Origin (2 page)

They cannot possibly imagine how much.

Suddenly the E13 serum must take effect, because the bird takes off again, circles and wheels, and I note every move, though my hand begins to shake. I see a look of triumph in Uncle Paolo’s eyes as the bird beats its wings with double the vigor it had when the test began. One, two, six more minutes, and the serum-induced energy begins to wane. The bird starts to falter again.

I want it to stop, but I can’t look to Mother. She’d only side with him, as she always does. Uncle Paolo’s pen scratches and scratches. I want to see what he’s writing down about me, but I have to concentrate on holding myself together.

The sparrow can’t keep it up much longer or his heart will stop.
Surely you won’t let it go that far.
I glance at Uncle Paolo’s face, but he remains as impassive as ever. The perfect scientist.

“I think…” I pause, lick my lips. My mouth is dry. “I think I have enough data.”

“The test isn’t over, Pia,” Uncle Paolo says with a frown.

“Well, it’s just that…in another minute, his heart will—”

“Pia.” My name is severe on his lips, and the wince I’ve been holding back finally escapes. Uncle Paolo leans forward. “The test is not over. Get your emotions under control, Pia. Keep your eye on the goal, not the steps you must take to
reach it. The goal is everything. The steps are nothing. No matter how difficult the journey is, the goal is always worth it.”

I open my lips to protest further, but then slowly sit back and relent.
He won’t let it go that far. He won’t
.

The sparrow lands clumsily, takes off again, seeking not escape now, but rest.

He won’t.

The bird doesn’t stay aloft for more than three seconds before crashing again. He struggles, but can’t summon the energy to take off. Instead, he hops raggedly, eyes glazing.

The electricity sizzles and pops.

Will he?

My lips part, and I gather my breath—

But finally Uncle Paolo speaks. “Enough. Turn it off, Sylvia.”

My mother shuts off the generator, and the bird slumps with relief.

So do I.

Uncle Antonio finds me in my room. I sit cross-legged on my bed, holding the sparrow in my hands. He’s too exhausted and traumatized to struggle now, and I stroke his feathers absently as I stare out at the jungle.

Three of my bedroom walls and even the ceiling are made of glass. Since the little house sits on the outskirts of the compound, by the western fence, I have an almost 360-degree view of the rainforest. My room used to be a greenhouse. When I was born the scientists decided to convert it into a bedroom for me, and the rest of the house—botany laboratories—was
renovated into another bedroom and bath, a living room, and a study to accommodate my mother.

They’ve often discussed replacing the glass of my room with plaster, but I’ve fought them on it every time, just as I fought to have them remove the cameras that once watched me night and day. I won on both accounts, but barely. Since the glass house sits only yards from the fence and my bedroom faces the forest, I am hidden from the rest of Little Cam but still have a panoramic view of the jungle. It’s almost like not having walls at all. I love waking up and seeing the trees overhead. Sometimes I’ll sit on my bed for hours, staring out to see what animals will pass by my window.

And sometimes I even imagine what it would be like to stand on the other side of that fence. Looking in, instead of looking out. Being able to run as far as I want.

But that’s ridiculous. My world is Little Cam, and even if I were out there in the jungle, I’d have nowhere to go.

Uncle Antonio walks to the glass wall and stands with his back to the jungle, hands in his pockets, and watches me.

Of all my aunts and uncles in Little Cam, Uncle Antonio is my favorite. Unlike everyone else, he never calls me perfect. He calls me “Chipmunk” instead, though I’ve never seen one, except in zoology books. Neither has he, for that matter. Like me, Uncle Antonio was born in Little Cam.

“I passed,” I say to his unspoken question, and his eyes fall to the sparrow cupped in my hands.

“And him?”

“I’m supposed to put him back in the menagerie.”

Uncle Antonio’s lips are pressed tightly together, hidden in
the thick growth of his beard. He disapproves highly of these tests, but he never says so. Uncle Paolo calls all the shots in Little Cam, and there’s nothing Uncle Antonio can do about that.

“I’ll walk with you,” he says. I nod, glad for his company.

We leave the glass house and make our way to the menagerie. Ten rows of horizontal bars, webbed in between with electrically charged chain link, surround the glass house and the rest of the research compound we call Little Cam, where we’re hidden beneath the rainforest canopy like ants in a patch of grass, safe and secret. There are thirteen buildings here. Some are laboratories, some are dormitories, and one is the social center, where the gymnasium, pool, lounge, and dining hall are. Twenty-four scientists, a dozen guards, and several maids, maintenance men, cooks, and lab assistants make up the population of Little Cam. I’m the reason they’re all here, and I’m the reason no one can know this place exists.

“How many more tests do you think I have to pass before I’m ready?” I ask.

Uncle Antonio shrugs. “Not something Paolo discusses with me. Why? Are you in a hurry? Of all people, I’d think you’d be the last one in a hurry.”

Because you’ve only got forever
, I know he must be thinking. I look up at him, wondering—not for the first time—what it must be like to know that one day you could suddenly just
end
.

Uncle Antonio scratches his beard, which is thick and curly and makes him look like a woolly monkey. “What did he say? After it was over?”

“What he always says. That I was perfect and that I passed.”

“Perfect,” he snorts.

“What? You don’t think I’m perfect?” I can’t resist, because he gets so riled whenever I bring it up. “I can run up to thirty miles without stopping. I can jump six feet in the air. There is not a material in this world sharp enough to pierce my skin. I cannot drown or suffocate. I am immune to every illness known to man. I have a perfect memory. My senses are more acute than anyone else’s. My reflexes rival those of a cat. I will never grow old”—my voice falls, all smugness gone—“and I will never die.”

“Perfect is,” Uncle Antonio whispers, “as perfect does, Pia.”

I almost laugh at him for sounding cliché, but his eyes are so solemn I stay quiet.

“Anyway,” he says, “if you’re so perfect, Chipmunk, why does he keep testing you?”

“That’s not fair and you know it.”

“Did you ever consider…” He stops, shakes his head.

“What? Consider what?”

His eyes flicker over his shoulder before he answers. “You know.
Not
passing.”

“Failing on purpose? Why? Just so I don’t have to take any more tests?”

He spreads his hands as if to say,
Exactly
.

“
Because
, Uncle Antonio, then I’d never be allowed to join the Immortis team. I’d never know how they made me the way I am.”
And I’d never be able to help make others like me
. “You know as well as I that I’ll never learn the secret of Immortis until I’m part of the team. That is”—I give him an encouraging smile—“unless you want to tell it to me?”

Uncle Antonio sighs. “Pia, don’t.”

“Come on. Tell me. I know all about the elysia flower…but what about the catalyst? How do they make Immortis?”

“You know I won’t tell you anything, so stop asking.”

I watch him closely, but he can be as impassive as Uncle Paolo when it suits him. A moment later we reach the menagerie, but instead of going inside, I stand and stare at the door.

“What’s the matter?” asks Uncle Antonio.

I look down at the sparrow. His wings are splayed over my palms and his head is abnormally still. I feel the beat of his tiny heart in my palm, so faint it’s hardly there at all.

In this moment, I suddenly find myself not caring about being the perfect, obedient scientist. It’s an irrational whim, and I’ll probably regret it in less than a minute, but I open my hands until they’re flat, lift the sparrow up, and gently thrust him into the air. Surprised and disoriented, he drops a full foot before spreading his wings. Then he hurls himself skyward, climbing high above the roof of the menagerie to disappear into the darkening sky.

I
wake the next morning to thunder.

Above me, the branches of the trees shudder in a strong wind, and every few seconds lightning flares over them, like hot white branches of some larger, celestial tree. The thunder is so deep I feel it in my ribcage.

For a moment, I just lie in bed and stare. I love thunderstorms. I love the raw, unpredictable power shattering the air, shaking the jungle, searing the boundary between earth and sky. The lightning fills my room with bursts of light, making my pale skin seem even whiter. Outside, the vines of lianas in the trees thrash like snakes.

After several minutes, I drag myself from bed and yawn my way into the bathroom. As I brush my teeth, the lights above my mirror flicker. The storm must be interfering with the power, but I ignore it. It seems like every other thunderstorm that rolls overhead knocks the power out for fifteen minutes or so, before Clarence gets the backup generators running.
There’s a flashlight in my sock drawer just in case, but it’s light enough outside that I won’t need it.

After showering and dressing, I jog to the dining hall and snag a bagel and a banana from the kitchen. It’s not raining yet, but judging by the thickness of the clouds, it won’t be long off. I clamp the bagel between my teeth as I peel the banana and head for the gym. There’s time for a couple of miles on the treadmill before my lessons with Uncle Antonio.

Uncle Antonio’s main job is my education. We alternate subjects every day, according to a curriculum Uncle Paolo writes out. Yesterday, after the Wickham test, was mathematics (we studied combinatorics—easy). Today is microbiology. Tomorrow could be botany, biomedics, zoology, genetics, or any of the various fields represented by the residents of Little Cam. Uncle Antonio really only tutors me half of the time. The rest of my studies are done under the scientists themselves, with Uncle Antonio monitoring my progress and reporting it to Uncle Paolo at the end of each week.

The gym is empty when I arrive. As I run, the slap of my sneakers and the hum of the treadmill echoing in the deserted room, I try not to think about yesterday’s experiment. Mother told me after the last Wickham test that the best thing to do is just to move on. Force the mind to look forward and not backward.

To keep my mind from slipping into the past, I mentally run through the day’s schedule.
Two hours with Uncle Antonio. Lunch. Five more hours of studying. Dinner. Painting with Uncle Smithy. Run a few more miles. Swim. Read. Sleep
.

It’s a wonder I fit everything in, but even if I had free time, Uncle Paolo would be sure to fill it in with something.
He says the mind is a muscle like any other, and letting it sit unused will make it weak and slow. There’s plenty to do in Little Cam. There’s the gym, the pool, the library filled with science and math books, the lounge with games like chess and backgammon. There’s usually some kind of interesting experiment being conducted in one lab or another, and the scientists always let me drop in and watch or even help. And there’s the menagerie of animals that are constantly in need of feeding, grooming, exercise, and attention.

The lights flicker again, and the belt of the treadmill jerks. Anticipating it, I slow down, then speed up once the electricity settles again and the belt resumes its steady roll.

I glance at the screen on the treadmill. Twelve miles. Not bad for half an hour, though I usually go faster. I hit the stop button, and, instead of waiting for the belt to slow, I vault over the handrail and land lightly on the tile floor. I wipe away the few beads of sweat that are on my brow and head outside. Rain begins to fall as I jog to my room, but I make it indoors before my clothes get soaked.

As I wait for Uncle Antonio, I start pruning my orchids. I have ten different species of them, each one specially cultivated for me by Uncle Paolo, who likes to dabble in botany in his spare time. One of the species, which he named
Epidendrum aureus
, is genetically manipulated to be the only one of its kind.

“Completely unique, just like you,” he told me when he gave it to me, three years ago. “And see? I’ve specially designed it to have those flecks of gold. It almost looks like ely sia.”

That is the Uncle Paolo I know best. The detached scientist who sticks birds in electric cages is a rare side of Uncle
Paolo that I admire for its cool reason and objectivity, but I’m glad he’s not always that way.

Outside, the clouds are disintegrating, and no more thunder pounds at the glass around me. The storm is over. Thin tendrils of sunlight creep through the trees as if embarrassed for having been so long absent.

It’s time to meet Uncle Antonio for lessons. I quickly spray the orchids with a diluted formula of potassium, calcium, and nitrogen, then grab my bag of textbooks and head down the hall, twisting my hair into a ponytail as I walk. It’s smooth as water in my hands. I have my mother’s dark, straight hair, though she cuts hers short. I pause at the kitchen and grab the molding around the doorway, letting myself swing into the room. Mother is sitting at the kitchen table, doing sums.

“I’m going to meet with Uncle Antonio.”

She looks up. There is a brief moment in which anger flashes across her face before her features smooth silkily back into her accustomed composure. I ignore the anger; she always does that when I interrupt her. “Don’t forget you have your monthly MRI with Paolo this afternoon.”

I tilt my head to the side and frown at her. “Forget? Me?” She might forget, or Uncle Antonio. But not me. Never me.

“Yes,” she says, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “That’s right. You’re
perfect
.”