Authors: Sarah Fine
Each of the missile batteries fires, rocketing toward the target that’s hurtling over the forest, over the hill.
Faster,
I think, but after a second or two, I know it’s no good. The Sicarii ship disappears behind a mountain miles away. The missiles slam into the base of that mountain a moment later, shaking the ground. And then suddenly, there’s an eerie sort of quiet, and I don’t know if we’ve won or lost.
I sink to my knees, all the panic and pain of the last several minutes hitting me at once and siphoning my strength away. The stereo clatters onto the rock next to me. My head hangs as I try to stand, to go see what’s left of the Core, to find out if Christina, Leo, and my mom made it through.
Before I can, a whirring noise to my left has me crouching low, watching silently as a metal hatch slides open near the inner edge of the crater. A huge bear of a man emerges, followed by four other men, all armed.
All aiming weapons at me.
The enormous man strides toward me. Sunlight glints off blond strands in his thick red hair and beard. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he peers at the stereo and then at me. “You look a lot like Fred Archer,” he says in a rumbling voice.
“That’s because I’m his son.”
The man smiles, but it’s not a jovial sort of thing. It’s tinged with ferocity and war. I’m suddenly sure that he’s the one who gave the order to fire on the Sicarii ship. “I’m Angus McClaren,” he says. He gestures at his men, who immediately lower their weapons. “And you must be Tate. Welcome to Black Box.”
TEN
THE DISTANT SOUND OF HELICOPTER ROTORS REACHES
me as I stare out the window of the infirmary within the Black Box factory compound. It’s been a few hours since the attack, and several members of The Fifty have started arriving, trickling in from the international headquarters in Chicago, where most of them had remained after the board meeting, given the series of crises over the past week. I can see the helipad from the gurney where I’m lying. Armed guards escort each patriarch and matriarch into this main building.
And then they’re scanned. The device survived the Sicarii assault, and Race surrendered it to Black Box as soon as he emerged from the tunnel. Not that he had much choice—he was surrounded by a horde of armed humans, all of whom knew exactly what he was. Angus took possession of the device, and after a quick aside with my mother and me, announced that all new arrivals, human or H2, would be scanned immediately, as well as all the factory workers, who apparently live on the compound. He switched on the device, and blue glinted across his skin and eyes as he showed the Black Box staff they had nothing to fear from it.
Unless they’re Sicarii, of course.
The entire compound is on high alert, because thanks to one Sicarii—the creature who got inside Devon—the hostile aliens now know the location of this weapons factory. Perhaps that was their plan all along. They tried to grab the scanner before we entered the well-defended compound, but they gathered a shitload of information in the process. The single scout ship could come back with a squad of additional ships at any moment. The entire rim of this massive man-made volcano is bristling with missile batteries, and there are additional defense stations high on the sheer cliffs around the inner perimeter. But it’s clear no one feels safe. People outside aren’t walking from place to place—they’re jogging, faces creased with tense frowns.
I’m sidelined for the moment, though. After our brief talk with Angus, my mom brought me straight to this infirmary—which is really more like a small hospital—pointing out injuries I hadn’t even noticed before that moment. Rocky shrapnel had strafed the backs of my legs, my fingers were bleeding and torn, and there are first-degree burns on my shoulders and the back of my neck from the heat that came off that scout ship as it flew so close to me.
My nurse—a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, whose name tag tells me her last name is Cermak, a well-known family within The Fifty, according to Rufus Bishop—seems totally on edge. I don’t blame her. In the last hour, nine Core agents have been wheeled in sporting injuries minor and grave. Nurse Cermak is scowling, eyeing the wounded H2 agents like they’re going to rise up and zap her, like they’re enemies instead of patients. All of them scanned red and not orange, but the difference doesn’t seem to matter to her. The rest of the Black Box medical personnel seem to feel the same way . . . as do the black-uniformed guards who stand in the doorway with their weapons in the low ready position. We’re in this enormous room, gurneys everywhere, blood on the floor, men with ashen faces and ghastly wounds, and mistrust hangs in the air like mustard gas.
I glance at Christina and Leo, who are sitting against the wall in plastic chairs as Nurse Cermak bandages the gash across the back of my left hand. It hurts like a bitch now that I’m actually paying attention. When I wince, Cermak says, “I have Vicodin. Might help you relax.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Should I relax?”
The corner of her mouth curls with contempt as she glares at Graham Congers. He’s looking like he dearly misses his Glock as a male nurse stitches a laceration across his shoulder blade with rapid-fire jerks at the sutures. “Good point,” she mutters. “I can’t believe they let these H2 scum into our compound.”
“They’re not the enemy I’m worried about,” I tell her.
Christina glares at Nurse Cermak, then gets up and takes my hand. She, Leo, and my mom were miraculously unhurt in the assault, and I’m endlessly thankful for that. “You’re going to have to slow down at some point,” she says softly. “You haven’t slept since . . .”
“Since Congers was kind enough to sedate us after we freed your parents,” Leo says. “But I didn’t find that very restful.”
Cermak’s eyes narrow as she regards Christina. “Which family did you say you all were from?”
“Thomas,” Leo mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.
“Archer,” I say automatically.
Christina stares back at Cermak, unapologetic. “I didn’t.”
Cermak freezes, like her blood has just turned to ice. Her brown eyes dart to me, then back to Christina, then to Leo, who looks defiant as he gets up and stands next to Christina. “Does it really matter right now?” he asks. “We’re all on the same side.”
Cermak’s mouth snaps shut, and she walks quickly away, stopping only to hiss in the ear of the supervising physician, a wiry African American man with a deep Southern accent and steel-gray hair—Dr. Ackerman, who Leo told me is also one of the board members of The Fifty. He looks over his shoulder at Christina before saying something quietly to Nurse Cermak, whose mouth becomes a white line as she heads for the supply closet.
“I feel so welcome here,” Christina says as I hop down from the gurney, my bandages crinkling over my raw, torn skin. She nudges Leo with her shoulder. “Thanks,” she whispers.
His cheeks turn pink. “No problem.”
I pull Christina close. “Let’s get out of here.”
As we weave our way toward the door, I catch sight of Agent Sung, who’s lying on a gurney and wearing an oxygen mask. His face is streaked with grime, and his buzzed black hair is damp with sweat. He and Graham were heading toward the tunnel exit to join the battle when the Sicarii ship fired into it, and Sung was one of several agents who suffered smoke inhalation. Looking gaunt and tired, he nods at me as I pass, and I find myself nodding back. Yeah, he’s H2, and a Core agent at that, but we’ve been through something that erased the difference between us for a little while.
Plus, the Core took a heavy hit in the attack. Not including Devon, who was basically dead whenever the Sicarii got to him, ten agents were killed, and another nine were wounded seriously enough to need immediate treatment. Sooty and shell-shocked, the rest were corralled by the Black Box guards as they exited the tunnel and entered the giant crater that houses this compound. They were taken away at gunpoint, presumably until Race, Congers, and Angus McClaren agree on the specifics of their presence at Black Box—like whether they’ll be allowed to carry their weapons and move freely around the compound.
Maybe all of that is why, on my way out the door, I stop at Graham Congers’s gurney. Like Sung, he’s now got an oxygen mask strapped over his face, and his shoulder is tightly bandaged. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, but there’s still no missing the anger there. Suddenly, I wonder if his dad bothered to make sure he was okay before rushing to take care of his other men. Something tells me he didn’t. And something—namely personal experience—tells me that it hurts like hell. “Glad you made it through,” I say to him.
His gray-green eyes meet mine, probably searching for sarcasm. “Thanks. And good job out there,” he says in a muffled voice. He closes his eyes, and I take that as my cue to leave him the fuck alone.
Before she left me in the capable hands of Nurse Cermak, Mom told me to meet her and Angus in the CFO’s office as soon as I was able. Leo, who’s been here before on trips with Angus, leads me and Christina down a long hallway lined with paintings and then photographs of a bunch of people who aren’t famous . . . except among The Fifty. As I read the nameplates, I realize these are probably the patriarchs and matriarchs of the families stretching back as far as anyone could document. Bishops, Fishers, McClarens, even an Archer or two that I wish I could stop to stare at for a while. Leo waves his skinny arm at a portrait of a man with a bushy beard and eyebrows. He’s wearing a plaid sash across his broad chest. “That’s Angus’s great-grandfather. He led The Fifty for about twenty years, right after it formed.”
“Why are all The Fifty coming here now?” I ask. “Seems dumb to flock to a place that could be attacked at any moment.”
Leo squints up the hallway. “They know the H2 are here, and they’ve been raised to believe the Core are the enemy.” He chuckles. “Some of them are probably pretty mad. The news of the Sicarii is brand-new and not yet credible. They might even think it’s an H2 ruse to get inside Black Box. Their priority would be to protect their interests from those who they believe are the greater threat.” He gives me a rueful look. “And I’m telling you now, they decide everything by committee.”
We near the end of the hall, and I notice the birth and death dates beneath the portraits are becoming more contemporary. Then we pass a picture of a handsome blond man with a mustache and glasses. “Arthur Thomas,” the nameplate reads. “1971–2007.” Leo’s dad. I look up the hallway with a sinking stomach.
Sure enough, Frederick Archer’s nameplate is already affixed to the wall. The picture’s not up yet, thank God. I wonder what my mom felt when she saw that. To me, it feels like I’ve been kicked in the gut. Christina doesn’t say anything, but she moves close so her shoulder brushes mine.
“One day we’ll be up there,” Leo says quietly. “All the patriarchs and matriarchs are, after they’ve passed away.”
I stare at my dad’s nameplate. “Patriarch of what? A family of one?”
Leo reaches to push his glasses up his nose before remembering he doesn’t have them. “Unless we have kids.” His cheeks flush. “I mean . . .” He looks back at his dad’s portrait. It might as well be an older version of the kid next to me, right down to the inquisitive bright green eyes. “Having a family someday would be nice.”
This is the most awkward conversation I could possibly have while my girlfriend—who is an H2—is standing right next to me. I’m scared to even look at her. I clear my throat. “Do they make a big deal out of it? You know, you being the last of the Thomases and all?”
Leo gives me a one-shouldered shrug. “Not a lot. Not in front of me, at least. But several families have already tried to make arrangements with Angus for my . . . my—” He cuts an anxious glance at Christina.
She gives him a gentle, teasing smile. “Your hand in marriage?”
His face is beet red. “Um. Yeah.”
“We should keep moving,” I blurt out, grabbing Christina’s hand and practically dragging her down the hall. I want to talk with Leo about this—he might be a few years younger, but he’s been dealing with this crap a lot longer than I have and understands it better, too. I just can’t talk about it in front of Christina. It’s so weird. We never worried about the future before, but now that we might not even have one, it feels like I somehow have to think about it.
I’m the last Archer. A member of The Fifty, a group that’s banded together to remain genetically “pure.” Is that something I should care about? A pang of loss hits deep in my chest—I wish my dad were here to explain it. I wish we’d had the kind of relationship where I wasn’t too busy fighting him to really learn from him. I squeeze my stinging eyes shut and force away these pointless thoughts. I need to focus on more important stuff now, like how to stop aliens from taking over the planet.
We enter a soaring atrium, walls of glass that give us a full view of where we are. In the cloudless afternoon sunlight, the grounds of Black Box look like this weird mix of parkland and industrial complex. There are wide expanses of lawn, copses of oak trees, and even a large lake on the eastern side of the crater. The entire compound is surrounded by a wall of rock at least two hundred feet high. They really did burrow into a mountain and make it their own. There are three tunnels in and out. Six perimeter defense stations have been positioned high on the rock wall, every half mile around the three-mile circumference of the crater. All smooth metal and big guns, those defenses have been anchored into the rock and jut outward, with two-person elevators ready to shuttle guards up from the ground to the bus-sized stations so they can defend the compound. And as I witnessed during the Sicarii attack, on the crater rim itself there are both manual and automated defenses, as well as sophisticated visual, geothermal, and acoustic shielding that prevent satellite spying, even though the compound lies under the wide-open sky. That technology is the reason it looked like an empty crater when I viewed it from the rim—it’s a complete visual illusion. Basically, this whole compound is stealthed out.
Behind this main building, which juts up like a tower of glass with two gray wings on either side, is the actual factory. It’s a hulking shadow right now, a literal black box. No windows. Steel doors and cargo bays. Massive and mysterious. I can’t wait to get inside and look around.