Dean turns a page in the worn folder. A spreadsheet. Columns: name, DOB, location, panel date, marker score, status.
"I need you to look at the G row."
I look.
Griggson, J. — 01/19/96 — Vancouver, WA — panel 2/23/26 — marker 7.4 — STATUS: ACTIVE.
I read my own name on a Syndicate spreadsheet in a kitchen in a forest I cannot place. The bonds in my chest are the only reason my body does not fold.
"Your bloodwork was sent to a lab and came back with markers your physician filed under atypical," Dean says, gently. "The clinic filed the panel through a national network. The Syndicate's reader picked it up. You went on the list. They have been watching you ever since."
"Watching for what?"
"For the marker to escalate. For symptoms to start. For the right window."
"And you knew about the registry."
"Three months. We did not have the names until a few weeks ago. We did not know you were on it until last night."
His hand goes to the new folder.
"Last night," I say.
"We were going to look through it today. We couldn’t wait."
He opens it.
The top page is a patient file on Syndicate letterhead. The header reads SUBJECT: GRIGGSON, J. Clipped to the inside corner: a photograph of me, head shot, taken from my driver's license.
"This was on the desk." Dean's voice is level. "Your file. Your panel results. The cycle schedule. The pairings."
"Pairings."
Dean turns the page.
The photographs hit me first. Thaw. Crull. Harek. Fen.
Not names on a chart. Personnel files. Evaluation reports. Psychological assessments. Incident summaries. Operator ratings. Mission histories. Every page stamped SYNDICATE PROPERTY in dark red ink.
"What the fuck."
It comes out before I can hold it. My hand is on the edge of the table.
"Why are their files attached to mine. Dean. Why are their —"
"Because somebody selected them."
"Selected them for what."
Dean's jaw tightens. He taps the stack.
"The registry is forty years old. The compatible women. The bloodlines. Forty years."
"Okay."
"The feral operators are not."
I stare at him.
