Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
“It’s time,” Nova says, our planning still underway.
The hour is up. We have to go get the Tiders. I’m tense with apprehension, still not sure this is the right call.
“I’m proud of you,” Ellison says from beside me, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “Your mom would be, too.”
Her mention of my mom makes tears flood my eyes. I can’t hold them back. I’ve never wished for my mom more. Just a hug from her would reignite something inside me that’s flickering and fighting to stay lit.
“I’m sorry,” Ellison says. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
I wipe my fingers over my cheeks, spreading around the film of sweaty ashes. “No, these are good tears, because I know you’re right. I needed to hear that.”
I know how to survive anything, but your mother knows why it’s worth surviving. That’s why we’re so good together.
My dad said that to me when we were picking out a new rosebush for my mom when I was twelve. He bought her dozens of rosebushes over the years because he said she was the beautiful, brightly-colored blooms and he was the thorns.
I take a deep breath and meet Nova’s gaze. “Okay. Let’s go.”
25
“It wasn’t an easy order to give, but I had to. If Dr. Hollis went public about what we’re doing, it could destroy everything. Enemy nations finding out we’re working on a vaccine for their deadliest biological weapons could cause them to deploy them immediately. My decision was between one life and potentially millions. Dr. Hollis’s husband was a collateral casualty.” - Excerpt from an email sent by Soren Whitman to Dr. Randall McClain
Marcus
Did Ingrid slip me a hallucinogen at lunch? I’m flipping through logical explanations for what’s happening in my mental Rolodex, and that’s all I can come up with.
“Commander Wells, meet 6A5,” Ingrid says. “6A5, this is your template, Commander Wells.”
He sticks his hand out for a handshake and I shake his—my?—hand mechanically.
It takes all my self-control to keep my expression neutral. I’m screaming internally about what the fuck is happening.
“You’re doing cloning experiments,” I say flatly, horrified. “With DNA from the Original Twenty-Six.”
“Some of them, yes.” Ingrid is upbeat, like she’s discussing the first sunny day after a week of storms. “You were one of our first templates.”
He’s not a mirror reflection of me. I’ve got several days of stubble on my face, and he’s clean-shaven. His hair is cut shorter. His biceps aren’t as big as mine.
But he’s close enough that I’m shaken up. This guy has my DNA. It’s like me in an alternate universe. These scientists made a copy of me, without my consent.
“Incredible.” I force a phony smile. “What an honor.”
“Will 6A6 get to meet him?” 6A5 asks Ingrid.
A flicker of annoyance flashes over her face. I’ve never wanted a shot of whiskey so badly in my life. There’s not just one. 6A6 must be another clone of me.
How fucking many are there?
“That’s not your concern,” Ingrid says.
“Of course, Commander.” 6A5 smiles at me blandly.
I’ve recovered from the shock. Now I need to find out as much as I can about this mindfuck, and feigning interest is the way to do it.
“Why 6A5?” I ask Ingrid.
She nods at the clone. “That will be all, 6A5. You can return to whatever you were doing.”
The corners of his mouth dip down with disappointment as he turns and walks away, looking back at me over his shoulder.
Once he’s out of earshot, Ingrid says, “Each of the Original Twenty-Six was assigned a number. Yours is six. The A is for accelerated. The five means he was our fifth accelerated clone with your DNA.”
An irrational urge to burn this whole fucking island down flares through me. But I grin, looking impressed.
“You answered my next question, which was how he is already my age when the DNA is only six years old.”
“Accelerated and decelerated aging is the primary focus. We’re close to refining it, and when we’ve done that, we’ll scale.”
Scale. She talks about it so clinically, but I know goddamn well what she’s planning. She’s going to mass-produce cloned versions of the Original Twenty-Six who can be adult soldiers when they should still be in diapers. The aromium experiments on my island pale in comparison to what this could become.
“How old is he?” I ask. “6A5?”
She considers. “6A5 is between three and four years old.”
“But he seems ... like me.”
She smiles, pleased. “We call them Reps, which is short for Replications. We immerse the Reps in learning fourteen hours a day and they get seventy-five minutes of physical conditioning a day. When they sleep, they’re connected to subliminal learning through headsets.”
Created in a lab or not, those are human beings. Ingrid talking about them like property makes me sick. But I’m here to learn everything I can. Retribution isn’t an option. Yet.