“Four, three—”
“Note that she’ll need to be dressed and rehydrated within the hour.”
“What if—”
“Two—”
I never have the chance to scream.
There’s a weightless moment, a sudden plummet in my stomach, and the bottom of my tomb unhinges, releasing me. Ice-cold water closes over my head, filling my gasping mouth, surging up my nose. A metallic tang coats my tongue and sears my throat, indicating there’s more to this liquid than water. I thrash wildly, my eyes flying open as a terrible cry builds in my lungs, panic storming the walls of my chest. It’s pitch-black. I’m underwater and blind, choking—
Close your eyes, Rosabelle.
The deep, treacherous voice, like something forged from the sea, awakens in my head. A painful chill courses down my spine.
We’ve all heard stories about Klaus.
Klaus is the reason Ark Island exists as it does. Klaus is the reason The Reestablishment will reign again. He’s the pinnacle of chemical intelligence; an omnipotent, synthetic brain built upon decades of work and research—built atop the charred remains of Operation Synthesis—but only a select few have ever heard his voice. Klaus is the fodder of Ark legend, so cloaked in secrecy I’d begun to wonder whether the program was even real—
There is no doubt that I am real.
I stiffen. My lowered heart rate picks up, my eyes widening in fear. My hair has come loose of its knot, wet lengths lapping my face as I turn sluggishly in the murk. Nausea strikes, my gut clenching against nothing. I blink, pupils dilating, desperately searching the darkness for signs of life. Unfathomable depths meet me in all directions, the infinite gloom broken occasionally by fizzing flashes. I move toward one light source but something solid grazes my leg and I scream, shadow filling my mouth as a sudden flare, like a tongue of fire, illuminates the water.
All at once: clarity.
I’m in an undersea forest of light, spindly branches of bioluminescence fracturing the water like neon circuitry, each vein pulsing as if in possession of a heartbeat. Dozens of slick, grayish bodies appear suspended in the immeasurable expanse around me, their naked forms electrifying at random. Threads of light course across their moldering skin, hollow eyes glinting. They’re obviously long dead, minds and organs sacrificed at the altar of artificial learning.
This must be the cradle.
The rumors are that Klaus must be fed; that his chemical soul was born of human starter; that the cradle is skimmed only when the drained corpses rise, like scum, to the surface. I don’t know how many of the rumors I’ve heard about Klaus are true. I only know that they’re all fodder for nightmares.
I told you to close your eyes.
This time when I hear his voice, I don’t hesitate to obey.Curiosity alone has kept me conscious, but I’m beginning to lose the fight for oxygen, and it’s a relief to surrender.
Flashes of color brighten and dim behind my closed eyelids, the accompanying sensation like fingers prying at my skull. I wrap my arms around myself as a slithering disquiet reaches up through my ribs, wrenching my bones. My head heats. Electric shocks radiate inside me. Images bleed across my vision, scenes from my life examined impatiently and out of order—
a shiver of cold as my bare feet hit the floor this morning;
Clara, age four, tied to my back as we hike through the forest;
wide-eyed love as I watch my father button himself into his uniform;
the heft of a weapon in my small, doughy hand;
thirst; sweat slick down my back in the beating sun;
Nothing, my father shouting.Nothing is wrong—this is grown-up talk, Rosa, go to your room—
pain, explosive, as I snap my femur during a training exercise;
the damp, inky darkness of predawn;
the twist of my gut the first time Sebastian kisses me;
I’m having dreams about Mama again, says Clara one morning,she says she’s looking for her glasses; she wants to know if you’ve seen them—
awe, the first time I see a flower;
