Surrender (7 page)

Several white-coated people loomed over me because I’d fallen to my knees. Something snapped in my brain, but by the time I realized what was happening, I couldn’t react. They bound me at the ankle and wrist, strapped me to a stretcher, and wheeled me under even brighter lights.

They were tagging me.

“Don’t move,” a doctor said through a face mask. “This won’t hurt if you stay still. Otherwise, I promise it will hurt.”

Not afraid of trouble but terrified of pain, I stayed still. The damn transmissions had made me a chicken by the age of six.

Cold hands unstrapped my left wrist and drew a line around it with a black marker. The ink absorbed my flesh. That doctor was the foulest liar on the planet. Because the surgery skin boiled away a one-inch strip of skin. And that hurts.

Willing myself to look, I saw my tissues, tendons, and bones. No blood spilled out, controlled with the surgery skin
and a hemal-recycler one of the doctors dabbed on my wrist. The blood congealed into little globs that he shook off into a tray.

Gloved fingers snapped the tag around my wrist like a bracelet, securing it with a tiny knot next to the bumpy wrist bone. Blinking sensors and a long bar code took the place of my skin.

Permanent jewelry from hell.

“No one will see it,” she explained. “Only our tech. We don’t want to make your life completely miserable.”

“Too late,” I growled.

Another doctor approached with a long needle. That did it. I thrashed and kicked and cursed. Hands restrained me, and someone slapped on another silencer.

I squeezed my eyes shut and rolled my head to the side. My heartbeat strummed in my ears and mouth. The needle stabbed hot into my wrist and the regrowing skin itched as it covered the tag.

Five minutes, and I was marked for life.

I wondered how much of this tech my dad had invented. Probably all of it. He’d had to sign off on all new inventions before they were used on the general public.

The last time I’d seen him, he’d smiled. But it had been filled with sadness and had painted pinched lines around his eyes.

He’d gone into the forest a few nights before, but he wasn’t wearing his jacket when he’d hugged me good night. His long-sleeved shirt smelled like onions from dinner.

“Good-bye, V,” he said.

I hadn’t noticed that he’d said “good-bye” instead of “good night.” I remembered the next morning when I woke up—and he was gone.

I’d searched the house for his jacket. I was late for school because of it.

The jacket wasn’t there. I never did find it.

In fact, by the time I got home from school, the house had been purged of everything that belonged to my father.

But not my memory.

I could still see him if I closed my eyes and concentrated. His green eyes twinkled with sparks of gold. His trim brown hair. His ivory skin. His warm embrace that comforted me at night.

I heard him tell me he loved me. His voice was low and crackly, and filled with emotion.

A tear ran down my cheek. I made to wipe it with my tagged hand and winced at the flash of pain.

A doctor checked my wrist where the skin was still regrowing. He made a tiny note on a big electro-board and moved away. I turned my head toward the back wall.

An exit sign hung above a door radiating some severe tech energy. Jag’s haunted voice filled my head.
“They’re the good guys.”

I couldn’t go to Freedom. Which meant I had to get to the Badlands. Somehow. Maybe I could find my dad.

He made his choice,
the voice whispered, carrying a hint of empathy. Something I definitely didn’t want.

I didn’t care about choices right then. I didn’t need that stupid Thinker to feel sorry for me. I wanted to be left alone.

Shut up!
I commanded.
Get out of my head!

The voice didn’t return. At least I couldn’t hear it through the swirling desperation, ill-conceived hope, and anger coursing through my body.

Doctors checked my wrist every ten minutes, making notes. Finally one of them removed the silencer and said, “Look.”

My flesh had returned. I ran my fingers over it, feeling the miniscule knot that could’ve been part of my wrist bone. The techtricity in the tag sent a dull ache resonating up to my elbow. But whatever. I’d learned to live with the slight buzzing in my ears from the comm too.

“Learn your place, and we’ll never need to use that tag,” the middle Greenie said. I hadn’t recognized him without the Institute robes on—but his voice was ingrained in my brain. He pulled off his face mask and glared down at me.

“And you’re not to return to the Goodgrounds. Ever.”

“I don’t want to come back,” I spat, the last thread of hope that I’d marry Zenn drying up with my words. But I’d be okay. I always am.

“The boy now?” another doctor asked as I was escorted away.

“No, Thane wants to do it himself. Besides, that boy won’t be awake for a couple hours at least, and I’m beat. Let’s rest. Then we can—” The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off his voice.

Back in the cell upstairs, Jag still hadn’t woken. I lay on the floor and stared under his bed, the cement as hard as ever.

I clenched my teeth and growled, “No way in hell Thane—whoever he is—is tagging Jag.”

Tech is an interesting thing, full of power—for good or bad. Unlike Ty and my dad, I don’t have the inventing gene. But I can certainly recognize good tech when I see it. Or rather, feel it. And I’d seen and felt it in the tech-lab downstairs.

I couldn’t stay here and do nothing.

Yes, you can
. The voice carried a patronizing air. I really hated that. I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest, listening, hoping the Thinker would implant another thought, desperate to identify him. His voice sounded so familiar.

When no one spoke, I got up and shook Jag. He didn’t respond. With horror, I realized why that doctor had said he wouldn’t be awake. They’d drugged him.

I turned on the faucet and threw cold water in his face. He jerked and opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and glazed over. He said nothing, barely registering that I stood in front of him yelling his name. His eyes drooped closed again.

“No! Jag, you’ve got to wake up. They’re gonna tag you!” I opened his gel—the smell alone could wake the dead—and waved it under his nose. “Wake up!” He stirred again, and I threw another handful of water on him.

“Finally,” I said as he sat up.

“Ugnh.” He rubbed his hands over his face.

“Can you stand?” I checked the corridor for guards. Empty. It had to be very early in the morning, maybe still the middle of the night.

The bed creaked as he lay down. “Give me a break,” I muttered, pulling him back up. I could barely hold his weight in his drugged condition. “No. You’ve got to wake up.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

“Well, too bad. They’re coming to tag you, and I can’t get out of here by myself.” I spotted the bread he’d saved from dinner on the shelf and grabbed it. “Here, eat this. We gotta go.”

As he ate, he seemed to throw off some of the fog surrounding him. I helped him stand and pace in the tiny cell to
get his blood moving.
He’s not sick. Everything’s fine,
I thought on every turn.

He stopped and looked at me, his eyes brightening.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

A strange look crossed his face, something between wonder and fear. “You . . . I’m . . .” he said, and then shook his head. His face closed off again.

I didn’t have time for his issues with, well, whatever. “Come on,” I said. “You’ve got to pretend you’re sick so you can go to the bathroom. We’ve got to get to the elevator.”

“It won’t be pretending.” He sat on the bed. “We’re using the elevator?”

“Yeah, I explored a bit yesterday.” I didn’t want to waste time explaining—or for him to know—that I’d already been tagged. “You’ll have to help me with the guard.”

“Sure, whatever,” he said as he pulled on his shoes.

“Hey!” I yelled toward the guard’s office. “Jag’s sick! He’s gonna blow chunks! You gotta come get him!” I shouted for ten minutes before a bleary-eyed guard came out, tucking in his shirt as he walked.

The color had returned to Jag’s cheeks. He bent over to hide his grin. My face relaxed into a smile. I wiped it away as the guard slid the bars to the side. Jag shuffled forward, clutching his stomach and moaning.

The guard put his hand under Jag’s arm for support. “What’s wrong with him?”

“How would I know? Do I look like a doctor?”

Jag moved slowly, giving me time to edge out the door. I stood outside the cell before the guard noticed. By then, it was too late.

In one motion, Jag straightened and punched him in the nose hard enough that the disgusting crunch of bone echoed in the corridor. The guard doubled over, clutching his face as blood dripped through his fingers.

I grabbed the keys and taser from his belt. I hesitated, unsure if the taser could kill him. Jag locked his hands together and brought both fists down on the back of the guard’s head. Jag dragged him into the cell, and I locked him in with shaking hands.

After exchanging a glance, we ran down the hall. I punched the down button for the elevator. It was so low-class, we didn’t even need the ID card Jag had snagged from the guard.

When the doors opened to the laboratory, we pressed against the side of the elevator. With my heart in my throat, I held the Door Open button and waited.

An alarm would sound if the door wasn’t allowed to close, so I took a chance. I stepped out of the elevator, crouched
down, and scampered behind a long metal counter. Jag followed me, his breathing ragged. When I glanced at him, he was glowing. There I was, terrified, making stuff up on the fly, and this guy acted like he was on vacation.

“Now what?” he asked.

Thinking fast, I nodded toward the exit, at least thirty yards away. The security tech coming from the door caused bright flashes to cloud my vision.

“Where does that go?” he asked.

“Out.”

“I love you,” he said, and my heart stopped. He peered toward the exit, his eyes still dancing with life.

A joke. Not a funny one.

Before I could respond, Jag chuckled. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

“Fun? This is not fun.”

Another low laugh. It reminded me of his shrug and how he said “Nice.” All three were growing on me.

He cut the sound short when the elevator beeped.

As one, we stood and darted silently between operating tables and surgical carts. He had some serious sneaking skills. After we were safely hidden in the shadows beside a large bookcase, I took a deep breath, every cell in my body on fire. Three doctors entered the room, carrying electro-boards and
talking softly to each other. As they moved closer, I slipped behind the bookcase. Jag followed, effectively sandwiching me between his body and the wall as well as blocking my view of the lab.

We waited for several minutes, each one notching up my nervous factor. “What are they doing?” I finally whispered.

“Sitting.”

“How far away?”

“Maybe fifty feet.”

“We can’t wait, Jag. They were going to come get you in a couple hours.”

He turned, his hands encircling my waist in the cramped quarters. I stiffened as his breath washed over my face. “How do you know?” His murmur sounded strange—smooth and rolling, with a slight pleading tone. The truth floated to my lips. I swallowed hard against the word-vomit.

“I . . . uh . . . I heard some guards talking after you went to sleep.” When he didn’t respond, I said, “We’ve really got to get out of here.”

“Let’s go then, but that door’s gonna wail.” He stepped to the door and pushed it open. An ear-splitting alarm rang, but I still heard the mental command to
Stop!
loud and clear, and I wasn’t strong enough to fight the brainwashing. Both Jag and I turned back to the lab.

The middle Greenie stood next to the lab counter, wearing a frown of disapproval. I cocked my head, almost daring him to try to control me again.

He took one step before another man stood and held up his hand. He was clearly in charge here. His skin shimmered with an odd, pearly quality. I couldn’t see his eyes because of the dark sunglasses he wore. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear the words over the siren. Instead, they echoed in my mind.
Make the right choice.

I took one step closer, recognizing the voice in my head, the voice of—

Just as I was about to think his name, it fled. My thoughts swirled. I closed my eyes, trying to retain what I knew. But no matter what I did, black spaces appeared in my memory, and when I opened my eyes, I didn’t recognize either of the two men standing in front of me.

Be good,
the voice said, filling the empty spaces.

I took another step, ready to join Them, prepared to do whatever They wanted.

Someone yanked on my arm. “Don’t listen to the bad guys,” a boy said.

I turned to look at him. His blue eyes sliced through the confusing thoughts. His bad suntanned skin screamed at me to run away.
He
was the bad guy here.

“We’re leaving now,” he told them. He pulled me out the door and into the crisp morning air. “Vi, come on.” The use of my nickname brought back the last two days with Jag. He wasn’t the bad guy here. I inhaled deeply, using the cold air to help lift the fogginess still lingering from the extreme control. My mind still felt sluggish, but at least I could think my own thoughts again.

I exited to muddy ground, my blood surging with an angry fire. My sneakers absorbed a lot of water and gunk, making my feet heavy. I slogged through a swampy area to the street, which was deserted. The sky lay silent and silver, but it brought no relief to my rage.

“Hurry, Vi.” The urgency in Jag’s voice told me that we didn’t have much time before a search party would be dispatched. Every step ignited another angry spark in my head. I really, really hate Thinkers.

As we fled, the alarm faded. Then it stopped completely. I followed Jag as he wove between buildings, maintaining a northern course toward the Centrals. By the time we reached the border of the Southern Rim, my breath came in gasps and my back hurt. I’m a water girl, and the most I’ve done is (leisurely) row a boat to collect (lame) algae samples.