people were involved. It wasn’t just my small hometown in Wisconsin.
He clapped his hands together with a sound like a shot. “How was your day?”
Carter, the designated spokesperson, gave the same answer before. “Within acceptable parameters, sir.”
Without warning or even so much as a response to Carter, Laughlin turned to me.
“I understand you made a new friend at school today. A human. Would you care to explain that to me?” he inquired, the casual lift of his brow making it seem as though this was a matter of simple curiosity rather than the start of my undoing.
My breath caught in my chest. Crap. The nosy teacher who’d caught Zane and me sneaking in. Ford hanging out with a regular student, without Nixon or Carter in sight, would definitely have struck him as strange, and he must have reported me to someone here. Probably as ordered.
I waited, praying for one of the bookend assistants to look up wide-eyed from her tablet and tug at Dr. Laughlin’s sleeve, or for lights to flash and alarms to sound. Something to indicate that Ford was following through on her part of our arrangement.
But nothing happened. And the seconds ticking by between Laughlin’s question and my lack of an answer were creating a gap that would soon be impossible to cross.
Across the table, Carter’s knuckles went white where he clutched his spoon, and even Nixon’s posture seemed stiffer than usual.
I needed to do something right now.
I took a breath and did my best to channel Ford. “You know the teachers there. Always eager to create reports on us that will generate your favor. And your money.” The heavy disdain in my voice, I realized, was probably a little more Rachel Jacobs than Ford’s more flat affect, but here was hoping Laughlin wouldn’t notice.
A troubled frown creased Dr. Laughlin’s otherwise unlined forehead.
No, no, no. Don’t frown. Don’t question. I am Ford, who else would I be? I sent the thoughts at Laughlin, though I knew he couldn’t hear me.
“Of course. I suspected as much. That is unfortunate, though. I was hoping that Mara’s immersion therapy was beginning to work. Carter here is looking like a better and better choice for the trials.” He tilted his head sideways, watching for my reaction.
I stared at him, much as I imagined Ford would have, letting the unexpressed hate shine through my eyes behind the otherwise impassive mask of my face. That wasn’t hard for me.
Laughlin nodded appreciatively. “That will serve you well, assuming I allow you to live.”
He wasn’t worried or fearful. Nor did he seem to have any doubt in his control over us. Say what you will, Dr. Jacobs had always had a cautious and healthy respect for what I was capable of.
By contrast, Laughlin was so certain that their need for the Quorosene protected him, he took chances that were foolish to say the least. Then again, he had no way of knowing that one of his hybrids had been replaced by an undomesticated substitute. Killing him now would mean blowing my cover—probably trapping the three of us in here forever or getting us “eliminated”—so it was a no-go.
But still…
I watched as he seated himself on the table, dipped his finger in Nixon’s remaining protein paste, and placed it in his mouth, making a face at the taste.
“That is bloody awful, isn’t it?” he said with laugh, wiping his hand on Nixon’s sleeve. The assistants gave a polite titter, Laughlin’s devoted audience. “Have to try it every once in a while to remind myself.”
Nixon, for his part, was unmoved and unreadable as ever. But he was in there, in his head. He wasn’t an empty vessel. He’d squeezed my hand in the car.
The arrogance of that man. Beneath the table, I curled my hands into fists, feeling my fingernails bite into my palms. I wanted badly to show Laughlin exactly how weak and breakable he really was.
But that wouldn’t solve our problem. Not yet, anyway.
Dr. Laughlin stayed for several more minutes, asking Carter questions and pointedly ignoring me. I suspected that tactic was designed to make me, Ford, worry about my fate. But instead, it simply pissed me off. Made me even more determined to see him fall.
His whole visit lasted less than ten minutes. Then he left, as suddenly as he’d arrived, his coat flapping behind him and the two assistants trailing.
Watching him walk away, I felt hope draining out of me, like a cup with a leak. He’d arrived late, but he’d arrived, with seemingly no agitation or concern at events that might have occurred just before his visit. And while he’d been here, there’d been no sign whatsoever of Ford’s planned distraction.
I swallowed hard, my mouth gritty with paste and panic. Zane had been right.
Now what?
Now what? Now what? Now what? The phrase pounded in my head like a drumbeat as Nixon, Carter, and I pushed away from the table and returned to our bunks.
Carter attempted to make contact in Morse code again.
“She’s loyal. We are one. She would no more betray us than she would cut off her own arm.…”
Maybe it was just me, but his tapping sounded more desperate than before. And I couldn’t help thinking again about a mouse caught in a trap. Some of them were known to chew off limbs to escape.
I tuned out the rest of whatever Carter was saying. I needed to think.
My heart was a panicked animal trapped behind my ribs, trying to beat its way free.
Don’t panic. Breathe. Staring up at the smooth green plastic over my head, I concentrated on my inhales and exhales until a measure of calm descended.
I had two choices. One, if I could pass the night without being detected as a counterfeit, I could get back to Linwood tomorrow and sneak out. Through the bathroom window, perhaps. It would be more difficult without Ford to take her place again and with the guards watching.
But what good would that do? Ford might be gone, but the competition was still on. Laughlin would simply send Carter in her place. And God only knew what he would do to Nixon as punishment.
Dr. Jacobs would still be looking for me. And Dr. Laughlin would have a serious grudge, once he figured out what we’d done. Or rather, what we’d attempted before Ford broke ranks.
What hope did I have of avoiding them both forever? I was willing to bet that even if GTX had to forfeit the trials to Laughlin Integrated—no, especially if they had to forfeit—Dr. Jacobs would continue to look for me.
My second option, my only true choice, was to get the trials canceled, as planned.