Kidnapped and imprisoned, telepathic children are forced to gather military intelligence. Repeatedly stripped of their memories, they live in ignorance of the world above. You can’t tell anyone a secret if you don’t remember it. It’s not child abuse if no one knows you exist.
Epsilon 17 appears to be just another mindless tool, empty of thought. But it’s a lie. The carefully constructed shell she hides behind protects her from their mind wipes. One day she will destroy the Institute. All she needs is a chance.
That chance could be Toby, if he doesn’t die first. He should never have left the safety of the suburbs, but cornered in an alley by a gang, he’s out of options. Of course, if he realized he had superpowers, he probably wouldn’t have been so worried. Unfortunately, they come at the cost of a finger, and his old life. Injured and panicked, he would have stayed on the dirty ground until the Institute came for him, if it wasn’t for Serena. Name-taking, ass-kicking Serena. She can punch through walls and practically fly, surely she can keep him safe…
But the Institute is sending Epsilon 17 to hunt him down, and she’s never lost a trail.
Can ARC, the mysterious group Serena works for, protect him? He has to get his powers in order, fast. It’s time for Toby to stand up for himself. An underground war is raging, and Toby’s just been drafted.
|Publisher:||Ninestar Press, LLC|
|Product dimensions:||5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.80(d)|
Read an Excerpt
I'm floating, weightless, sensationless. The gel covers my body, every inch of my skin submerged and cushioned. The drowning sounds almost pleasant when I describe it this way, but my eyes are covered, liquid is pressing against my lips. It's in my ears, filling my nose, dulling my senses. I'm drowning in breathable fluid, oxygenated goop. The sensation of lungs pleading for air lasts the short minutes I can hold my breath ... then I have to inhale and my body is flooded.
I scream. The noise vibrates soundlessly in my throat, and then my body goes limp as my insides adjust, and my brain revels in the fresh oxygen. This isn't new to me, I've been here before. I know how the gel works, giving me the oxygen my body requires at the cost of instinctive terror and panic that overrides all logic. It turns out there's no getting used to suffocation. Even once the lungs realize they can drag oxygen from the fluid, it's an emotional drowning.
You lose every sense of who you are like this, blurring at the edges until disappearing into nothingness, every sense of self fading as you drift out of your body, into a void. The sensor pads connected to my poor, bald head were itchy when they were applied, now they may as well not be there — except I know they'll still be doing their jobs. The wireless connections to the computer equipment in the laboratory above me will continue to let the doctors know when I have disappeared, when I can't think anymore.
It comes too fast. It always does. Without any variation in pressure or sound around me, my mind rebels and flails for anything to hold onto. It takes me hours, maybe. It could be minutes or weeks, I suppose, but I think it takes me hours to calm myself, to drag back the knowledge I have skin, I have a border, and I'm impenetrable and separate from what is around me.
This is the Tank.
In the Tank, there's no gauge of time, nothing to touch or feel, no sensory hooks to hold onto. Insulated against life, I can't do anything except hang there, helpless. There's no one here for me to reach for, this time. Sometimes there will be others — different people, different ages. I reach out to them, feel for them with the telepathic powers that are both the reason I suffer and the only thing saving me from true madness. Even momentary connections with others remind me I'm not alone. I reach out, but they never feel me. They are truly alone, isolated from everything and everyone.
I'm the only one who survives the Tank. And I don't know why. Of course, the scientists would never tell me anything. I'd be punished if I asked. I'm supposed to come out blank and empty and unknowing, like the others.
Thanks to the Tank, and the loneliness of my life, I spend a lot of time speculating why I'm different. I think it might be the dreams keeping me safe. I dream of a boy, a boy who runs in the sunshine and plays a sport with bats and balls. A boy who lives a blessedly unremarkable life. I think I made him up, to save me from the nothing. Could I have invented a place to go and hide in vibrant experiences and Technicolor feeling? Not like the Tank, where there's nothing, nothing at all.
I've been in fourteen times as far as I remember. Other people have been dipped opposite me, or next to me, ten of those times. I feel their thoughts, their confusion and panic. I can't see them. I can't see anything at all except for vague shadows which pass my prison. Once a hand was pressed to my Tank, a black blur against the grey dark. The thoughts buzzing in the person were angry and desperate. They wanted to help me, but they couldn't. I don't know who it was.
Today, I'm alone. There's no one else being wiped. Even if there were others, I can't Project — send thoughts or feelings out of myself — so there's no way for me to communicate. It seems to me if we connected, maybe they'd stay.
Instead, I talk to myself all the time, even under the draining numbness of the gel I drown in. It does something to me, to them, to us. As soon as I'm submerged, I can barely sense at all, the techs and other people mere scratching tickles at the surface of my consciousness, not like the normal swirling chaos of the thoughts always spinning around me, every fleeting miniscule flicker of awareness loud and seething for my attention. For the vast majority of my life, I have to block everything, block it all out so I don't lose myself in the minds of others.
Not in the Tank, though. My powers are muted and tamped down by whatever is happening to me. And the others? Eventually their minds recoil at the endless nothing and they withdraw into the safety of white noise, the illusion of peace.
Then the wipe begins — a skull full of bees buzzing, crawling through memories and erasing the pathways making someone's self. People fade away as I listen to their mental screams and pleas for mercy. They're loud, then, as they beg for their memories, but the cries always dissolve into whispers and then nothing, nothing at all.
They cease to exist.
I don't know why I alone remain "myself" in the Tank; perhaps I'm mad and there is no me. Maybe all I ever do is float here in the numbing absence of everything and tell myself stories. But I don't believe so. I'm Epsilon 17, and I remember what that means. It is the name they gave me — not one I want, but it defines me, nonetheless. Epsilon is my class; I'm Epsilon Class, number seventeen. Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Epsilon ... there are mostly Beta class here — the lowest, the least gifted. Alpha talents are so low the Institute has no interest in taking them on as students. That is what the Shepherds call them ... call us, when they speak to us. Alpha talents get to live their lives away from this.
We are "students," as though they are our teachers, here to help and educate us. In their heads, they call us sheep. They have no idea I can hear them — hear everything they think. They are trained to hide themselves, as I have taught myself to do, and it never crosses their minds they aren't as safe as they believe. Because they are wrong about me. They have no idea I can tuck myself into a secret space inside my head and resist the nothingness of the Tank. Maintain my sense of self. Protect my memories. They know I'm special, but they have no idea how strong I really am ... and how much stronger I'll be. Every time they leave me in the Tank, I come back to my memories faster, and I hate a little more.
Soon all there will be left of me is hate.
This is how I stay myself in the Tank. Instead of waiting for it to end and feeling my mind snap when I realize it never, ever will — I have been here forever and will stay here forever — I take all the scraps of me, all the pieces making up who I am, and tuck them away, out of sight, in a private bunker in my mind.
While I'm suspended, I disappear into my dreams, if I'm alone. When there are others, I always wait until they have gone, in case one day one of them stays with me. They never do.
Once I've hidden I don't come out until I'm sure I'm safe. Until I feel a soft, scratchy sensation and smell the faint, fresh bleach of my sheets. The triggers my body remembers. When I'm tucked up in my bed, I come back to reality, I realize I am not the boy-who-runs. And I remember everything they tried to take from me.
The moments before it comes back are the only times I feel safe.
It wasn't always this way. When I was a child, I didn't remember at all. They cleaned me the same way they clean everyone, and I became a fresh slate, a new start. You can't tell anyone a secret if you don't remember it. It's not child abuse if no one knows you exist. We are the perfect soldiers in a war most of us repeatedly forget. We are forced to participate and then erased as though we were never there, gifted in a way people don't expect and can't plan for.
Mindreaders. Telepaths. Psychics. There are many names, but here at the Institute, they like the scientific terms. We are the Psionics, and they use us without shame.
If you are powerful, The Institute is there, listening to your thoughts, guiding your hands when you are writing, perhaps sending you dreams. Even controlling your every move like a puppet. Assignments can last for years if the Government wants a consistent presence monitoring one individual. You get to know them when they're your target. I've been in heads which haunt my dreams. It makes me wish I did forget, but never enough to let go.
Two years ago, I was assigned to a political leader in Muntgummery, near the East, for eight months. He was a bad man. He liked to hurt women, and I had to watch it so the Institute could blackmail him. The Government knew the city was going to drown in the ravenous coastal waters as they rose and wanted to control who was saved. At the end, I worked with a Projector, who used my knowledge of the target to get into his head and overtake him completely. The city was abandoned to the flooding shortly after. The top Test-scorers were evacuated, and then the tube tunnels were sealed, Citizens, slumdwellers, and refugees alike were left to drown. I remember them screaming as we flew over the rioting streets.
The list of secrets I know is long, and I have nowhere and no way to write it down, so I keep them in my mind. It's safe there because, though the business we are in is to take secrets, nobody knows I have any, and so nobody even looks. I hide everything under a blank, unmarked surface, and their probes slide over me like I'm invisible, or empty like the others — an untouched piece of paper waiting to be filled with their knowledge and used to affect the course of the world.
I have been aware for five years, give or take. It's possible I have remembered myself before but didn't manage to hide it and was wiped so I really did forget again.
But I learned.
The first time I came back to myself, they tried to wipe me again and again. Three times they put me back in the Tank, until I thought I was lost, gone and mad. But then it happened. I found the way — the way to leave what they were doing behind with my body — and keep my mind safe inside another life. A better life.
I don't know how many days passed after that dip, but when I came to, I was restrained on a cold, hard table. I felt a grasp at my thoughts, a touch against my mind. I knew what it meant — they would put me back in, drown me again to kill these memories. We're not supposed to remember the Tank. We're not supposed to remember who we are. I scampered away inside my head and drew myself into the smallest ball possible, shielding my thoughts. I was small and tight and tucked away in a corner, and I tried so hard to hide and make the man go away. I felt him grope around — a blind man fumbling through my head. He must have been satisfied, accepted the lack he found inside me. He thought I was empty, and they could start again.
This is my story, and I'm putting it away to keep it safe. That way when I disappear again, I can find all the thoughts I've had, see the feelings I stored here. I don't know how it works, but it is enough for me that it does.
Because this is my mind, my secret self, the weapon with which I'll one day destroy everyone who has a hand in this. I'm Epsilon 17, and I'm going to bring this regime down in flames.
The Tank fades away and I'm gone. The boy's packing a bag, this time. I think he's frightened. I wonder what he has to be scared of, this boy with parents who ruffle his hair and friends who shout with laughter.
For a moment I lie, languid and blissful, and then the knowledge rushes back through me. The Tank, needles in my skull, medical exams, the years I've spent down here in this clinical and passionless world. Five I know of, and all the ones who must have come before. My body stiffens with rage. I'm back in the stasis room I share with eleven other sheep. It's a long, rectangular room, no windows and one door. Gray walls, the ceiling an unmarked, glowing surface. No vents. No escape. The metal framed beds are lined up in regimental fashion, with designations on plaques at the base. Mine is the single plaque that says Epsilon. Four of the sheep must be in Stasis, a coma-like state we are stored in when not needed. Their curtains are closed so I can't see them. I see the seven neat, gray, and empty beds. Out on assignment or in training class, I assume.
I sit up, as I'm expected to do, and a man comes in through the door. They're always watching, no matter what we're doing. He was waiting for me to wake, I'm sure. His voice, when he speaks, is low and calming, and he talks to me as if I'm an animal he wishes to help. He tells me I'm safe, and this is where I live. He's not crass enough to say "home." Even the monsters who work here have a scrap of humanity left buried under the layers of science and professionalism. He knows this is no home to any of us. We are slaves, even the babies.
I have seen children too young to walk being wheeled past me in the endless corridors, kicking their fat little legs. It makes my heart clench with pity. For them, and for myself. I wonder if anyone felt for me when I was so young and helpless, weak. I don't know for certain this is where I've always been, but it seems that way. Maybe I hope it's true, because the idea of having a real life and having it forcibly removed is too much to bear.
I let him show me to the showers and give me my things. Always the same things. A pair of soft, gray cotton trousers, underwear, a T-shirt. The temperature of our enclosure is moderated, so I'll never be hot or cold in the outfit I'm given. Still, I'm shaking, although not on purpose. I wonder how my reactions have changed, now I'm immune to the wipe. Am I reacting the way the others do, or does my shaking give me away?
Do they suspect? I think not, but would I know?
The man doesn't notice. He shows me how to turn on the shower — expecting I'll have forgotten — and leaves the room. He will be right outside when I'm dressed.
I'm not sure how it is when people wake up from the Tank they remember how to speak and hear. How to take a shower and get dressed, but have no idea of their name or eye color. I have no idea what color mine are. There are no mirrors here, and we are kept away from them on the outside. I think about it a lot. I know my eyes are almost certainly brown, because I'm not pale-skinned. Paler than I should be, through dint of living away from any kind of natural light, but a definite olive. When I catch a smeared glimpse of my reflection in a stainless-steel or glassy surface, I can see my eyes are dark. But there are so many shades of brown. I'd like to know.
I think I have dark eyebrows as well, and probably thick, dark hair, though they shave it off so the sensors can access the implants in my head without interference. My hair is never long enough for me to see, but sometimes it's long enough to prickle against my skin when I rub the pads of my fingers over my head to ease the aches where the metal pieces hide in my brain.
I could ask one of the other students for a comparison, I suppose: "Is my hair thin and delicate like Beta Eighty-Nine, or is it thick and curled like Delta Nineteen?" I'd ask. The sheep would tell me who had hair the most similar to mine, and I'd have another fact. Another truth about myself that wouldn't be destroyed.
It'd draw attention though, talking that way. We're never alone and are discouraged from personal discussion. Not violently, but it's frowned upon. People who ask questions disappear and come back blank again. I don't want another trip to the Tank, so I won't ask.
After they send me outside, I'll be put back in the Tank. I'm supposed to forget what the sunshine feels like on my skin, warming me completely as it touches my face, and I turn to it like a sunflower. I can't be allowed to remember the cool tickling of a breeze ruffling my shorn hair, or the thick "boof" sound a dog makes. If I knew these things, I'd be a danger to them, because I wouldn't be content to follow their orders down here in this sterile kingdom of brushed metals, gray and white plastic. It's one of the ways they control us, and by far the cruelest. To rob people of their own selves and experiences. But I do remember, and when I'm strong enough, I'll break out and run until I can't run any farther. For now, however, I'm alone and weak. I know if I try to break free they'll catch me and keep me in the Tank until I lose everything. Or maybe die.
It's almost the same, after all.(Continues…)
Excerpted from "We are the Catalyst"
Copyright © 2019 Tash McAdam.
Excerpted by permission of NineStar Press, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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