Then I wipe my bloodied hands on my ruined clothes, and limp after her into the fray.
10
Rosabelle
Blood runs fast down the side of my face, the wound fresh, still searing, from a close call with a direct shot to my head. I duck for the fourth time in as many seconds as I dart behind a towering storage unit, my heart pounding as I home in on a soldier just steps away.
First things first: I need to acquire a weapon.
I scramble up the side of the storage unit, knowing I have less than seconds to make a move with such a high level of exposure; I hear shouts break out as I jump from the unit, drop-kicking my mark in the back. He falls to the ground with an audible crack, but I tuck my knees too late and fall badly beside him, knifelike agony exploding in my left ankle. I suck in a breath at the pain, then tug the automatic rifle out of his limp hands, staggering upright. I’m briefly lightheaded.
There was a time when I was better at this.
There was a time when I was stronger, healthier; when The Reestablishment wasn’t aggressively cutting my rations in a slow drip of systematic starvation; when I ran rigorous, daily simulations, racking up tens of thousands of hours of backbreaking training.
This was before they downgraded my assignments.
This was before they cut back my sims; before they declared me too weak to be worthy of my title.
I was regularly fed less for poor performance only to perform poorly because I was fed less. I was soon given no choice but to accept occasional factory work as my body and soul were slowly, methodically dismantled. Forced to watch my sister die a little more every day as my hands grew only weaker with shame.
But there was a time, not so long ago, when I was still useful to them.
Those were the years when Soledad still had hope they could get me connected to the Nexus; when they assumed the malfunction of my brain was a solvable system glitch and not a massive liability. Back then, the tremors in my right arm were only occasional. My muscles were better honed, my movements more refined, my reflexes faster.
Now, this version of me will have to do.
I haul the stolen weapon into my arms. It’s heavier than I expected, and takes me a moment to calibrate. I study the fallen soldier as I drag myself out of sight, fairly certain he’s unconscious but not dead.
My finger trembles on the trigger. The only thing that hasn’t suffered much is my aim; I’ve always been a dead shot. My problem now is that I don’t know how to miss.
Don’t kill, I remind myself.Don’t kill, don’t kill.
I manage to tear myself away, heart hammering like an addict trying to override old programming. My every instinct screams at me to finish the job.
Finish the job so that Clara will have food.
Finish the job so that Clara will have medicine.
Finish the job so that Clara might have a fire.
Finish the job to keep her safe; finish the job to secure her future; finish the job so they might set us free—
In the privacy of my mind, I scream.
You’ve been dead inside for years, I remind myself.
Die, I tell myself.
Die.
It doesn’t help; I can’t seem to shut off all the way. I can’t access my mask, my bloodless facade—and I’m beginning to understand, with breathtaking fear, exactly who to blame.
James has become my new weakness.
The mere sight of him motivates my heart to work harder, regenerating my life force almost against my will. I can feel him leaving a mark on me, his name being freshly carved, letter by letter, into my skin.
No.
