The Countdown (The Taking #3)(63)

Besides, would I want to be kept alive if it meant being trapped in that thing indefinitely?

I looked down at my own hand, remembering the way Adam had responded when I’d touched the glass. It occurred to me how similar he and I were. “If he can’t survive on our planet—outside the tube—then why can we?” She knew the others were Returned, but I sort of assumed she knew Tyler and I weren’t like the rest of them, especially since Adam had only responded to the two of us. “I mean, if they used their DNA to . . . replace me, then why aren’t I dying? If anything, what they did made me stronger. Healthier. Right?”

She looked around at us, then specifically at Tyler and me, and I realized she definitely knew our secret. “I wish I had an answer. Maybe it’s because your original bodies—the ones they duplicated—were human, and accustomed to this environment. Maybe they did something different to alter you, so you could survive here.” She shrugged. “Or maybe the crash was just too much for him to recover from completely. I wish I had a better answer for you.”

Just another nonexplanation to add to the growing list of complications that made up my life.

Dr. Clarke shifted her gaze nervously as she singled Tyler and me out from the others. “We also think whatever it is that makes you different from everyone else is what allows you to share a bond with Adam. A connection none of the others have. That’s why we think he woke when the two of you were near him.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “We sorta guessed that.”

“Except . . .” She seemed to be weighing how much more to disclose to us, and then nodded to herself. “It wasn’t only Adam that came to life. Something else happened, and we believe it’s all connected—this new signal and the arrival of . . . whatever it is that’s out there.” I gave her a confused look and she added, “Maybe it’s better if I show you.”

We could have been standing in any freight elevator in any warehouse in the entire world, except the security code was longer than my social security number.

And when we descended, it felt like we were sinking to the Earth’s core—that’s how long the trip lasted. After several seconds, my ears began to clog from the pressure.

When the elevator finally came to a shuddering stop, the giant steel doors grated open with the kind of scrape that makes everyone cringe. But the goose bumps were quickly forgotten as we were bathed in a silvery halo of light from a roomful of computers. The enormous space appeared simultaneously space age and low-tech at the exact same time, with floor-to-ceiling industrial grade computer equipment cluttered with more wires and cables and dials than I’d ever seen in one place.

There were several individual terminals stationed throughout the space as well, these ones looking nothing less than the latest and greatest—gleaming chrome, with crystal clear plasma monitors bigger than most televisions.

There were far fewer people down here, but even so, whatever they thought they were tracking had caused enough panic that every eye in the room shot to us the second the elevator doors parted. Dr. Clarke gave a subtle it’s okay nod and everyone went back to what they were doing. But the air remained brittle with tension.

At the other end of the chamber, there was a giant window, but the view was blocked by some sort of metal panel.

“I give up,” I said as quietly as I could, trying not to draw any more attention than we already had. “What is this place?”

As the doors behind us closed, another woman started toward us. There was something unusual about the way she walked, but it took until she’d crossed the entire room for me to realize she had an almost, but not entirely, imperceptible limp.

She was young, though. Much closer to our age than to Dr. Clarke’s. Her hair was almost the exact copper color of Simon’s eyes, minus the gold flecks, and it hung in soft waves around her shoulders. Even with the limp, she gave off a cheerleader sort of vibe, reminding me of the girls who’d stood outside the doors to greet the incoming freshmen on our first day of high school, passing out maps of the hallways and pointing us in the direction of orientation. Super friendly. Super peppy.

“This is Dr. Atkins,” Dr. Clarke introduced her. “I’ll let her explain. This undertaking is her baby.”

“Welcome,” Dr. Atkins gushed, giving us a perky wave that did nothing to chip away at that cheerleader impression. “And, please, call me Molly.” She stepped up to one of the individual computer consoles. “This . . .” She laid her hand flat on the panel, which lit up, outlining her fingers and palm with a green glow. When it was finished, the entire display panel surged to life.

“Handprint identification . . . ,” Jett breathed. “Sweet!”

Once the computer was powered up, she entered a string of commands and then behind the large glass window I’d noticed on the other side of the room, the metal screen began to lift.

“This,” she repeated, drawing our attention to whatever was beyond the glass, “is The Eden Project.”

From our vantage point, we were overlooking something that seemed vaguely like an airplane hangar, but only in the way the M’alue floating in the giant test tube looked vaguely like a human.

Past my shoulder, I heard Jett. “I always thought The Eden Project was just rumor. I never believed it really existed.”

“Oh, it exists all right.” Molly moved in front of the thick pane of glass and gazed down in admiration.