Dr. Singh’s hands moved over her body, feeling along her ribs and pressing against her abdomen. “The chart says that she had surgery to repair a ruptured spleen, but there is no residual scarring.” The camera clicked and clicked, and Reese flinched as Dr. Singh prodded at her belly. She was just a lump of flesh to these people: a scientific specimen splayed out on the hospital bed like an insect with its wings pinned to a piece of paper. Tears pricked at the edges of her eyes, and she fiercely willed them to dry up.
“Her right leg was broken, but again, there is no scarring,” Dr. Singh said. Her hands touched her legs, examining her knees. Click, click, click. “This chart has to be omitting something,” Dr. Singh muttered.
Reese was startled when fingers pried her eyelids open, forcing her to look into a bright light. When the light was removed, she saw Dr. Singh putting it back into the pocket of her lab coat.
“Halfway done,” Dr. Singh said.
Reese glared at her and turned her head away, only to find herself facing Dr. Anderson’s stomach. She looked up at the ceiling instead and began to count the ceiling panels in the room. Dr. Singh was debating with Dr. Anderson whether Reese’s chart was incorrect, and part of Reese thought she should pay attention—it was her medical history, after all—but she couldn’t focus on their voices. It was all she could do to prevent herself from dissolving into a frightened, exhausted mess. She went back to counting the ceiling tiles. She ignored the blinking light of the video camera. At some point Dr. Singh inserted a needle into her arm and extracted several vials of blood. Reese didn’t watch, but she could feel the liquid seeping out of her, leaving her chilled and weak.
At last Dr. Singh said, “Miss Holloway, we have to bring you to the lab to run an MRI. Will you come voluntarily?”
Reese allowed herself look at Dr. Singh. She knew it would be useless to fight back right now. They could easily overpower her; they already had. She would let them run the MRI, and then she would figure out a way to get out of here. “I’ll come voluntarily,” she said.
Dr. Singh didn’t smile, but her face softened the tiniest bit. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER 32
Agent Todd was sitting in the clear plastic chair when Reese returned from the MRI, clutching the open-backed hospital gown shut behind her. “Where’s David?” she asked.
Agent Todd stood. “He’s not finished with his evaluation yet.” He glanced behind Reese at Dr. Singh. “Everything all set?”
“For Miss Holloway, yes,” Dr. Singh said. She pointed to the duffel bag on the floor at Todd’s feet. “What’s that?”
“Miss Holloway’s clothing.” Todd looked at Reese and explained, “Agent Forrestal had some things packed for you.”
Dr. Singh asked, “Why is that here?”
“She’s going to have to stay here for now,” Todd said.
Dr. Singh shook her head. “We can’t have her in the medical bay overnight. We’re not equipped for that. The exam rooms have no attached bathrooms and she can’t be wandering around the offices.”
“There’s no other option,” Todd said. “One of the staff can keep an eye on her and Mr. Li, and they can use the main restroom.”
“What about the barracks?” Dr. Singh pushed.
“Neither of them is cleared to stay in the barracks. I’m sure you understand.”
Dr. Singh seemed irritated. “I’ll have to lock everything down.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Todd said.
“I would have liked a bit of notice, you know.” She sighed. “I’d better go see to that.”
After she left, Reese asked, “What do you mean I have to stay here?”
“Just what it sounds like. I brought you some food from the mess hall. I know you haven’t eaten all day.” He gestured to a tray of covered dishes on the counter. “Tomorrow we’ll run some other tests, but we’re done for today. You can change into your clothes in the bathroom if you want some privacy.” He nodded to the glass wall, which was crystal clear again.
“I need to call my mom,” she said.
“That’s not possible right now.”
“Right now?” She gritted her teeth and swallowed the panic that twisted in her. “When will it be possible?”
His face was as unreadable to her as his body language. “I’ll let you know. Would you like to follow me to the restroom?” He picked up the duffel bag and offered it to her.
There was nothing threatening in his tone, but Reese understood that his question was merely a courtesy; he expected her to do what he wanted. She was too tired to chance fighting him, and besides, she did want to get dressed. She took the duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Fine.”
He led her out of the exam room to the frosted walls opposite the main entrance to the medical bay. The glass panel that was marked with a RESTROOM sign slid open automatically when they approached.
“You heard Dr. Singh,” Todd said. “Please don’t wander around the offices here. When you’re finished, go back to your room. One of the staff will let you in.” He gestured to the U-shaped counter, where two lab coats were sitting in front of computer monitors. “I suggest you eat and get some sleep. I’ll be back in the morning for you and David.” He left her standing in front of the open door. She watched him walk around the perimeter of the medical bay toward the exit until one of the lab coats caught her eye. Something about the way he was looking at her—as if she were a particularly puzzling science experiment—set her on edge. She spun on her heel and stalked into the bathroom. The frosted glass door slid shut behind her.
Inside was a stainless steel counter holding two sinks, and a long mirror on the wall above reflected her image, the shapeless hospital gown hanging loosely over her frame. To the right were two shower stalls hung with white plastic curtains, and to the left were two toilet stalls. She swept her gaze over the ceilings; wide fluorescent panels lit the room, but she did not see any video cameras. Maybe it was against military protocol to record people in the bathroom. She carried the duffel bag into one of the toilet stalls and dropped it on the floor. She unzipped it and found jeans and T-shirts and even a pair of pajamas. It creeped her out to think about the agents pawing through her underwear, but at the same time, she was glad to have some familiar clothing to put on. As she riffled through the bag in search of socks, her hand struck something hard and plastic. She pulled it out.
It was her phone.
She stared at it, not quite believing it was real. The last time she remembered having it in her possession had been at home. They must have taken it off her at some point when she was unconscious. But why would they give it back to her? She peered under the wall of the toilet stall, making sure she was still alone, and then she turned the phone on.
There was no signal—not even one measly little bar. Of course, they were who knows how many stories underground; why would there be any reception? As she looked down at the screen, she noticed that the icons were in different places than they had been before. She paged through the screens, mentally cataloging the various applications. Mail, phone, calculator, calendar, a few games, e-reader, photo album… where was the camera? She clicked through the applications several times, but as far as she could tell, the camera function had been removed. She opened the photo album, wondering if somehow that would get her a working camera. She froze at the first photo that appeared.
There was Amber on Ocean Beach, smiling that teasing, movie-star smile. The sunlight made her short blond hair glow white-hot.
Reese knew that she should close the album. She shouldn’t look at the photos. She could already feel the ache beginning to spread from her gut like a seeping stain on a white cloth. But she couldn’t help it. She swept her finger across the screen.
The next photo showed Amber standing in front of the ocean, hand raised to her mouth as she blew her a kiss. Reese’s stomach knotted up as she flipped through the dozen or so photos. The girl in the pictures seemed like a figment of Reese’s imagination. No wonder the whole
thing felt so much like a dream. Amber had been putting on an act. None of it had been real.
She paused on a photo of a wall. She didn’t recognize it at first, but as she zoomed in she realized it was the bathroom stall in that club Amber had taken her to. The memory of it flooded back into her, and she could practically smell the place again: the sharp tang of disinfectant not quite masking the lingering odor of spilled alcohol. She centered the picture on the haiku graffiti inked onto the stretch of blue wall beside the toilet.
You broke my heart and
Changed my life. Now I’m a dyke
Lovesick on the floor.
Abruptly, she powered off the phone and buried it deep in the duffel bag. She knelt on the floor, the cold tile biting into her knees as she wrapped her arms around herself. It felt as though someone had punched her, their fists landing deep and hard in her abdomen, and she was having trouble breathing.
You’re not an assignment.
Reese choked on a sob. The whole day seemed to rush through her in instant replay, all of its humiliations piling up one after another in a quivering mess. Had it only been that morning that Amber had been standing in her kitchen? It felt like a lifetime ago. Tears streaked down her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth, hot and salty. She remembered the shock of seeing Agent Forrestal in her home; the hard jab of fear in her belly as Agent Kowalski grabbed her. In a way, the sedative had been welcome, because it had staved off her terror—at least until Dr. Singh had examined her like a guinea pig in a mad science experiment. Now the terror was running free in her system, mixing with the shame of being taken in so completely by Amber. She almost wished she hadn’t cooperated with Dr. Singh for the MRI; maybe then they would have sedated her again. She just wanted to curl up in a ball in the corner and cry herself to sleep.
“Reese?”
Her head snapped up at the sound of David’s voice. She saw bare feet beneath the door of the stall.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, dragging toilet paper from the dispenser to wipe her wet eyes. “I’m—I was getting dressed.” She scrambled to her feet and pulled clothes from the bag, paying little attention to what they were.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Her breath hitched into a sob, and she covered her mouth with her hand.
“I’m getting dressed too. Wait for me?” David went into the next stall, and a duffel bag that matched hers dropped onto the floor.
“Okay.” She put her clothes on as quickly as possible, conscious that David was doing the same thing two feet away from her. There must be only one restroom; she hadn’t seen signs for MEN or WOMEN. She tossed the hospital gown into the duffel bag and then remembered the phone. She picked it up again and hesitated for a second before sliding it into her pocket. Just in case. She grabbed another wad of toilet paper and blew her nose before zipping up the duffel bag and leaving the stall.
Her reflection was not a welcome sight. Puffy eyes gazed back at her from a blotchy face. She turned on the sink and splashed cold water on her face, gasping at the temperature. She heard David come out of the stall while she was reaching blindly for the paper-towel dispenser.
“Here,” he said, and pressed several paper towels into her hands.
“Thanks,” she mumbled as she dried herself off. When she finished, her face was still blotchy, and David was leaning against the side of the counter and watching her with concern.
“Rough day, huh?” he said gently.
She started to laugh, but it came out in a sob, and her eyes grew hot again. “Understatement of the year,” she muttered, sniffling.
“Reese,” he began, then stopped as indecision crossed his face.
“What?”
“Did they do something to you?”
The question was weighted with a disturbing tone, and she flushed with self-consciousness. “No,” she said. David’s face was hard-edged with worry, and she had the feeling that if she had said yes, he would have gone out into the medical bay and done something about it. “No,” she said again, flustered. “I mean, it sucked, but it wasn’t—what did they do to you?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry. They just made me put on a hospital gown and then examined me and said a bunch of things about my chart that I didn’t understand.”
She took a deep breath. “Yeah. That’s what they did to me.”
The glass wall behind them whooshed open and one of the lab coats came inside. “You can’t be loitering in the restroom,” he said. “If you’re finished with your business, you need to go back to your exam rooms.”
Reese scowled at him. “You can’t keep us locked up like prisoners.”
The lab coat looked at her as if she were being an idiot. “Believe me, you’re not prisoners. If you were, you’d know it. Come on, get your bags and go back to your rooms.”
Reese lifted the covers on the dishes and saw a mound of mashed potatoes and what looked like cold meat loaf. She wrinkled her nose. It didn’t smell that great, but her stomach growled at the sight of the food. She sat down on the plastic chair and balanced the tray on her knees, picking up the fork to take a bite. It didn’t taste as bad as she expected, but she suspected her hunger helped.
Afterward she climbed onto the bed, still dressed in her jeans and T-shirt, and turned her back to the glass wall. She hadn’t seen a single light switch in the room. The overheads were probably controlled by a remote like the one Dr. Singh had used to frost the glass, and Reese supposed she could ask the lab coat in the medical bay to turn them off, but she didn’t want to talk to anybody. She pulled the thin beige blanket over her head and hunkered down in the dimly lit tent that it created. Her phone dug into her hip as she tried to make herself comfortable on the creaking gurney. That sharp ache she felt every time she thought about Amber twisted in her gut again.
She should delete those photos. Maybe that would make her feel better. She could erase all evidence of Amber from her life.
She wriggled the phone out of her pocket, making sure to keep it under the cover of the blanket. But just as her finger was about to press the photo album icon, she hesitated. It didn’t make any sense for them—whoever they were—to return her phone to her. Did it?
She studied the phone’s home screen. The icons were in different places from where she had left them. For one thing, the e-reader was on the first screen instead of the second. She clicked on it and saw that the library, which should have been empty since she hadn’t downloaded any books yet, contained one item: PBB Status Report 23. She touched its icon, and a document opened in the e-reader.
Project Blue Base
Status Report 23
Submitted to the Members of the Board of the Corporation for [Name Redacted]
Eberhard, Carlyle & Reed
June 2014
Her heart began to race. This definitely had not been on her phone before. She swiped to the next page to skim the text.
Executive Summary
As established in the Blue Base Protocol of 1991, the primary objective of Project Blue Base continues to be the development of genetically enhanced operatives, incorporating the Combat Endurance Initiative (CEI) and the Regenerative Process Initiative (RPI). Over the past year, progress on the CEI component of PBB has accelerated beyond expectations, and test subjects have responded favorably to multiple test conditions. CEI test subjects will be ready to be seeded throughout combat operations within twelve months. Unfortunately progress in RPI continues to be stalled this year. Test subjects have not reacted favorably to new test protocols, and mortality rates have increased. Further research should be placed on hold pending Corporation recommendations.
Reese did not understand much of the report—most of it consisted of spreadsheets full of data and medical jargon—but several things became clear as she read. First, Dr. Singh worked for Project Blue Base; her name was all over the report. Second, the attempt to develop some way for humans to regenerate tissu
e, like salamanders are able to do, had been a massive failure. She shuddered at the descriptions of some of the side effects the scientists had encountered in their research. She thought about her own disappearing scars and the rapid healing of the abrasions on her palms and realized that whatever had been done to her and David, it wasn’t this regeneration procedure. She and David had received some other kind of medical treatment: one that worked.
She suddenly understood what Dr. Singh had meant during the exam when she questioned whether Reese’s chart was accurate. Dr. Singh couldn’t see how Reese could have recovered from surgery so quickly, without leaving scars on her body. Dr. Singh didn’t know what had happened to Reese at Plato. That meant that Plato was separate from Blue Base. There were two regenerative projects going on—the one that had failed, at Blue Base, and the one that had succeeded, at Plato.
And that brought Reese back to the question she still could not answer. What was Plato, exactly, and what had they done to her and David?
The lights in the exam room unexpectedly went off, and the cell phone screen glowed up at her beneath the blanket. She quickly turned the phone over; if the room was dark, the cell phone light would be clearly visible now. She poked her head out from beneath the blanket and glanced over her shoulder. The medical bay lights were still on. Maybe the lab coat working out there thought she had gone to sleep and turned off the overheads in her room. Under the blanket she felt for the power switch and turned off the phone. She couldn’t look at it now; it would be too obvious in the dim room, and she was particularly conscious of the video camera mounted in the corner.
She found it difficult to fall asleep. She kept worrying over the questions the report had raised. It wasn’t until she began to doze off that something else occurred to her. Someone had put that document on her phone, and they had made sure she got it back after it had been taken from her on the journey here from San Francisco. Whoever it was wanted her to know about Blue Base. The question was: Who?