XX

Sparkman swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her boots hit the ground before her alarm had a chance to sound. She fastened the belt yawning open like the mouth of a single-toothed snake above her hips before pressing her fists together, each knuckle cracking. Her strawberry-blond braid brushed her shoulder blades as she stretched her neck, then her arms, and then her legs.

She always slept dressed. Ready to go. Ready for anything.

Her alarm finally caught up to her and blared through the one-room apartment, reverberating off the barren beige walls and the thin glass of the twin windows stretched against the far wall like eyes. She wasn’t sure why she even set the alarm anymore.

The old-fashioned coffee pot gurgled to life, hissing and popping as the first drops hit the heated glass. Except for one space, Sparkman’s place was low tech. No bots, no holoscreens or holopads, and, better yet, no Holly. All day Sparkman worked with computers, the MediCenter’s Holly assessing and offering advice. Holly was a babysitter, Normandy’s spy, and the old kook took pleasure in the fact that Sparkman knew it. All day Sparkman yearned for the quiet of her modest home and the peace that zipped up around her like a sleeping bag.

Sparkman fastened the blackout drapes shut. They were her only furnishings, if she was desperate enough to call them that, which she hadn’t found in an alley or abandoned building.

She opened the door to the closet, or what should have been the closet, and leaned forward, resting her broad chin against the chinstrap worn smooth from repeated use. Orange light, the same orange of the rising sun, burst across her retina.

Three beeps sounded.

She was in.

Four holoscreens activated in succession, lighting the inside of the dark closet. Sparkman slid her only chair across the cracked linoleum floor and settled into it as four pixelated shadows each found their seats and did the same.

She twined her fingers and rested her hands against her lap before announcing herself to the group. “Sparkman, here.”

“And Whiskey.” The voice came from the first screen.

“Delta.” From the second.

“Zulu.” The third.

And finally, the fourth, “Echo.”

The board members had each called out their sign. Their voices had been altered, with a robotic tinge, a kind of hollowness only perceptible to those trained to hear it. Only top-ranking Eos members knew each other’s identities, as well as the identities of everyone involved within their sect of the organization. And Sparkman wasn’t at the top.

“Sparky!” The first holoscreen flashed a little brighter as Whiskey spoke. “Tired of working with good ol’ Normandy?” There was a drawl to Whiskey’s voice. A kind of lilt Sparkman couldn’t quite place through the filter. “We could sure use you here in my department.”

For years Whiskey had tried to lure Sparkman away from Normandy, but she had to see this assignment through, for the good of Westfall’s citizens or not. Normandy experimented on people. On children.

“He’s looking for another one,” Sparkman began without acknowledging Whiskey. “A child. Younger this time.”

Whiskey’s blurred squares bounced with a presumed nod. “Jumpin’ right in, are we? Gotta respect a woman who gets down to business.”

“Another child?” Echo’s voice was whisper-soft. And when she spoke, everyone listened.

Sparkman’s fingers clenched. “Yes, ma’am. Aubrey Masters, Patient Ninety-Two, passed yesterday afternoon.” Only at the MediCenter did Sparkman call the men, women, and children strictly by their assigned numbers. In her home and in front of the faceless board members of Eos who she trusted with her life, the ninety-two souls weren’t numbers. They were human beings.

“There is nothing we can do.” Echo’s screen lightened as she spoke. “It’s terrible, but we mustn’t intervene. We must allow Normandy to choose another.”

Delta’s screen flashed as she cleared her throat. “Echo’s right,” she said, clipped and clear. “We shut Normandy down now and they’ll have someone in his place in a matter of days. The doctor might think he’s irreplaceable, but I’ve seen many young people readying themselves to take over the Genetic Technology divisions. In a few years, Normandy will be obsolete.”

But a few years wasn’t now, and now was all Sparkman had. She knew Eos had a plan. A grand, all-consuming plan to right many of the Key’s wrongs, but how long would that take? How many children would she have to watch die?

Sparkman stiffened. “There’s more. Aubrey was . . .” she paused, unsure of how to describe the remarkable little girl. “Different.” Sparkman set her jaw, displeased with the vagueness of the word, but unsure of how to elaborate.

Echo’s pixelated form shifted. “Different how?”

Sparkman had asked herself the same question. She pressed her fists together, cracking her knuckles. “The science behind Aubrey’s changes is unclear. As Normandy gets closer to perfecting the serum, he becomes more secretive. What I witnessed yesterday was unlike anything I’ve seen before. She’s a child. Even partially awake, she was stronger than I am. She seemed . . .” Sparkman focused on Echo. To sway the body, she needed the head. “More than human.”

Whiskey’s screen flashed with a huff. “Fucking fuck. The Key let Normandy have free rein of the GenTech Unit and this is what they get.”

“Tell the Doctor they’re coming.” Sparkman interjected. “She woke up and said, tell the Doctor they’re coming.”

Zulu’s screen brightened. “Who’s coming?”

Sparkman shook her head. “I’m not sure Aubrey even knew where she was.”

“Your suggestions, Sparkman?” Echo was stern and soft and calm and confident.

Sparkman’s braid grazed her back as she nodded. “We need Aubrey,” she said, her gaze intent and unwavering.

Whiskey grunted. “You said she was dead.”

“But she’ll be in Cold Storage.” Zulu spoke for the first time. “If I can get her to my lab, I can work backward. Figure out what Normandy’s been developing while the Key has had its head turned.”

There was silence, all members instinctively awaiting Echo’s response.

“Sparkman, you have a plan.” Echo didn’t phrase it as a question. She didn’t need to. Sparkman was always prepared before she reported in to Eos. “I assume you’ll need access to the End-of-Life Unit. We have someone who can get you in. Someone young and eager who won’t be suspected.”

Eos blanketed the globe with eleven total board members, soldiers in every unit of each MediCenter around the globe, and operatives within different careers. Sparkman had only ever spoken with Echo, Zulu, Whiskey, and Delta, the heads of the North and Central American factions of Eos. And those four were the only people out of the eleven to know Sparkman’s identity. Layers of protection. That way it was more difficult for one person to bring down the entire resistance organization.

Once again Sparkman nodded and clenched her fists, cracking her knuckles. “As always, I will work with anyone you trust.”

“Good,” Echo said. “Let’s get started.”