Parasite (Parasitology, #1)(29)

Every time the doors of SymboGen closed behind me, I was a little more convinced that we were inching toward the day when they would no longer let me leave. Part of me insisted my parents would never let that happen. The other part of me, the one that was loudest when I was actually inside the building, reminded me, over and over again, that I was a stranger. I’d killed their real daughter, taken over her life, and if SymboGen decided to petition for custody, my parents and sister would probably be relieved. SymboGen already felt more like home than home did, according to that part of me; why couldn’t I see that I belonged there forever and ever? I tried not to listen to that little voice, but sometimes it was so hard that I might as well have been trying to ignore Dr. Morrison’s grin.

Chave was one of my two primary handlers when I was on company property. I liked her counterpart, Sherman, a lot better, and I liked them both more than I liked any of their substitutes. They were always impeccably groomed, and they clearly had their own agendas—which ironically made me like them more than I liked the administration. Some of them treated me like a human being, but I was a lab animal all the same, and lab animals aren’t entitled to personal space. It was nice to have at least a few people outside the science wing who didn’t feel like they could grab me at any moment.

“Where are we going first?” I asked, once we were in the glass-backed elevator, sliding high into the grasp of SymboGen. The schedule for my visits was never provided ahead of time. I just knew when I was supposed to show up, and when to tell my parents that someone needed to come and get me. One of the psychiatrists once told me it was so I wouldn’t psych myself out about the tests. Personally, I thought they just enjoyed it more when I was unprepared.

“We’re actually beginning with an interview today,” said Chave, her tone as mild and uninflected as ever.

“An interview? I didn’t agree to any interviews. They still have to let me approve those.” Once—and only once—SymboGen had surprised me with a reporter. That particular article had presented me as some kind of idiot savant who had managed to overcome traumatic brain damage in order to become a semifunctional person. It was syrupy, sweet, and almost entirely untrue. My parents had threatened to sue the company for libel, slander, and half a dozen other things, some of which I was pretty sure were exclusive of one another. SymboGen apologized and promised never to do that again without getting my consent and allowing me to have someone of my choice to be an unbiased observer.

“It’s not that kind of interview,” said Chave. The elevator stopped moving, the doors sliding smoothly open.

Standing on the other side was Dr. Steven Banks, creator of the Intestinal Bodyguard and the only remaining member of the trio that founded SymboGen. He was smiling. Somehow, that didn’t help.

“Hello, Sally,” he said. “It’s very nice to see you again.”

Dr. Banks’s office was larger than the reception lobby at the hospital where Nathan worked. Two of the walls were actually windows, solid sheets of glass looking out on the city below. He had a perfect view of the Bay. From this distance, you couldn’t see the traffic or the people wandering the streets. All you saw was the natural beauty of San Francisco, the allure that had been drawing people through the Golden Gate for centuries. I guess when you’re one of the richest people on the planet, you can buy yourself a window that never shows you anything ugly. It’s one of the perks that comes with the position.

Dr. Banks gestured for me to sit down in one of the plush leather chairs in front of his desk as he walked around to sit in his own larger, plusher leather chair. “It’s so nice to have a little time to talk, don’t you think, Sally?”

“Yes, Dr. Banks,” I said automatically. I sat down, perching on the very edge of the chair like I was getting ready to jump to my feet at any second. To be honest, I was considering doing just that.

“It’s all right, Sally. You’re not in trouble.” He smiled, showing his perfect teeth. I fought the urge to bolt. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Yes, Dr. Banks,” I repeated.

His smile faded. “Do I make you nervous?”

I sighed. “Yes, Dr. Banks,” I said, for the third time. “You really do.”

It wasn’t just his teeth that were perfect. Everything about him was perfect, from his hair and skin down to his subtly sculpted physique. I found myself wondering whether he had somehow managed to make his Intestinal Bodyguard start secreting steroids along with all the other chemicals it pumped out to ensure the well-being of its host. Dr. Steven Banks was not the kind of man who spent that many hours at the gym, or gave up fried food of his own free will.

“I wish I didn’t make you nervous, Sally,” he said. He sounded sincere, which just made me more nervous. “I want us to get along. I think we’re both smart enough to know that we’re not going to be friends, but I’d like it if we could at least be friendly acquaintances.”

“You do sort of control my life, Dr. Banks,” I said hesitantly. “If I make you mad, or you don’t like my progress, you could decide to stop providing me with medical care, and I’d probably die. So I’m sure you’ll understand if I’m a little bit uneasy around you.”

Now he looked a little hurt. “Do you really think I’d do something like that to you, Sally?”

Normal people don’t use the names of the people they’re speaking to in every other sentence. Dr. Banks did, for some reason, and when I was around him, I found myself doing it, too. All children learn speech through mimicry. That stage was closer to the present for me than it was for most adults, and sometimes the habit was hard to break.