It took me a moment before I could speak. Even then, my voice was just a breath. “What happened to them?”
“Luckily, the host was unable to stay conscious long enough to inflict real damage. Kevin was relocated, into an immature host this time. The troublesome host was in poor repair, and it was decided there wasn’t much point in saving him.
“Kevin is seven human years old now and perfectly normal… aside from the fact that he kept the name Kevin, that is. His guardians are taking great care that he is heavily exposed to music, and that is coming along well.…” The last was added as if it were good news—news that could somehow cancel out the rest.
“Why?” I cleared my throat so that my voice could gain some volume. “Why have these risks not been shared?”
“Actually,” the Seeker broke in, “it is very clearly stated in all recruitment propaganda that assimilating the remaining adult human hosts is much more challenging than assimilating a child. An immature host is highly recommended.”
“The word challenging does not quite cover Kevin’s story,” I whispered.
“Yes, well, you preferred to ignore the recommendation.” She held up her hands in a peacemaking gesture when my body tensed, causing the stiff fabric on the narrow bed to crackle softly. “Not that I blame you. Childhood is extraordinarily tedious. And you are clearly not the average soul. I have every confidence that this is well within your abilities to handle. This is just another host. I’m sure you will have full access and control shortly.”
By this point in my observations of the Seeker, I was surprised that she’d had the patience to wait for any delay, even my personal acclimatization. I sensed her disappointment in my lack of information, and it brought back some of the unfamiliar feelings of anger.
“Did it not occur to you that you could get the answers you seek by being inserted into this body yourself?” I asked.
She stiffened. “I’m no skipper.”
My eyebrows pulled up automatically.
“Another nickname,” the Healer explained. “For those who do not complete a life term in their host.”
I nodded in understanding. We’d had a name for it on my other worlds. On no world was it smiled upon. So I quit quizzing the Seeker and gave her what I could.
“Her name was Melanie Stryder. She was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She was in Los Angeles when the occupation became known to her, and she hid in the wilderness for a few years before finding… Hmmm. Sorry, I’ll try that one again later. The body has seen twenty years. She drove to Chicago from…” I shook my head. “There were several stages, not all of them alone. The vehicle was stolen. She was searching for a cousin named Sharon, whom she had reason to hope was still human. She neither found nor contacted anyone before she was spotted. But…” I struggled, fighting against another blank wall. “I think… I can’t be sure… I think she left a note… somewhere.”
“So she expected someone would look for her?” the Seeker asked eagerly.
“Yes. She will be… missed. If she does not rendezvous with…” I gritted my teeth, truly fighting now. The wall was black, and I could not tell how thick it was. I battered against it, sweat beading on my forehead. The Seeker and the Healer were very quiet, allowing me to concentrate.
I tried thinking of something else—the loud, unfamiliar noises the engine of the car had made, the jittery rush of adrenaline every time the lights of another vehicle drew near on the road. I already had this, and nothing fought me. I let the memory carry me along, let it skip over the cold hike through the city under the sheltering darkness of night, let it wind its way to the building where they’d found me.
Not me, her. My body shuddered.
“Don’t overextend —” the Healer began.
The Seeker shushed him.
I let my mind dwell on the horror of discovery, the burning hatred of the Seekers that overpowered almost everything else. The hatred was evil; it was pain. I could hardly bear to feel it. But I let it run its course, hoping it would distract the resistance, weaken the defenses.
I watched carefully as she tried to hide and then knew she could not. A note, scratched on a piece of debris with a broken pencil. Shoved hastily under a door. Not just any door.
“The pattern is the fifth door along the fifth hall on the fifth floor. Her communication is there.”
The Seeker had a small phone in her hand; she murmured rapidly into it.
“The building was supposed to be safe,” I continued. “They knew it was condemned. She doesn’t know how she was discovered. Did they find Sharon?”