Project Paper Doll: The Trials (9 page)

A
MAZING WHAT A GUN BEING
pointed at you will do for clearing the fog of shock and emotion from your mind. Add three more and my thoughts were
practically crystalline, transcendent even.

“If she tries anything, shoot her.” That had been Dr. Jacobs’s final order. He’d stepped out into the hallway outside the conference room just long enough to give the
instruction, not shouted but uttered with teeth-gritting contempt for me.

So now the four guards who’d removed me from the conference room—the same ones who’d accompanied me to the hotel in the first place—were all jammed in a shockingly nice
hotel room with me.

My shoulders ached from my hunched position in the desk chair—my knees drawn up to my chest—but I didn’t dare make an adjustment.

Dr. Jacobs wouldn’t be pleased to return from protesting St. John’s trickery to find me riddled with bullet holes. But I’d decided to take him at his word. The urge to not die
had suddenly rekindled itself in me with such ferocity, I was surprised I wasn’t hot to the touch from it.

Zane was alive. And here. Neither of which I would have classified as possible prior to today. Just thinking about him and his sudden reappearance made fear and longing surge inside me,
loosening my grip on my power.

The desk lamp beside me, a strange wooden block with an equally square lamp shade that probably made sense in the designer’s mind, wobbled. The bulb sizzled and popped inside.

My guards eyed the lamp and then me. “Stop,” said the nervous one from the van, his finger hovering above his trigger.

Anger sparked to life inside me, catching on the resentment like dusty curtains in the flame of a forgotten candle. They were keeping me here, away from the answers I needed, holding me
prisoner. But they were not nearly as effective a barrier as the glass cage at GTX had been. And the fear in his voice tempted me, whispered at me to push further, to really show him something to
be afraid of. Four of them? I could manage that easily, especially now that I’d been practicing.

The blend of human emotion and the cool, practical knowledge that I could do more, be more, and beat them was a volatile mix. My human side was screaming, dying to punish them for their role in
all of this, and my alien half was more than willing to show them exactly how outmatched they were.

I let out a slow breath, concentrating on my control. Letting my emotions rule would not serve me in this circumstance. If I proved capable of dispatching four guards, Jacobs would only call for
eight. And I wasn’t leaving here without understanding what was going on. Period.

So I forced myself to do what I’d been taught: evaluate what you know, consider each fact individually and as part of a larger whole, determine the potential ramifications, and devise next
steps.

First, unless Emerson St. John had perfected not only cloning but also some kind of advanced growth process—so unlikely—it was Zane I’d seen downstairs. The same person
I’d known in Wingate.

In terms of his outward appearance, at least. But my Zane—was it wrong that I still thought of him that way? I wasn’t sure—had been completely human. Definitely not capable of
picking that guard up with just his mind.

The most logical answer was simply what St. John had implied: he’d selected Zane as a candidate for “enhancement” through his formula, the virus he’d engineered to
deliver and insert alien DNA into an existing human.

That also fit, I realized, with another detail: Zane’s body missing from the parking lot and/or hospital, and staff being unable to confirm what exactly had happened to him.

Somehow, St. John had found Zane in time to save him, likely by introducing the alien DNA into his system. Our ability to heal rapidly would be an enormous advantage in saving someone on the
brink of death, if such a thing were possible.

But that wasn’t the big question. The real question—with those changes—was Zane still…Zane?

He’d looked right at me. Just for a second, but that was long enough. No meaningful glance, no expressive pleading with his eyes, just…nothing.

Zane was alive, yes, but possibly so damaged that he was no longer himself. And while I should have been relieved to find him breathing, the knowledge that he was no longer the same was almost
worse.

And then, beyond that—in yet another level of horribleness that must be considered—there was a second question that I couldn’t shake, one I desperately needed an answer for:
why? Why save Zane and bring him here as a potential competitor?

It was deliberate, not a happy coincidence; I had no doubt of that. St. John had been looking right at me when he talked about the advantages of his approach. In fact, thinking about it now, I
had to wonder if St. John had held Zane out of the room until he was sure I was there.

So it wasn’t just saving a mortally wounded sixteen-year-old male. It was saving
this
one.

Why? Why? Why? The question beat in my head in time with the throbbing of my accelerated pulse.

The obvious answer was that introducing Zane as a candidate in the trials was designed to throw me. If St. John had somehow gotten wind of our…closeness, then Zane might be an excellent
tool for distracting and disorienting me, keeping me from winning the trials.

But following that idea to its logical conclusion, St. John would also be forced to assume that I would want to save Zane, get him back. Which presumably might interfere with
his
winning
of the trials.

Unless St. John was just hoping that I’d go all Victorian fainting female and have to be removed, too overcome by all my untidy human emotions?

Sorry, wrong girl, wrong species. Yes, I’d been shocked to see Zane alive, but that had lasted less than a minute before my training and instincts kicked in. I wasn’t as frail as I
looked, an assumption St. John wouldn’t likely live long enough to regret.

But even that logic was flawed. It assumed that I was the leading contender, when even I, under normal circumstances, would have put my money on Ford.

Ford would not be swayed by Zane’s presence. If anything, it would give her a clearer path to victory. Kill Zane—an easier target because, no matter what St. John’s formula had
done, it couldn’t make up for the instincts and skills honed over years—which would then compromise me emotionally, far more than discovering him alive. A two-for-one special.
Witnessing Zane’s death (again) would, at the very least, make me sloppy, slow to react, and Ford knew that. It would create the opening she needed.

After that, hunting down the provided target would be no problem; Ford would have all the time in the world and no distractions. It’s not hard to win when there’s literally no
competition.

And that was the problem. Since St. John presumably wasn’t (a) an idiot or (b) in league with Dr. Laughlin to give him the easy win, none of this made sense.

I was missing something.

I bit my lip. Like…perhaps the answers to my two questions—Was Zane still Zane? And why was he here?—were related.

Maybe Zane was here because
he
wanted to be. Not the old Zane I’d known, but the new one. The idea settled in my stomach like a rock with razor-sharp edges.

I didn’t know how St. John’s formula had changed Zane. But considering what I’d observed—Zane’s nonreaction to my presence, his obvious willingness to participate
(there’d been no guards pushing him in the door, as far as I’d seen), and his driving belief that he’d never be good/fast/strong enough as he was, thanks to his father—a
very different Zane seemed like a distinct possibility.

I pulled my knees closer to my chest, against the chasm I could feel opening beneath my ribs. There was only one way to know for sure: talk to Zane.

And possibly be killed in the process, thereby answering all my questions.

TOMORROW MORNING. WEST ENTRANCE.

Was it worth giving up my last opportunity to do what I’d come here for just for answers I wasn’t sure I wanted?

Before I came to a conclusion, the hotel room door banged open.

The guards jumped, and I moved my hand up automatically in defense against their guns. Never startle edgy people with weapons. That had not been one of my father’s Rules, but, considering
it now, it seemed to be a worthy addition.

The guards parted when Jacobs charged toward them, a battered file folder and a large envelope in one hand.

“Wait outside,” he said to them over his shoulder with a dismissive and impatient wave. Which was good, because this space was not meant to hold four large men, one medium-sized
scientist, and a smaller-than-average alien/human hybrid. (As if there were enough of us for there to be an average.) It was starting to feel claustrophobic.

“They’re allowing him to continue,” Jacobs spat at me as soon as the door closed behind the guards.

I sat up straighter, finally feeling safe enough to put my feet on the floor. I wasn’t sure whether the “him” Jacobs was referring to was Zane or St. John, but either way, it
amounted to the same thing.

“St. John lobbied that his death, and his subsequent recovery and alteration, should qualify him for entry. And they agreed,” he said, his voice trembling with outrage.
“It’s a mockery of the entire process.” He paced in front of the dresser, as if making his case before an invisible jury. “Completely unacceptable!”

“Right. Because the purity of the sport is your top priority,” I said, unable to help myself.

Jacobs spun around and glared at me. “You think this is funny?”

I didn’t care for the method or how St. John had chosen to execute it, but it was kind of amusing—in a really dark, depressing way—to see Jacobs being out-Jacobs-ed and how
much it rattled him.

“Welcome to the other side of manipulation, Dr. J.” I gave him an icy smile.

“Careful, 107,” he said, flecks of spit flying outward in a spray. “Don’t enjoy this moment too much. You’re valuable to me only as a competitor. You’re lucky
they didn’t disqualify you based on your behavior. What was that display?”

I stiffened. He was not going to pin this mess on me. “If you don’t want me to react poorly to the sudden resurrection of loved ones, perhaps you should try to avoid killing
them.”

He made a sound of disgust. “Do better, 107. Laughlin’s products are the only ones that made a decent impression today. Between St. John’s ridiculous
showboating”—yep, he was definitely jealous of what St. John had accomplished—“and your emotional outburst, we are at a disadvantage.”

He paused long enough to chuck the bulky manila envelope at me. Acting on instinct, I stopped it before it hit my face, forcing it to float down into my hand instead.

It was a testament to the level of his distraction that he didn’t even notice or pause to admire his own work, as he perceived it.

I pulled the envelope open and tilted it so the contents would spill out onto the desk. Five crisp twenty-dollar bills clipped together. A smartphone, fully charged. An unidentifiable triangle
of black plastic about the size of my fist, with a removable paper backing. A sheaf of pages, all surveillance photos of a girl. Not much older than me, if the pictures of her wandering what
appeared to be a college campus were accurate.

“What is this?” I asked.

His eyes bulged such that I thought one of them might pop out and roll on the floor. “Were you not listening at all to the—”

“Yes,” I snapped. “The target. Follow, confirm identity, await further instructions.” I held up the sheet of photos. “You’re telling me this is the
target?” She was distinctly younger, and less…grizzled than I’d expected. In all the training scenarios I’d been given over the years, the targets had been hardened and
elusive criminals. Warlords, fellow spies, drug kingpins, dictators, anyone who threatened the safety of the country.

Not a girl who looked like she should be rushing a sorority or protesting the use of Styrofoam in the cafeteria.

Jacobs glared at me. “You waste time questioning the facts while your competitors are no doubt using them to develop a plan of attack.”

Please. Unless this girl was something more than her photos revealed, Ford would eat her for breakfast and still have time to grab a latte. Assuming Ford knew what a latte was.

“You want to obsess over something, how about this? It makes no sense for St. John to allow Zane to compete as his candidate,” I said, lobbing the words out there like a grenade, one
I would not be able to escape if it blew up in my face.

Jacobs threw his hands in the air. “Of course it does. You’re distracted, which keeps you from performing at your optimum—”

“And allows Ford to take the lead,” I added.

The good doctor stopped, his mouth open in anticipatory protest. Then he snapped it closed and looked at me with a grudging glimmer of respect.

“The other one, Adam, would give St. John a far better chance,” he said slowly, thinking it through for the first time.

“Yeah,” I said.

He grunted, but the outrage in his voice had died down into something that sounded like reluctant curiosity.

“There were rumors a while ago that Emerson St. John was a ringer,” he said, more to himself than to me.

I raised my eyebrows in question.

“Someone with connections to another government or organization,” he explained. He was pacing again, the file folder tucked under his arm, but in a contemplative manner. He looked
more professorial than ever. “It’s the only explanation for how he was able to advance his formula in less than ten years and at half the cost, according to financials submitted to the
Committee.”

That, or maybe St. John’s method was just more viable than, I don’t know, growing and raising your own alien/human hybrids in a secret and expensive lab.

“Be on your guard and stay away from the boy. Kill him if he opposes you; otherwise, avoid him. It’s possible that St. John sent him in simply for recruitment or sabotage.” He
frowned. “Until we know what his objective is, it’s better to prevent a confrontation.”

I nodded. Not great, but better than being ordered to kill Zane on first sight.