Project Paper Doll: The Trials (16 page)

“
Us
,” Justine emphasized, pointing first at herself and then at me. “Remember, you were born here. You are as much one of us.” She nodded fiercely, as if
confirming the answer to an unspoken question.

I sat back, startled. Her approach was the exact opposite of Dr. Jacobs’s, who had sought to make it very clear that even a little alien-ness invalidated my humanity, made me lesser.

“But I’m not
quite
one of you, or else I wouldn’t be useful for whatever it is you need, right?” I asked. She wanted me, specifically me, for something, and
whatever it was, she’d gone through a lot of trouble—and possibly a lot of money—to get to me. Another thought occurred to me belatedly. “Why didn’t you just ask Dr.
Jacobs about me? I’m sure he would have been happy to sell to the highest bidder.”

She shook her head. “This is an off-the-books operation. We can’t have any record of it for the DOD to find, for
anyone
to find.” She paused. “And as I’m
sure you are aware, Dr. Jacobs is far too interested in public accolades and fanfare. We couldn’t take the chance of trusting him.”

“Because if it blows up right now, it’s officially the DOD’s project and it’ll be the other guys’ responsibility,” I said, finally getting it.

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“Wait, wait.” Zane held up his hands, stopping the conversation. “I have a question. About the…about
them.
If they’ve been coming here, looking for Ford,
Carter, and Ariane, how did they know where to find them? And what’s in Phoenix?” He paused. “Or should I say, who?”

A secondary lab, a beta site with a backup copy of the research, including one or more hybrids? It wasn’t unrealistic that Laughlin or Jacobs would take that precaution, though this was
the first I’d heard of it.

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Justine hedged.

“Of course it is,” I muttered.

“What I told you earlier was correct,” Justine said. “The technology recovered from the desert—”

“Roswell,” I snapped, suddenly weary of her circumspection. It felt like another polite term to cover up an ugly truth. Like saying, “Native American Relocation program”
instead of “rampant colonization and displacement and abuse of an indigenous people.” Or “economically advantageous labor force” instead of “slaves.”

“Just say it,” I said to Justine. “Roswell.”

“Fine,” she said evenly. “The technology recovered from
Roswell
has a genetic component,” she said. “From what we can tell, it would likely form a connection
with individuals from that background, for control, communication, everything. Our scientists are hypothesizing that it’s related to the way their society is structured. In the same way we
might use voice command with our phones or cars, these vehicles are likely responsive to telepathy.”

Because that is their…our…the primary mode of communication. It made sense. They created their tech to meet their needs. Humans have buttons on their phones because they have long,
skinny digits that can push the designated numbers. If they’d had tentacles instead, the tech would have developed in some other way to accommodate that physicality.

“In any case, that genetic portion of the technology is likely detecting Ariane and the others. A specific brain wave pattern or some genetic kind of marker that their ship has programmed
to pick up.” She sighed. “We aren’t sure. It might be that they’re searching for those who were lost all those years ago, or it might just be chance.”

“And Phoenix?” I asked, still envisioning a lab underneath the desert sands, another pale-skinned, white-haired child stuck behind a glass wall. Alone.

Justine tugged her sleeves down, absurdly interested in the evenness of sweatshirt cuffs. “A storage facility.”

I gave a sharp laugh. “What, no Area Fifty-One?”

“That’s DOD territory,” she said. “Not us.” She shook her head. “We presume that something within the wreckage may still be active in some way, though no one
here has been able to detect it. It may be, again, that telepathic component.”

I eyed her carefully, searching for the telltale signs of deception. She spoke clearly, concisely, and without hesitation. She was uncomfortable at times, but nothing indicated that she was
lying. Then again she would be better at it than most, wouldn’t she?

“Everything you’ve shown me could have been easily falsified,” I said, nodding my head toward the folder. “Created to convince me for your own purposes.”

Justine raised her eyebrows. “You want proof?”

“Ariane…” Zane murmured, and I wasn’t sure if it was in warning or concern.

“Fine,” Justine said. “I suppose that should work both ways.”

I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but I didn’t like the eager, speculative gleam in her eyes.

I watched as she tapped on her phone for a few seconds. Then she spun it to face me.

“Here,” Justine said.

The screen was black with a white triangle—the traditional “play” symbol. With a sense that I was stepping out into water that was likely way over my head, I touched the play
symbol and immediately pulled my hand back.

At first, there was nothing. Faint static and some small rustling noises in the background made a little sound-measuring needle flutter, but barely.

“I don’t hear anything,” Zane said, frowning. “What—”

Cold. Pain. Alone. Alone. Help. Damage.

Cold. Pain. Alone. Alone. Help. Damage.

The needle never moved, but the words somehow broke through the static in my head that was a permanent part of my existence, all the human thoughts being broadcast around me. Except they
weren’t words so much as sensations screaming in my head and sending waves of chills across my skin.

“Shut it off!” I said, clapping my hands over my ears, an instinctive and completely illogical response to something that was likely a frequency my brain was detecting rather than my
auditory nerves.

Justine gave a triumphant grin. “They weren’t sure it would work. It’s new technology, a broad spectrum recording, but—”

Zane reached over and slapped at the phone, cutting the sounds off instantly. “Are you okay?” he asked me, his eyes wide.

I had to wait a few extra seconds for my teeth to stop chattering. “It’s…Something’s wrong.” I shook my head and wrapped my arms around my middle. “A
distress call, maybe, I don’t know.” I’d never felt anything like that inside my own mind before, like a finger rising up out of nowhere to poke at the gray matter around it.

Zane stared at me, and I winced a little on the inside. I was, once more, just a little
too
alien.

Justine cleared her throat. “If I may continue?” Without waiting for us to respond, she said, “We would like you to interact with the artifacts and to look at the accumulation
of reports on the incident and of the various tests run on the tech. See if you can think of something we haven’t.”

That’s what she’d meant by documents, not sheaves of paper on which my relatives had jotted down interstellar directions or something. So, no written language, or at least not one
the humans could perceive as such. I’d been right about that.

“Or see if something speaks to me, you mean,” I said. “You want to see if the wreckage responds to me. If I can hear it, then maybe it can hear me.”

“That is one of our interests, yes,” she agreed, but there was the lingering feeling of words unspoken hanging in the air.

A new weapon or a better engine, most likely. That’s what they were hoping for out of this mess, I could almost guarantee it.

“And what are your other interests?” I prompted. Because so far, this was exactly what she’d asked me to do before breaking out the recording from hell.

“Our primary interest in your assistance is in communication,” she said.

“You want to talk to them?” Zane sounded alarmed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I’m thinking they might be kind of pissed.” He slid me a questioning
glance.

I nodded. That was my take as well. And part of me wanted to see it—Dr. Jacobs sucked up screaming into a vortex of light to a ship where he’d be punished for all that he’d
done.

I smiled grimly at the mental image of the good doctor trapped in a giant maze, where one lever would bring the alien equivalent of cheese; and the other, death by some vaporizing ray.

Yeah. I could live with that.

“We want to be able to talk to them,” Justine said. “Learn from them. Offer an exchange of information and culture in what could be a major turning point in human
history.” She sounded almost excited for a moment. Then her gaze dropped to her hands. “And, of course, we’ll want to explain our efforts to preserve their culture and species in
the best way we knew how,” she said primly, tipping her head toward me.

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “
That’s
your story? That’s the rationale for why I exist?”

She nodded. “Yes. And we hope it will be yours as well.”

“Oh.” It clicked finally. Duh, Ariane. I couldn’t believe I’d been this slow to catch on. “You want me to be your mouthpiece, to stand in front of them and speak in
official bullet points.”

Zane looked horrified. “You want to just offer her up? You don’t know them. You don’t know what their reaction might be to—”

“We want her to communicate with them,” Justine corrected. “
If
they return. It’s been three years since the last incident. They were within a hundred miles of
Ariane and the others and never attempted to make contact.”

“As far as you know,” Zane said, furious.

“But someone is thinking it might just be a matter of time, and if they do come back, you want someone to be able to tell them that you’re A-OK here,” I said. “Good
folks. Not worth blowing up or conquering.”

Justine nodded reluctantly. “Yes.”

Well, at least now her motives were making sense.

“What makes you think they’d listen to me?” I asked. “They might consider me every bit a freak as you do.” And I wasn’t particularly eager to hear from them,
if it was at all like what I’d just experienced from a simple recording.

She looked unsettled for the first time in this conversation. “We don’t know what they’ll do,” she admitted. “We hope, if or when they decide to make contact, it
will be a peaceful encounter, one that could be mutually beneficial.”

“But it’s your job to prepare for the worst,” I said.

“This is, for better or worse, your home,” she said quietly. “I’m hoping you’ll want to do everything you can to save it. And the people you love.”

“That’s low,” Zane said to her in disgust.

He was right. And yet what Justine had said was not untrue. Even if I could try and convict Dr. Jacobs as a jury of one, could I do that to an entire planet?

I listened to the dozens of people around us, their voices clamoring. Laughing, talking, placing orders, and arguing with spouses or coworkers on the phone. They were alive. With their own
dreams and destinies.

There were good things here: peanut butter, french fries, music, art, puppies and kittens, orchids, high-quality denim. And good humans, too. Not just Zane and my father, but thousands of others
I’d witnessed acting out of kindness, in person or on video clips.

Full-blooded humans could be the most shortsighted, self-serving, hateful beings (see the comments section of any blog post ever), but they also rushed into burning buildings to save strangers,
raised orphaned animals (and little alien/human hybrid girls) by hand, and held the door open for the person behind them.

The dichotomy was difficult to wrap my brain around, but it was one of the things I loved most about that half of my heritage. That people capable of extreme ugliness could also do such amazing
things.

Justine was right; I couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave them to their fate if I could have a hand in saving them. It was my home and these were my people, as much as whoever might show up in
a flying saucer at some future point.

Besides, oddly enough, this arrangement Justine was suggesting might also provide the leverage I’d been missing before.

I felt a flicker of excitement, maybe even hope, for the first time in a long while. They wanted to use me, but I could use them right back. After all, they were counting on me to provide a good
report, when and if it was needed, and I would be willing to do that only under certain circumstances. Namely, find a way to end the trials and then leave me and mine the hell alone until the day
those ships show up again.

“Why me?” I asked.

Zane turned in his seat to stare at me in disbelief. “You’re not seriously considering this?”

Come on, Zane, don’t make me get into this now.

I spoke as calmly as I could. “We’re talking about saving the people I care about.” Truth, but also what Justine would want to hear.

MY GOALS HAVEN’T CHANGED, ZANE. I’M JUST GOING ABOUT IT A DIFFERENT WAY.
I thought the words at him as hard as I could.
I’LL EXPLAIN LATER.

His head jerked up, as if he’d heard a distant shout.

I gave a tiny warning shake of my head.
DON’T REACT.

“Ford was the first candidate we considered, but she was deemed…inappropriate,” Justine said loudly, another of her less-than-subtle efforts to steer the conversation back on
track.

“Translation: she hates humans and you’re afraid she’ll encourage them to blow this place up,” Zane said. “And Carter won’t do anything without
her.”

“My point is that if you think those ships are looking for us, don’t you think they’ll search out Ford and Carter too?” I asked. “It’s kind of hard to spin
the story if you’re not controlling all the sources.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we have to,” Justine said vaguely, which was totally a pat on the head, filler for an answer she didn’t yet have or perhaps didn’t
want to share.

I raised my eyebrows. “But in the meantime, the trials continue. That girl, the target, dies. And Laughlin keeps making hybrids.”

With a sigh, Justine squared her shoulders, likely preparing to give a speech about collateral damage and broken eggs being a requirement for omelets or whatever.