Lake

 

 

“We’re not prisoners,” Stryker counters after Not-A-Guard refuses to let us pass.

“I have my orders.” He stands straighter, but he’s only eye-level with Stryker’s Adam’s apple.

“I want to discuss this with the person who gave those orders.” Stryker takes a step closer to the human barricade, and the room’s barometric pressure plunges so quickly I brace myself for a migraine.

“Back off,” Not-A-Guard says, an octave lower. “Now.”

Stryker stands firm.

Deborah shows up then, breaking up the testosterone-fueled tension. I begin to breathe again. I can handle the sight of blood, but violence goes well beyond acceptable limits of reactants.

“Our protocol requires Nobel Candidates to remain within the complex,” she says.

“Why is that again?” Stryker asks.

Deborah lets out a long sigh. “You agreed to these terms. Once you’re a Nobel, you’ll have free rein.”

“You obviously brought us here because you hope we can help each other become Nobels.” Stryker looks at me and raises one eyebrow. An olive branch? “Give us some space to build trust.” He sounds so sincere, it’s disconcerting that he was just acting as if he’d rather have direct contact with the Ebola virus than collaborate with me.

“It’s raining,” Deborah says.

Stryker turns to me and asks, “You don’t mind a little weather, do you?”

“It would feel great to be outside,” I admit. I haven’t seen the sky in weeks, and I am curious to learn what Stryker is up to.

“Deb, we won’t go far.” Stryker flashes her a radiant smile, transforming his face into someone who appears almost likeable. “I’m sure you can find us a couple of umbrellas.”

“All right,” she finally agrees. “But someone needs to accompany you.”

What does she think we’ll do, escape? The only way I’m leaving here is with ripped fingernails after being pried from the door jamb.

Deborah unlocks the door and tells Not-A-Guard, “Find some umbrellas.”

He returns with them in a surprisingly short amount of time. They’ve done an admirable job of anticipating our every need.

“Come on, Lake,” Stryker commands, like I’m his faithful dog. At least he got my name right this time.

“Go with them,” Deborah directs to the human tank.

I follow Stryker down the hallway and have to practically jog to keep up with his long strides. We enter an elevator and ascend in a silence so absolute it feels like we’re in a vacuum. The doors slide open to a wall of windows, and I balk. A storm chaser would think twice before going out there.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about your hair,” Stryker says, dryly.

Why does the one person who may possess the knowledge I require have to be him? I mentally count to ten. “Let’s do it.”

After Not-A-Guard flashes his crystal keycard in front of the reader, Stryker pushes the exit door open. Within seconds, he’s so far ahead, I can barely see him through the deluge.

“I thought we came out here to brainstorm,” I yell.

He lopes back to me. “Sorry. I was going to lose it if I didn’t get out of there.”

I didn’t expect an apology out of him.

He glances at our escort, who is standing within earshot, without an umbrella, as if trying to prove his heartiness to Stryker. “Let’s go talk under that tree.”

We dash to a towering oak. The umbrella did little to prevent me from getting saturated, but the dense canopy is at least sheltering us from the wind gusts. The humidity has transformed Stryker’s hair into a helmet of ringlets. I’m sure mine looks like I’m touching a Van de Graaff generator.

“So, have you experienced any post-procedure dreams?” I ask.

“I need to frisk you for a wire first,” Stryker says.

I step back. “Excuse me?”

“You’re right, that might be awkward. Can you lift up your shirt enough so I can see your entire waist?”

“No!” I look over at our escort, and thankfully he’s still not-guarding me.

Stryker slowly scans me from the crown of my head to my purple-painted toes. “It’s probably not necessary. I doubt a wire would still function after getting as soaked as you are.”

“Why would you think I’m wearing a wire?” I hold up my hands to ward off his answer. “Never mind. This is not worth it. I’ll figure out how to merge by myself.” I turn to leave.

“You do realize they were listening to us in the Sanctuary,” Stryker says to my back.

My inquisitive nature gets the best of me. “What are you saying?”

“I didn’t see any evidence of a bug in the ceiling. My guess is it’s either in a light fixture or an electrical outlet.”

Goosebumps sprout along my arms. “Did someone tell you we were being bugged?”

“No, but it’s obvious. Deb showed up far too quickly.”

“Or, she was walking by and heard you playing chicken with our friend over there.”

Stryker looks at me as if I’d just told him matter is composed of air, water, earth, and fire. “Assume everything we say is being monitored.”

I finally understand what Not-A-Guard could be protecting me from: the Nobel Candidate who outwardly looks like da Vinci’s “David” but inwardly may be a conspiracy theorist. Which Nobel field requires paradoxical criterion like that?

“What’s your discipline?” I ask.

“Peace.”

My laugh catches in my throat when he doesn’t smile. “You’re joking, right?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” His words leave ice crystals in the air. Either my perception of Gandhi is flawed, or I’ve been completely misjudging Stryker.

He looks away, but not before I see his face. I think I hurt his feelings, which only adds to my bewilderment. “I didn’t mean to imply you wouldn’t make a great Nobel for Peace,” I say, even though that’s exactly what I’m questioning.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” He glances over my shoulder. “We need to get out of here.”

“All indications point to our getting kicked out of the Program, so you’ll soon get your wish.”

“You don’t understand,” he says in an ominous whisper.

I cross my arms, then uncross them when I realize I might appear close-minded. “Then explain it to me.”

“They’re not going to let us walk away and return to our old lives.”

A chill runs down my spine. “The documents clearly stated—”

“Think about it. They’re conducting an experiment that involves ending the lives of some of the world’s most influential people. They can’t risk any loose ends.”

“Stryker, they’re the ones who created a cover story as a precaution if the transfer didn’t work.” Mine was that I’d been on a cruise with my aunt, and there was sketchy cell phone coverage, which was why none of my friends could reach me. I hoped to never need to use it.

“They had to create scenarios like that, so we’d agree to come here,” he says.

“Our parents will call the police if they never hear from us again.” Dad would at least do that, wouldn’t he?

Stryker counts off on his fingers. “First, our parents signed Non-Disclosure Agreements with serious consequences for breaking them. Second, they don’t know where we are. And third, you have no idea what they’ve been telling your parents since you got here.”

Parent. Singular.

“And it’s not only our parents they have to worry about,” he continues. “Do you honestly think you could keep a secret this big to yourself? Even if you have the best of intentions, the odds are against them that something about this place is going to slip out at some point. They can’t take that chance.”

“You’re forgetting, if we can’t merge, they’ll expunge our memories from the time we arrived.”

“I’m not allowing them to electroshock my brain.”

“That’s old school. There are several drugs already created to overcome addiction by eliminating memories that occurred while on a stimulant, like meth. These drugs disrupt non-muscle myosin IIB, thus interrupting the unstable actin and erasing the memory of the high. It wouldn’t take a huge leap to elevate that work and eliminate longer periods of time.”

He looks at me with what might be an ounce of respect. “I take it you’re the Nobel Candidate for Chemistry.”

“And that’s why I’m not leaving. I need to eliminate the word Candidate.”

“You’d better hope you do it before they eliminate you altogether.”

The Darwinians want to preserve knowledge that would otherwise be lost when someone dies. They’re visionaries, not killers. Stryker has obviously spent too much time alone with his over-active imagination. A missing puzzle piece snaps into place.

“Stryker, are you willing to agree that there’s no need to flee if you merge?”

“Sure, but—”

“I have a theory.”

“Yeah, they screwed up when they implanted Bjorn into my brain.”

“That’s the issue. You no longer think Bjorn is viable. And you helped me understand that I’ve been doing the same. I’ve been so consumed with the state of Sophie’s afterlife, I unintentionally dismissed the possibility that her consciousness is still alive.”

“So, what are you suggesting?”

“I’m postulating that the solution to merging is to believe we still can.”