Prototype (5 page)

D
eclan stands outside his building in Richmond, wind tunneling strong down the walkway. The erratic
whoosh
of air brushes the mic held by the reporter. The flash of bulbs adds light to the morning sun.

“Unfortunately,”
Declan says to the small gathering of reporters, “
what we hoped was a breakthrough in Emma’s whereabouts ended shrouded in mystery. But at least I know she is still alive and trying to come home where she belongs.”

He looks directly into the camera, the sea in his eyes bordering on a storm.
“Emma, if you’re hearing this, I will find you.”

 • • • 

Declan’s warning races over my spine in the guise of an icy shiver. If his intent was to frighten me, it worked. I have no idea how I will get out of this situation short of ending up exactly where he wants me: on Dr. Travista’s table.

I shut off the vid screen and toss the remote to the table next to my bed. Declan has managed an entire news conference before normal people have breakfast. He must be getting desperate. But why?

A knock sounds on the door, startling me. Who would want to see me this early? At least I am already dressed for the day. “Come in,” I call out, deciding it must be Foster. He promised to take me to breakfast, but I assumed it would not be for another half hour.

The door slides aside for Noah, who has Adrienne propped on his hip. I jump off the side of the bed, unable to take my eyes off her. This close, I see the resemblance to my own face. She has my hazel eyes, my nose with its rounded tip, and my heart-shaped face. She also has Noah’s full lips, as well as his naturally wavy hair. She is absolutely beautiful.

Noah closes the door, glances around the quiet room, and gives me a wary smile. “We aren’t interrupting anything, are we?”

I wonder what he believes he would interrupt. It is not as if I have had time to plan a secret tryst. “No. I was just watching the news conference.” I glance at Adrienne, who watches me from the corner of her eye, her head buried in Noah’s shoulder. “Hi,” I say to her, and the word is barely audible.

Noah bounces her when she does not respond. “Say hi, chicken.”

“Chicken?”

A soft blush fills his cheeks. “Yeah. I’ve always called her that. Just sort of happened with no rhyme or reason.”

I love this more than I can say, but I am also jealous of the obvious bond they share. It feels wrong that I am a stranger to my own daughter, but I did this. I put myself on the outside all on my own.

“Anyway,” Noah says, casting his gaze around the room, “we were just getting ready to head to breakfast, and I thought you’d like to meet her.”

I can only nod, not trusting my voice as I watch Adrienne watch me. Her little fists clutch tight to Noah’s shirt, and she tries to be invisible, which is something she will never be. Not in a million years.

Noah kneels and sets Adrienne on the floor. She stands but does not release his shirt, forcing him to sit on the concrete floor with a sigh.

“She’s shy,” he tells me, and pulls her into his lap.

I kneel in front of them, itching to touch her but unable to move my arm to do so. “Me too,” I admit.

He bounces her on his knee. “Let’s see what we can do to change that.”

 • • • 

Foster retrieves me for breakfast shortly after my visitors depart. The best Noah could do during their visit was to get Adrienne to walk freely around my room as she kept one eye on me at all times. She did not speak at all, but I learned she uses sign language to communicate with Noah. It was a good start.

Breakfast is a group affair, loud with the sound of laughter, conversation, and scraping of utensils. Foster leads me to one of the copious number of long stainless steel tables in the too-bright and cavernous cafeteria.

We are sitting no more than five seconds when I hear, “Hello, Miss Emma.”

My tense shoulders slump and I force a smile up at Dr. Malcolm. “Good morning, Dr. Malcolm.”

Foster waves a finger between us. “You two know each other?”

Dr. Malcolm beams almost as bright as the reflection of fluorescent lighting on his bald head. “I had the pleasure yesterday.”

“He and Sonya left just before you arrived,” I explain.

The doctor bounces and rocks on the balls of his feet, unusually quiet, as if in desperate need of something to say to prolong his visit. His fingers tap the underside of his tray.

I cannot take it and have no wish to be rude. “Would you like to sit?” I ask, and cross my fingers that he declines.

Dr. Malcolm slides across from me and is already sitting when he says, “Yes, thank you.”

Foster’s knee knocks against mine, but I am careful not to react.

“How was your first night?” Dr. Malcolm asks.

I stir my yogurt, watching the pink layers swirl. “Like every other night.”

The doctor’s eyes flick between Foster and me. “I’d be curious to know what you dreamed about, if you remember, of course. Did I tell you how I once spent some time studying oneirology? Fascinating what dreams can tell us about a person’s—”

A silver tray clatters on the table beside Dr. Malcolm, startling the doctor into silence. A man begins to sit and Dr. Malcolm has to move before the man and his female companion sit on him. I do not know them but am already grateful for the interruption. The last thing I want to talk about is my dreams. Especially not with this doctor.

The woman is stunning. Layers of long brown hair roll down her back in large waves. Her eyes are simply unfair: bright green and in the shape of large almonds. Thinly trimmed brows arch to points over them. Her pink lips form a natural pout and her olive skin is flawless. She is tall, slim, and curvy. Unfair. Everything about her is unfair.

The guy with her is also attractive. Messy brown hair. One eyebrow permanently notched higher than the other. Full lips in a smirk. He is the guy who makes the kids laugh while making the adults exasperated.

The woman folds her arms over the table and leans forward, sharp eyes holding my gaze. “‘’Tis some visitor tapping at my chamber door,’” she says.

I recognize the line instantly. My Edgar Allan Poe fascination is fairly recent, and “The Raven” is one of my favorites. Peter gave me a new appreciation for classic literature that She never had. “‘Only this and nothing more,’” I finish.

She angles me a single nod. “Hello, Clone.”

“Hello, Human.”

Her smile widens and she exchanges a look with the man beside her. She then reaches across the table for a handshake. “I’m Nicoleigh Bennett. You used to call me Leigh.”

The guy next to her snorts. “That’s not what she used to call you.”

Dr. Malcolm turns to face the four of us, eyes alert, his entire body nearly vibrating with excitement. “This is a perfect display of establishing dominance in a social group. Typically, in this day and age, it would be between two males given the fact that there are so few females to fight over. You see, with her choice of mates, the female doesn’t have to show her feathers, so to speak, when meeting another female. I find it interesting that the two of you—”

“Yes, Doc P. So interesting,” Leigh says, smirking at me.

Her friend nods at me with a big smile. “I’m Miles Trumble. Best not get into what you used to call me, because you hated the fuck out of me.”

I cannot imagine how I did not like either of them. I appreciate their honesty and willingness to socialize despite what the rest of the room must be feeling.

“Was the feeling mutual?” I ask Miles.

He leans forward and gives me a smoldering look that is no more serious in nature than Leigh’s attempt at being mean. “Baby, I wanted nothing more than to get in those—”

“Finish that sentence and perish, my friend,” Foster says. He aims a fork at Miles. “Try making a decent impression this time around.”

Leigh’s smile dims and, unfortunately, that does nothing to alleviate her stunning features. “Foster says you’re having a hard time—”

“That’s not what I said.”

“—and I think you deserve a chance. Emma 1.0 would have given you one, and so, for her, I will too.”

I am touched into speechlessness. This is the last thing I expected after they sat down.

Miles shrugs a single shoulder. “I just want another shot at the one that got away.”

I chuckle. “Try holding your breath while you wait. We will see who caves first.”

“Did you know,” Dr. Malcolm says, “that it’s physically impossible to hold your breath to the point of death?”

The four of us stare blankly at him. I do not know about anyone else, but I expect him to explain further. Instead, he simply dips a spoon into his oatmeal and eats as if nothing happened.

Leigh clears her throat and raises her eyebrows at me. “We’re going to the range for target practice after this. Interested?”

I exchange a quick glance with Foster, wondering if he will signal this to be a bad idea, but he does not. So I say, “I am not fond of using any weapons. I do not even like fighting hand to hand.”

Miles chokes on his orange juice.

Leigh blinks rapidly. “Excuse me?”

“If it is a last resort . . .” I trail off and shrug. The one and only time I held a gun was when Foster and I faced down an entire room of Declan’s security. The guilt over taking lives has never lessened.

She holds both hands up as if to halt me in my tracks. “Let me get this straight. Declan Burke has the
entire world
looking for your ass, and you’re going to . . . what? Sit on your hands?”

The plan was to hide and cross my fingers, but when the situation is put that way, my plan does not sound very smart. Not after what happened in Mexico and Vegas.

“I do not know if I am even allowed—”

“You’re allowed.” Foster pushes away his empty plate. “And Leigh’s right. You need to be able to defend yourself.”

“But Clint Reid—”

“—is Clint Reid,” Leigh cuts in, and her tone suggests his name on her tongue has replaced a rather noxious expletive.

Foster adds, “A little training won’t hurt you or anyone else.”

Dr. Malcolm sits up straight. “Mind if I tag along? Certain traits, such as Miss Emma’s ability to fight, for example, could be genetic—passed down from one or both parents—and will come naturally to her. It’s clear to me from the news footage that you retained the physical responses to attack when cloned, so naturally I am curious if this will hold true—”

“Maybe next time,” I say. When he frowns, I add, “I have not even agreed to go.”

It is at this moment I hear a child’s giggle and look to the other side of the room. Noah, Sonya, and Adrienne walk down the aisle to an empty table. Sonya tickles Adrienne, who is in her arms, and nods at something Noah says. He carries two trays of food and smiles down at Sonya.

Is that the same man who supposedly searched the world for me for more than a year? The same one who is all but begging me to stay? For what reason? To make me watch this show of their happy union?

Foster’s hand covers mine and begins prying my fingers away from the butter knife I grip in my fist. In my ear, he whispers, “Ease down, Wade.”

I let the knife clatter to the table.
What has gotten into me?

Leigh peers over her shoulder and back. “Target practice must sound pretty good right about now, I’m guessing?”

“Yes,” I tell her, and give the little family another look. They have not taken the same notice of me, and for that, I am glad. My reaction has shocked and embarrassed me. “Can we go now? I am suddenly very anxious to begin.”

L
eigh slaps a small gun in my hand. “HK pistol with single plasma-pulse rounds. Don’t let the small size fool you. She’s a serious bitch.”

I grip the weapon and slide my thumb over a tiny switch on the side. The handle hums almost imperceptibly as it powers up in preparation for use, which startles me. My muscles twitch from nerves, and I have to be careful not to inadvertently pull the trigger.

I look into the long concrete room behind protective glass. On either side, deep insets in the wall face each other hiding God knows what inside their shadowed spaces. “What do I do?”

Leigh scoops her hair off her neck into a low ponytail. “You’ll see. Miles and I will go first.”

She slides her HK into the back of her black pants and tucks her black tank top in deeper than necessary, which accentuates her large breasts. Miles does not take his eyes from them, nor does he seem to care if she catches him looking.

When she does, she rolls her eyes, then smacks him in the forehead with the heel of her palm. “Get a good, long look so you don’t shoot them out there.”

Miles grins. “Try not to let them get in the way. Oh, wait . . .”

Foster chuckles and knocks me with his elbow as if we are sharing in our own private joke, only I do not know what it is. Emma would have known, and this only makes me feel like more of an outsider.

Leigh and Miles enter the concrete room. Foster opens a wall panel and keys in a code. The overhead lights dim and sounds of gunfire blasts fill the space.

Foster leans down near my ear. “They’re running through a program that simulates a warlike atmosphere. This is
not
for amateurs.”

Then I am in the wrong room.

I look through the bulletproof glass at the simulation in progress. Leigh and Miles spin back-to-back in a slow circle, HKs raised. Every few seconds, one of them shoots into the dark insets.

“What are they looking at?” I ask.

“Simulations of the enemy.”

Just then the simulation of a man appears beside Leigh. She ducks to avoid the butt of the man’s rifle and, poised on one knee for balance, aims up to administer a kill shot to the head. He disappears, but two more of the same man reanimate in his stead.

“The program I’ve given them doubles each enemy killed,” Foster says, folding his arms.

“But they cannot possibly win against those odds. They will be outnumbered.”

“It isn’t designed to beat. Just to see how far you get.”

Both Miles and Leigh are “killed” less than a minute later, but they are panting and laughing and giving each other high fives. A fine coating of sweat covers both of them.

They are barely in our protected space when Miles asks, “What are the stats? I know I got more kills.”

Foster presses a button near the panel, and the protective glass comes alive with statistics. To the left of the numbers, a video play-by-play runs through what we just watched live. In the stats list are numbers for each head, torso, and limb shot as well as the percentage of accuracy of each shot fired. Their total death count puts Leigh ahead by two.

Miles’s jaw drops. “What the fuck? Program is jacked.”

Leigh smacks him in the shoulder. “Stop crying.” To me, she says, “Your turn, 2.0. Whatcha got?”

 • • • 

The HK feels hot in my palm, though the air is cool enough to raise goose bumps along my exposed arms.

“Nervous?” Foster asks.

I peer into the nearest set of concrete insets, where soon the simulations of my enemy will appear. They are not very deep and vary in width. “Little bit.”

“It’ll come back to you.”

“I will never understand why you have such confidence in me.”

He tugs my ponytail and grins. “Just breathe and follow your natural instincts, Wade.”

My natural instincts tell me to hand over the weapon and run for the safety of anywhere else.

Miles’s voice sounds over a speaker system. “Ready?”

Foster raises a hand and twirls his finger, signaling the start of my imminent “death.” The effects of battle filter through the speakers and sound very real on this side of the protective glass. The lights dim and flash in tandem with various bomb-like reports.

I go into full alert mode, eyes open for my first enemy target. Foster and I circle the room as the previous occupants had. This feels very natural, and not because we stood this way a year ago in Dr. Travista’s lab. But because it is what he and I do.

The men appear around corners with HKs or plasma rifles. In the beginning, they are easy to pick off. My aim, surprisingly, is good. A little rusty maybe from the lack of practice. But a focus takes over that is familiar, though unfamiliar all at once. I block out the sounds, and even Foster—but only to a point, because I do not want to accidentally shoot him. I pay no attention to the small audience or the score of the game.

My adrenaline pumps strong through my veins as the numbers of my enemy increase. My movements have to be quick. Foster is no longer at my back; the two of us separated a while ago. The simulated men begin to swarm, and I shoulder roll through them. They jump out of the way as if I could actually knock them over. When I sweep kicks at their ankles, they fall. They grunt and curse and spit . . . everything I might see in actual combat. Without the pain, of course. They strike me and I feel nothing more than a mild jolt of electricity.

When I finally “die,” I am on the floor, breathless and laughing. Foster yanks me to my feet.

“That felt amazing,” I say, gasping deep for breath.

He rocks me in a hug. “I’m so damn proud of you, Wade. I knew you could do it.”

Raised voices from behind the glass draw our attention, and the second I look over, the lights go up, blinding me. I raise my free hand to hood my eyes just as three men dart into the large space, guns pointed directly at me.

“Put the weapon down,” one yells.

Foster puts himself between me and them, but I do as I am told. My blood runs cold and freezes the layer of sweat coating my body. My vision darkens and the ground seems to tug at me, beckoning with icy fingers.

“What’s the problem, guys?” Foster asks.

His voice forces me back to the bright room and I shake off the abrupt dizziness. Skipping breakfast was probably not the smartest idea.

Clint Reid enters behind the men, and I know he has something to do with this. He, too, has a gun trained on my head. “Mrs. Burke. Kick the gun over and put your hands up.”

Behind Reid, Noah appears, and his nostrils flare with each breath. His face is red. “Put your guns away. You’ve made your goddamn point, Reid. That’s enough.”

The men do as they are asked. Reid is a little more hesitant but finally manages to follow orders.

Foster moves closer to me and I have to peer around him to see. Clearly he is not as trusting of them as I would be. “Someone want to explain?”

“Mrs. Burke is considered high risk and isn’t authorized to carry firearms,” Reid says. “She shouldn’t even be in this area of the hub.”

So that is what they call this place.

Reid continues with a pointed glance at Noah. “If I had my way, she’d be locked away until this matter is cleared up, but—”

“—but she isn’t and won’t,” Noah snaps. He looks at Foster. “Take her out of here.”

Leigh and Miles appear in the doorway and Reid shakes his head at them. “The three of you”—he eyes Foster to include him—“are on notice. One more fuckup like this and I’ll have your asses.”

Noah raises his hands. “Okay, okay. Foster, Wade, out. Bennett, Trumble, you too. Everyone’s dismissed. Except you, Reid.”

Foster leads me by the elbow, his eyes focused on the four men who previously had their guns trained on me. When I pass Noah, he does not look at me, and muscles feather along his jaw.

Reid, on the other hand . . . “Don’t even think about teleporting from this facility, Mrs. Burke. You’re here for the duration.”

My footsteps falter.
What?

Foster pinches my elbow. “Come on, Wade.”

I want to laugh. Maybe Emma Burke would exit this room without a word, but I am not that woman anymore.

Pulling free of Foster’s grip, I spin so fast Noah and Reid stop arguing to stare in bewildered silence.

“You will not keep me here, Major Reid,” I tell him, but shift my focus between both men in case Noah decides to join Reid’s crusade. “I dare you to try.”

I turn my back and shoulder past my slack-jawed audience.