Project Paper Doll: The Trials (6 page)

It wouldn’t be a hardship to kill Dr. Laughlin when the time came. I eyed him carefully, a greasy feeling of anticipation slipping through me. Perhaps that glass water pitcher to the head.
The base of it looked heavy, and it only takes fifteen pounds of pressure per square inch to fracture a human skull.
Your bones may be stronger than mine, but that does not make you
indestructible.

The left side of the U was empty. I trailed after Dr. Jacobs, avoiding Dr. St. John’s chair as we walked to our seats.

At the head table, two men and a woman were seated. None of them were wearing anything to identify them as military, but it seeped through in the details. The old white guy on the far end had a
buzz cut that screamed armed services. The blond woman in the middle, her hair in a blunt cut that stayed out of her face as if it was too afraid to stray, had her back so straight that she
didn’t even appear to need the chair. The younger man was African American and wore a serious “don’t mess with me” expression on his acne-scarred face.

In short, though they weren’t wearing uniforms, you’d have to be blind to miss what they were.

This was the Committee—our judges, our jury, our executioners.

I watched them watching Ford and Carter. Then those evaluating gazes shifted to me, cold, unemotional, and yet still eager. The open avariciousness in the woman’s expression made my
stomach churn and my palms sweaty. Under those eyes, I felt small and stripped of not just my human “disguise” but everything that made me me. They did not see us as people. We were
something to be acquired.

“Dr. Jacobs, I assume this is your submission…finally?” the one I was calling Morpheus, after the character in
The Matrix
, asked suddenly, his voice ringing loud in the
otherwise quiet space.

The back of Dr. Jacobs’s neck flushed with color as the attention in the room shifted from me to him. “It is. My apologies again. There were final preparations to make,” Dr.
Jacobs said.

As one, the three Committee members looked to me again with critical eyes, as if to determine what last-minute enhancements might have been performed. I doubted any of them would have honed in
on the sweatshirt, contact lenses, and freaking backpack.

I didn’t care if Jacobs’s ridiculous “out-humaning” gambit actually worked, but given my plans for ending all of this as quickly as possible once everyone was in place,
I’d have preferred
not
to have stares pinned on me.

Fortunately, Dr. St. John, who’d been staring at me as well, chose that moment to pipe up. “We have a prototype and a special model arriving shortly.” He tapped a message into
his phone and sat back in his chair, looking all too pleased with himself suddenly.

“Might I point out that our prototypes are functional
and
capable of telling time?” Dr. Laughlin asked with a smarmy smile.

Blech.

“We’re not waiting any longer,” the woman warned, pointing a pen at St. John. “It’ll be up to you to make sure your product is informed of the boundaries and
restrictions.” She paused with a tight smile that wreathed her face in wrinkles, revealing her true age. “Disqualification would be…unfortunate.”

“Not a problem,” Dr. St. John assured her.

Dropping my prop backpack on the floor, I sat down next to Dr. Jacobs, my heart tripping over itself suddenly. I could feel the irregular beat shaking me from head to toe. How had I ended up
here?

A little over a month ago, I’d been getting ready to start my junior year, and my biggest worry was about blending in. Zane Bradshaw had been a stranger, a pretty boy lacking a spine, at
the periphery of Rachel Jacobs’s circle of piranhas. I’d had no idea that my life Outside was a complete sham, a scheme to teach me more about being human and help me regain the
abilities I’d blocked.

Now Zane was dead and I was here, in a surreal version of the world that had me facing down not only my creator but also the people who were even more responsible for my existence. After all,
there’s no point in supply if there is no demand. And the three at the head table—or someone within their organization—had provided the alien genetic material and asked for the
impossible: alien-enhanced soldier/assassins. Which GTX, Laughlin Integrated, and presumably Emerson had happily leaped to provide.

My palms were damp, and I wiped them unobtrusively down the legs of my jeans, out of sight beneath the table.

Focus. Be calm. Evaluate the situation. Prioritize your objectives.

The old guy cleared his throat. “Thank you, gentlemen, for coming today. And for your work in support of the security of this great country.”

Because the best defense is a good offense.
The line from an old movie, a comedy and one of the few my father had actually watched and enjoyed, ran through my head.

“Melody has additional information for you regarding the specifics of what will be required,” he said, gesturing carelessly at the woman next to him. “Melody?”

Her mouth pinched in clear displeasure—pissed that he’d used her name, perhaps, or that the doling out of details had been delegated to her—but she nodded. “You have an
assigned target for this mission,” the woman said, speaking to Jacobs, Laughlin, and St. John, as if they were the ones doing the work. Now that the novelty had worn off, Ford, Carter, and I
had ceased to exist, no more a party to this discussion than the furniture. “In the packet, which you’ll receive at the meeting’s conclusion, you’ll find the target’s
photo, some basic information about the target, and a phone for designated check-ins. Find the target, confirm identity by taking and transmitting a photo, and then await further
instructions.”

Well, that explained why we were here in the middle of the city. Dumping us all into an echoingly empty warehouse wouldn’t be much test of our tracking skills.

If that was, in fact, what they were testing. The “await further instructions” bit gave me a weird vibe. I couldn’t read Melody’s thoughts—she was military trained
and, obviously, they’d all been briefed on what we were capable of—but excitement glittered in her eyes.

I shifted slightly in the chair, taking a slow, deep breath. If I was going to do this here and now, the three of them—Old Guy, Melody, and Morpheus—had to be first priority. They
were soldiers, past or present; they had, most likely, faced some form of attack in the past.

People like them never let their guard down completely.

“From the itinerary our sources have assembled, the target should be within the city limits for the next forty-eight hours,” Morpheus added.

I ignored him. The trick would be taking out as many as I could at once. The moment one of them went down, the room would dissolve into chaos. And I’d have to devote my effort to holding
the doors against the guards and addressing any additional threats inside the room.

“Discretion is a mission requirement. No exceptions. But you may eliminate the competition as you see fit, provided it doesn’t violate that order,” he said. “This is a
test of strategy as well as skill.”

I reached out with my abilities and tugged gently at the wooden cabinet housing the whiteboard, testing. It wobbled, spilling out a blue marker that landed on the floor behind the three with a
quiet
thwap
on the carpet.

Ford stiffened. She’d noticed.

Crap.
I released the cabinet immediately, letting it settle gently against the wall again.

But no one shouted or pointed as Morpheus continued outlining mission standards. Dr. Laughlin was too busy rocking on the two back legs of his chair and smirking at Jacobs, who was glaring death
at him. St. John had resumed the study of his phone.

Ford risked a sharp glance over her shoulder in my direction. Warning or questioning me? It was impossible to tell.

I returned my attention to the cabinet. It was loose, definitely. If I could pull the entire structure free of the wall and send it at their heads with enough force—

“Is the target aware of his status as such?” Ford asked abruptly.

The ensuing silence was breathtakingly loud.

I froze. What was she doing? They hadn’t, as far as I knew, been instructed to keep quiet, but these military types likely weren’t used to being questioned, particularly by beings
they equated to weapons, nonsentient tools.

Laughlin set his chair down with a resounding thump, his angled face a dozen shades of furious. “Ford,” he barked. Carter cringed, inching closer to Ford, whether for protection or
to protect her, I wasn’t sure.

But the one I’d dubbed Morpheus nodded approvingly. “No. It…she is correct. That would change the parameters.” To Ford, he said, “The target has no reason to feel
hiding is necessary.”

Jacobs reached over and pinched my arm, signaling in a flurry of confusing motions that I should stand and
do something
. Evidently, he didn’t want Ford getting too much positive
attention from the Committee.

But as I stood reluctantly, the door to the hall flew open, startling everyone except Dr. St. John, who turned with an expectant smile.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” he said to someone just out of sight. Then he stood and swung his arm out in a welcoming gesture. “Everyone, may I present Adam.”

I made a face. Adam? Really? Naming with numbers (107) wasn’t particularly inventive, either, but Adam was such a tired cliché.

Adam himself, though, was anything but, especially when it came to what I knew of alien/human hybrids. At a quick glance, I wouldn’t have thought him more than a normal human. In his early
twenties probably, he was dressed in khakis and a bright yellow T-shirt stretched to its limits. He was broad and muscular, almost absurdly so. He actually had to turn slightly sidewise to fit
through the door. He could probably have ripped the wooden cabinet off the wall without any additional abilities beyond his strength.

Which made sense. As I understood it, Emerson St. John’s approach involved introducing alien DNA through a virus and rewriting portions of the human genetic code. Picking a fit human
specimen was not only logical but probably necessary to ensure survival.

Upon closer look, though, there was something…off about Adam. It wasn’t the same kind of “differentness” that people saw in me. His brown eyes were dilated, making the
pupils strangely large. And he seemed paler than he should have been, but his cheeks were flushed pink with color.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.

Adam walked in and took a position behind St. John’s table, standing instead of sitting, as if waiting for instructions. I studied him, trying to get a read on what it was about him that
screamed “wrong” to me. Other than the fact that if it came down to hand-to-hand, he would crush Ford and me. If he had even remotely the kind of psi abilities we had, we were severely
outclassed.

“And, of course, the primary advantage to our method is demonstrated in our special model,” St. John said proudly.

I was too busy squinting at Adam to pay attention to St. John’s sales pitch, which was a mistake.

Ford sucked in a sharp breath. I automatically glanced back and found her staring at the door. I followed her gaze. My body went cold as soon as I saw what she was looking at.

Who.

The person in the doorway, the “special model.” Like Adam, he was dressed in khaki and yellow. But he was taller, well over six feet with dark hair that was mussed and eyes that,
when not so dilated, would have been a perfect shade of gray-blue.

Zane.

I stumbled backward, blinking rapidly, as if a trick of the fluorescent light was responsible for the mirage of the dead boy I loved.

But, no, he was still there. He wasn’t looking at me, staring fixedly ahead. But it was unquestionably Zane.

I couldn’t breathe.

Laughlin laughed. “Impressive, I must admit.”

Next to me, Jacobs shot to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Our method can be applied to anyone,” St. John said, continuing his speech. “No need for the time-consuming process of growing personnel with special skills. With our formula,
you can enhance anyone you want. Key contacts within an organization, informants, those with a personal connection to the target.” And with that he looked straight at me.

St. John had done this intentionally. Why? What did it even mean to “enhance” someone? How deep did St. John’s process go? My thoughts were consumed by this shift in reality. I
was afraid to move, to inhale or exhale with any degree of force, as if that might cause the sight of Zane to dry up and crumble away.

“Assuming they survive,” Laughlin said dryly with a sniff. But he didn’t seem upset, more amused than anything.

“This is unacceptable!” Jacobs shouted, his fists clenched.

“Oh, don’t be a poor sport just because he outmaneuvered you,” Laughlin said gleefully. “Picked the boy up off the pavement, did you?” he asked St. John.
“Smart.”

“What is going on?” Melody demanded.

I ignored all of them, the din around me fading into a faint hum, as I watched Zane. His chest was moving in and out steadily, and there was no sign of the bullet wound that had seemingly killed
him.

He was here. He was alive.

The urge to see him close up, to touch him, swept over me, squeezing my chest. I lurched in Zane’s direction.

Jacobs made a grab for my elbow, but I pushed him away before he made contact, sending him stumbling and crashing into his chair under the invisible force of my mind, the very ability he’d
gifted me with.

Then I shoved at our table, swinging it neatly out of my way. The fastest route to Zane was through the U, not around it.

Chaos erupted then, with someone shouting for the guards, who piled into the room, moving around Zane like water flowing around a rock as they searched for the threat.

And still Zane didn’t react. What had they done to him?

“Stop her!” Jacobs’s shriek pierced the fog in my head.

But I didn’t need to be stopped. I halted all on my own in front of St. John’s table, two feet from Zane.

His face was pale, but his cheeks were flushed, just like Adam’s.