The Infinite Sea

I’m burning. My veins are filled with fire. Water flows from my eyes, trickles down my temples, pools in my ears. I see Vosch’s face leaning over the surface of the undulating sea of my tears.

“But I have faith in you, Marika. You did not come through fire and blood only to fall now. You will be the bridge that co

“We’re losing her,” White Coat calls out, tremble-voiced.

“No,” Vosch murmurs, cool hand on my wet cheek. “We have saved her.”

58

THERE IS NO DAY or night anymore, only the sterile glow of the fluorescent lights, and those lights never go out. I measure the hours by Razor’s visits, three times a day to deliver meals I can’t keep down.

They can’t control my fever. Can’t stabilize my blood pressure. Can’t subdue my nausea. My body is rejecting the eleven arrays designed to augment each of my biological systems, each array consisting of four thousand units, which makes a total of forty-four thousand microscopic robotic invaders coursing through my bloodstream.

I feel like shit.

After every breakfast, Claire comes in to examine me, tinker with my meds, and make cryptic remarks like, You better start feeling better. The window of opportunity is closing. Or snide ones like, I’m starting to think the whole very-big-rock idea was the right way to go. She seems to resent that I’ve reacted badly to her pumping me full of forty thousand alien mechanisms.

“It’s not like there’s anything you can do about it,” she told me once. “The procedure is irreversible.”

“There is one thing.”

“What? Oh. Sure. Ringer the irreplaceable.” She pulled the kill switch device from her lab coat pocket and held it up. “Got you keyed in. I’ll push the button. Go ahead. Tell me to push the button.” Smirking.

“Push the button.”

She laughed softly. “It’s amazing. Whenever I start wondering what he sees in you, you say something like that.”

“Who? Vosch?”

Her smile faded. Her eyes went shark-eyed blank. “We will terminate the upgrade if you can’t adjust.”

Terminate the upgrade.

She peeled the bandages away from my knuckles. No scabs, no bruises, no scars. As if it hadn’t happened. As if I’d never pounded my fist into the wall until the skin split down to the bone. I thought of Vosch appearing in my room completely healed, days after I smashed his nose and gave him two black eyes. And Sullivan, who told the story of Evan Walker torn apart by shrapnel and yet, somehow, hours later, able to infiltrate and take out an entire military installation by himself.

First they took Marika and made her Ringer. Now they’ve taken Ringer and “upgraded” her into someone completely different. Someone like them.

Or something.

There is no day or night anymore, only a constant sterile glow.

59

“WHAT HAVE THEY done to me?” I ask Razor one day when he carts in another inedible meal. I don’t expect an answer, but he’s expecting me to ask the question. It must strike him as weird that I haven’t.

He shrugs, avoiding my gaze. “Let’s see what’s on the menu today. Oooh. Meat loaf! Lucky duck.”

“I’m going to vomit.”

His eyes widen. “Really?” He looks around for the plastic upchuck container, desperate.

“Please, take the tray away. I can’t.”

He frowns. “They’ll pull the plug on you if you don’t get your shit together.”

“They could have done this to anyone,” I say. “Why did they do it to me?”

“Maybe you’re special.”

I shake my head and answer as if he were serious. “No. I think it’s because someone else is. Do you play chess?”

Startled: “Play what?”

“Maybe we could play. When I’m feeling better.”

“I’m more of a baseball guy.”

“Really? I would have guessed swimming. Or te

He cocks his head. His eyebrows come together. “You must be feeling bad. Making conversation like you’re halfway human.”

“I am halfway human. Literally. The other half . . .” I shrug. It coaxes out a grin.

“Oh, the 12th System is definitely theirs,” he says.

The 12th System? What did that mean exactly? I’m not sure, but I suspect it’s in reference to the eleven normal systems of the human body.

“We found a way to yank them out of Teds’ bodies and . . .” Razor trails off, gives the camera an abashed look. “Anyway, you have to eat. I overheard them talking about a feeding tube.”

“So that’s the official story? Like Wonderland: We’re using their technology against them. And you believe that.”

He leans against the wall, crosses his arms over his chest, and hums “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.” I shake my head. Amazing. It isn’t that the lies are too beautiful to resist. It’s that the truth is too hideous to face.

“Commander Vosch is implanting bombs inside children. He’s turning kids into IEDs,” I tell him. He hums louder. “Little kids. Toddlers. They’re separated when they come in, aren’t they? They were at Camp Haven. Anyone younger than five is carted off and you never see them again. Have you seen any? Where are the children, Razor? Where are they?”

He stops humming long enough to say, “Shut up, Dorothy.”

“And does that make sense: loading up a Dorothy with superior alien technology? If command decided to ‘enhance’ people for the war, do you really think it would pick the crazy ones?”

“I don’t know. They picked you, didn’t they?” He grabs the tray of untouched food and heads for the door.

“Don’t go.”

He turns, surprised. My face is hot. The fever must be spiking. That has to be it.

“Why?” he asks.

“You’re the only honest person I have left to talk to.”

He laughs. It’s a good laugh, authentic, unforced; I like it, but I am feverish. “Who says I’m honest?” he asks. “We’re all enemies in disguise, right?”

“My father used to tell this story about six blind men and an elephant. One man felt the elephant’s leg and said an elephant must look like a pillar. Another felt the trunk and said an elephant must look like a tree branch. Blind guy number three felt the tail and said an elephant is like a rope. Fourth guy feels the belly: The elephant is like a wall. Fifth guy, ear: The elephant is shaped like a fan. Sixth guy, a tusk, so an elephant must be like a pipe.”

Razor stares at me stone-faced for a long moment, then smiles. It’s a good smile; I like it, too.

“That’s a beautiful story. You should tell it at parties.”

“The point is,” I tell him, “from the moment their ship appeared, we’ve all been blind men patting an elephant.”

60

IN THE CONSTANT sterile glow, I measure the days by the uneaten meals he brings. Three meals, one day. Six, two days. On the tenth day, after he sets the tray in front of me, I ask him, “Why do you bother?” My voice like his now, a throaty croak. I’m soaked in sweat, fever spiking, head pounding, heart racing. He doesn’t answer. Razor hasn’t spoken to me in seventeen meals. He seems jittery, distracted, even angry. Claire’s gone silent, too. She comes twice a day to change my IV bag, look into my eyes with an otoscope, test my reflexes, change out the catheter bag, and empty the bedpan. Every sixth meal, I get a sponge bath. One day, she brings a tape measure and wraps it around my biceps, I guess to see how much muscle I’ve lost. I don’t see anyone else. No Mr. White Coat. No Vosch or dead fathers pumped into my head by Vosch. I’m not so out of it that I don’t know what they’re doing: holding vigil, waiting to see if the “enhancement” kills me.