“I think I’m going to be sick,” Jackson says, moving back.
I dart my eyes around the room and see the shelves, some with jars. Pink organs floating in fluid. And in one is a brain made of metal.
I look down at the girl again. Thegirl.
“Do you know her?” Jackson asks.
“No, I—” But I stare at the motionless face. I’m not sure that I don’t know her. She’s beautiful, like she’s asleep. “I don’t know her,” I finish.
But it’s obvious that she’s a girl like us. Her freckle-free skin, her arched eyebrows, and her straight nose. I have the irrational desire to peel open her eyelids and examine the color of her irises.
Everything feels irrational. I’m slowly spiraling out of control; my thoughts are a whirlwind of accusations and terror.
Jackson takes my arm, and when I turn, I see he’s horror-struck.
There’s a dead girl on the table, only she’s not really dead. She’s just never been alive. She’s waiting—like the flowers in the garden. Waiting to be beautiful and admired. All the while, her roots will grow stronger. Waiting to join with others.
None of us girls can speak, the truth of this just out of our reach. Or maybe it’s there, but we’re hesitating to understand. We don’t want to accept it yet.
And then suddenly, Annalise goes limp in Marcella’s arms.
Frantic, Marcella lays her on the floor. Annalise’s eyes are closed, the wounds on her face clotted, but a steady stream still flows from her neck.
“She’s bleeding out,” Jackson says, going over to show Brynn where to hold her hand to stop the bleeding. Then he limps over to the other table to grab the sheet, and hands it to her to press against the wound.
But when the other body is exposed, Brynn cries out. We all turn and see Valentine lying motionless on the gurney. I nearly crumble when I see her again. I murmur her name like I can wake her up.
Our friend is dead. We’re too late.
Jackson stumbles over, leaving Annalise to Brynn, and stares down at Valentine. He examines her open skull. As I step next to him, I see the inside of Valentine’s head.
The world drops out from under me, and for a moment, I’m weightless in my horror. Because it’s not a brain in Valentine’s head—not in the traditional sense. Not in a... human sense.
Valentine Wright’s brain is made of metal—shiny metal with grooves and various buttons and inputs, wires threading in and out. A large hole has been drilled through the center, purposely destroyed.
Her brain ismade of metal.
Her brain is a machine.
Like the other girl, Valentine’s veins are entangled with wires. Clearly the wires have been there for a while. They’ve always been there.
Slowly, I glance down and discover that her organs are also exposed, her body opened up. I look over the wires again, seeing where they connect. Some are thin enough to be thread—bright blue or red. Some are thicker. And there are clusters of what I assume are nerves. The entire body is connected to the brain—the machine brain.
As I study the system, it starts to make sense, the way the power flows, the purpose.
The wires connect each organ, sending a pulse for the metal brain to interpret. Analyze. The brain then decides when the body is hungry, when the heart is beating quickly. When there is pain. Or fear. Or impairment.
The organs are human—I can see that much. So is the skin. The veins. But the brain is a computer powering the entire system. A computer like our parental assistants.
I stumble back a step, my eyes wide.Artificial intelligence.
The color drains from Jackson’s face, and when he turns to me, he’s pure ruin. “What is this?” he asks, his voice cracking. “What the fuck is happening?”
And I don’t know, but I do. Somewhere inside me I have the answer. The calculations. The truth.
For a moment, my balance tips. And then Jackson is in front of me.
“Mena?” he whispers miserably. I stare into his dark eyes as he searches my face. Looking for an answer. “What have they done to you?”
