“Yes,” Moira said, a bit faintly. “Of course. The imprint technology is what makes the Vitros so . . . interesting. I developed it myself.”
“And we are very pleased with your work,” said Victoria, and her and Moira’s eyes met in a glacial lock. They looked like rival cheerleaders vying for the spot at the top of the pyramid, only instead of lipstick and pom-poms these cheerleaders had P.h.D.’s and secret laboratories to play with.
“How long has she been sleeping?” Andreyev steepled his index fingers and pressed them to his lips as he leaned back in his chair, regarding Sophie from beneath a low brow.
“Seventeen years,” said Moira. “That’s the only way this works. We can’t wake them until we are ready for them to bond with someone. You have to be the very first person they see, and then they’ll never imprint on anyone else. This is Lux’s first impression of the world, and because you are the first one she has seen, you have become the center of her world.”
“Well,” said Andreyev, his frown deepening. “But why? How does it work?”
Victoria’s eyes flitted to Moira.
“Ah,” said Sophie’s mother patiently. “Many species of animals are born with the instinct to imprint. Ducks are a prime example. A newly hatched duckling imprints on the first thing it sees, whether that’s its mother, a human being, or in some cases even an inanimate object like a shoe or a duck decoy. It will follow that first impression—the imprintee—in order to learn how to function. How to forage for food, how to court, how to migrate. Even humans have this instinct to a lesser extent. It’s the reason a baby can identify its mother apart from other people.” She stepped toward Sophie and slowly ran her fingers over a lock of her hair; it was all Sophie could do not to flinch. “The chip isolates this imprinting instinct in the brain and amplifies it exponentially. In essence, it creates a deep, psychological need in the subject, a need to imprint, to mold itself around the mind and will of another. It creates a hole in the subject’s psyche that is filled by the first person that the subject sees upon waking for the first time.” She fell silent for a moment, her eyes studying Sophie with a slight tension around their corners. Then she turned to Andreyev. “The moment Lux awoke, her chip activated, and all that information—the ABCs and 123s, as you call them, as well as her motor functions, her memory, every cognitive process in her brain—it all clicked into place with you at its center.”
Andreyev swallowed. “I did read the files, of course. I didn’t think . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat, looking very unsettled. “I didn’t realize . . .”
“It’s a lot to take in,” Victoria said crisply. “We know that.”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse. He looked as if he wanted to be as far from Sophie—Lux—as possible.
“Her will is bound to yours. She will obey any command you give her,” Moira went on, a bit vengefully. “She has no will of her own, no sense of self. Her identity is wholly formed around yours.”
“I understand.” Andreyev’s eyes shifted around the room. His left hand, which rested on his knee, opened and closed convulsively. “It’s just . . . she looks so young, so innocent.”
“Of course, that’s part of the charm of the Vitros,” Victoria said, too brightly, as if she were trying to counter the somber depression that had settled over the room, gathering like shadows in the corners. “They are aesthetically pleasing, as well. Surely you see the possibilities? And you read the section about the various classes, I hope?”
“Yes. . . . Well, parts of it.”
“Moira?”
Moira gave a grunt of affirmation. “The classes, yes. By specially designing the code on each Vitro’s chip, we have been able to create a diverse range of specializations. Lux, for example, is what we call a Class Three Bodyguard. She may not look the part, but that is by design. Her chip is supplied with the kinetic and mental resources that will keep her on constant defensive mode. If you are ever threatened, she will intervene on your behalf to defend you against all threats. The only thing that would stop her from protecting you would be a command given by you.”
“And the other classes,” said Andreyev. “They all exist?”
“Of course. We have a prototype Vitro for each category. Lux is, of course, the eighth successfully imprinted Vitro to be born on Skin Island.”
“Only the eighth?” He frowned. “I thought there were more than that.”
“Well. There are four others—early subjects. They didn’t . . . They weren’t successful. However, of the eight—any of whom we can demonstrate for you—we have another bodyguard. We have three domestics, programmed in cooking, housekeeping, and such duties. We have three intelligence models, who specialize in research, memory, translation, and information processing.”
“And of course, these are only the classes we have already produced,” Victoria added. “But the possibilities are limitless: soldiers, nannies, pilots; whatever you can think of, we can manufacture.”
“It’s a limitless new world,” said Moira softly, her gaze traveling to Sophie but not quite meeting her eyes. “And we are only just beginning to explore it.”
Sophie felt bile rise in her throat. So this was Skin Island. This was the Great Secret Thing that had lurked between her and her mother for so long. Her blood pounded angrily through her veins; she had never felt such deep, total revulsion. It’s a hideous new world. And you are its architect.
THIRTEEN
JIM
“Sophie?” Jim scrambled to his knees and crawled to her. “Hey, you okay?”
Her eyes were stretched wide and fastened on him. She said nothing, only looked at him with such intensity that the hair on his neck rose on end. The sea was reflected in her turquoise eyes.
“Hey,” he said, softer, “what happened to you, huh?”
She sat with her legs bent to one side, her hands clutching the sand. Her feet and legs were bare; the hospital gown she wore fluttered in the wind, hugging her slim frame. He hesitantly reached out, cupped her shoulders in his palms, and studied her face. The relief he’d felt when she’d opened her eyes was fading away, back into concern.
“Did you find your mom? Did Nicholas do this to you? Sophie?” He hadn’t forgotten that the other kids were still hunting for them, and he scanned the beach and the trees for any sign of them. “We have to get out of here. We have to swim . . .” But as he said it, he realized it was impossible. The tide was at its highest, and he could almost see the current between the islands ripping the water. They would never be able to cross it, especially not with Sophie in this condition.
He turned back to her, trying to hide his panic. “Okay. Okay, listen. When you left with Nicholas, he had a boat. Do you remember where he left it?”
She simply gazed at him, silent and still, her long pale hair coiling and uncoiling in the wind. The palm branches rustling overhead cast a dancing lattice of shadows over her skin. There was none of her spark, none of her drive. She seemed . . . emptier, somehow. Blank. Had they brainwashed her or something? His skin prickled; he looked at her, really looked at her, searching for clues to explain her bizarre condition. And he noticed things he’d missed before: her skin was pale—too pale. Sophie had had a very light peppering of freckles on her cheeks. This Sophie had none. Her hair was longer, her nails were longer—he remembered distinctly that Sophie’s nails had been bitten short. It was something he always noticed about people, whether or not they bit their nails, because it was a habit he always looked for in his dad. His dad chewed his nails when he was drunk, for no discernible reason, but it was always Jim’s first clue that his father was wasted.
“You . . .” He stood up and stumbled back, his mind filled with thoughts exploding like fireworks. “If you’re not Sophie . . . who are you? And where is she?”
Whoever this girl was, she seemed either to not know, or was incapable of telling him. He looked around in complete bafflement.
Should he go back, look for the real Sophie? Take this one on to a hospital? Oh, God, what if she was hurt and they were helping her—and now I’ve gone and made her worse by dragging her across the island. He grimaced as he thought of the IV he’d pulled out of her arm.
“Hey. Hey, can you talk?” He lifted his hands and held them on either side of her face. “Just talk to me, okay? Say something.”
“Mmm.”
Well. It was something, anyway. At least she seemed to be able to understand him. “Are you hurt?”
Her lips moved, as if she were trying to speak but couldn’t summon her voice, and her eyes fixed on his mouth.
“Hurt,” she whispered.
“What? You are hurt?”
Awkwardly, as if not quite in control of her limbs, she touched the tips of her fingers to his lips. “No. Not . . . not hurt.”
“Well, can you stand up, then? We have to get to the plane—I’m not even sure if it will fly—but we’ve got to get away from here. Do you remember what happened? What they did to you? Look, I think they knocked you out, gave you some kind of drug. I can get us out of here, but I need your help—you gotta get up. There’s a boat around here somewhere. . . .” He took her hands in his, wrapping his fingers around hers. “They’re coming after us, and they took my friend. I can help you both if we just get out of here.”
“Boat.” She must have been more drugged than he thought. She didn’t show any sign of urgency, just maintained that hungry look.
“Hey. Hey, stay with me. My name’s Jim. Jim Julien.”
“Jim.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” He heard a crack from the trees and threw an arm across her, his eyes darting from one shadow to the next, watching for Mary and her friends. He didn’t see anyone, but they could easily be hiding in the thick ferns and pines.
When he turned to face her, she was smiling a vacuous, contented smile. “Jim.”
Genuinely concerned now that something was very wrong with this not-Sophie, he took her hands in his and stood up. “Can you walk? Come on. We can look around. Get up.”
The smile transformed into a frown of concentration as she tried to stand. It was like watching a newborn colt struggle to find its legs. She wobbled, swayed, and trembled, and would have collapsed if Jim weren’t holding her. When she finally did reach her feet, she looked down at her legs as if surprised to see them there. A little blue butterfly landed lightly on her toes, and her face brightened with childish delight.
“That’s it,” Jim murmured, watching her warily. “Now. Let’s take a look around. The boat has to be here somewhere.”
He kept an eye on the trees as he walked across the sand, one hand holding the girl’s. She moved slowly, uncertainly, as if each step was only managed with great concentration. With every passing second, Jim’s apprehensiveness grew.
The girl looked around her with open wonder lighting her eyes. The trees, the sand, and the sea all seemed to fascinate her as if she’d never seen them before. They passed a depression in the beach where the waves had left a deposit of shells, pastel clamshells and gray sand dollars and broken pieces of conch. She stopped, pulled her hand from his, and bent to inspect the collection. An ambitious wave swept up the sand, and water poured into the hollow and swirled around the shells. She made a high-pitched squeal and gripped the hem of her gown in alarm, then hesitantly extended one finger to poke at the water.
Jim watched in mute horror. It’s like she’s two years old, like they rewound her brain fifteen years. What is she? Sophie didn’t have a twin sister—he’d have remembered something like that. Was she a clone? Some kind of copy?
She began touching each shell, fascinated by the textures and shapes, completely absorbed in her little world. Jim watched the tree line nervously, wondering what he would do if Mary and the others appeared. It would help if he knew what they wanted and who had sent them. When he looked back down at the girl, she had shells clutched in both her hands, and she smiled up at him and held them toward him, as if showing off a treasure.
“Ah . . .” He cleared his throat. “Very—um—very nice.”
“Jim,” she said happily, and she picked up more shells.
“Just . . . just put them down, will you?” he said, his voice snapping from his lips, too sharply.
She stopped smiling. Her hands shot open and the shells clattered back into the pile.
“I’m sorry.” Jim sighed. “I didn’t mean to yell. Just let’s keep looking for the boat, okay?”
This was beyond him. He hadn’t signed up for this. Even if he did get her back to Guam—what then? What if she didn’t snap out of this trance or whatever it was? Could he just drop her off at the hospital, tell them some story about finding her on the beach? But no. The other pilots and the bartender all knew he’d gone to Skin Island with Sophie Crue, and if anyone started asking questions, the truth was bound to come out. And then what would stop the powers behind Skin Island from coming after him? From finding this girl and finishing whatever vile experiment they’d started on her? What if the authorities thought this was Sophie and that he’d done this to her?
You could leave her, a voice hissed in the back of his mind. You don’t owe her anything. She’s not Sophie.
He ground his teeth together. Too late for that, he thought. He couldn’t leave her in this state, barely capable of speech and movement. It’d be like leaving a baby to fend for itself.
He saw no sign of the boat. Nicholas had motored it out of his sight when he’d taken Sophie across the channel, and all Jim knew was that they’d gone east. We’ll have to come across it eventually. It wasn’t as if Nicholas could have dragged it into the trees to hide it. There had to be a dock or a bay somewhere.
He felt a tug on his hand, and turned to find the girl enthralled with a puff of sea foam left on the sand. She nudged it with her toe, her lips rounded into a perfect O of wonder.
“Come on,” he said for what seemed the hundredth time. It was like trying to hold the attention of a toddler. “Let’s keep going.”
She instantly snapped to attention and followed him, her gait growing more even and steady, her limbs starting to coordinate. She was constantly on alert, her eyes fastening on every movement as if she were determined not to miss a single thing, but always they returned to Jim. He wondered if she expected him to run off or disappear.
“You know this place, right?” he said, after they’d gone another fifty yards without seeing so much as a spare oar from the boat. “If you know where the boat is, please just tell me.” He stopped walking so that he could look her squarely in the eye.
Her brow furrowed; she seemed almost in pain. “Boat?”
“Yes, boat boat boat—where is it?”
“I . . .” She bit her lip, her hands curling into fists. “I do not know. I do not know boat.” She said the words with great effort, and then beamed at him as if she’d just won a spelling bee.
For a moment, all he could do was gaze at her in exasperation. Then he turned away, gripped his hair in his hands, and kicked savagely at the sand. The plane was out of sight. There was no sign of the boat or, thankfully, Mary and company, though they were no doubt closing in. What they intended to do, Jim had no idea, but he was certain he didn’t want to find out.
“Jim?” the girl asked softly, uncertainly.
“What?” He rounded on her, his pulse pounding in his ears. “What is it? Do you remember where it is now? I’m trying to get you out of here, I really am, but you’re making it so difficult! I just—if I could get to the plane—”
“I . . . I am sorry.”
“Sorry! Ha! Well, if you’re sorry, then why don’t you just swim across the channel and bring the plane over here?”
Immediately he felt regret for lashing out at her, when obviously she was in no position to be blamed, but before he could apologize he realized he’d just hit upon
the only possible solution. He took a few steps past her and stared toward the smaller island, just visible to the west. If he could swim the channel and get to the plane, he could taxi across the water to the main island and pick the girl up, and then they’d be on their way. He knew he could do it. All his life, he’d grown up swimming in the Pacific, cliff diving into the sea, snorkeling and scuba diving and exploring underwater caves with his friends. He knew the sea and he knew his own strength. I could do it, he thought. I have to do it—there’s no other choice.
“Listen, I have an idea.” He turned around, but she was gone. “Hey! Where are you?”
He scanned the beach, but there was no sign of her. Had Mary snatched her? Impossible. His back hadn’t been turned that long. He spotted her footprints in the wet sand and followed them. They meandered down the beach, toward the water, and disappeared into the ravenous surf.
Dread unfolding in his stomach, Jim ran into the surf. She was yards ahead of him, floundering in the water. From the looks of it, she couldn’t swim. He caught one glimpse of her pale hand reaching for the sky before she slipped beneath the surface and didn’t reappear.
“Hey!” he yelled as he plunged after her, arcing into a shallow dive that took him under the choppy waves. He swam along the bottom, sending up clouds of sand that blocked his view. When he resurfaced for air, there was no sign of her. Jim treaded water and spun this way and that, desperate for a glimpse of her, but he saw not a single golden hair.
He dove again and scoured the murky water. The floor dropped away beneath him, turning in an instant from clear turquoise to unfathomable dark blue. He finally spotted her, floating listlessly beneath the water, her hair a golden flower blossoming around her face. His lungs screamed for air and his skull burned from the pressure, but he couldn’t go up until he had her. With a few strong strokes he reached her and looped an arm around her middle. Then he bent his knees and planted his feet on the sand and launched them both upward. It seemed to take an eternity to finally break through the surface, and when he did, he gasped in a mixture of air and sea spray, then began stroking toward the shore.