Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(47)

I want to stick around and see what’s on that monitor, the one Titus called Project D, but Titus is already leaving the way we came and Alton waits at the door for me to follow. I exhale and make my way out.

We pass back through the room with the new bodies. I try not to look too closely. I don’t want to recognize someone as an Authentic I’ve met on the outside, but more than that, I don’t want to be reminded of how fake I am.

I am almost to the door when I realize Titus is no longer in front of me. “You don’t want to see how you were conceived?” Titus asks. I turn back to where he stands beside the closest occupied basin.

“I … no.” I hate that he used such an Authentic term for creation but I don’t mention it. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction.

“A shame. It can teach you a lot about who you are.”

I bite my lip, so many different responses warring inside me. My shoulders sag as I realize there’s only one true response to his words. And I know it’s the one he wants to remind me of anyway. It’s likely the reason he brought me here in the first place. “I’m not anyone,” I say finally.

“Not true.” He shakes his head. “You’re my daughter.”

Even worse.

Back in the hall, Titus turns left and we retrace our steps in silence. Somewhere in the building, a faint chime sounds and lights brighten overhead. It is the morning alarm. A strange familiarity washes over me at the sound. I never thought I’d hear it again, much less from above ground.

I imagine Lonnie rolling to her feet and shaking a drowsy Ida awake so they can be first in line for any breakfast meat the kitchen will offer. Ida won’t care for it, but she’ll hurry for Lonnie’s sake. She is a caregiver but she isn’t tough. She needs so much care herself and I—

I swallow, stamping the thought back down the moment it tries to surface. I’m not there to care for her any longer.

Tears threaten but there’s no time. Titus has stopped us outside another door. It is identical to the first but I know better than to assume anything about what lies on the other side. And I don’t doubt for a second the term “recycle bin” is more complicated than it sounds.

I follow the men inside and, at first glance, there is nothing horrifying. It’s a mostly empty room that smells of disinfectant. A narrow counter lines one wall with a stainless steel sink and wall-mounted dispenser of anti-bacterial soap. On the other side are two chairs, metal and uninviting. They don’t suggest any real time is spent sitting in here. In fact, none of the furnishings do. I look to the chairs and back to the sink trying to figure out why I’ve been brought in here. I suppress a shiver and rub my arms against a chill.

All three of the men have wandered across the room to stare at the far wall. Halfway there, I realize it’s not a wall but a viewing window into a darkened second space. Titus watches me expectantly and I reluctantly make my way forward. There is a cold, stony feeling in my gut. Titus holds his hand over a switch. Something tells me I don’t want to see what’s in the adjoining room.

When the room lights, my insides heave. My entire world tilts.

I blink but when I open my eyes the images don’t disappear. I clamp my lips and eyes shut, shaking my head and silently chanting the words no, no, no, no, no. I was right. I don’t want to see.

“This,” Titus says, his tone brisk and unaffected by the gruesome scene before him, “is the recycle bin.”

He’s waiting for me to say something. I try to speak but when my mouth opens, my heave becomes a choke and I can’t breathe and tears are rushing down. I can’t stop them. I don’t care. I don’t know what to say or do. My hands are numb. It’s disgusting.

Two stainless steel tables sit in the center of the room. Both hold a body that is stiff and unmoving and covered with a white sheet.

But that’s not what petrifies me, sealing my feet to the floor.

Cubbies created by metal shelving line the room. Each box contains a jar of varying size and contents. A horrifying variety of hands, arms, and feet severed above the ankle float in thick, viscous liquid. Displayed on every specimen contained is a clean cropping of a tattoo across flesh: a six-digit number settled at the base of a tree.

My stomach revolts. I am overcome with the sensation of floating outside my own body. I desperately want to look away but, I’m forced to notice one of the jars closest to where I stand. A large hand with a tattoo printed near the wrist. I read the number, hating every second the image is burned into my retinas. 6594845. Like a rubber band snapped too tight, I am propelled back into the solid reality of my own insides. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could un-see. Un-know.

I recognize the number. It’s Gus.

“What is this?” Deitrich is the one to speak. I would thank him if I could because for a moment, Titus stops watching me with that enjoyable cruelty in his eyes.

“It’s called the recycle bin.” Titus answers easily, as if what we’re looking at really is some attempt to better the environment.

“What does that mean?” Deitrich asks. He sounds nervous, I think. Or maybe it’s me projecting.

“When a product is terminated, we keep a piece of them for accurate DNA records and for future replication if necessary.”

“No shit?” Deitrich asks. Titus doesn’t bother with a reply.

From the corner of my eye, I see Deitrich’s eyes widen. He stares back and forth between Titus and the view through the window. I wonder if he didn’t realize the parts displayed were actual bodies until now. They do look plastic or sculpted even; an art exhibit on display.