Watch me, p.7
Watch Me, page 7
“But you’ve never cared for Clara,” I say.
“Can you blame me?” Sebastian’s smile is self-deprecating, as if he’s said something charming. “The simple fact of her existence is killing you. She’s parasitic.”
The instinct to shut down is reflexive.
I feel it happening almost without my permission, senses powering off until my very body feels foreign to me. My hair feels like someone else’s hair; my skin feels like someone else’s skin. I hear myself say, from faraway, “Then why would you care now?”
Sebastian steps forward, and I’ve withdrawn so deep inside my mind I hardly feel it when he pulls me close, rests his forehead against mine.
“I’ve always loved you, Rosa. After everything that happened with your family”—he shakes his head—“I’ve only ever wanted to take care of you. Even if that means taking care of your sister.” His voice deepens, softens. “I feel like we’ve been waiting our whole lives for this. I still can’t believe it’s happening. After all these years, we’re really going to be together.”
Sebastian pulls a ring out of his pocket, and a carousel of memory sweeps through me, pushing me deeper into the abyss: the taste of blood I vomited while he looked on; the sound of his saccharine voice, echoing; You’ve disappointed us, Rosa, you’ve disappointed all of us; the blinding pain in my right arm; the disjointed sounds of my own screams; You’ve disappointed us, Rosa; the scrape of stone under my knees; the gasp of ragged breath; You’ve disappointed all of us; the quiet violence of the gold band he slips onto my dead finger.
I study it, glimmering against my skin.
By inches, I lift my head to look at Sebastian. A glaze of blue light winks across his dark eyes, and I realize I don’t know how many people are watching.
Only criminals need privacy, Rosa.
“I know you can’t wear it while you’re gone,” he whispers. “And I know we’re not married yet. But I want you to take it with you, so you’ll remember what we’re fighting for.”
He smiles at me with genuine, unbridled affection, and I am stunned, not for the first time, by Sebastian’s ability to live in a dreamscape forged entirely of delusion.
He wasn’t always like this.
Over the years I watched him give his mind away in pieces, devoting himself to the cult of the collective opinion—offering up blind faith in exchange for fraternity. Sometimes, when I drift safely under the veil of near sleep, I find I can be generous with my thoughts. In the twilight of consciousness my heart expands enough to remember Sebastian as he once was, enough to pity the man he is now. The feeling never lasts long enough to provide comfort.
If I fail this mission, I’ll be out of options.
Sebastian will loom over me always, killing me softly for the rest of my life.
JAMES
CHAPTER 11
I wake up the way I passed out: pissed off.
Heart thudding, head sluggish; I open my eyes to a blur of color, squinting through a glare of light. There’s blood in my mouth, in my ears, caked in my hair, crusted across my skin. Pain radiates in my joints. I blink, my vision still clearing. The blues and greens of the forest come into sharper focus, the blaze of morning sun fracturing through a screen of branches. I let my eyes fall closed, already exhausted, and run an unsteady hand down my body, feeling for broken bones. Only when I confirm that my limbs are fully intact do I exhale with relief.
Motherfuckers.
The ground is cold and wet under me; my clothes stiff, matted with blood. The dregs of a fever still cling to my overheated, clammy skin, and I shiver involuntarily, pressing the heels of my bloodied hands against my eyes.
This headache is award-worthy.
This headache is so bad they should study it. Someone should sell tickets to this nightmare. People should line up for the opportunity to try on my skull in order to appreciate the way my brain has melted between my ears.
I don’t usually pass out unless things get really bad—life-threateningly bad—because even though sleep generally accelerates the healing process, the trade-off is rarely worth the risk. I’ve learned the hard way over the years that it’s pretty easy for someone to finish murdering me, for example, when I’m too unconscious to fight back.
In this case, I don’t remember having a choice.
I squint my eyes open again, studying the slant of sun. It’s early morning, which means I’ve been unconscious, exposed, and completely vulnerable for at least several hours. The fact that these shitheads let me live to see daylight tells me our fun together hasn’t even started. Last night was just an appetizer of all that’s yet to come.
Yay.
I drag myself into a seated position, grimacing. The pain is abating, but slowly, which tells me this was a more brutal assault than normal. I heave myself against the nearest tree trunk, closing my eyes again on a sigh. Hell, I’d just finished washing off all the blood from the first round of attempted murdering.
Like I said: motherfuckers.
This situation isn’t funny anymore. To be clear, it was never funny—but now I’m really, actually mad. Super mad. Like that time someone nearly killed Juliette during a public appearance and she was so messed up she had to learn to walk again. Or when we were forced to move out of our homes into a heavily fortified compound because of security concerns. Or even that time Kenji ate the sandwich I’d been saving for dinner and didn’t apologize.
I look up, distracted by sudden movement, only to discover a squirrel staring at me upside down. A rare pulse of rage awakens my adrenaline, and I snatch the furry monster in one go, staring briefly into its flashing blue eyes before snapping its neck. I search the forest floor for a shard of something sharp, then use it to rip the creature open, exposing its glowing innards. My eyes narrow.
There’s no electric wiring running alongside its veins, no organs enhanced with machinery. There’s nothing at all to denote a change in state except a subtle blue gleam that glistens all throughout its otherwise ordinary anatomy. I prize apart the rest of its body, my fingers dripping with blood, until I discover the nearly undetectable chip buried inside its brain. I yank the small piece free, my large hands fumbling, then hold it up to the morning light, examining the strange, fingerprint-like texture of the blue metal.
I experience a grim moment of triumph.
Forget the guns. If I can get this back home, we might have a chance of understanding exactly what we’re up against.
Fever broken, energy returning to my body, I decide to test my strength, using the tree trunk for support as I haul myself upright. Carefully, I put weight on my legs, exhaling in relief when all seems to be in working order. I toss the alien squirrel carcass into the woods, tuck the chip inside my pocket, then turn to look at the wildlife, the many eyes of which stare down at me.
“Judge all you like,” I mutter. “I’m not taking another bath.”
I scrabble up the base of the trunk, launch myself onto the lowest branch, and heave myself up, straightening on the bough only to knock my head on the tree limb just above me. I rub the back of my head, scowling, and when I turn to glower at the offending branch, I walk face-first into an enormous spiderweb, scream like a little girl, lose my balance, and nearly fall out of the tree.
I can almost hear the animals laughing at me.
“All right, okay, show’s over,” I say, meeting the many eyes watching me through the canopy. “And if the hot serial killer is watching this right now, I’d just like to state, for the record, that I’m recovering from what I’m pretty sure was a recent brain injury.” I slap threads of spider silk from my face, then spit remnants of sticky web in the direction of indignant birds. “Also? Spiderwebs make my insides feel weird. Spiderwebs make everyone’s insides feel weird. Don’t pretend you’re better than me.”
A sparrow lands on my shoulder just then, and I startle as its wings flap and settle next to my face. The bird and I turn to stare at each other at the same time, holding a moment of weird and intense eye contact, and even though I know it’s a demon robot-bird, I can’t help but reach out and pet its smooth little head. It trills softly under my touch.
“I’m living Kenji’s dream right now,” I whisper, still petting the bird’s head. “Except for all the blood, I’m basically a fairy-tale prince. All I need is a musical number and a fairy godmother. Now get the fuck out of here.”
I backhand the robot-bird off my shoulder and return my narrowed eyes to the canopy.
At a glance, I’d clocked the evergreens in this remote region to be at least a hundred feet tall—some even taller. This will do.
Taking a breath, I jump for the next branch.
Carefully, I climb the tree as quickly as possible. My movements are still a little sluggish, but my energy levels are improving by the minute, and by the time I’ve scaled the top—breathing only a little harder than usual—I’m not disappointed.
I’ve got a decent aerial view of most of the island.
It’s no surprise we’ve never been able to get satellites in the Ark’s airspace, but the fact that we have no images of this place from above has dealt us some serious blows. We have no idea what kind of military infrastructure they’ve got out here; no idea of the scale of their weaponry; no idea what crazy new tech they might be building. But it’s clear even from a cursory glance that this place was planned with precision. The bustling epicenter is crowned by tall, important-looking buildings while neat squares of residential communities ring the outskirts. It’s easy to spot the schools, the bridges, the airports, the farmland. I exhale slowly, taking it in.
Somehow, it’s even worse than I thought.
Warner said he’d always suspected The Reestablishment was building a sanctuary somewhere; that, in fact, it wouldn’t make sense if they didn’t have a backup plan. But in the weeks following the collapse of The Reestablishment, we didn’t have the resources to stop the regime’s elite from fleeing the mainland. Our people nearly died bringing down the system; Juliette in particular was in such bad shape that by the time they got her to safety no one was even sure she’d survive. There was no bandwidth to think about anything but the immediate fires in front of us.
But we never imagined the problem could be this huge.
Now, as I look out over the highly developed landscape, it’s all making sense. The Reestablishment was never going to go down without a fight.
The problem was, we could never figure out how they’d recovered quickly enough to launch a covert war. How had they amassed a new arsenal of weapons? Established new surveillance tech? Rebuilt a spy network? How were they conducting research? What about farmland? A self-sustained system of agriculture? Airports? Medical facilities, research facilities, manufacturing capabilities?
The first cyberattack struck us only a few months after we took power. The first assassinations—of key scientists and engineers—happened a few months after that.
The hits never stopped coming.
It took us years to figure out that their plans for the island had predated their rise to power. The Reestablishment began building the Ark before they even launched the regime. Most of the founding members—my father included—had ties to the military industrial complex, having amassed their wealth as defense contractors. It turns out they used shell companies and private investment firms to buy up property on the island over many years, finally driving out the few remaining residents until the waterlocked land was entirely under their control. They began to lay the groundwork for this—their hideout—a few years before they’d even begun campaigning for power.
That’s how sure they were of their plans.
My jaw tenses as I survey the scene a few more times. Anything I can share with the team will be worth a lot, and I commit as much as I can to memory. Only on my final scan of the island do I notice something strange: one of these things is not like the others.
I screen my eyes, squinting against the glare of morning sun to get a better look. There’s a cluster of small, nondescript buildings dotting a remote, abandoned valley in the far distance. The structures are so insignificant I nearly missed them, not only because they don’t draw attention to themselves, but because they’re planted in a region choked by wild forest on one side—and a steep cliff on the other. Their construction seems simple; from here, they appear to be made of wood, and they look almost like storage sheds. My first thought is that they might comprise a discreet weapons depot—except there appear to be curls of smoke lifting off the roofs, as if the rickety buildings might have smokestacks. Maybe they’re pseudo-industrial spaces? Surveillance headquarters? Secret warehouses for a collection of creepy baby dolls?
It’s hard to be sure. A pair of binoculars would be really helpful right now. Hell, the backpack they stole off my body would be really helpful right now. I had at least five protein bars in there.
All I can say for sure is that there’s an entire stretch of land isolated from the main political, business, and residential zones. A deep ravine physically segregates the properties from the heart of Ark Island, almost as if the area is intentionally difficult to access. No roads in or out. Very little supporting infrastructure nearby. They must be hiding something.
Consider my interest piqued.
JAMES
CHAPTER 12
“This is nice, isn’t it?” I ask, peering out the windshield. “Peaceful.”
Outside, the scenes blur only a little as we soar under the clouds. The land here is beautiful: jagged mountains biting into sky, lakes shining under the morning sun. The hum of the electric chopper isn’t too bad, either; I don’t have to strain my voice much when I say, “I’ve never been on one of these things before.”
My seatmate seems unimpressed, but he’s been dead for at least twenty minutes now, so no surprise there.
Right now we’re on our way to one of the warehouse-looking buildings that I chose at random on the map. According to the helpful screen displaying our current flight information, we should be landing in fifteen minutes.
Here I was, thinking I had to steal a jet, or a boat, or even rappel into the canals of hell on foot—and the world offered me up some kind of flying tricycle instead. I don’t know how else to describe it. No doors; two-seater; single cup holder; peppy motor; leatherish interior; minimal recline; built-in navigation; and, bonus: it’ll fly itself. Super bonus: it was just waiting for me. I made it back to the outskirts of civilization and the uniformed owner of this fine vehicle picked a fight with me immediately, and all because I asked to borrow his nifty little air-trike.
“Hey, how long do you think it’ll take before they realize you’re not the one flying this thing?” I ask, looking again at my seatmate. According to the ID I fished out of the cup holder, his name is Jeff Jefferson. Different Jeff with a side of Jeff. I can’t make this shit up. “Or do you think they already know you’re dead?”
Jeff says nothing, but I can tell what he’s thinking.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding as I return my eyes to the windshield. “They definitely know you’re dead.” Earlier I found a roll of mints, some kind of diet milkshake, and two chocolate bars taped together with a note that read You’re better than this in the glove box. I jam the remaining half of a chocolate bar in my mouth now, chewing thoughtfully.
I glance at Jeff.
“You were too hard on yourself, man. You didn’t eat the chocolate and now look at you—you’re dead.” I rip open the second chocolate bar, take a huge bite, then inspect the label on the diet milkshake. “What is this shit, Jeff? Why were you drinking this garbage?” The trike beeps angrily in response, demanding another round of biometric verification.
Shaking my head, I flatten Jeff’s limp hand to the corresponding screen. A moment later, it flashes green. It’s been demanding verification every other minute— probably because it’s pretty sure the pilot is dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if this thing tracked heart rates and bowel movements and impure thoughts, too. It started freaking out the moment I hopped on board. As if it could tell—before I’d even snapped the guy’s neck—that I was going to snap the guy’s neck. And then I did something to really piss off the machine: instead of going straight to the warehouses, I took a gamble and tried to fly home.
I knew it was a risk.
Not only are these things loaded with trackers and cameras, but they probably have enough data on Jeff to know his normal flight patterns. A random trip to The New Republic would definitely send an alert into the system.
Still, I figured I had to try.
But the minute I fed the navigation unauthorized coordinates, it put me on probation. Apparently people on Ark Island aren’t allowed to leave this place without high-level security clearance. Apparently anyone who tries to make a run for it is immediately reported to the authorities.
Now, in addition to emphasizing the target on my back, the trike has entered a limited-usage mode, which basically means I can’t take control of the steering wheel, the seat belts don’t work, the lights won’t stop flashing, and the aircraft won’t fly too high or too fast until the alert is cleared by official personnel.
I take an angry bite of the chocolate bar.
I’ve barely started chewing when the trike screeches at me again, and I force Jeff’s hand onto the scanner for the hundredth time. It was a little awkward in the beginning, pushing Jeff out of the trike only to drag him back on board after I realized I needed him to operate the thing. It was also upsetting for all the people who watched me do it. I know this, because they never stopped trying to kill me.
Apparently everyone on this island is armed.
Jeff was armed, too, which was lucky for me. Before I raided the glove box for snacks, I made sure to check him for weapons. Now I sit back and stretch, dried blood flaking off my body like confetti. When the sun shifts, offering me a fleeting reflection in the windshield, I’m so surprised by the sight of my own face I have to do a double take. I can practically hear the sound of Kenji’s voice, holding back laughter—
