Revive (11 page)

She's waiting for me outside the entrance, and it's completely wrong seeing her framed against the building's homey, colonial exterior. It's even more wrong seeing her in civilian clothes. In my mind, Fitzpatrick does not wear jeans or bright blue windbreakers or gold jewelry. Fitzpatrick belongs back home in fatigues.

Fitzpatrick definitely does not belong here with Sophia.

“Let's walk,” she says in her gruff voice.

I almost protest because part of me is stuck as Sophia. I'm at her college, in her clothes, and just agreed to go on a date with the guy she likes. But I shake it off and return wholly to myself. It's discomforting.

“You realize why I'm here?” she asks once we've left the driveway. It's not really a question, and I refrain from answering how I want to. “We are not pleased with your report on the AnChlor attempt.”

I stuff my hands in my sleeves, refusing to believe that's the sole reason for her visit. One, that was weeks ago. Two, there's no way Fitzpatrick would come here on a surprise visit simply because of that. But I play along. “No one informed me that one percent of the population experiences severe allergic reactions to AnChlor.”

“Because it doesn't matter. You should have ignored the distraction and gone on with your assignment. Why didn't you?”

I clench my jaw. Because I couldn't. Because I was shocked. But those are not the reasons Fitzpatrick wants to hear, even though they're the truth. Actually, I'm pretty sure Fitzpatrick doesn't give a damn about my reasons in the first place. Certainly no more than she gives a damn that David Cohen survived the day in spite of what I did to him.

“You are a failure.” It's a sentence she's uttered many times, and her mouth begins to move, to add my real name to the end of that statement like she usually does, but she catches herself. Fitzpatrick is not a failure. She won't name me in public. “I warned everyone you would disappoint them, and I was right.”

Unclenching my jaw takes effort. “Is that why you came all this way? To tell me that?”

Fitzpatrick peers down her sunglasses at me. “No. I came all this way to make sure you understood the extent of my displeasure. Your failure reflects not only on you, but on your unit and on me. Use your remaining AnChlor, discover X's identity and get out.”

“As I stated in my reports, I'm working on another plan that's less risky.”

Fitzpatrick stops abruptly. Blood rushes in my ears, and I swear it's as loud as the traffic. “Less risky for who? If you use the AnChlor correctly, it poses no risk.”

“Obviously, that's not true, and now that I've used the AnChlor once, trying again would raise too many questions. I can discover X through other means without anyone else getting hurt.” For a moment, I consider telling her that I believe I've uncovered an enemy agent here and that using the AnChlor again is too risky for that reason too. But until I can confirm my suspicions, preferably with some hard evidence off Kyle's computer, I'm keeping them to myself.

Fitzpatrick sneers at me. She's the only person I've ever had the misfortune to meet who can do that without it looking comical. When she does it, I want to punch her.

“Anyone else getting hurt?” She repeats my words in a sickeningly sweet mockery. “You're weak, but don't worry your little head about people getting hurt. You've been on the outside for a month now. Did you realize that?” She leans closer, and her coffee breath washes over me. “You will do whatever needs to be done, and don't fret about your conscience. You've been here far too long to be allowed to remember this assignment. When it's over, we'll scrub all the nasty details from your memory, I promise. So do your job and stop embarrassing me.”

My mouth goes dry. “What?”

“It's SOP for agents like you who have been in the field too long and gotten their programming corrupted. Don't act all surprised.”

“My programming isn't corrupted.” I drop my voice as a group of people pass, but I'm not sure I believe myself. Didn't I just have that sort of thought regarding Kyle? Conflicting emotions are bad. Liking the enemy is bad.

Yet having my memories of Sophia erased is terrifying. I've seen and learned and experienced so much since coming to RTC. I can't lose it. I won't lose it.

“I'm not corrupted,” I repeat. “I'm trying to be logical about the best strategy to use under the circumstances. Let me prove it.”

Fitzpatrick stares at me, expressionless. I'm not moving her, nor impressing her, but beyond that, I can't tell what she's thinking. She's as stony outside as in. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a data stick. “You have no choice but to prove it. That's the other reason I'm here, so I can deliver your new assignment in person. Take this.”

I flip the data stick over in my hand. “What am I supposed to do?”

“It's a quick side project. You're supposedly our best agent in Boston right now. Either prove you still have the nerves to do your job, or we'll be replacing you at RTC. All the information you need is on the stick. Understood?”

I nod because I'm feeling too ill to speak properly, and I slide the data stick in my pocket.

“For the record,” Fitzpatrick adds, “I don't trust you to pull this assignment off successfully either, but some people seem to like you. That said, you'd better consider this your last chance with them.” Then she spins around and disappears into the crowd.

Bitch.
My hands ball into fists, but there's nothing I can do. The data stick feels like a lead weight in my pocket the entire walk back to campus.

Chapter Ten

Seven Weeks Ago

From where the escalator lets us off, it's a short walk to the formal wear department. I try not to look like I'm gaping at all the clothes, but I totally am. The mall nearest home in Pennsylvania is so small it only has one floor. Also, it's an hour away, so my number of trips was limited. Not to mention heavily supervised.

“You're the most prepared person I've ever met,” Audrey says, coming to a stop in a glittery aisle. “I can't believe you don't own a dress.”

I chew my lip, taking in the rows and rows of dresses. Oddly enough, this excites me. Fun! Pretty! Colors! Ruffles! When did I turn girly? Nine would laugh her ass off at me. I've even been experimenting with that stupid makeup.

I've been assimilated. It's not quite as bad as corrupted, but it's not good either.

I run my hand down a fluffy skirt. “I've never had a formal to go to before.”

Although I still hope to have completed my assignment well before winter, I am like Audrey said—the type to be prepared. It had just never occurred to me before to be prepared for a formal dance.

I'm not even sure how I ended up agreeing to go to one. Kyle asking me out has changed everything and nothing. We did grab dinner, but things have stayed similar to what they were before. Besides kissing him, that is. That part is definitely different. And nice. Very nice.

Not as nice as it could be though, because every time I touch Kyle, I wonder who I'm really touching. And I wonder if the next time our bodies meet, it won't feel so good. If one day I'll need to trade the gentle explorations of his skin for all-out blows.

And then I pull away, confused and trying hard to hide my turmoil.

Then there's the dance. Somewhere, in the middle of this week's insanity, it was just assumed I'd go to an end-of-the-semester formal with Kyle. I don't know much about it except the men's and women's track teams are co-hosting it, which means Kyle will be there and he expects me to be his date. It's weeks away yet, so far off. If I'm still dating Kyle then, what does that mean for us and my mission?

I have no way to answer that question, so when Audrey suggested I needed to go dress shopping, it was easiest to simply say yes. Sophia would be excited, after all. And part of me is very much so too.

Bad, Sophia. Bad,
Seven
.

I turn from Audrey so she doesn't see me cringe. I've been good about thinking of myself as Sophia, but maybe that's a mistake. Sophia would get to go to a dance, and kiss Kyle between classes, and slack off in her duty to spend time with him.

But I'm not Sophia, even if part of me wants to be. I shouldn't do any of those things. I'm Seven, and Seven is working on this relationship with Kyle only because she suspects Kyle is up to no good. Not because she likes him.

Right? Right.

Besides, Seven has One.

No! I ball my hands into fists in my jacket pockets. Seven plus One equals deep shit. Almost as large an amount as Sophia plus Kyle. I have to stop this. All of it.

I'm glad Audrey is too busy sighing over something silky and purple to notice my internal war.

“So you never went to your prom?” she asks.

Thank goodness for movies so I know what proms are. “Nope. My high school was small and didn't do that sort of thing. We just had a regular dance every year.”

“That sucks. Now I wish I had an excuse to buy a new dress,” she says. “What kind of style are you thinking of?”

“Not a clue.” It's nice when I get to be honest.

We spend the next hour meandering among the dress racks. With Audrey's encouragement, I try on flowing pink ones, slinky black ones, strapless blue ones, ruffled green ones and hideously sequined ones just for laughs. I model short dresses, long dresses, modest dresses and skimpy dresses. Audrey says she's jealous of my figure, and I might as well show it off to Kyle, but I hate looking like a wannabe hooker.

Also, my body is not what it was when I came to RTC. Not that I usually care too much about how I look, but without the rigorous, daily exercise I'm used to, I feel flabby and don't like it. Fitzpatrick might be, well, Bitchpatrick, but there is something useful about having an evil overlord berate you for running too slow or call you a wimp on those days when you can't dead lift at least twice your weight.

On the other hand, there's a lot to be said for not suffering that kind of abuse too.

“This one,” I tell Audrey, flinging open the dressing room door.

My goal of this shopping trip was to find something practical, a dress in which—should the worst-case scenario go down and I need to defend X from an encroaching enemy—I could throw a punch without worrying about flashing everyone nearby.

So much for that. This dress is a creamy, peachy gold, strapless and silky, and it hangs to my knees. When I spin in place, the skirt flairs out, revealing a lacey under layer. It's the very definition of impractical, but the moment I saw myself in the mirror, I could imagine Kyle's reaction. That was all it took.

Yup, I've gotten weak, mentally as well as physically. But what are the odds that I'm going to need to punch someone at the dance? I run the calculation in my head to reassure myself. See? It'll be fine. I can look sexy and have fun for one night. In fact, if all goes well, I'm not even going to be around for the dance, so who cares.

“Well?” I do the spinny thing for Audrey.

She squeals. “Totally.”

Audrey is so upbeat and perky that she's basically an anti-Fitzpatrick.

From there, she drags me off to shop for shoes, which is not nearly as interesting. That's a good sign. I'm not completely girly after all. Heels suck, and I finally settle on the lowest ones, which are the most comfortable pair I try on. I'm half tempted to wear my combat boots with the dress anyway. It would make a bold statement, and I think Kyle would like it.

Laden down with bags, we commandeer a table in the food court for lunch. As we eat our burgers, we fall into silence. Audrey flips through the handful of novels she bought on her e-sheet, and I gaze absently into one of the TVs mounted around the area. The news is on.

“How can you watch that?” she asks, looking up. “It's so depressing.”

I swirl the soda and ice slush around in my cup. “Yeah, but it's real. It's stuff we should know—important stuff.”

“Unlike my books?” She sticks her tongue out at me before I get to tease her this time.

Audrey reads books about angels and werewolves and aliens that can shape-shift into hot men. The only thing sillier than reading about fictional people is reading about fictional people who couldn't even exist. But Audrey doesn't merely read about fictional people. She writes stories about them too. She calls it fun.

I admit, I've read a lot of novels and watched a lot of TV. Back home, they
made
us do it, just like RTC makes students read books for their English courses. But I've always considered it research—those books and shows were assignments meant to keep us updated on popular culture.

“That stuff going on in the Middle East?” I point a French fry at the screen. “That could have major affects on you.”

She waves her e-sheet at me. “So could this. I'm an English major, remember? I told you. I want to be a writer, or maybe an editor, or both. I have to read a lot.”

“Yeah, and you think it's fun.” My turn to stick my tongue out.

“Exactly.” She grins, dumping more ketchup on her fries. “Nothing wrong with that. You are way too serious. Don't tell me—you watch the news because you're considering switching your major to journalism or something. I thought you were going to go pre-med, like Kyle.”

I take the ketchup from her. “Ugh, no. I'm not switching. Journalism sounds boring. And I'm not really pre-med. I just like science.”

“So what do you want to do? You have to declare something by the end of next semester.”

Audrey's been bugging me about this ever since she found out I was undeclared, and I know she's right. If I were a real student, I'd have a dilemma.

I chew a fry thoughtfully, putting my tale together. Sophia's future career is not part of my cover story, so I can choose whatever I want as long as it fits. I opt for being as truthful as possible because it makes me feel better. “I want to make the world a better place. Help and protect people. Take down bad guys. That sort of thing.”

Audrey wrinkles her nose. “Ew. You mean like police work?”

“Something bigger, like the CIA. I want to travel all over the world, go to exotic locations, solve international problems, save people's lives.”

“Sounds scary.” She pretends to shudder. “Spies and stuff? Better you than me. But if you can stop the terrorists who do things like that—” she nods at the TV, “—good for you.”

Yeah, good for me. I think about the additional assignment Fitzpatrick gave me. It goes down tonight, and my stomach twists in anticipation. I want it over with so I can focus again on my RTC mission.

Pushing away the rest of my lunch, I tune out the food court noise and concentrate on the update coming from the screen. Two days ago, someone set off a bio bomb at a prep school in New York City. Hundreds of students ended up hospitalized, the city had to erect quarantines and thousands upon thousands of people were evacuated. It was only recently that the Center for Disease Control deemed all to be safe.

Two of the students at the school were the children of an unnamed, high-ranking political official. And so far they were the only two people severely stricken by the weapon, to the point where they were both in comas.

According to this new update, the terrorist group responsible has come forward with the information that only they have the antidote that can revive the children. They claim they'll make it available in exchange for the release of certain high-security enemy combatants.

Audrey crumples up her trash, looking ill. “That's awful. I don't understand people.”

“I don't understand why only those two kids are in comas.” It's like whatever was in that bio bomb was targeted to their DNA, which shouldn't be possible.

I tap my fingers together while Audrey says something about all the evil in the world. Prior to today, I'd figured it was bad luck for those kids who seemed most susceptible to the mystery illness. But now? Now it definitely appears they were targets, and that makes me want to do some research. Back home, my biology teacher once talked about the difficulties in creating a weapon like that. If someone's figured out a way, that's terrifying.

Before I can pry too deeply into my memories, though, Audrey waves to people behind me. Kyle and Chase are walking over.

I assess Chase's left arm as he grabs a chair. According to Kyle, Chase sliced his forearm open yesterday trying to prove the blade of his utility knife needed sharpening. Since apparently the blade was plenty sharp after all, I'm hoping to see the results of Chase's stupidity so I can potentially cross him off my list of suspects.

But although Chase is one of those people who's always warm and therefore almost always wears short sleeves, today he doesn't. Today, his shirt covers any potential injury. Convenient. I make a note, pondering the precariousness of the situation if Chase turns out to be X and Kyle—his roommate—is truly working for the enemy.

“Did Audrey make you try on a hundred dresses?” Kyle asks.

“Eleven.”

He grabs a fry. “And you're still friends with her after that?”

I elbow him, and he elbows me back, and I temporarily forget about everything else.

Nine hours later, my good mood from dress shopping is officially gone. I'd like to kick somebody as I set up for work.

All the information for this new assignment Fitzpatrick gave me was on the data stick, as promised, including the information about where to obtain the supplies I need. It's all planned out, down to what I'm supposed to wear. I only have to pull the trigger, so to speak. Thought, creativity—not needed. A monkey could do what I'm supposed to do. It's an insult to all my training.

It's also a test. That's the only reason for it. I'm being tested, not just on my nerves like Fitzpatrick said, but also on my willingness to obey orders.

It makes me want to scream. I mean, it's not like I can't pass their test, but give me a break. What's the point in teaching me to be an independent agent if I'm not allowed to actually show some independence when I'm finally in the field?

Frowning, I boot my laptop. That was a Sophia question. The pre-Sophia me would not question an order or an assignment like this. I run my hands through my hair in exasperation before I remember I'm wearing a wig, and I nearly yank it off. Excellent.

I've been having more and more Sophia thoughts lately, beginning with my decision not to use the AnChlor again. Then I compounded it a thousand times with my decision not to immediately turn over Kyle, and no one even knows about that yet. If they did, I suspect a simple test like this wouldn't be all I was given.

Too late to do anything about it now. I made my decision, and I'll stand by it. I'll do their stupid test too, and without screaming.

I point the laptop in the right direction, then walk over until I'm in the camera's line of sight. The angle's not quite right, so I adjust it, check it again, then wait. The lights are off. The drapes are closed. The hotel room is dark.

The Boston traffic, six stories below, is muted through the un-openable window, but occasionally voices drift inside from the hall. Hotel walls are paper thin. I despise this fact because it makes what I have to do more difficult. It means it must be done in silence.

And still I wait. Based on the information I was given, I know this could be a while. My target is a heavy drinker when he travels. His OCD issues cause him to be creeped out by sleeping in hotel beds, so he drinks in the evenings to get over his anxiety. He'll be at the hotel bar until he's loopy enough to crash.