“Hello,” she said lightly. “I’m Mary. This is Jay”—she threw a thumb toward a boy with close-shaven brown hair, and then at the redhead—“and this is Wyatt.”
“What do you want?” He took a step back, nearly stumbling when his foot came down on the edge of the cliff.
She scuffed a rock with her shoe. “Oh. You know. Just wanted to . . . chat.”
He narrowed his eyes, glancing at Jay and Wyatt. They stared back with twin looks of amusement.
“Lovely,” Jim said tonelessly. “But I really haven’t got the time.”
“The girl.” Mary jerked her chin at Sophie. “What do you want with her?”
“Who, her?” He shrugged, then winced as the movement made Sophie’s head knock against his back. “We’re running away together. Gonna get married, buy a beach house, have a whole bunch of kids. So if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go—preacher’s waiting for us.”
“Ha-ha.” It was a statement, not a laugh, and unlike her friends, Mary didn’t look the least bit amused. “We want to make sure you get a proper welcome.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “Sweet of you. Really. But we’re all good here, so just run on home, why don’t you?”
“You should stay awhile. We love guests, don’t we, boys? But it’s so hard to make new friends out here, in the middle of nowhere.”
She was inching closer with every word, and Jim noticed each step. He felt behind him with his left foot, managing to get it onto the first rickety slat of the bridge.
“Next time, maybe,” he said, maintaining a neutral evenness to his tone that might have won him a small fortune in a poker match. “I have a knack for finding myself in crap situations. I’m bound to turn up again.”
He shifted his full weight onto the bridge. It swayed beneath him, but he kept his eyes fixed on Mary. She’d noticed the movement, and for a moment they locked gazes, each waiting for the other to make a move. Every muscle in Jim’s body tensed, and she looked like a coiled cat about to spring at the moment the mouse twitched a whisker.
But it was Jay who made the first move, taking them both by surprise. “Get him!” he yelled.
Jim spun, nearly losing his hold on Sophie, and awkwardly crow hopped over the bridge, his feet moving faster than his mind, dancing over gaps where the slats had rotted away, his free hand clutching the rope rail while the other kept a desperate grip on his limp burden. The bridge shook and swayed like a dinghy at sea during a storm, and his stomach lurched with it.
They were coming after him, he knew. He could tell it from the way the bridge began to spasm beneath him. He heard a shocked cry and a snap of wood; one of the slats must have given way under them. With a vicious surge of satisfaction, he continued doggedly on. Had the bridge been only thirty yards across? It seemed to expand threefold, stretching an infinite length ahead. Sweat poured down his neck and trickled over his shoulder blades, as much from nerves as from the heat and exertion. He was surprised, from his dehydrated state, that he had anything left to sweat out.
At last, he reached the end of the bridge, but a long gap of open space was between him and solid ground. He glanced back; the trio was careening across the slats with wild looks in their eyes, but they were progressing no faster than he had. He turned back around, sucked in a deep swallow of salty air, and leaped.
He landed awkwardly, losing his grip on Sophie. She flew out of his arms and rolled across the ground to rest in a thicket of ferns.
There wasn’t time to see if she was okay. He turned back to the bridge and began wrestling with the knots that held the rope in place around metal poles staked into the rock. The knots were practically congealed with time and wear, impossible to undo. So instead, he lifted a rock the size of his head and, with a grunt of effort, heaved it at the last few slats of wood. It crashed through them, widening the gap to an insurmountable distance, even if they took a running start. Any attempt to leap it, and they would drop into the ravine.
Mary froze, as did Jay and Wyatt behind her. Jim gripped the tops of the metal poles in either hand and flashed them a weary grin. “Oh, did I do that? Gosh, sorry. My dad always did say I had a knack for wrecking things.” Like his marriage.
Mary glared at him, her curls snapping like vipers, her grip on the ropes so tight her knuckles were the color of paper. “There are other ways around, you know. We know every inch of this island. You can run, but we’ll still catch you.”
He tossed her a sarcastic salute. “Challenge accepted, sweetheart. I’m a pretty slippery guy.”
Without waiting to hear her response, he gathered Sophie into his arms and charged off into the trees, moving with reckless abandon, not even bothering to steer himself. If he came across a bush, he bowled right through it. It was more from luck than skill that he avoided running headfirst into any trees.
At last, impossibly it seemed, he broke free of the tangle of palms and pines and shrubs and onto the shore. He could even see his plane, bobbing faithfully across the channel, waiting for him. His feet turned to lead; he churned a short distance down the beach, then fell to his knees. He crawled a few feet before his strength left him completely, and then he only barely managed to set Sophie down before he face-planted into the sand.
After a moment, when he finally couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he rolled over and panted for air. His eyes were shut against the sun, and for a moment, he simply reveled in the fact that he was alive. And lying down. His body felt as though the bones had been sucked out of him, leaving him in a viscous state, like a puddle of jelly.
It seemed an eternity later, though in fact it was just a minute, that he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Sophie.
Her eyes were open, and she was staring directly back at him.
ELEVEN
LUX
Suddenly, she was.
Wasn’t.
Was.
Just like that.
First there was light blinding burning stinging.
Then there was noise: static in her ears in her brain fuzzy and deafening.
hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts.
When she looked up, numbers ran across her vision, a dizzying stream of ones and zeros; when she blinked, they scurried away and were replaced by colors.
Her brain jolted; words came.
Blue and sky and sun and light.
There was a word for everything, too many of them, and they rushed through her.
Sand and tree and stop and hurts.
And what what what what what over and over, the loudest word of all.
Back, she thought, want go back darkness hurts!
Then came fear and panic.
She wanted—she wanted—the word burst to the top of her mind—stop! She wanted it to stop all of it Hurts! Stop!
She became aware of a new sensation, and with it came a flood of new words—hands and sand and skin and arms. Tingles in her fingers, the sense of weight.
What what what what?
Chaos and noise too much she was a void and the words and the sensations rioted within her she could not control them.
She didn’t remember sitting up but suddenly she was she looked down and words bombarded her legs and feet and knees beyond them sea and water and ocean.
This was the world: sand and ocean legs and light.
She moved her eyes and every direction held new sights and words she couldn’t stop them from coming palm tree and rock and waves and clouds and—
The words stopped.
The noise stopped.
The static in her brain stopped.
The numbers stopped.
Boy.
Her thoughts shivered scattered emptied and at last all was still and silent behind her eyes as she stared at him the world drew back waited.
Boy.
Then slowly the words crept in ag
ain they stacked and shuffled and rearranged.
Boy and eyes and nose and mouth and hair and face.
Her mind drew him in hid his image at its center folded over him the world slid into place the chaos ceased.
The words fell into line. She could think now. She could breathe. He gave shape to her thoughts and structure to her mind. She stared at him without blinking, memorizing the lines of his face and the colors in his hair. Her body relaxed.
She was at peace.
The boy was there, and the boy was everything.
“Sophie,” he said. “Hey, you okay?”
His voice electrified her. Her brain rushed to process his words, to make sense of them. Sophie. A name, a girl’s name. Her name?
Hey, you okay?
Before she could understand them, he spoke again. More words, more sounds. All in a rush. She struggled to keep up—had to understand him—but it was too much. She watched his lips. His teeth. The muscles in his throat.
“Say something,” he said.
Say something say something say something.
“Mmm.” A sound! From her own lips! She watched him anxiously, to see if he would approve. She ached for him to approve.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
This was a word she knew. Hurt. Her tongue jerked into action, her lips parted—“Hurt.”
“What? You are hurt?”
A flutter of panic. A flurry of words. She spoke them as they came, desperate to speak. “No. Not . . . not hurt.”
He spoke faster and faster, pouring words across the sand. She raced to pick them up and turn them over and interpret them, but he was too fast and she was too slow. She caught them at random, a word here and there: boat and fly and away and remember and drug and Sophie and boat.
She seized on that last one with desperation. “Boat.” Ones and zeros crowded her mind; faded into an image of a boat on water.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, stay with me. It’s me, it’s Jim. Jim Julien?”
It’s me, it’s Jim.
Her heart jerked. She could understand this! He was Jim. The boy was Jim. She held the word close and the whole of her identity hung upon it: Jim Jim Jim Jim Jim.
“Jim,” she said, delighting in the sound of it.
“Yeah, that’s right.” He followed with more words, but they rushed over her and evaporated before she could gather them in. That was okay. She had enough for now.
She had Jim.
And Jim was everything.
TWELVE
SOPHIE
The second time Sophie woke was like a sudden fall, an instant leap into full consciousness. Her eyes shot open, and the first thing she saw was an unfamiliar face. It was a man, somewhere in his fifties she guessed, with a receding silver hairline and oddly dainty lips, as if he were halfway into a kiss, but it was his eyes that transfixed her: stunningly blue and focused sharply on her, his pupils pinpoints of black. When her gaze met his, the skin around his eyes tightened, forming a network of wrinkles from their outer corners. She swallowed, half hypnotized, confused, waiting for her other senses to catch up. It was as if her brain had forgotten to alert her ears to the fact she was awake, because the sounds around her were murky. They slowly took shape, forming into voices, words—her mother was there.
Sophie blinked, and the spell was broken. The man leaned back, his eyes still on her but his features relaxing a bit. She licked her lips, which she found were dry and rough, and moaned.
“Is that it?” the man asked. He was seated in a plastic chair, facing her squarely. She herself was sitting in a metal chair that looked like something out of a dentist’s office, slightly reclined, her hands perched on padded armrests.
Her mother stood behind the man, but a bright light was concentrated on Sophie and all else was in shadow. She could only see her mother’s shoes and the hem of her lab coat, and beside her someone stood in a pair of white heels, a woman dressed in a white pantsuit, so bright she seemed to glow. But her face was also lost in shadow.
“That’s it,” her mother replied. Sophie heard the click of a pen; somewhere behind her, someone was scratching on paper.
“Mmmom,” Sophie moaned.
“What did she say?” The man turned around in his seat. He was wearing a silver suit that looked like it cost as much as Jim’s plane.
“Nothing. She can’t talk yet, of course. She’s disoriented.”
No, I’m not, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t form the words. She’d never been so thirsty in her life.
“What do we do now?” asked the man, turning around again. He studied Sophie with his frigid eyes, his mouth pursing even further. He seemed wary of her, as if she might bite.
“We wait a little,” Moira said. She finally stepped forward, into the light, and Sophie’s heart jerked painfully in her chest. Her mother looked the same as she always had, as if she were agelessly frozen at thirty, with short, tight black curls and large blue eyes; she looked like one of the Victorian china dolls Sophie’s stepsister Emily collected, minus all the lace.
Mom, look at me. It’s me, Mom, please see!
But Moira was looking at the man, not Sophie, and she remembered that her mother still thought she was the other Sophie. What was her name? The memory was vague, difficult to catch. She’d heard them talking earlier, when she’d started to wake up . . . Lux. That’s what they’d called her.
“It will take about twenty-four hours for her to acclimate,” Moira was saying. “Walking, talking, basic motor functions—it comes pretty quickly in the newer models, but still, it isn’t instant. She’s imprinted on you, Mr. Andreyev, and that’s the important thing.”
“Please,” he replied, a soft Russian accent curling around the edges of his speech, “call me Constantin. Or Connie.”
A tight smile danced across Moira’s face. “Thank you, Connie. Now, do you have any questions for us?”
“I have a question,” said the woman in white. She also stepped forward. Her brown hair was trimmed boyishly short, but that did nothing to soften the angularity of her features. Hers was a face you could cut yourself on. She regarded Sophie through half-lidded eyes, as if she were bored or dismally unimpressed.
“Of course, Victoria.” Moira’s voice came out soft and ended in a whisper.
Sophie looked curiously at her mother. She’s afraid of this woman. She could feel her strength returning, and sensed that if she were to speak up, her voice wouldn’t betray her again. But she didn’t. Instead, she stayed still and silent, watching to see what would happen.
The first thing, the most important thing—her mother seemed entirely well and whole. Whatever her emergency was or had been, it didn’t seem to affect her physically, not, at least, in any way that Sophie could tell. She didn’t seem to be held against her will. She seemed . . . fine. Perfectly fine.
Sophie felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. I don’t know the whole story, she thought. I have to give her the benefit of the doubt. But she felt used. Betrayed. Bewildered. It didn’t make sense, none of it. Why am I here? What is this about? Looking at her mother standing so composed, she almost sensed that Moira Crue had no idea that her daughter was on the island.
Had Nicholas told her?
Where was Nicholas?
And who had hit her on the head?
She had a feeling she knew the answer, and it only made her more nauseated. He tricked me. It had to be true. There was no other explanation. Somehow, Nicholas had known she was coming. He’d met her at the airstrip and lied about being sent by Moira when he’d probably had no intention of taking Sophie to her mother at all. But . . . why? What was his game? How did he factor into all this?
She needed to know what Skin Island was, certain that that would answer half her questions at least. Her mother’s life’s work, Nicholas’s part in it, the mysterious emergency, the othe
r Sophie . . . it all came down to the secrets in this room. I can play along a little longer. She had no idea what this Lux was supposed to be or why she looked like Sophie, but apparently she couldn’t talk. Or walk. That was pretty simple to stick to. Just shut up and listen, Sophie told herself. They’re bound to spill a few answers.
She’d been so lost in her own head that she’d missed what the woman—Victoria—had to say, and she struggled to catch up while trying to look as uninterested as possible. Her mother was speaking.
“The bond won’t be evident until she’s able to speak and function. But we’ve never had a case in which the imprinting failed.”
“If she has only just, for all intents and purposes, been born—how is it that within a day she will be able to speak and walk?” asked Andreyev.
“To answer that, I must back up a little. I’ll start at the beginning, though I’m sure you read all of this in the dossier Victoria gave you. Still, it’s a lot to take in, and I want to be sure we’re clear.” She drew a deep breath. “The Vitros are the result of a groundbreaking neurotechnology we call the Imprima Code, and the chip on which it is contained.” She held up a vial, and Sophie recognized it as one of the vials she’d seen in the freezer consoles the night before.
Moira went on. “We take embryos left over from in vitro procedures—there are millions of them all over the world, tiny cellular clusters of potential—and we raise them, well, in vitro—in glass—and plant the computer chip at just the right moment of embryonic brain growth. The brain grows over and around it, and we monitor it very closely every day. Once the subject reaches nine months of gestation, we can begin transferring data to the chip. Then, when we wake the subject—”
“They already know their ABCs and 123s,” Andreyev finished.
“Oh, much more than that. Basic motor functions, a rudimentary knowledge of math and history. The chip is brilliant, an extremely valuable technology in and of itself. Why, the opportunities afforded us by the chip, even without the imprint technology, is enough to—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Victoria. “Explain to Mr. Andreyev the imprint technology. That is, after all, what he is here to see.” She extended a tight smile to the Russian that made her face look as if it were made of Saran wrap.