Lake

 

 

Orfyn, Stryker, and I are lined up across from three Darwinians. The polished conference table reflects their angry expressions. A man in a strange-colored suit is seated against the wall. He looks familiar.

After Orfyn explains why we had to borrow the van, and about Bat’s prototype, the woman—who looks deathly ill—speaks first. “You’re asking us to take one of the most influential people in modern times and insert him into a machine?”

“Calling it a machine is like saying fire is an inconsequential discovery,” Stryker says.

“I’m interested in hearing more,” says the older man with a beard.

“It creates a dynamic environment that can be manipulated to feel like you’re actually there,” Orfyn explains. “Angus Doyle will be able to work wherever he wants—an 1800s French café, the New York Public Library, a replica of his home. And unlike living in a Nobel’s mind, he can write day and night. Best of all, you’ll be able to talk with him directly instead of having to rely on Marty as the go-between.”

The Darwinians’ faces remain impassive. Why aren’t they more interested?

“The subject could wake up tomorrow,” says the Darwinian with greasy, dark hair.

I finally remember where I’ve seen him. He’s the one who insisted Orfyn’s demon painting be covered over.

“Or our friend and classmate, Marty, might never wake up and become nothing more than a vessel for someone else’s consciousness.” Stryker’s voice is harder than boron.

“Martin is not in imminent danger,” the woman says. “I fail to see the need to risk both lives unnecessarily.”

“Your mission is to … to extend life,” I say. “Existing unconscious on … life support isn’t living.” Did my fumbling lessen the importance of my point? And did the Darwinians notice?

“As we are all quite aware, my dear, there are several forms of living,” she says in a condescending tone that grates on my nerves.

“Marty deserves the chance to become the writer he was meant to be,” Orfyn says. “He’s amazing. Have any of you read his work?”

“I understand he was making great progress,” says the greasy-haired man.

Something about what he said sounds off, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“That’s not quite accurate,” Stryker says. “Angus wouldn’t let Marty get beyond the first paragraph until it was perfect.”

I knew that. It’s getting harder to keep up and act like I know what’s happening.

“There’s no such thing as perfection in art,” Orfyn adds.

“If Angus did that before he took control, what do you think he’s doing to Marty’s sanity now?” Stryker asks.

“The Mentors were guaranteed a certain future,” the woman says. “One that did not include existing in a box.”

“I agree,” says the Darwinian who seems like he could learn something from Orfyn’s demon painting. “We must maintain the integrity …”

I never did ask Orfyn why he painted it. I will next time we’re alone. What else have I forgotten? I suddenly realize I’m not paying attention.

“… top of that, a machine doesn’t have the capacity to come up with creative solutions that have never been explored before. The core of this experiment has always been to see what our greatest thinkers can accomplish with the benefit of a second human consciousness to expand what is considered possible.”

“And the added benefit of another lifetime, thanks to us,” Stryker says.

“Of course,” the older man agrees a little too heartily. “Our underlying premise has always been that life compounded will exponentially increase the leaps in human evolution.”

“Exactly,” says the woman. “Which is why we shouldn’t be considering this ridiculous idea.”

The older man waits until the woman stops coughing. “I want to discuss this in private with Richard and Sarah.”

“Sarah? You’re Jules’s aunt,” Orfyn says, making it sound like an accusation.

Her aunt is a Darwinian?

Jules’s Aunt Sarah looks taken aback. “Yes, but that has nothing—”

“Do your plans include taking over Jules’s body like Angus is doing to Marty?” Stryker asks.

“I never liked you.” Sarah glares at him.

“Then I should be grateful your approval wasn’t a requirement when Bjorn chose me,” Stryker says. “He told me what you’ll be working on once you’ve merged. Does Jules know the truth?”

Why would Jules care? A tremor runs through me. I think I used to know these things. What is happening to my mind?

Sarah’s glare could melt beryllium. “I suggest that you don’t anger me further, young man. You are already in serious trouble.”

She rises and opens the door to reveal the two Not-A-Guards. “Return them to their wing.”

Orfyn reaches for the cube.

Richard pulls the cube closer to him. “We’ll keep this.”

Stryker leans back in the leather chair. “I want to discuss something in private. I guarantee it will be worth your time.”

The older man studies him, then turns his attention to Orfyn and me. “Return to your rooms. Please.”

One Not-A-Guard takes the lead, and the other follows us. It feels like we’re being led to the electric chair, but despite their daunting demeanor, they leave after dropping us off. In less than a minute, there’s a knock.

“Can I come in?” Orfyn asks.

I step aside, and he sits next to me on the couch. I haven’t had a cigarette in hours, so my breath should be fine.

“Can you remind me why Stryker wanted to talk to them without us?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling he knows what he’s doing.”

For once, it’s not me forgetting. “He should have told us, but Stryker has problems with toothpaste … I mean, trust.”

Orfyn walks over to the window and keeps his back to me. “You didn’t trust me enough to tell me about Sophie.”

“I never told you? I thought I had.”

He comes back over and sits closer to me. When he looks into my eyes, my stomach flutters. “That makes me feel a lot better,” he says. “When you really like someone, you want to believe they’d tell you if something is wrong.”

This day has been surreal, and Orfyn was by my side for it all. I’ve never been this wrong about anything. I now believe he’s someone I can count on when things get tough. Like, when my memory is getting worse.

Orfyn tentatively places his hand on the back of my neck. “Are you going to run away if I kiss you?”

“Why would I do that?”

He smiles as if I were joking. As Orfyn pulls me in, I recall our amazing kiss on the subway, although I can’t remember where we were going. His lips touch mine—and someone knocks on my door.

“I really need to work on my timing,” Orfyn mutters while answering it.

Stryker looks from me to Orfyn and back to me. “I came by to return your journal. You left it on the conference table.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’d be lost without it.” No use avoiding the truth anymore.

“What were you talking about with the Darwinians?” Orfyn asks.

“A good negotiator never shares his playbook.”

We tell each other everything. Don’t we?

“But they are considering it, right?” Orfyn asks.

“They’ll let me know what they decide tomorrow, but I’m confident they’ll move ahead with our plan.”

“You’re really not going to tell us what happened in there?” I ask. “We’re a … a team.”

“It’s nothing to be concerned about, Lake.”

I don’t remember Stryker ever acting so cold to me, and I don’t think it’s my failing memory.

When he glances at Orfyn, he clenches his jaw. “I need to go over some things with Bjorn.” He leaves without even saying goodbye.

Orfyn says, “I should get going, too. We’re both exhausted.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll come by later today.” He lowers his head and gives me the sweetest kiss. His lips are soft and gentle, making my skin tingle like I’m standing in a light rain.

After Orfyn leaves, I touch my lips in wonder. I don’t remember feeling this way with Stryker. Is that a problem with my memory, or the reason I’m not with him?

I grab my journal to make sure I remember this moment. I know I’ll never forget Orfyn’s kiss, but … I turn to a new page and start and stop a dozen times, scratching through line after line, trying to capture the feeling. I finally give up and write, I like Orfyn.