Specimen(8)
We return, along with the armed guards, to the lab where we started, and I’m given water and another thick liquid that tastes sweet. It’s the first I can recall eating or drinking anything. I consume them quickly, and Riley leads me over to the sink and the cabinet, which contains towels and toiletries.
I stand in the corner and let water from the showerhead pour over me for a moment before I wash myself and put on a pair of clean shorts. There is a razor, shaving soap, and brush set out on the edge of the sink, and I stare at my unfamiliar face in a small, round mirror as I shave.
When I’ve finished cleaning up, I sit on the edge of the bed. Riley tells the guards they can leave and then offers to answer more of my questions.
“How long have I been here?” I ask.
“About four months,” she tells me.
“I was unconscious that whole time?”
“Most of it, yes.”
“I don’t remember any of it. The first thing I remember is waking up alone.”
“I’m sorry about that. There was a miscalculation. I should have been there.”
Recalling my state of mind at the time, I start to say something about how I might have hurt her if she was there, but I realize that isn’t true. I wouldn’t have hurt her. If she had been there, I would have been fine.
Why am I so drawn to her?
“Why did I volunteer to do this?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer to that. I haven’t been given much information outside of your physical characteristics.”
“Do you know anything about me?”
“Very little,” she admits. “Frankly, it’s inconsequential. Your past life is over. This is who you are now.”
For the first time, I find no comfort in her words. I have no idea what kind of man I am or was. I don’t know where I came from. I don’t even know my name or how old I am. There has to be a reason I volunteered. Am I a patriot, as she said, or am I just violent? What about my family? Do I even have one? What kind of man volunteers to have his memory destroyed?
Someone who doesn’t want to know his past.
I’m tired. I have no idea what time of day it is, not that it matters here, but I can barely keep my eyes open.
“Lie down,” Riley says. “You’ve had enough for now.”
I lie down on my side and blink slowly. Riley sits next to me on the rolling chair, and I reach out to her. She takes my hand, and I rub her wrist with my thumb.
I can feel her pulse. I count her heartbeats as my head becomes cloudy.
“How old were you when your father was killed?” I ask.
“Seven, but I remember him clearly.”
“Did they find out who did it?”
“I don’t know who pulled the trigger,” she says, “but I know who is responsible.”
“Who?”
“His name is Peter Hudson. He is the head of the Carson Alliance.”
“Will I ever meet him?”
“I don’t know.”
“If I do, I’ll kill him for you.”
Chapter 3
The ground beneath my feet is cracked, but there’s a thin layer of moisture on it from the brief rain—the first we’ve had in months. If I act quickly, there may be enough to get the crop going at the foot of the hill. If not, we won’t have enough water to get us through the season.
“Galen!”
I halt in my tracks and turn to face a large red barn. I’m used to my sister’s whiny cries for attention, but there is something very different in her voice. My stomach turns over, and I begin to run for the barn. As I get close, I see vehicles out in front—two large, impossibly armored machines running on tracks.
No. Oh fuck, no.
“Galen! Help me!”
I run faster. I’m nearly to the door of the barn when I’m hit from behind. My vision dances with sparks as I drop to the ground.
“Leave her alone!” I sit straight up on the bed in the laboratory. My throat hurts. I’m alone, and I’m cold. There’s a powerful sense of dread in my gut, and my head is throbbing. I shove myself off of the bed and back away from the door. I press my palms against the cold mirror on the wall as my breath comes in gasps.
That wasn’t a dream. It was real.
A moment later, Riley rushes into the room. I look into her eyes, barely comprehending what is around me. I want to grab on to her. I need to feel some sort of…of stability…but I can’t make myself move. I stare at her, pleading. If I could just touch her, smell her, maybe everything would start to make sense again.
What’s happening to me?
“Sten! What’s wrong?” She reaches my side and grasps my hands in hers. She strokes the inside of my arm with her fingertips, and my skin tingles under her touch.