Forged(24)

He moves me toward the seat, and as he reaches to adjust one of the straps that will soon tether me in place, I twist. Thrusting with both hands, I aim for his throat. He barely gets a hand up in time, and the toothpick lodges in the web between his thumb and forefinger. He yells with surprise, staggers. In that flash of his panic, I grab the nearest tool from the tray—a wooden mallet—and swing. He tries to dodge the blow but isn’t quick enough. The wood connects with the side of his head, and the light winks out of his eyes.

My chest is pounding, but my hands are steady as they work. I grab a knife from the tray, and with the blade pointing toward my stomach, saw through my bindings. Then, when my hands are free, I strip the Forgery of his uniform. It fits perfectly, and soon I look like an Order member, and him, like me.

I struggle with his limp body but manage to strap him into the chair. I doubt this room is free of cameras, which means someone, somewhere, is probably watching. I can only hope they missed our fight, that when they next look at the feeds, they assume my Forgery stepped out and left me in the chair.

I momentarily consider killing him but know a dead body will look too suspicious. The Forgery was trying to get answers from me, not kill me, and I need to buy myself as much time as possible.

I toss the mallet on the tray and wrap the blindfold around the blade of the knife before tucking it into my waistband. Then I dart into the hall.

Two Order guards stand a little ways ahead, one of whom may have even been my escort earlier. They each have a handgun at the hip and an Order-issued rifle in arm, the barrels resting against their shoulders. I walk confidently. They nod as I pass by, assuming I’m my Forgery.

I pick up my pace after rounding a corner. The window for escape is shrinking even as I walk down this hallway, and I need to find stairs. The shipment center—the docks—was below the Compound itself. If I locate it, I might be able to hop a boat, flee back onto the Gulf, but only after finding Blaine and Emma. If they’re being held anywhere near my cell . . .

Two flights down.

With luck, I find a stairwell. There’s another armed guard stationed here, and I slow my gait, try to appear as calm as possible as I pass by. I descend two levels. The door on the landing won’t open until I fish a card from the pocket of the Order uniform and swipe it for entry.

The room I step into is massive. Pillars support the ceiling at various intervals and the only light source comes from row upon row of what look like glass coffins. They sit on waist-high tables that extend as far as I can see, their contents filled with teal liquid, murky like pond water. It’s the liquid, I realize, that’s glowing just slightly, casting a halo of green-blue light around each unit.

Two flights. This should be the holding cells. Or at least a hallway leading to them. The levels between my cell and the interrogation room are the only detail I’m sure about.

A wave of panic hits me. The Compound is large and probably has multiple stairwells. Just because I counted two flights between my cell and the interrogation room does not mean that all stairwells will bring me between the two.

I consider backtracking, but worry the stairwell guard might be suspicious. Maybe I can go through this room, find another set of stairs. Maybe the cells are even waiting just beyond this room.

Too many maybes. I’m going to get caught.

I push the thoughts aside and move forward just as lights along the lab’s ceiling begin pulsing. A silent alarm. Someone found Forged Me or I was seen fleeing. Regardless, it isn’t good.

I spot a glass box mounted on the wall, holding an Order rifle. I throw my elbow into the case and the pane shatters. I’ve held this model only once before, when I was tasked with executing Harvey in Taem. In the end, I didn’t pull the trigger—Bree made sure of that—but the shape of the weapon feels startlingly familiar in my hands now.

Clutching it, I skirt up the nearest row of glass coffins. Tubes run in and out of each, connecting to equipment below the table. I catch a shadow of something in the murky liquid to my right and can’t help but pause. I bend at the waist, peer closer. There’s something behind the glass, small and pale. It vaguely reminds me of a stillborn calf I once saw birthed in Claysoot.

I twist and examine the coffin behind me. The shape in this one is much larger. I lean until my nose is against the glass and almost cry out in shock. There is a body suspended in the murky liquid, the nub of his nose pointing toward the surface. He looks dead. Sallow skin is pulled tight over his frame. Fingers are no more than bones. I can see every last one of his ribs. It’s like he’s decaying, but somehow I know it’s the opposite. He’s growing. He’s being born.

They all are.

I’m in a lab. I’m in a lab in a production facility.

I thought the Forgeries came from Taem, and at one point, they must have. Maybe some of them still do. But the Compound is producing them in far larger numbers, shipping them out from the docks somewhere beneath my feet.

In the bottom right corner of the tank, a display reads Subject #C317, 21 days. I twist and check the first tank I peered into. Subject #C317, 5 days. I tear up the aisle. C317, C317. Over and over. Every single Forgery in this row has the same origin.

And right then I know that Harvey has accomplished what Frank always wanted: a Forgery that can be created again and again, off any previous version of itself. The original subject no longer matters. Frank is no longer limited to one Forgery from every human. He has his limitless model now, and he’s growing his army. An army that can have a new soldier in roughly one month’s time, given the tank I’ve paused next to. Inside is a boy with my build, his skin smooth and youthful, his muscles clenched even in sleep. His display reads twenty-nine days.