The waves pushed him along, finally dumping them both onto the sand. He pulled her out of the surf while coughing up seawater from his own lungs, then fell immediately into CPR, recalling the lifeguard lessons he’d taken years before.
It took only three pumps on her chest for her to spit out the water she’d swallowed, and she fell into a coughing fit that racked her entire body. He held her as she choked and stroked the hair from her face, murmuring assurances.
At last, she leaned against him, shuddering a little, and he realized the water on her face wasn’t entirely from the sea.
“Hey. Hey, why are you crying? It’s okay, you’re safe now.”
“S-sorry,” she stammered.
“What? Why?”
“Tried . . . to swim . . . get plane for Jim . . .”
“What?” Holding her face in his hands, he gave her a look of bewilderment. “But I didn’t mean for you to actually swim across! Are you crazy? Hey, look here. Don’t cry.”
She gulped and blinked furiously until her tears were gone. Jim’s hands slid down to her shoulders, then her hands, and he gazed at her in astonished confusion. “What did they do to you? Why are you doing this?”
She just stared mournfully at the ground.
“Oh, hey now. Put your chin up. We’ll get out of here.”
She jerked her face upward, tilting her chin to the sky.
An uneasy feeling nibbled at the edges of his thoughts. “Hey . . . stop that. Put your head down.”
She tilted her face downward again. Jim’s skin prickled.
“Um. Clap your hands.”
She started clapping, smiling vacantly all the while.
“Okay, stop.”
Her hands fell into her lap.
Jim stood up and turned away, cracking his knuckles in agitation. The hell is this? He watched the jungle for a moment, his attention divided between the girl—or whatever she was—and the fear that Mary and the others would catch up to them. When he turned around again, she was digging her fingers into the sand.
“Look here,” he said softly, bending down to crouch in front of her. “Why are you doing that? Why are you . . . playing this game, huh? Some kind of Simon Says?”
She blinked at him, as if he’d lost her.
“Why are you doing everything I say?”
A particularly ambitious wave swept up the sand and licked her toes. Her brow drew together; she looked almost in pain from thinking. “You . . . You are . . .”
“What?”
Her face contorted as if she’d eaten something very sour, her cheeks growing red and tears forming in her eyes. Jim grabbed her shoulders. “Hey, calm down. It’s okay. Never mind.”
He sat beside her on the sand as the island seemed to close in around him and the horizon pulled away. Despite the damp, warm air that clung to his skin he felt as if he’d caught a chill he couldn’t shake.
FOURTEEN
SOPHIE
After another doctor escorted Constantin Andreyev away, to get him settled in his room, Sophie was left alone with her mother and Victoria Strauss.
She’d learned more truths about her mother in the ten minutes she’d pretended to be her own doppelgänger than she’d learned in seventeen years of being herself, and the irony of this left a bitter taste on her tongue. She felt betrayed, lied to, marginalized more than ever before.
Though she’d learned much about her mother’s reprehensible research, there were still questions left lingering, and above them all, the question of why her mother had summoned her to Skin Island in the first place. Sophie had a hard time holding on to the concern she’d had for Moira Crue in the past few days. She instead found herself questioning everything she thought she knew about her mother.
All her life, Moira Crue had been a paragon of intelligence and self-sacrifice, and Sophie had worshipped the ground beneath her. Well, except for that brief stage of rebellion when she’d been in middle school, when she’d spent the majority of her time sulking and avoiding her mother’s phone calls. But that hadn’t lasted for long. When she had imagined her mother on Skin Island, she’d imagined her curing dementia and developing vaccines for third world countries, saving the human race with cutting-edge science, Mother Teresa in a lab coat and latex gloves. She’d known, of course, that there had to be more to it, that there was a reason for the secrets her mother kept—but she’d never dreamed it was because her work involved manufacturing human slaves.
She gripped the armrests of the chair and looked at her mother now as if seeing her for the first time. She felt frozen to her seat, her body unable to react.
“Well,” Moira said as the door shut behind Andreyev, “how do you think that went?”
Victoria Strauss sat in the chair the Russian had previously occupied and crossed one leg over the other. Her heels were three inches long. Sophie wondered how in the world she managed not to break her neck every time she took a step. “Not as well as I’d hoped.”
Moira’s eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath her side-swept bangs. “Oh? I thought he was intrigued.”
“I need him to be more than intrigued, Moira. I need him to invest, and now. I don’t think you realize how precarious your position is.”
Moira’s lips pinched together, and her nostrils flared in a way Sophie recognized as dangerous, evidence that her mother was holding back harsh words. “I understand perfectly.”
“The Vitro Project has been going on for eighteen years,” Strauss sighed. “And with no return. You know how it works. Corpus is not a charity. We can’t support a project that can’t attract its own investors. You need this funding. Constantin Andreyev is your last chance, Moira, so don’t screw it up.”
“The Vitros are ready to be marketed. I’m not worried. Your . . . what is he anyway? Arms dealer? Politician?”
“Mr. Andreyev, if you must know, is a businessman of exceptionally substantial means, and more importantly, he is discreet. That is all that you should concern yourself with.”
“Well, your Mr. Andreyev is getting everything he ordered in Lux, and more.”
“Mm.” Strauss’s eyes slid over Sophie, her half-lidded gaze giving her a reptilian quality that made Sophie’s skin crawl. “We’ll see, I suppose. She hasn’t done much but sit there so far.”
“You’ve seen them wake before. You know it takes a little time. Tomorrow she’ll be functioning as well as you or me.”
“God, I hope not. She’s meant to take orders, not give them.”
Moira opened her mouth, then clamped it shut again, as if thinking better of what she’d been about to say. She took a moment to inhale, then said, “Have you given any thought to the proposal I sent you?”
“Which one? Oh, yes. I remember. About the chip.”
“Now that the Vitro Project is successfully completed, I really think we should begin considering what I believe to be the chip’s true value. The diagnostic possibilities could—”
“Moira, please. Stop.”
Moira’s lips pursed together as she reached behind Sophie to pick up a glass of water, which she held to Sophie’s lips and softly urged her to drink as Strauss continued.
“The Vitro Project is only just beginning. Even if you win Andreyev over and he puts in an order for fifty of them, you’ll still have work to do here. They may be ready, but they’re not perfect.”
Moira said nothing. She set down the glass and lowered an arm extension bolted to the back of the chair Sophie was sitting in. It was some kind of metal dome, almost like a modified hair-dryer dome. She pressed a button and the chair hummed slightly.
Strauss kept talking, but Sophie had stopped listening. She watched her mother instead, trying to read her, trying to tell herself that what she’d just heard couldn’t possibly be the truth. Moira’s eyes were fixed on a computer behind Sophie; whatever the dome was doing, she must
have been reading its results. Sophie tensed—what if she didn’t pass whatever test this was? Was she checking for the chip thing, the one she’d apparently implanted in the brains of a bunch of helpless babies? As Strauss droned on, Moira’s eyes flickered down to Sophie. Her brows drew together, creasing her forehead, and she started to say something when there came a knock at the door.
Moira shut off the computer and jerked the door open. A young doctor stood there, her black hair bound into a bun with a pencil and her narrow glasses perched low on her nose. “I’m here for Lux’s therapy,” she squeaked.
“Oh, Hashimoto, come in.” Moira stepped aside to let her through. “She’s ready to go.”
Strauss watched with disinterest as Moira and Dr. Hashimoto took Sophie’s arms and stood her up. She wasn’t sure how to keep up the act; as long as the others were talking around her, she’d seemed to get by just by staying quiet.
“She’ll be a bit unsteady, so keep a hand on her,” said Moira, but she looked at Sophie as she said it, frowning.
Sophie let her legs go a little limp. It wasn’t hard to do. Whatever drug had knocked her out still seemed to be running through her body, making her muscles wobbly. She wished she could stay near her mother, to hear more secrets, but it seemed Moira was staying behind to continue her conversation with Strauss. Dr. Hashimoto, her hand securely around Sophie’s upper arm, led her out of the room. Sophie made sure to go slowly and awkwardly, trying to live up to what they apparently expected from Lux.
When the door shut and she was sealed off from Moira, she considered bolting and running back to Jim—if he was still waiting, which she doubted. A part of her wanted to wash her hands of Skin Island, Corpus, and her mother altogether—but the other part said, Wait. You might be missing something.
Despite everything, Sophie found herself still wanting to believe the best about her mother. She’s creating slaves, she told herself as she limped along with Dr. Hashimoto. She steals their wills from them and binds them to people who would use them and throw them away. Skin Island was a slave hatchery, a factory that churned out custom-designed, entirely controllable minions. Bodyguards, Moira had said, and domestic servants. Translators and nannies and soldiers. To think that her own mother was involved in creating helpless victims who didn’t even have the ability to say no filled her with revulsion. I hate her. I do, I hate her with every bone in my body.
And to top it off, she was dealing with and catering to criminals. Businessman, Strauss had called Andreyev. Sophie doubted it—or at least doubted that his kind of business was legal. He had the look of a mobster, Sophie thought, not that she knew much about mobsters. But to even be here, to even consider purchasing a human bound helplessly to his will, with no ability to think or choose for herself, was proof to Sophie that he was more soulless than the slaves he hoped to buy. This is an island of monsters. She suppressed a shudder.
Where does Nicholas fit in? she wondered. He certainly didn’t seem imprinted, as they called it. Or maybe he was. Maybe he was working for someone on the island, Moira or another doctor, and in running away from him Sophie had spoiled whatever plan he’d been ordered to carry out with her.
Dr. Hashimoto led her through the atrium, and they approached another doctor as they entered the opposite hall. He was a small, balding man, carrying an armful of paperwork, and he was trailed by a boy Sophie’s age—not Nicholas. The boy had a vacant look in his eye and a vapid smile on his lips.
Dr. Hashimoto stopped and nodded to the man.
He glanced at Sophie. “Andreyev’s girl?”
“Yes. I’m taking her into therapy now.”
The man nodded, looking Sophie up and down. “Caleb, hold this.” He dumped the paperwork into the hands of the boy, who took it with a softly murmured, “Yes, sir.”
The doctor took Sophie’s face in his hands and squinted at her, his gaze inspecting her face as if looking for a flaw.
“There’s something off about this one,” he said to Dr. Hashimoto.
“She only just woke up. And she’s one of the first batch, so she’s been sleeping for seventeen years.”
“Hm. It’s not that. Her eyes—look at them. They see more than they should. If I were Moira, I’d take a closer look at this one. Wouldn’t want our prize Vitro to go bad, would we, not while Andreyev’s around to see it.”
“We haven’t had a Vitro ‘go bad’ since Jay,” said Dr. Hashimoto, batting his hands away. “We fixed that little problem, remember?”
“We?” He snorted. “You weren’t even around. You’re practically still an intern, Hana, so don’t presume too much.”
Dr. Hashimoto’s eyes flashed. “That may be so, but Lux is my responsibility, not yours. Good day, Dr. Michalski.”
“I’m just saying,” he said as Dr. Hashimoto took Sophie’s hand and stormed on down the hall. “We don’t want another Nicholas running around this place! Should have put that one down years ago. But what do I know? No one ever listens to me around here.”
Dr. Hashimoto muttered under breath, and then Sophie heard a crash behind her. For a moment she forgot herself, and she whirled around. The boy, Caleb, had dropped the papers all over the floor.
“Stupid!” Dr. Michalski hissed. “Pick them up!”
“Sorry, sir,” the boy said. He dropped to his knees and grabbed up the papers.
“Faster, Caleb!”
Caleb’s hands moved in a blur, snatching papers and stuffing them into a messy pile in his arm. “Sorry,” he said again. When he had them all up, he stood and gave the doctor a bland smile, his expression glazed.
Sophie was struck with horror. She couldn’t look away. But then she felt Dr. Hashimoto tugging on her arm, and she forced herself to turn around. The young doctor was frowning at her.
“Perhaps Michalski was right,” she said thoughtfully, regarding Sophie through slitted eyes. “There is something . . . off about you.”
Sophie said nothing, but her heart pounded on her ribs so violently that she was certain Dr. Hashimoto would hear it. It was too soon to lose her cover; she still had too many questions, and it seemed Lux had access to the answers Sophie had never been able to find. Thankfully, the doctor shrugged and shook her head.
“I’ll mention it to Moira later. Come on.”
She took Sophie into a large room that looked like a cross between a gym and a lounge. Several pieces of exercise equipment cluttered one end of the room, while the other was taken up with couches and a wide-screen television. Andreyev was sitting on one of the couches, nursing a cup of coffee while attended by a pair of doctors and yet another teen, this one a slightly chubby boy with golden curls and glassy blue eyes.
Dr. Hashimoto led Sophie to a pair of horizontal bars and instructed her to place her hands on either one, then to walk down the middle.
“You’re doing surprisingly well for a newborn,” she said. “But still. Got to work on those legs. Hm . . . that’s strange. Your muscle development is remarkable.” Sophie froze, sure her cover would be blown by something as stupid as her calf muscles, but then the young doctor shrugged. “Perhaps the somatropin doses they gave you were too high. You are pretty small for your age.”
Holding back a sigh of relief, Sophie made a show of tripping and finding her feet, all the while keeping an eye on Andreyev, who was also keeping an eye on her. One of the doctors, whose voice Sophie recognized—he’d been the one who helped her mother roll her upstairs that morning—seemed to be doing some sort of demonstration for Andreyev. Rogers, she remembered.
“He’s a bodyguard model, just like yours,” said Dr. Rogers. “Watch. Gary?”
The other man—who, Sophie realized from his clothes and the gun at his hip, wasn’t actually a doctor but a guard—pushed a table aside to make room in the center of the floor. Then Dr. Rogers sat casually beside Andreyev, leaned back, and folded his arms.
“Now,” he mu
rmured. “Gary here is going to try his best to hit me. But Clive won’t let that happen, will you, Clive?”
The golden-haired boy shook his head with a smile.
Dr. Rogers picked at his nails. “Clive, don’t let him get past you. Go ahead, Gary.”
The guard rushed at Clive, and Sophie’s breath caught in her throat, certain he’d clobber the boy. But Clive moved with the grace and speed of a tiger, spinning aside and catching Gary’s ankle with his foot, at the same time delivering a sharp chop to the back of his neck. The guard fell heavily onto the floor, with a grunt of resignation.
“Lux,” Dr. Hashimoto hissed, and Sophie jumped. The doctor must have said her name twice before Sophie remembered that she was supposed to be Lux. She pulled her eyes away from the strange tableau and found she’d reached the end of the bars. Dr. Hashimoto watched her sharply, and Sophie forced herself to focus on maintaining her charade. The thought ran through her mind again—If I’m here being Lux, then where is Lux?
She couldn’t account for it, but she would hold on to this farce for as long as it took to answer all her questions. It had paid off so far.
She could hear the fight continuing on the other end of the room. It seemed a very mismatched pairing—the guard was no match for pudgy Clive with his cherubic curls. It’s part of the act, she thought. They’re pulling the same thing with Lux. No one suspects a pretty little teenager to be capable of taking down an armed man. She could see how someone like Andreyev, who likely needed body guarding from time to time, would find that attractive. It made Sophie want to retch.
“Enough,” a voice said abruptly, and everyone in the room froze and looked at Andreyev. He drained his coffee. “I can see that he is more than capable,” he said, glancing at Clive. “Thank you for the demonstration.”