The Ones We're Meant to Find(80)

Then she logged out, returning to her stasis pod in the Mizuhara unit. Her eyes opened to the readings of her vitals, all in the normal range.

Now to begin again.





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I THOUGHT I’D FACE MY end at sea.

But it’s here, on the ridge, staring at the spot Hero stood heartbeats ago, that I realize no matter what I choose, I will lose a part of me. There is no winning.

Fuck everything, then. Fuck my tears, which blind me, and my lungs, spasming as I try to make the climb down. The rocks hurt my knees even though the pain is just part of my programming, and I curse, curse Hero, who, considerate to the end, even thought to jump off on the meadow side, as if to give me the option of bypassing his body completely on my way home.

Well, too bad. Whatever I decide, I’m not leaving him. I grit my teeth and continue my descent. The fog thins, and I start to make out the rubble meters below me, and—

Blood.

Blood on skin. Blood on bone.

Blood on something white but decidedly not bone.

Spindly tubules tear out from his torso, where his rib cage should be. They flex and dance like spider legs across his body, a body already on the mend.

I fling my gaze skyward, suddenly weak in the limbs. The denial surges again, and I think, That can’t be him. We ache and cry and gasp with so much life. But when I try to continue my descent, I find that I can’t. Death should be silent, but Hero’s body clicks and clacks as it puts itself back together. The uncanny sounds nauseate me. Bile sears my throat.

I wanted to give you the space to decide. The time.

“Stupid stupid stupid.” And yet, so well-thought-out. He can’t come after me while he’s dead. He can’t hold me and tell me that he wants me to stay, either. From now until he’s revived, it’s truly just me and my decision.

The rope bites into my hands as I hang, unmoving. Minutes pass. Or hours. Time always seemed distorted on this island. Now it vanishes all together as a dimension.

Numbly, I begin the climb back up.

I reach the top. I’m sorry. Without giving my muscles the chance to recover, I descend down the other side, hardly able to see through my tears.

I’m sorry.

I hope my arms will give out. I hope to fall, break, and wake with Hero.

I decided, I’d lie to him. I decided to stay.

But I don’t fall. Don’t break down. My legs bring me all the way back to the house before they give. I clutch to the kitchen countertop for support, sobs spuming from my chest.

I can’t do this alone.

“What do I do, U-me?” I gasp as U-me rolls into the kitchen, drawn by the sounds. “What do I do?”

U-me doesn’t answer. She’s not programmed to process questions, or make life-and-death decisions.

But I am.

I’m not alone. A team of people built my brain—built the memories in it, and even built the ability for me to generate my own. So go on, then, I think, stumbling into the bathroom. Give me your best shot. Convince me. I climb into the tub, fully clothed, and run the tap. Water bulges against the rim, then spills over onto the tiled floor. I let it submerge me.

I choose to drown.



* * *



“I’ll take this one.”

The boy stands in the doorway of the operating room. An employee, by the looks of his apron. His voice, more precise than any of the scalpels laid out, sends a shiver down my spine.

For a second, the bodyworker with the puffer fish tattoo doesn’t speak. Then she shrugs. “Less work for me. Though I have to say, I didn’t take you for the type.”

The type of boy, I know she means, who’d be drawn to a pretty girl. But he should know I won’t be much for conversation. I can already feel the effects of whatever was in the flask, making everything hazy.

The bodyworker leaves, and the boy sits down before me, and through the haze I see that he’s not really someone I’d be attracted to. His hair is dark, yes, as are his eyes, which I like, but there’s a laser-sharp focus to them and an energy radiating off him that feels … intense.

“An Intraface extraction,” he says, and I nod, mouth dry, and that’s all I remember before the drug takes over, the world fades to dark, and when the lights come back on, I’m still sitting in the chair but the clip-on sheet around my neck is gone, and on a tray table before me is my Intraface. Extracted.

“You don’t have to die.”

I crane my neck to see the boy standing behind my chair. “There may not be a treatment in this lifetime,” he continues, “but they can pod you and save you in another.”

It’s obvious once I process it. “You looked.”

“I did.” He doesn’t even sound the least bit contrite. If he looked, then he knows—“Celia Mizuhara.”

My teeth click. So much for anonymity. “What do you want?” I demand.

“To protect your sister.”

That throws me for a loop and for a second, I forget to be angry. I blink twice at him, and receive an error message when his rank refuses to display. Of course—anonymity is GRAPHYC’s very selling point. But then he must do something on his end because his ID appears over his head.

ACTINIUM

Rank: 0

Yeah, right. Kay, incident with the bots aside, is the most law-abiding person I know. She’d see a hacked ID and stay six feet away from the boy.