Prototype (13 page)

A smile cracks her serious expression and she breathes out a heavy breath. “Okay, good. You had me worried there for a sec.”

I stand and we meet at the end of the table. “One thing is for certain,” I tell her as we link elbows and begin to walk out. “You will know who your true friends are when it is all over.”

“Who were yours?”

“From the beginning, it was always Foster. He never treated me any different. Declan, too, I suppose, but I do not count him. That is a different situation entirely. Not even Noah . . .” I pause and bite back all the negative phrases that come to mind. None of them is fair. “That was different, too.”

“Nobody else?”

I shake my head. “What Dr. Travista did to me is unbelievable. How can anyone blindly accept me as the Emma they knew? Especially since I do not have all my memories. Maybe that will make all the difference for you.”

She pauses outside the cafeteria. “If not, who needs them anyway? I can start from scratch, right? You’ll be there.”

“And Foster. I cannot imagine Miles will treat you any different either.”

“No, I guess not.” She gives me a small smile. “Thanks, Clone.”

“Anytime, Human.”

D
r. Travista takes a long moment to study the still shot taken two winters ago.
“Emma was not a patient at that point,”
he says, and slides his glasses back on.
“But she was grateful to me for her remission, and volunteered to sit with Ruby Godfrey. She even tried to teach her to paint.”
He chuckles.
“Ruby didn’t take to the brush as well as Emma, but they enjoyed trying.”

“Would you consider them to be close friends?”
the interviewer asks offscreen.

The doctor nods. A slow smile forms on his face.
“Of course they were. Emma cared for Ruby a great deal. She must be devastated by this news. Wherever she is.”

 • • • 

Noah asks me to take Adrienne at breakfast so he can meet the soon-to-arrive colonel. Sonya must be tied up somewhere because she never came down to eat with them. He looks wary to ask the favor, but I take the opportunity without hesitation. This is the first time in a week he has spoken to me. The first time he has looked me in the eye. He even brushes my hand in the pass-off of our daughter.

I want the moment to last, but he has erected a wall I cannot get past. He has made a clear effort to remain devoted to Sonya, and I promised myself I would let him go. It just may take more time than I would like.

Instead of going directly to day care, we walk around the hub for a while. She points at things and I tell her what they are called. She tries repeating most words, though combining certain sounds appears difficult. I begin to make out her particular sound pattern, though. What was only noise before becomes simple words.

We see Noah with Reid and the colonel at one point. Colonel Updike is average in height and quite a bit older according to the lines creasing his forehead and around his eyes. Despite his age, he is very attractive. He is bald and cleanly shaven, and sharp angles make up his bone structure. Muscles outline his arms and define his shoulders under his dark-brown T-shirt.

They are far enough away that we go unnoticed by Reid and the colonel, but Noah seems to sense us and turns. My heart gallops. I was supposed to take Adrienne to day care and I have clearly not done so. But he waves and turns back around, making it okay.

The rest of the morning passes quickly. She naps in my room for an hour; then we have lunch together in the cafeteria. It has been an exhausting yet perfect day. One I should feel guilty about wasting but do not. I need to work on figuring out what to do about Declan, but this time with Adrienne is precious.

Begrudgingly, I return Adrienne to day care. Once inside the room, she wriggles from my arms, takes my finger, and drags me to a low-lying round table. Multicolored shapes and crayons bounce along the touch-screen surface.

“Adrienne, I need to go bye-bye,” I say.

“No.” The one word is practiced; she says it with the skill of an adult, unlike everything else.

Adrienne pulls me down to sit and slaps the table. A menu of sorts appears. Coloring pages, virtual storybooks, stacking games . . .

I look around, and when none of the caregivers seem to notice or care that I am here, I tap
COLORING PA
GES
, then
GIRLS
, then
PRINCESSES
. A large sheet of paper appears on the screen and Adrienne pulls the image toward her. The scene is from a princess story, complete with a pumpkin and a prince calling to the fleeing princess from a grand staircase. He looks desperate for her to return. Under the “paper” is a perfect row of crayons.

Adrienne crawls into my lap and leans over the colors. She hums a high-pitched
hmmm,
as if she cannot decide, then hits the pink. She begins swiping her palm around the screen, and pink strokes follow her movement. When done, she hits the green and repeats the process. She goes through all the colors in a very short period of time, then starts over.

I hug Adrienne’s small, warm frame and dip my nose to the crown of her head, filling my lungs with the sweet berry scent of her hair. She scribbles away on the table, unaware of how much I already love her.

I am setting her up with a clean coloring sheet when a strange male voice fills the space. “Well, that looks fun. Mind if we join?”

The man walks up to our table with Noah and Reid on his heels.

Adrienne beams and reaches for Noah, who scoops her up without hesitation. “Emma, this is Colonel Updike.”

I stand and reach out to shake his hand. “It is nice to meet you, Colonel.”

He frowns and exchanges a look with Noah and Reid. He then gives me a small smile that makes his already thin lips disappear. “You don’t remember me?” He has a low, comforting timbre to his voice, which helps me relax.

“My memory is very limited.”

He scratches the cleft in his chin. “That’s too bad. Well, anyway, if you aren’t busy, I thought we could go somewhere and talk. Privately.”

Privately? Why on earth would he need to talk to me privately?

I look at Noah, who gives no hint as to what this is about. After a long moment he nods once, urging me to agree to the meeting.

“Okay,” I say. “Where would you like to talk?”

“Outside. I’d like you to come somewhere with me.”

Outside?
My heart flings itself against my ribs once, good and hard.

“Disguise yourself,” he says, and heads for the exit. “Meet me in the command center in five minutes.”

Noah hangs back as the colonel and Reid disappear. Adrienne rests on his hip, her little arms snaked around his neck.

“What is going on?” I ask him.

“He’ll keep you safe,” he whispers, casting a furtive glance around at the nearby caregivers, who ignore us.

“That is not what I asked.”

He shakes his head, then smiles at Adrienne. “Daddy has to go back to work, chicken. Be a good girl for Alicia and Renae.”

“Noah—”

“It’s not my place,” he cuts in, and sets Adrienne down. He pats her diapered butt and says, “Go play.”

She runs off and into the arms of one of the girls. Noah watches for a moment, then leads me out of the room.

“Should I be worried?”

“No. Listen . . .” He trails off and faces me, his eyes cast down. “Just take care of yourself out there, okay? I have to go.”

He turns away and leaves me with my heart stone still in my chest.
Take care of myself?
What does that mean? Why could he not look at me?

I have no time to consider this if I am to make it back to the command center, fully disguised, in time to meet the colonel. The best I can do with the little time remaining is to wrap a dark blue scarf over my head. The material is large enough that I am able to twist the length of my hair into a low-hanging knot, concealing every dark strand. I wish I had my old sunglasses but make do with a pair I find in “Emma’s” box that are rectangular and tinted blue. I want to wear my leather jacket, but it will be too warm outside, so I stick with my black tank top and jeans.

Colonel Updike waits for me near the teleporters wearing a brown leather shoulder holster for a single HK pistol. The sight of his weapon gives me pause. He wants to take me outside and does not bother to conceal his gun?

With the way Noah was acting, a horrible thought surfaces. The colonel could be luring me to my very own assassination. The resistance would be better off without me around. With Declan searching the world for me, I can only bring them trouble.

I stop in front of him and he leans close to whisper, “You’re wearing your suspicious face.”

“Should I be worried about the gun you carry?”

“Only if you plan to attack me, in which case, definitely.”

He looks amused, and I feel ridiculous for suspecting the worst. “I am sorry, but Major Reid has made it clear he suspects me of working for Declan, and he is not the only one. You understand my hesitation.”

“Believe it or not, Ms. Wade, I like to draw my own conclusions and don’t listen to idle gossip.”

He turns and steps into a teleporter. “Have you been to San Francisco Island in your recent travels?”

I step inside the tube. “No.”

“Good. You used to like visiting new places. Is that still the case?”

The last time I fawned over a city was my first visit into Richmond, but that was because, at the time, I had no memory of seeing a city outside of pictures in a book. The West America states are different from the East. I have yet to find a city I can appreciate. “Loose” is a word I would use to describe the West. There is no control in the freedom they allow themselves there.

“Not really,” I tell him.

He punches in a port number and says, “Well, you always loved San Fran. Let’s see if that’s still the case.”

The scent of spearmint encompasses the teleporter, and the hub blends into sunlit, foot-traffic-heavy streets. Except the “street” is an eight-lane high-street expressway with a wide pedestrian walkway. A shoulder-high guardrail separates us from an impressive drop into a fog-laden city.

Silver and blue structures escape the low cloud cover with pointed tops. Identical high streets like this one curve throughout the sky, weaving around the tops of skyscrapers and in and out of the dense fog.

We step outside, and a strong, cool wind threatens my balance. Goose bumps rise on my arms. While the sunlight glares, the wind off the Pacific cuts off any heat. I should have worn my jacket.

Colonel Updike leads me to the railing on our side of the street. The fog below ends in an impenetrable roll over the Pacific Ocean, which shines a murky blue. I have learned that the ocean water near land is too polluted to swim in, though the governments are working diligently to clean it up. They seem to have made tremendous progress here in comparison to some of the other cities I have been to.

From here I make out part of the forty-mile suspension bridge that takes travelers to the mainland and into Los Angeles. The structure is solid silver with beautiful curves for guardrails snaking along the sides. I find it hard to believe that, once upon a time, none of this existed. I have heard stories of the quakes shifting the land in opposite directions, and of magma bursting up to create islands, but they seem like mere fairy tales in light of this view.

“Look over there.” Colonel Updike points in the opposite direction of the bridge. He has to yell so I can hear over the rush of wind. “That’s where we’re going.”

Floating in the ocean are islands with lush greenery making up the base, and honeycomb windows linked together and leafing out like enormous flower petals. Suspension bridges link all of them together.

“Lily communities,” he says.

I see how the shape lends to the name “lily” but am clueless how the community part comes in to play. “What are they exactly?”

“Self-sustaining islands, roughly twenty miles in diameter apiece, with everything to meet the community’s needs. They recycle their own waste, produce their own food, and are completely solar powered. Each pad farms fresh seawater fish, which they manage using a filtering system to keep out the impurities in the ocean water.”

Interesting. “And why are we going there?”

“I have an apartment there.” He lays a hand on the small of my back. “Come on. Let’s rent a vehicle.”

We walk for nearly a half mile in silence while I take in the incredible views of the island. I wish I could see the city below the fog, but maybe it is for the best. My experience with the other cities must hold true here, too, which would ruin the effect.

While the area seems to be a place of peace, the one thing telling me otherwise is the weapon-laden pedestrians. Colonel Updike is not the only one carrying a gun. Not that anyone appears to need one. Not a single fight, verbal or otherwise, has broken out. Maybe the guns are a deterrent to anyone who would cause trouble.

A parking lot curves off the main road, and Colonel Updike leads me into the area. “Car or motorcycle?”

If I have ever been on a motorcycle, I have no memory of it, but I think I will like it. “Motorcycle.”

With a nod, he chooses a sleek, black bike. He stops at a stand where a computerized male voice speaks to him. “Cash or credit?”

Colonel Updike taps the credit button on the rectangular touch screen.

“Place thumb on biometric scanner,” the voice instructs, and after the colonel does so, the voice says, “Thank you, Nathanial Updike. Enjoy your stay on San Francisco Island.”

I wait for him to climb on before straddling the black leather seat behind him. He uses his thumb on another scanner to start the motor, which sends a mild vibration throughout my body.

Seconds later, we weave in and out of traffic on the high streets, taking turns with ease. We never dip below the low cloud cover and are far beyond it by the time the expressway slopes toward the surface.

We take a suspension bridge across the water to one of a dozen lily communities. A sign near the island itself reads
LILY
STATION
6
and
W
ELCOME HOME
.

After parking, we enter through a set of glass doors and travel down a long hallway that ends in an open, round space. The dome, which would make up the center of the lily, is also constructed of honeycomb-shaped glass. The “petals” of the station rise around us on all sides for what seems like miles. Glass elevators travel between the stories.

The air smells heavily of seawater. Green plant life bursts from large pots and entwines columns. The floor, too, is glass, showcasing the ocean below our feet. Seaweed floats against the surface with an array of sea life swimming in and around each green vine.

Colonel Updike’s apartment is on the twelfth floor. It is an expansive room with glass facing the Pacific, white walls, and sand-colored tiles. The room’s furniture is sparse, and what there is looks square and uncomfortable.

I hang my sunglasses from the front of my tank and sniff the sweet-scented air. “Do I smell a cigar?” Peter always smoked a cigar at the end of every day on his front porch.

“Probably,” he says, and chuckles. “Connelly!”

From the outside deck, a head peeks around a lounge chair. His thick, tight, white curls flutter in a heavy breeze, and his black skin has a sheen of sweat from the sun. A white-toothed grin lengthens once he sets his dark eyes on us.