Regeneration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  REGENERATION

  Book THREE of the Incubation Trilogy

  by Laura DiSilverio

  REGENERATION. Copyright © 2016 by Laura DiSilverio.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, nor by recording electronically or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.

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  Layout by Penoaks Publishing, penoaks.com

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  I should have my mind on combat, but instead I’m thinking about irony.

  Here I am—here we are, Wyck and me—back at Kube 9, close to a year after we ran away from it with Halla. I remember Wyck’s knife slicing into my forearm to remove my locator, the fear catching in my throat as we escaped on stolen scooters, the wild dogs, the swamp, the secret lab. So much has happened. The RESCO, Halla’s betrayal, finding my mother. Saben. An ache of longing sweeps through me as I think of him. And yet, here I am, back where I started, a chartreuse kudzu leaf tickling my nose so I have to scrunch it several times to keep from sneezing and betraying our position. It’s weird to be back here, a little unsettling, and yet it feels a bit like coming home. Does Wyck feels the irony, too? I glance at him a foot to my left, hugging the ground, kudzu draped over his helmet, his intelli-textile jumpsuit blending with the cover. Who am I kidding? Wyck doesn’t do irony.

  His gaze slides to me. “Ready, Ev?” he asks in a low voice.

  I nod. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Wyck cocks his head, clearly listening to a communication from up the chain via his earbud. Idris, probably, who has the larger Defiance assault force assembled three miles from our position, preparing to hijack a train.

  “It’s a go,” Wyck says, giving me a thumbs up. “You’re up. Twenty minutes.”

  My mouth is suddenly dry. I manage a tiny nod and low crawl on my elbows and knees until I’m behind a tin-roofed shed some hundred yards away from Wyck and the others. I know the hillocks of kudzu betray my movements with swayings, but hopefully any watchers will write the ripples off as wind. Out of sight behind the collapsing shed, I push to my feet. Unlike the other Defiers secreted in the copse of gnarled tree branches canopied with kudzu, I’m not wearing camouflage. I’m wearing the sky blue jumpsuit of a Kube 9 resident, attire I wore every day of my life up until a year ago.

  The suit fits physically, but not emotionally. Not any longer. I’m not the Everly Jax who left the Kube a year ago. No, I’m light years away from that girl. I don’t look like her—not with my blond hair chopped off and tinted red and my blue eyes made violet by eye color changing tablets—and I don’t even feel like her any more. That Everly Jax was obsessed with finding out who her parents were, and trying to work up the nerve to kiss Wyck. She giggled with Halla and argued with Dr. Ronan. The new me hasn’t giggled in months. I’m pretty sure I no longer have the capacity.

  Leaving aside these fruitless thoughts, I step out from behind the shed. I’m visible. Committed. I strike out toward the dome dominating the skyline. It rises from the flat Florida Canton topography, visible for miles. The green of crops blooms behind the transparent panes, and I’m pulled toward it by a hunger as instinctual as any locust’s. It’s not a physical hunger. No, it’s a craving for the familiar, the comfortable. I imagine seeing Dr. Ronan again, hearing his gruff voice challenge one of my assumptions, and I almost smile.

  That’s dangerous. I can’t afford to feel emotional about the Kube, not when I’m here as a Trojan horse, about to sneak in through the lab and open the main entrance so the Defiers can overrun the facility. I focus on the task at hand, drawing ever closer to the dome. I’ve left the kudzu-covered thickets behind and am crossing the barren stretch of land surrounding the Kube like a moat. The wind carries a salty tang and my lips taste faintly bitter when I lick them nervously.

  I can see people inside the dome now, mostly clad in the sky blue of ACs, Apprentice Citizens, a couple in the white that indicates a staff member. As I watch, they gaggle toward the tunnel leading from the dome into the Kube; it’s lunch time. We timed my arrival to coincide with lunch so there’d be less chance of my being intercepted. Movement to my right catches my eye, and I half-turn to see an IPF patrol emerge from the far side of the Kube complex, coming from the direction of the Infrastructure Protection Force barracks on the other side of the dome. All domes have a dedicated cadre of IPF soldiers; Amerada can’t afford to lose its food production facilities to outlaws. With the locust swarms consuming every blade of grass, every budding leaf, growing food outside the domes is impossible, has been for decades.

  Don’t come this way, I mentally urge the soldier.

  The ACV scooter swerves in my direction. Of course it does. Damn. I keep walking. I aim for a nonchalant stride, rather than a panic-stricken dash that would bring the soldier down on me as surely as grass draws locusts. The side entrance to the dome, the small one that leads directly into the lab, is twenty yards away. I lift a hand in casual greeting to the soldier when the ACV’s hum tells me he’s near, and keep walking.

  Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

  The ACV judders, and then slows. The soldier leans his weight to the right, hovering the ACV in my path. I’m forced to stop. My heart’s pounding so fast it makes it hard to breathe, but I manage a smile.

  “AC, what are you doing out here?” The soldier doesn’t remove his helmet, the protective casing that makes IPFers look vaguely insectoid, so his voice reverberates a little. He doesn’t dismount, either, so he’s above me, the air cushion adding six inches to his already formidable height.

  I think back to what Vestor taught me about appearing non-confrontational, and consciously lower my chin a couple of notches. “Did I do something wrong?” I ask in an uncertain, girlish voice. “Dr. Ronan sent me—”

  “Him.” The soldier’s tone says Dr. Ronan has been a thorn in his side. No surprise there. “He shouldn’t have sent you outside the Kube. We’re on lockdown—reports of Defiance activity in the area.”

  I’m sensing a young man behind the IPF helmet, a youth puffed up by his authority, eager to impress. I look over my shoulder as if nervous about Defiers creeping up behind me, and take a step closer to the soldier, as if asking for his protection. “He told me to collect Eurycotis floridana specimens. He didn’t say anything about outlaws.” I congratulate myself on blending indignation and fear to great effect.

  “Not outlaws, Defiers,” the soldier corrects me, shifting his weight on the ACV so it seesaws.

  “I should get inside, then,” I say, making to move around him.

  The ACV glides forward to block me. Suspicion in his voice, the soldier asks, “Where are the Yuri-whatevers, the Yuri coats, the specimens you collected?”

  Aagh. I should have come prepared with cockroaches in a box in case I got stopped. I hesitate only a half-beat before saying dejectedly, “I couldn’t find any. I’m going to be in trouble for that already, so please don’t make it worse by making me late for the lunch period. Please?” My eyes plead with him.

  “Oh, very well,” he says, reversing the ACV three feet. “But I’ll have to make a note of this incident in the log. Dr. Ronan will be hearing from my commander.”

  I could tell him that Dr. Ronan won’t give a shit, but I am too busy thanking him and hurrying toward the gate. I hesitate by the iris scanner,
waiting for the soldier to move on, but he stays put, shoulders back, apparently watching over me until I’m safe inside, damn him. If this doesn’t work, if they removed my access when we ran away, I’m dead. There will be no creeping back to Wyck’s squad if I can’t get in, not with the soldier hovering there. The plan has always relied on Dr. Ronan’s impatience with, indeed, total disinterest in, administrative matters that don’t directly impact lab operations. I’ve never known him to delete access files when an AC leaves the Kube, but there’s always a first time.

  I take a deep breath. Clicking back the scanner cover, I bend until my eye is against the scanner. There’s a faint whir and then . . . nothing.

  “What’s wrong?” the soldier asks, suspicion tingeing his voice.

  “Scanner’s dirty,” I say, licking my thumb and rubbing it across the lens. It’s got to work. When I can delay no longer, I open my eyes wide and press my forehead against the chill metal of the forehead support. The whir sounds again, and then . . .

  “Access granted.”

  Nothing has ever sounded more welcoming than that robotic voice. Relief makes me limp. The portal clicks open, I wave to the soldier, and then slip inside. I lean back against the door when it slides closed, and shut my eyes for a grateful moment. Last time I came through this entry, I’d been caught in a locust swarm and had to be deconned. Not this time. I’m in, and no decon team is waiting for me, but multiple threats still stand between me and mission accomplishment. I think of Wyck and his squad waiting for my signal, and Idris and the larger force intercepting the train, counting on me to have the Kube’s gates open by the time they roll up, and I collect myself. My task now is to make it through the lab and into the Kube proper, and then through the Kube to the front entrance, where I can disarm the gate and let the train with the Defiers in. I check the time. I’ve only got twelve minutes.

  I push away from the door and try to act confident as I walk down the narrow access way to the lab door which whooshes open at my approach. The familiar sharpness of sanitizers and chemicals floods my nostrils and for a moment I’m a six- or seven-year-old AC again, visiting the lab for the first time, awed and intrigued by the centrifuges, vials, glass tubing, and beakers full of bubbling liquids. I’d known instantly that I wanted my service to be in the lab, not in the kitchens, or with the infants where Halla ended up. Now, I scan the counters and equipment, half-expecting to spot Dr. Ronan’s dyed-blond head bending over a microscope, or see him emerge from one of the large coolers, lab coat flapping, but the lab is empty. We deliberately targeted lunchtime for my infiltration, counting on most of the ACs and staff to be in the cafeteria, and knowing the IPF presence wouldn’t be as heavy as at night.

  I leave the lab, resisting the urge to inspect some of the experiments, find out what Dr. Ronan and his assistants are working on. Instead, I thread my way past the stainless steel counters, sinks, and equipment to the polyglass doors leading into the dome. They, too, glide open at my approach and I’m in the dome, overwhelmed by the musty smell of loam and ripening fruit, the presence of more growing things than I’ve experienced since visiting one of the Atlanta domes with Minister Alden. I still can’t think of her as “mother,” even though I’ve had three months to grow accustomed to the idea. Mini-drones buzz about, spraying carefully measured jets of fertilizer on some of the crops, dousing others with water. There’s a citrusy tang in the air that’s new since my time, and I wish I could inspect the line of fruit trees hung with globular greeny-aqua fruits. I don’t linger. I turn right and walk briskly toward the connector that leads to the Kube itself.

  Once inside the white-tiled hallway, my shoulder muscles tighten. In the dome, I had a chance of evading pursuers if spotted; in here, there’s no chance. Stark hallways offer no hiding spaces, unlike rows of crops and orchards of experimental fruits. My footsteps seem to echo noisily in the deserted hall, but I know it’s not really that loud. A droning voice and the clangings of utensils against plates drift from the cafeteria, and I slink past the opening, catching glimpses of ACs whispering to each other while a proctor reads the day’s text on citizenry from the podium.

  My moment’s inattention costs me. I barely register the quiet pad of a rubber-soled footstep before a sharp voice says, “AC, you have not been dismissed from lunch yet.”

  Ducking my head, hoping that the hair swinging around my face obscures my identity, I mumble, “Sorry, Proctor. My stomach . . . I felt unwell . . . had to visit the hygiene facilities . . .” With my head bowed, all I can see of the proctor are her white-shod feet and hems of her jumpsuit.

  “Look at me when I’m addressing you,” she says.

  I slowly bring my head up. I see a full bosom, receding chin, snub nose, and finally, geneborn gold eyes under straight black brows with a line between them. Proctor Dashto. She taught history. I learned about the pandemics, the Between, the formation of Amerada and much more from her. She’d know me on sight if I weren’t disguised. I hold my breath, hoping the disguise is sufficient. If not, if she recognizes me as Everly Jax, she’ll screech for the IPF without a second’s thought. No one wants a convicted murderer roaming the halls.

  Her frown deepens. “What’s your name, AC?” she asks. “I don’t remember seeing you before.”

  “AC Delacourt,” I say. “I’m a transfer from Kube 14. New here this week.” I hope our cover story holds up.

  Proctor Dashto nods, bunching the loose flesh under her jaw. “I heard about the overcrowding in some of the northern cantons’ InKubators. Enforced sterilization is the way to go to cut back on natural-born births, but the ministers in Atlanta are too squeamish to enact the laws that need to be put in place. We need to grow Amerada’s population, but with the right kind of citizens.” She sniffs loudly. “At any rate, AC, whatever may have been the practices at Kube 14, we expect discipline and adherence to the rules here at Kube 9. Return to the cafeteria at once.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say meekly, turning to retrace my steps. I hesitate on the threshold of the cafeteria, and she makes “go on” motions at me. I can’t go in there. At best, half the proctors will realize I’m a total stranger. At worst, someone will see through the disguise and denounce me as Everly Jax, traitor and murderer. Either way, I’ll be detained and Idris and his troops will arrive on their hijacked train to find the entrance gates closed. The IPF will close in . . .

  I bend at the waist and make retching noises. With my nerves stretched to the limit, I’m semi-nauseated anyway, and I manage to bring up a little bile and saliva which I spit on the floor. Wishing I’d eaten something this morning, I retch again. Wrapping my arms around my mid-section, I sway and collapse against the wall, sliding to the floor. I moan.

  “What a mess!” Proctor Dashto’s voice blends disgust and worry. “Wait here. I’ll fetch the nursing proctor.”

  I nod weakly as she sets off at a trot. As soon as she rounds a corner, I spring up and run flat-out for the IPF booth by the main entrance that controls access to the compound. Three and a half minutes. The time for finesse is gone. Passing empty classrooms and the elevators that rise to the sleeping quarters and offices, I sprint through the atrium, almost losing my footing as I slide on a wet spot. I wheel my arms to stay upright, and then continue toward the entryway. The guard booth sits to the right, connected to the outer wall via a polyglass window that allows surveillance of both the train platform abutting the entry doors, and the pedestrian doorway set into the compound’s outer walls.

  The soldier makes it easy for me by coming out of the booth when he sees my pell-mell approach. No helmet. He’s young, not more than two or three years older than my seventeen, with milky pale skin and a lanky build. “AC, what’s the—?”

  Before he can finish the question or communicate with the IPF barracks, I silence him with a knuckle strike to the larynx. My rigid fingers connect solidly, crushing his windpipe and larynx. Fiere would be proud that her training paid off at crunch time. The soldier grabs for his throat and falls to his knee
s, choking. His wide eyes plead with me. It’s a fatal blow and I can’t spend time helping him. Swallowing my remorse, I duck into the booth. If the gate isn’t open when the train arrives, it will mean the train’s engineer didn’t supply the correct codes and a swarm of IPF troops will descend. Chances are, someone has already reported the train’s hijacking and the Defiance’s only hope is to gain rapid control of the Kube and use it as a defensive position.

  I was against the operation from the start, thinking it too risky, the timing too tight, but Idris over-ruled me. As usual.

  “You’re a scientist, not a tactician,” he said almost a month ago. We were on the upper deck of the Chattanooga Belle, a replica paddle wheeler that Idris used as a headquarters. It was moored near a bombed-out fertilizer factory, a fact that accounted for the eerie blue water running swiftly below the hull. I’d made it back to the ship from Atlanta a month earlier and I hadn’t yet come to terms with the events that had chased me from the capital city. While Idris talked, I studied him, trying to get my mind around the fact he was my brother. We don’t look alike; he has inherited Alexander’s coloring, while I’m pale and blond like my—our—mother. I’d decided on the three week-long trek to the Belle that I wouldn’t immediately tell him, or Alexander either, about our relationship. I would watch for the right moment.

  He impales a turnip, the first produce I’ve seen since returning, on the point of his knife and takes a bite out of it like it was an apple.

  “You’re the one that insisted I return from Atlanta to participate in this mission,” I say hotly.

  “We want your insider knowledge of the Kube, not your military advice,” he says, looking at me from under dark brows. He’s only three or so years older than me, but he’s getting crow’s feet that show white against his tanned skin. His dark hair swings forward and his jaw works as he chews the turnip.