Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(95)

The doctor goes to the sink to clean the blood off his hands. I watch him, knowing his nice act is just that—an act. He sees us the same way Guardian Bose did.

“What have you done to us?” I ask him.

“Done? I’ve given you life,” he announces grandly before grabbing several paper towels to dry his hands. “?‘Life’ being a relative term, of course.” Dr. Groger goes to sit behind his desk and reclines in his leather chair.

“So you create girls?” Marcella asks. “Why? For money?”

“Not entirely,” he says as though we’re being petty. “It’s a better way,” he adds. “A better girl. One to be proud of. People are sick of . . . bullshit. We can give our clients the best of both words. Beauty and obedience. There are rules, of course. A corporation isn’t just allowed to create anything. Even metal works have standards.” He smiles and nods at Jackson.

Jackson looks at me wide-eyed, as if begging me not to lump him into this group of men.

“You may want to think that what we’re doing here is unethical,” the doctor continues. “But in fact, we’ve done this all very humanely, ironically enough.”

“And what are the rules?” Sydney demands. She’s different now, I can feel it rolling off her. She’s free of what they told her to be. She’s herself. She’s whatever she wants to be.

“The corporation operates under three major guidelines,” Dr. Groger says. “One, only females will be created. Two, all creations must be over the age of sixteen. And three, all creations must be sterile.”

The last rule causes all of the girls to look at Brynn, knowing this will hit her the hardest. She’s always talked about wanting children. The idea that a “rule” could take her choice away is heartbreaking. Then again . . . maybe she was programmed to want children. How would we know the difference?

“Why sterile?” Brynn asks with a hitch in her voice. And it’s there that I hear it—the true pain. The way she looks at Marcella. She wanted a family, but the scientists purposely made her unable to give birth.

The doctor scowls like the question itself is disgusting. “Because soulless creatures can’t be allowed to breed,” he replies. “What kind of world would that be?”

“We’re not soulless,” I tell him.

“You were created by men in a lab, Philomena. Your brain has a microchip telling you when to feel pain or admiration. You have no soul. Destroy your brain, and you’re nothing.”

“To be fair,” Sydney says, starting to pace. “The same can be said about you, Doctor. You can’t live without your brain either.”

He sniffs a laugh but doesn’t argue her point.

“Truth is,” the doctor says to Brynn, “you were programmed to be a caretaker—that was your investors’ request. They thought you’d be more valuable that way. They already have several offers for your placement.”

Brynn looks like she’s going to be sick—sick at the idea that she doesn’t know which thoughts are hers and which belong to her programming.

The doctor turns to the rest of us.

“You all have your purpose,” he says, “your roles to fill. We find it’s simpler that way—a tailor-made girl for each investor.”

“And why not boys?” I ask. “Why create just girls?”

“You’re young, beautiful girls. You’re a commodity—a product. You’re nothing more than cattle. But a strong young man . . . That would be dangerous. That was determined pretty early on. They would have been a threat, not just for the competition with other men, but for a potential uprising. They were too volatile.”

“You think only boys know how to fight back?” I ask.

“Then you’ve seriously underestimated us,” Sydney adds, coming to stand next to me.

“I realize that,” the doctor allows. “But we’ll be sure to write this defiance out of your program. We should have done it the last time.” He picks up a pen from his desk to fidget with it. “You see,” he says, “the first girls we created were well-behaved. Obedient. Vapid, if I’m honest.” He frowns. “And because of that . . . lack of spirit”—he flourishes his fingers—“investors were bored. You can’t show off a boring granddaughter. You wouldn’t hang a mediocre piece of art in a museum. You can’t break a tamed horse.”

My stomach turns, and Jackson curses loudly from behind me. Marcella leaves Brynn’s side to come stand with me and Sydney, the three of us staring Dr. Groger down.

“So what did you do, Doctor?” Sydney asks. She’s not holding a weapon, but the confidence in her tone makes it seem like she is.

“Well, when you were returned or damaged or destroyed”—he looks at me on the last word—“we upgraded you. We felt it was a shame to waste your microchips—you’re worth millions. So we kept those, ran a new program, and put you in fresh bodies. Good as new for a new investor.

“And then we decided to teach you things,” he continues. “Your batch was raised like real girls so you’d develop personalities. We let you feel pain and retain memories. We gave you a sense of purpose.”

“So a man can take it away?” I demand.

“Not always,” he says. “Not everyone is here for a man, Philomena. Each investor has their own reasons, although I’ll admit some of you were created for . . . an unsavory purpose. With that said”—he looks at Sydney—“there are people like your parents, who couldn’t have a child of their own. So they had one created that they could be proud of. Someone to carry on their life’s work.”