Hunted (Talented Saga # 3) (8 page)

Mac gave me a hard, appraising look before clearing his throat loudly and answering my question.

“Yes, Talent Signatures. Every person with abilities like you and I have has a unique marker in his or her genetic makeup. The marker is as specific to the individual as a fingerprint or retinal scan. The marker, or Talent Signature, identifies the individual’s gifts even if they are extremely low level and otherwise undetectable.” Mac shoveled a large spoonful of cottage cheese into his mouth.

“Well, if we can just do that, then why do you go through all the trouble of hooking these kids up to machines and having people ask them a bunch of questions?” I asked
, savoring the sweetness of the syrup as I happily chewed on a piece of sausage.

“Once they are at school, we’d still need to perform an evaluation to see if they are aware of their powers and to what extent they have been able to use them thus far.
The Talent Signature gives no indication of how strong the child’s abilities are, or will become. Plus, the process for extracting the Signature is extremely expensive and complex and not a hundred percent accurate. Our medical research team is still perfecting the procedure. This is the first year we will be implementing it. In light of recent events, I thought it best to use both the blood test and the panel determination to reduce the risk of future misdiagnosis.”

Everyone at Toxic had thought Penny was a Higher Reasoning Talent when, in fact, she’d been a Mimic.
She used her Talents to replicate my own and keep me from ever reading her mind. If her blood had been analyzed for a Talent Signature when she was first brought to school, then the Agency would have realized what she was capable of. Although, unless there was a blood test that identified devious traitors, I doubted knowing she was a Mimic would have helped us.

“Besides, some children don’t outwardly manifest Talents until they are older.
We have been running in to the problem more and more frequently where a panel gives a child a negative determination, yet several years later we learn some boy is turning invisible and sneaking into the girls’ locker rooms or morphing into another child to annoy his parents and teachers. Testing for a Talent Signature will allow us to identify those children now and bring them to school. That way, when their abilities finally emerge, they will be in an environment that can help them adapt to the change,” Mac continued.

I found the whole production oddly fascinating.
Since I wasn’t born in the United States, I’d never been tested myself. As both a student at school and a pledge with the Hunters, I’d been ineligible to participate with the administration of the tests. Up until this year, I’d had no desire to, either. I abhorred the idea of forcing parents to submit their children for testing. While I firmly believed in providing children with gifts like mine a place to learn how to use them and giving them a career and lifestyle that might otherwise be impossible because of normal people’s perception of the Talented, I didn’t understand why there wasn’t a choice. I never voiced my opinions. Mac didn’t want to hear them and some even considered my point-of-view traitorous. I knew others in the Agency agreed with me, but they never spoke about it aloud.

I knew the point of Mac telling me about the children who go unclassified was meant to demonstrate the kinds of trouble they can cause and strengthen his argument in favor of blood testing.
Instead, it made me long for a childhood, a carelessness, and a life I never had.

At the McDonough School, the unauthorized use of Talent comes with a stiff penalty.
In classes, we learn to use our powers to fight our enemies, protect the country, and serve the greater good. No one played pranks on the teachers or caused mischief. We all understood our purpose and we all took it seriously. I didn’t allow myself to dwell too long on a life that would never be. Wishing I’d been born talentless was as ridiculous and pointless as wishing I’d been born with straight hair.

After breakfast, I trailed Mac to a waiting armored car.
The exterior of the vehicle was so shiny that I could see nearly every detail of my reflection on its black surface. Two small flags sat on either side of the windshield, flapping lazily in the light breeze. Both were black with Toxic’s crest embroidered in silver.

A suit clad guard opened the back door as we approached.
The sleeves of his black Toxic-issue jacket strained against his biceps when he moved. The space between his chin and his shoulders was nonexistent and sweat stained the too small collar of his white shirt. A bulging blue vein pulsed rapidly in the meaty flesh where a neck should have been. An assault rifle hung across his expansive chest, sending a shiver down my spine. The dark sunglasses covering his eyes hid what lied beneath, but I didn’t physically need to see them to know they were expressionless, unfeeling. His body radiated cold indifference. Despite the mugginess of the summer day, I pulled my jacket tighter over my chest as I climbed past him into the car.

The moment the guard slammed the car door shut, I was plunged into eerie silence.
I felt cutoff, isolated from the outside world. No noise from the busy streets penetrated the thick, bulletproof glass and armored side paneling of the vehicle. I shouldn’t have been surprised that the car was a fortress on wheels. The one I rode in to Penny’s sentencing had been similarly outfitted. It just hadn’t occurred to me there would be a need for the added security today.

Not for the first time since arriving in Washington, I wondered just how ruinous the public perception of Toxic was.
During Penny’s sentencing, there had been a real concern that Coalition forces would stage a rescue and Toxic had felt that our lives were at risk. But the added security now seemed excessive. Understandably, people were upset about Penny’s execution – I was upset over Penny’s execution – but I didn’t think they would take out their frustrations on Agency Operatives. After all, investigating the leak in our organization was part of my job. I uncovered a potential threat to our society and effectively disposed of it. And as much as I hated to admit it, the Judge’s decision to hand down the death penalty wasn’t unwarranted. Traitors, spies for the Coalition, knew the risks when they infiltrated Toxic. Just as I’d known the risks when I’d wormed my way into Crane’s compound in Nevada.

These sentiments were the same ones that I repeated to myself every time I thought about Penny alone in a jail cell.
I’d never actually been to Tramblewood, so I had no idea what her accommodations were like. But when I closed my eyes, I pictured a windowless concrete alcove with a stained mattress atop rusted springs and a tiny sink with a constantly dripping faucet that only put forth cold water. I could even smell the rancid odor of unwashed bodies and human waste. I imagined Penny, alone, curled into a ball on her uncomfortable bed; her fear increasing with each passing moment as her certain death loomed closer.

I took solace in the fact that the last time I actually saw Penny she was stronger and more defiant than ever.
She exuded determination and poise even as the prison guards nearly dragged her from the courtroom. Dr. Wythe and Mac may have been able to make me doubt the authenticity of the “memories” Penny had conveyed, but they couldn’t take away the pride that I still felt when I recalled Penny’s composure that day. Often, I hoped that were the situation reversed, I would have been as stoic.

The car door opposite mine opened and a wave of hot air rushed in, followed by Mac.
Car horns blared and bits of random conversations drifted through the opening. Once Mac was seated, a guard eased his door shut, tapped the hood twice, and we were off.

Our chauffeur deftly maneuvered the oversized vehicle through the crowded D.C. streets.
In sharp contrast to the previous night’s emptiness, the sidewalks were now teeming with people in mundane business suits on their way to work, parents ushering their children on to large city buses or into bright yellow cabs that would take them to the testing facility. The skies were oddly devoid of any commuter traffic. I considered asking Mac about my observation, but realized I already knew the answer. Yes, vehicles were clogging the roadways, but upon closer inspection, I noticed that all the cars, buses, and taxis bore the Toxic logo. Apparently, all road and skyways were restricted to authorized personnel only during the three week administration of the aptitude exam.

A coldness, similar to the one I’d felt when I’d encountered the bodyguard earlier, enveloped me.
The discord among the citizens must be greater than I first imagined if Toxic was going to such extreme measures. It saddened me that the Organization that had not only taken me in when I had nowhere else to go, but also countless other kids who were labeled outcasts because of their unique abilities, was now being condemned. While I was beginning to doubt my sunshine view of Toxic and its upper echelon, I stood firm in my belief that the McDonough School offered Talented children a place to feel normal, a place to be themselves. And Toxic had a crucial role in our society; defeating the Coalition and reuniting the Country was imperative. I hated how twisted society’s view of the Agency was becoming.

I stared out the deeply tinted window at the anxious faces of the pedestrians as we turned left on K Street en route to the testing center.
Children gawked openly at the parade of cars bearing the Agency’s seal. Parents scolded their offspring for their boldness while sneaking sidelong glances at our caravan themselves. The cities day-to-day residents walked with their heads bent, eyes intent on the gray cement beneath their feet, seemingly afraid of provoking any number of the armed Operatives stationed conspicuously on every corner.

When we finally turned left off K Street and on to Seventh, I caught my first glimpse of the protesters.
Armed guards lining the sidewalks clad in full riot gear held back men and women carrying signs proclaiming “Stop the testing”, “Our children aren’t animals”, and “Freedom of choice.” While I couldn’t hear them chanting, I could see their mouths moving and felt their angry energy. The scene made my large breakfast swim uncomfortably in my stomach and my heart pound painfully against my ribcage.

My hands felt clammy, so I wiped them across the dark fabric of my pants to get rid of the moisture.
I wondered if this were normal. Did rioters show up in such force every year? Or was this new?

“Damn idiots,” Mac muttered beside me, snapping me out of my reverie.
He adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt and shook his head.

“Is it like this every year?” I asked
, eyes glued to the window.

“To some degree.
More this year than previous ones.”

“Why don’t you arrest them?”
The angry energy from the protesters was getting to me and my words had more bite than I intended. Mac’s stunned expression made me instantly regret asking. “I mean, it is illegal to speak out against the testing laws, right?” I tried to backpedal.

“No, Natalia, it is not illegal to protest.
As long as the demonstration is peaceful, they are allowed to march and chant all they like. Besides, arresting them is what they want. It makes them look like innocent citizens and us look like villains. The last thing Toxic needs is more bad PR.” Mac stared disdainfully out the window, nothing but contempt for the protesters on his face.

I gazed at the crowd, too.
Part of me wished I could join them. The more of their signs I read, the more I agreed with their stance. Why wasn’t there a choice? Why was testing mandatory? Blood testing was an invasion of privacy. I turned to Mac, ready to do battle. His expression stopped me cold. Mac gave a slight shake of his head, like he had read my thoughts and knew what I was about to say. I pursed my lips and stared straight ahead into the driver’s headrest.

Two blocks, and what felt like one hundred years later, the testing center finally came into view on our left.
The driver turned and drove up to the entranceway, parking in an area designated for “authorized personnel only.” I assumed Mac, and me by extension, must qualify as authorized personnel since none of the weapon toting men patrolling the entrance tried to shoot us.

When the same frigid guard held open the door for me, I made myself as small as possible when I climbed past.
I didn’t want to risk touching him, like his lack of personality was contagious.

“Thanks,” I muttered.
The guard didn’t acknowledge my gratitude and instead stared off into the distance.

Mac joined me and together we walked up the front steps of the testing facility.

Operatives dressed in Agency-issued clothing mingled in the atrium. Several turned, quieting their conversations when we entered, but in general, we went unnoticed. I searched the crowd for Erik. When I finally pinpointed his location, I was none too pleased to discover that he was huddled in the far corner of the huge room talking to Cadence Choi. Letting out a grunt of displeasure, I muttered good-bye to Mac and made my way to the duo.

“I will see you this evening,” Mac called after me.
I gave a dismissive wave over my shoulder in reply.

Before I could make my way through the throng of Talents congregated in the center of the room, Erik sensed me.
His head swiveled and his eyes darted around the room, searching. I tried to mask my irritation at having found him fraternizing with Cadence for the second time in two days. It wasn’t that I was jealous so much as I just disliked Cadence and knew the feeling was mutual. I fought hard to keep my features neutral. It was a losing battle.