Wildcard (Warcross #2)(57)

Taylor sighs. “You’re making me impatient,” she says, turning back toward Jax.

Sasuke takes a step toward them. The movement is enough to make Taylor pause. Sasuke meets Jax’s eyes, then takes another step forward. When he speaks, he tries to keep his voice steady, but I can hear the trembling in it. “She’s not a part of the program.”

Taylor doesn’t move to release her. “You have so much potential, Sasuke,” she says. “But I need you to choose, and choose decisively. If you want to leave, then leave. We won’t come after you. But you know you are the only one this entire experiment hinges on, and what you do could change everything. The results of your study could save millions of lives. It could save your life. We’ve all worked so hard for you. And here you are, ready to throw it all away.” She gives Sasuke a disappointed look.

Even though Sasuke still seems afraid to step forward, I can also see hints of guilt on his face, Taylor’s manipulation wrapping around him like a vise. As if he’d suddenly owed this operation something, like he’d felt obligated to her—but most of all, like whatever happens to Jax will be his fault if he leaves. He meets her gaze now, and I can see traces of that unspoken bond between them, the accumulation of their days spent together and their nights huddled away in a nook.

I find myself wishing silently for Sasuke to turn and run away, to leave it all behind. Of course, he doesn’t. Instead, I see his shoulders droop again, his head lower ever so slightly, and him take the first steps away from the door and back toward the lab table.

“Let her go now,” he says to Taylor about Jax. On the table, Jax shoots a bewildered look at him, some panicked expression telling him not to do it.

Taylor smiles. “And you’re not going to run.”

“I’m not going to run.”

“And you’re going to commit to this.”

Sasuke hesitates, briefly meeting the woman’s eyes. “I will,” he replies.

The recording ends. I realize that my heart is beating so fast now that I’ve had to sit down on the floor of my room.

The next scene is dated only a month later, but Sasuke is a little taller, his limbs longer and his body ganglier. The most noticeable change on him is a single, thin strip of black metal now running along the side of his head, where part of his hair has been newly buzzed again. He’s back in the same laboratory, and answering a series of questions from the same technician who had been working with Taylor before.

“State your name.”

“Sasuke Tanaka.”

“Your age.”

“Twelve.”

I do the quick calculation. By this point, Hideo was fourteen, I was eleven, and Warcross had already become an international phenomenon, the NeuroLink welcomed into millions of households.

“Your city of birth.”

“London.”

“What is the name of your brother?”

“Hideo Tanaka.”

“Your mother?”

“Mina Tanaka.”

The questions go on for a while, a long list of simple facts and details about his life. I watch Sasuke’s face as he mentions the names of his loved ones—and for the first time, I notice that he doesn’t seem to react to the names. No flinch. No wince. There is recognition that sparks in his eyes, but it is as if he were saying the names of acquaintances instead of his family members.

“Show him the TV,” Taylor says.

The technician pauses to switch on the screen. As we look on, the TV plays an interview with Hideo, now gradually growing into his newfound fame. I glance back at Sasuke. Not long ago, he had grabbed Jax’s arm and cried at the sight of his brother. Now he watches the interview with some notable interest, although he doesn’t seem truly affected by it. It’s as if he were fascinated by a celebrity instead of missing his brother.

The questions start again.

“Who is this?”

“Hideo Tanaka.”

“And is he your older brother?”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss him?”

A hesitation, then a shrug.

As he answers each question, the technician observes a series of data appearing on a screen beside him and taps down notes on a pad he’s holding. As he goes, he reads out some of his reactions. “Zero’s signs of recognition still holding steady at eighty-four percent. Overall response times have improved by thirty-three percent.” The man drones on as Sasuke answers each question.

Whatever it is that they’ve been doing to him, they’ve taken away something—something real and human, an intonation in his voice and a light in his eyes—something that defines him as Sasuke. There’s no sign of struggle now, and Sasuke seems perfectly willing—if not eager—to do as he’s told.

“Zero’s cognitive skills are all wholly intact,” the technician finally concludes, as the final question happens. Someone injects Sasuke in the arm with a needle, and as I look on, his eyes roll back, his body going limp against the platform.

“Good,” Taylor says with her arms crossed. “And what about his reactions to mentions of his family? He’s still responding to them with a degree of emotion. That should be tracking down faster than this.”

“He’s holding on harder than I expected. Don’t worry. He’ll be yours before long and believe he has always worked for you. We should be all caught up in the next few weeks. He’ll be fully downloaded well before he expires.”